Hargrave hesitated at the question and looked Nick in the face. "Our sniper?" he finally said.
"OK, then, my sniper," Nick said, surprising himself with the tight anger in his own voice. He took a deep breath and then laid his findings out for Hargrave, how his research showed that now there were four felons or ex-cons who were dead of high-powered rifle fire and who had also been the subjects of major takeouts that Nick had written for the Daily News. Yes, he admitted the jurisdictions of the first two were different, then these two right here in his backyard.
"It's like he's working off my damned bylines," Nick said.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Hargrave. "Paranoia we don't need, Mullins."
Nick pressed his lips together into a hard line. OK, he thought. Don't let your mouth get you into trouble again. This time he started out calmly, just the facts.
"Chambliss, Crossly, Ferris and now Michaels," Nick said. "I've done special takeouts on every one of them. Big, bylined pieces."
"So have half a dozen other reporters," Hargrave said.
"No, not in-depth pieces. Not the kind of coverage that really showed who and what these guys were. Hell, some of these psychopaths never got more than their five minutes of media infamy," Nick responded, again keeping his voice under control. "The Herald and the local city papers all did stories on Ferris. It was a big thing. But Chambliss wasn't local. No other paper down here followed that.
"And this guy lying out there on the sidewalk? Everybody else just treated what he did to his girlfriend like it was some domestic fight."
Hargrave was still perched on the desk like some kind of tabletop decoration, as if his stiff crane neck were going to dip his beak down into a cup of water at any moment.
"OK, say we inject your ego into the equation, Mullins," he finally said. "You friendly with any good snipers? You have any grand theories on which master criminal you've written about is next on the list to have his head blown off? Maybe he's just doing them alphabetically."
Nick stared at the detective, not realizing his own mouth was slightly open while he went through the names in his head and realized that the detective had already mentally sorted them.
"Speaking of lists," Nick said, figuring where the alphabet might fit in, thinking of the Secret Service man's list.
Hargrave might have smiled, but anyone observing would have been hard-pressed to testify to it. The detective opened up his notebook and removed a sheet of paper. Nick tightened his fist, resisting the urge to reach out and snatch it from Hargrave's hand.
The detective read, his eyes jumping from spot to spot on a page that Nick couldn't see.
"Since you never gave me Chambliss and this Crossly guy, I'm a little reluctant to be handing over internal documents to some reporter."
"They weren't in your jurisdiction," Nick said. "I figured you wouldn't care."
Hargrave just looked up over the top of the paper, his pewter-colored eyes static. Nick figured he was trying to think of something pithy. Or was he actually trying to decide whether he did give a damn? The praying mantis was not without some compassion, Nick thought. After another beat the detective handed the paper to Nick.
"Your copy," he said.
Nick flipped it over. There was no heading, just a typed list of names and dates and jurisdictions that covered a number of different states. Someone had put checkmarks next to Chambliss, Crossly and Ferris. Michaels was farther down, not yet acknowledged. Nick again started from the top, searching while his heart rate increased looking for more names that he recognized as subjects of his own writing. He stopped at a couple of last names that were familiar, but one was in California and the other in Texas. Doubtful, he thought.
"So these are the ones that Fitzgerald is checking out?" Nick said.
"At least they're the ones he was willing to give up."
"You think he's made the connection between these four and my stories?"
"Like I said about your ego, Mullins. Fitzgerald's looking for a threat to the Secretary of State. He's gonna tap anything he can, even if it's some vigilante offing assholes who burned their lovers or raped little girls. A psycho is a psycho. Who knows their motivations?" Hargrave said. "But our guy isn't some paid political assassin. Our guy is a whole different breed. Frankly, I don't know what the hell he's capable of."
"OK, so we've got Charles Bronson playing sniper from the rooftops of Broward County."
"You might put it that way, but my name better never show up agreeing with you," Hargrave said. "Besides, the Bronson character was being a hell of a lot less discriminating than this guy. Our guy's obviously doing some planning, lying in wait, leaving no sign other than the damn bullet behind."
"You match them up with forensics?"
"I just shipped this one," Hargrave said, jerking his thumb behind him toward the front where Michaels's body was cooling on the street. "And we'll have to get the others from those cases of yours out of our jurisdiction if they ever found or kept them. Believe it or not, every department doesn't exactly follow CSI: Miami's television protocol."
Nick knew that crime scene technicians rarely did so much as a fingerprint check on ninety-nine percent of the crimes committed in their territory, much less ballistics and supposed laser scans. Only the high-profile murders would warrant that and this group of dead criminals were far below priority, though he had a feeling that was about to change.
Hargrave had gone quiet and Nick had the sense that this meeting was through.
"So what's next?" he asked.
"To the morgue," Hargrave said, standing up. "You want me to get your CD back from Dr. Petish while I'm there?"
Jesus, Nick thought, what doesn't this guy know?
"No, that's alright. I'll just get it later after you get done," he said, grinning.
They were at the door when Hargrave suggested that Nick go over the list that he'd given him and let him know if any of the names came up familiar on second reading.
"And speaking of lists," the detective said, mocking Nick again. "Ms. Cotton claims she doesn't have any kind of sympathy letters that she kept from the time after her children were killed."
Nick didn't know how to react. He was wondering why the woman would recant such a thing.
"But she's not a very good liar," Hargrave said. "She stonewalled me early this morning. Why don't you take a visit and see if she'll give them up to you?"
"Yeah, OK," Nick said. "But I'm also going to need some information and quotes from you on this thing for tomorrow's paper."
Hargrave held Nick's eyes for a moment and then seemed to give in to something he'd probably prided himself on for a career.
"Yeah, alright. Here's my cell number. Call me when you need it."
Nick took down the number and watched the detective pick his way through the office and leave. Then he stopped at the room where the employees of the parole office had gathered.
"Excuse me," he said and they all looked at him in anticipation. "I'm Nick Mullins from the Daily News. Can anyone tell me about what happened here?"
Chapter 19
Nick was inside with the parole office employees for a good forty minutes, taking down quotes and names and spending extra time with the woman whose dress was still spattered with blood, when Hargrave's sergeant at arms came in with a disgruntled look and gave him the thumb.
Nick nodded, thanked the group and left the offices. Outside, there were a few television trucks around the circumference of the crime scene and the body of Trace Michaels had been removed. One of the Channel 7 guys was about to do a standup with the scene as his backdrop when his cameraman spotted Nick coming out the door and maybe mistook him for a detective. He gave his TV reporter the high sign. When the guy turned and recognized Nick, he passed the microphone and came over to meet him, lifting the crime scene tape as if he were doing Nick a courtesy.