"Geez. Anything else, Steve?" Nick said, talking to the lieutenant but looking at Hargrave.
"Yeah." The detective finally looked up from his hands and asked directly across the table into the reporter's face, "What did the witness from the children's center tell you about a man he saw coming down off the roof before we got there?"
The question caused the federal agent to lower his file to the side of his thigh. Canfield also seemed to move his elbows forward on the table. Nick started to turn toward Cameron, who had obviously reported the encounter to the detectives, but stopped himself.
"You mean the little guy who came into work at eight?" Nick said, already knowing the answer. "The guy said he thought it was one of yours, a SWAT officer," Nick said, turning his eyes to Canfield. "Dressed in black and carrying a bag."
"Did he give you a description of the man?"
The question came from the wall, from Fitzgerald. Nick was surprised by the high, scratchy timbre of the man's voice. He thought all federal agents learned to modulate their voices in training. The man was focused, though, intensely. Nick pictured a flier posted on the bulletin board of the FBI with large black print: SNIPER. If you see this man…
"No. I was trying to work him when Joel came up to give me a message and then the guy, Dennis was his name, got antsy and walked away," Nick said, trying not to indict Cameron. "Why? Isn't that what he gave you guys? I mean, you've interviewed him, right?"
Hargrave looked up at Nick. "Yeah, we talked to him. Same stuff. Said the guy was above-average build, whatever the hell that means, and had a balaclava covering most of his face. He thought he was white, and I emphasize the word thought," the detective said, cutting his eyes over at the fed.
"OK, how about the roof business?" Canfield said.
"Nobody tipped me to that," Nick said. "The photographer I was with noted the blood spatter on the wall next to the steps, lower than the victim's height. I noticed that the cops were looking up and behind us at the crime scene. I just put two and two together."
Hargrave and Canfield glanced at each other. Nick was satisfied that he hadn't used the detective's name as the one whose eyes on the rooftop had given it away.
"OK. The families?"
"I only talked to Ferris's sister-in-law, at her house trailer. She didn't sound like she was terribly crushed by the whole thing, but not exactly relieved either," Nick said. "I got the sense that her husband had been carrying his brother's load for a long time."
"Enough of a burden to want to finish him off?" Hargrave said.
"That wasn't the feel. More like enough to just bury him and try to forget," Nick said, but he was getting tired of the one-way conversation. "Why, did he say something different to you?"
He was talking directly to Hargrave, who hesitated, looked at his lieutenant and then said, "No. We checked him out with his boss and two other workers who put him in the warehouse at the time of the shooting. He isn't a suspect. He didn't say good riddance. He didn't cry. He just asked when he could pick up the body."
Nick jotted something on his reporter's pad. The room went quiet for a moment. The rules were being set.
"Ferris is not a suspect?" Nick said, looking directly into Hargrave's eyes, making sure he was getting the comment straight.
"Not at this time."
Nick knew it was a fallback position, but OK, never say never, he'd give him that.
"OK, Nick. How about Ms. Cotton?" Canfield said, trying to swing the information tide back to his side. "You got to her before we did. What did she tell you?"
"Not much," Nick said, rebuilding the scene in his head. "That she wasn't the kind of person to look for retribution. She's religious but isn't going for that eye-for-an-eye thing."
The heard-that-a-million-times feel in the room was as clear as if all three law enforcement officers had covered their mouths and yawned.
"She said she didn't know anyone who would have done Ferris, and she hadn't had any suspicious visitors or contacts that would lead her to believe anyone would shoot the guy for her."
As he said it, Nick's head jumped to a vision of the box of letters that Ms. Cotton had told him about. He should have looked at them. He should have taken down some names. But should he mention it to this group? Hell, if they'd asked the woman the same questions he had and she told them about the letters, they would probably have the box in the back room already. But just in case he jotted down "go back to Cotton on letters" in his notebook and flipped the page.
"OK, now what are you going to give me?"
Canfield started to say something, then stopped.
Nick looked over at the press officer. "You know," he said. "The reason I came in here, agreed to this trade of information?"
Cameron cut his eyes the other way. Not my call, he was saying. I'm just taking orders.
"Well, you've already got the brother declared a nonsuspect. That isn't out yet," Canfield finally spoke up.
"At this time," Hargrave said off to the side.
Nick went from face to face. All eyes were down. They always knew more than they told you. Always.
"How about ballistics?" he said, trying to pry something loose.
"You've already got that, Nick. It was a.308. Actually, a Federal Match loaded with the 168-grain Boat Tail Hollow Point," Canfield said.
Nick jotted down the name. He didn't know shit about bullets. But that didn't matter much to his readers.
"Federal Match?" he said, cutting his eyes to the agent, who was still standing. "Does that mean it only comes from the military?"
The agent's eyes lifted and Nick detected a muscle twitch in the guy's jaw as it tightened. OK. If you were a poker player, that was a tell. Did mention of the military trip the guy?
"No, not at all," Canfield said quickly. "It's a round that's on the civilian and law enforcement market. Anyone could buy it."
"Any prints on the casing?" Nick said, working it.
"Never found a casing," Hargrave answered, not looking up until he asked his own question: "Did you?"
Nick let it pass. He knew his reputation would have already been passed to Hargrave. He'd never keep something that vital to a case to himself. It was more than unethical, it would have been stupid. Instead he took the opportunity to nail an attribution for the rooftop site.
"So you're saying the kill shot was taken from the roof?"
Canfield nodded. The creases in Hargrave's brow made it clear he was in pain giving such information to a reporter. Nick let it sit for a moment and then carefully set up his next question, wanting to watch the reaction, see which of the men in the room clenched his teeth the hardest, or breathed deepest, or just got up and walked out.
"So, you're working the angle that it's a military sniper or a law enforcement sniper?"
No one flinched. The fed even controlled his jaw muscle. Everyone was in control, almost like they'd expected the question and rehearsed. Even Nick knew by now that it would be Canfield's job to answer the delicate ones.
"We would be remiss in our duty, Nick, not to pursue all possibilities."
Nick let the standard answer hang in the air for a moment, but couldn't control himself.
"So you guys learned a lesson from the D.C. Beltway, eh?"
This time the federal officer's eyes came up and seared into Nick's. Gotcha, Nick thought.
In the fall of 2002, the Beltway sniper case had scared the hell out of Washington, D.C, and surrounding Virginia when ten innocent people had been killed, shot dead by a cold-blooded sniper from long distances as they were going about their daily lives. One was filling her tank at a gas station. Another was carrying groceries. Another picking up her son at school. In the flurry that built after the second shooting, the rumors and assumptions flew. The speculation, fed by so-called sources from the FBI and both the state and local police departments, was that a disturbed soldier, active or retired, or some rampaging cop was serially wreaking havoc. The shots were too difficult. The skill in striking and then disappearing was too well planned and logistical. The weaponry too sophisticated.