John Lutz - Fear the Night

“Understood,” Repetto said. He dropped the tarp.

Someone was calling his name.

He looked to his right and saw a cluster of journalists, two TV cameras, all set up a few feet off the curb in the street.

“Captain Repetto? Can you confirm this was the Night Sniper?” The questioner was a well-dressed man with incredibly fluffed hair, standing with one foot up on the curb.

Repetto ignored him and motioned Calvin back over. “Round up a couple more uniforms and keep the media wolves at bay. I especially don’t want them talking to the kid.”

Calvin turned and hurried away to get it done.

“One wound?” Repetto asked Charlize.

“That’s the way it looks. We were waiting for you before we moved the body.”

“Captain Repetto. .?”

Fluff Hair again. Repetto didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard. “You done here?” he asked Charlize.

“Yeah. So are the techs.”

So’s Kelli Wilson.

Repetto knew the area around the dead woman had yielded all it was going to, which wasn’t much. “Get her out of here then, away from all these people. Leave the purse.” Repetto turned to Meg. “Go talk to the boy. Stand so he can’t see them moving his mom.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Meg said, and went to join Maise with Jason. Jason without a mother.

While the EMS attendants worked what remained of Kelli Wilson onto a stretcher and loaded her into the ambulance, Repetto and Birdy stood looking around the area for potential sniper nests.

“Like all the others,” Birdy said. “He coulda been anywhere.”

“Which means we’ll have to look everywhere,” Repetto said.

Meg walked back over. “Jason’s in shock, trembling.”

“We need to get him to a hospital,” Repetto said.

“I dunno. He keeps repeating he wants his dad. Maise wants to wait with the kid in her car in front of the restaurant, stop the dad before he goes in. I don’t think it’s a bad idea. Those two are gonna need each other.”

“Go with them,” Repetto said. “Tell Maise to drive around the block. Maybe that’ll shake the media types. Make it as easy on the kid as you can, and watch how his father takes the news. Ask if that ringing cell phone in the victim’s purse was him calling to say he’d be late.”

“Will do.”

Repetto and Birdy stood watching the ambulance drive away, then the ME’s car. Behind them, making a show of it for the media types, was Maise’s cruiser with Jason and Meg inside.

The remaining cops who weren’t holding the gawkers back began removing the yellow crime scene tape, taking it down with one hand, holding it bunched and tangled in the other. Somebody from somewhere appeared with a bucket and broom and was told it was okay to start cleaning up the sidewalk. A big bald guy dragged a hose from a shop on the corner and called back for somebody inside to turn on the water.

Repetto watched them hose down and sweep the sidewalk. Red-tinted water trickled down the curb and ran in the gutter. A life’s blood, a life, being cleansed from the earth. The two TV crews were getting it all on tape.

“Ashes to ashes, blood to sewer,” Birdy said glumly. The flesh beneath his right eye did a crazy dance.

“Harsh,” Repetto said.

“Harsh.”

Lazy-eyed Calvin and another uniform were talking to the three witnesses, two men and a woman, who’d stayed around.

“Let’s go over there and see what we can get,” Repetto said.

What they got was pretty much what the boy Jason had said. An echoing shot like thunder that could have come from anywhere. Then “Mom fell down.”

“Know what I’m wondering?” Birdy asked, as he and Repetto were walking toward where the unmarked was angled in at the curb. The car was partially blocking traffic that was beginning to flow again on the block.

“I think so,” Repetto said. “Is it possible Jason was the target?”

“Right. The child angle.”

“I rule it out,” Repetto said. “It was a heart shot, and we’re dealing with a killer who hits what he aims at.”

“Has so far,” Birdy said. “But everybody misses sometimes.”

“Besides, Zoe assured me again, this guy’s not a child killer.”

“Everybody misses sometimes,” Birdy repeated.

“It’s something to keep in mind,” Repetto said. “I’ll go talk with the media and tell them we don’t have any hard information yet and we’re finished here. On the sniper shootings in general, we’re making progress.”

“Lie to them.”

“Allay their doubts with partial truths,” Repetto said.

Birdy chuckled.

“Let’s call Melbourne and get some more uniforms down here so we can canvass those buildings.”

“We do a lot of that.”

“It’s what the Sniper wants,” Repetto said. “We do a lot of that.”

In his luxury East Side apartment, the Sniper sat at a glass-topped table and cleaned his Italian rifle. He reamed the barrel carefully with a soft cloth, then lightly oiled the mechanism and marveled again at its deadly precision.

When the rifle was reassembled, he put on the sterile white gloves he usually wore when handling his collection and wiped down the barrel and stock where his hands had touched. Oil from fingers could be a destructive element over time. Then he went to the gun room and replaced the rifle in its glass case.

The Night Sniper poured himself two fingers of premium scotch, added a splash of water to bring out the taste, then went into the living room and swung open the hinged frame of a numbered Marc Chagall print. Behind the print was a flat plasma TV. The Night Sniper sat on the sofa, used the remote to find the local channel he favored, then sipped scotch and watched reports on developing breaking news: the Night Sniper had claimed another victim. Cable news already had a photo of the victim, Kelli Wilson. Wonderful! Reporters had tried to interview the victim’s son, Jason, who was still at the scene of his mother’s death, but police kept them away. Police also kept journalists away from investigating officers headed by Captain Vincent Repetto. Repetto had glanced at reporters but refused comment and kept his distance until the body was removed.

Then there was a brief interview with Repetto, heavy midtown traffic moving slowly in the background.

The Night Sniper sat forward and stared at Repetto.

He looks tired. Frustrated. Craggier than ever. Gaunt like a fleet predator. Losing weight? On a worry diet?

Don’t be deceived, overconfident.

The Sniper used the remote to increase the volume.

Repetto said every way he could into a phalanx of microphones that he and his team of detectives knew nothing yet for sure. Was this shooting the work of the Night Sniper? It was too soon to know for sure. Did police know where the shot was fired from? Not for sure. Were they making progress on the Night Sniper investigation? Satisfactory progress, yes, but an arrest wasn’t imminent. Were there any suspects? Not for sure.

So it went-not for sure, not imminent, not for sure. The only thing Repetto was sure of was that an arrest was simply a matter of time. Sorry, it was too soon to comment on this latest shooting. Too soon to know anything for sure. He turned away from the microphones.

“Thanks, Captain Repetto!” called the blond woman from Channel One. That surprised the Night Sniper. He’d glimpsed her in the background and assumed she was Zoe Brady, the profiler. Both of them were lookers, and in the reflected roof-bar light of a police car, the blond woman’s hair had appeared red like Zoe’s.

A quick grin from Repetto. “Sure.”

Turn on the charm for that one.

The Night Sniper smiled, sipped, smiled.

Lies, lies, lies …