Shoot to Thrill (2 page)

Special Agent John Smith was gathering his thoughts just offstage. In his thirty years with the Bureau he’d never given a single speech; never taught a class; never spoken at a press conference; never dealt with the public in multiples. He was a behind-the-scenes workhorse. Most agents were, walking through entire careers without leaving a ripple. He’d interviewed a lot of suspects, of course, but most of them were handcuffed in a locked room – a literal captive audience. And yet here he was, six months out from mandatory retirement, finally facing the prospect of being the sole focus of a crowd’s attention, really nervous for the first time in his career.

John Smith’s life had always been about as ordinary as his name. His parents loved, but did not spoil, the one and only child they would ever have. And they loved each other, even now, as they grew old and stayed happy in

He’d been a good kid, smart to a degree, but no genius by anyone’s estimation; raised with the strong values that were common back when people had to be civilized enough to deal face-to-face. He was sent on to adulthood with a college education and a middle-class sensibility that would see him through life with only a few potholes along the way.

He’d been in second grade, eight years old, when he’d first learned how to fold a flag; how important it was that it never touched the ground or was left flying after dark or in the rain. These were lessons written into school curriculums then; a learning assignment as important as multiplication tables, although no second-grader could imagine why, or think to question it. They only knew that if they did it properly, they might be chosen to exit the stifling classroom without supervision to lower the flag from its pole at the end of the school day.

Every time he passed a car dealership or a Perkins restaurant that flew those monstrous flags from towering poles, he thought of those second-grade respites from times tables and spelling bees when he and two others who had earned the privilege had been excused from the class to perform the duties of tradition and pomp. The funny thing was that they found something else on that empty playground, where they fled for freedom from the teacher and the confining classroom; something almost spiritual that seeped into your memory without you ever knowing it was there. He still felt the red and white stripes and the

He did not become the superhero he wanted to be in comic-book kindergarten, not the super agent he’d hoped to be when he first went down the FBI path, but not a failure, either. Just a man in the middle, as most men were. He believed in God, family, his country, and the Constitution, and still, none of that had prepared him for the audience he faced now.

He took his place at the podium and looked out over the motley collection of humanity that was probably the world’s only hope of solving this particular case, and a direct reflection of the Bureau’s desperation.

There was a cluster of normalcy on one side of the aisle – ten FBI agents dressed in the customary suit and tie, all sitting together in one section. Paul Shafer, the Minneapolis special agent in charge, sat on the aisle seat of that group, looking self-righteously indignant to be present at a seminar where the law and law-breakers shared the same space. Smith had to hold back the nasty smile. Shafer was still young enough and gung-ho enough to believe he’d be part of this exclusive, frighteningly powerful club of suits forever. Wait until he found out the FBI’s sell-by date crept up a whole lot faster than he’d thought it would.

Then again, because a little gung-ho of his own still gasped for breath every now and then, Smith could almost sympathize with Shafer’s discomfort when he looked on the other side of the aisle. There were young and old, body piercings and tattoos, a few beardless boys who looked like they’d just walked off the set of
Revenge of the Nerds
, and a

‘Most of you have an understandable reluctance to work with the FBI,’ he began, looking over the audience with a very slight smile. ‘Probably because most of you break several Federal laws on a regular basis.’ Nervous laughter from the audience. ‘Oddly enough, this is why you were asked here today. Your hacking ventures have brought you to our attention, won you an FBI file of your own, and, legality aside, your skills have impressed us. Now we need your help tracing an anonymous, extremely sophisticated network operating through several foreign proxy servers in countries that will not grant the United States access to their servers, which is why our own Cyber Crimes Unit has not been able to trace the users of this network.’

‘Dude. Are you seriously asking us to hack into servers in hostile countries so you can catch one of our own? First off, we don’t kiss and tell. Second, we could go down for years on something like that.’

John looked at the man who had actually had the guts to stand up and speak. It surprised him that it was one of the nerds, probably 120 pounds soaking wet with a chest that looked like a safe had fallen on it. ‘Certainly not. The FBI would never suggest or condone such a violation of international law. We ask only that you use your own unique

‘Come on. You know damn well our “own unique skills” happen to be hacking illegally into closed sites. Personally, I already did one-to-three for that, and I’m not about to risk it again.’

A lot of murmuring from the group then, and John couldn’t blame them. He had to measure every word, say everything exactly right.

He leaned his arms on the podium and let his eyes travel over every face. ‘We trust you all,’ he said, and everyone laughed. ‘For that reason, we are absolutely certain that we will never have reason to suspect that any of you would violate federal or international law. It would be pointless to waste Bureau time investigating such a possibility. Is that perfectly clear?’

For a moment, everyone went silent. Nobody knew double-speak as well as a really good hacker. Special Agent in Charge Paul Shafer looked like he’d swallowed a toad, which, for some reason, pleased Smith mightily.

‘Furthermore,’ John continued, ‘your efforts will not be expended on catching “one of your own.” These people are not identity thieves, spammers, or virus disseminators. These people are cold-blooded killers. They film their murders and post them on the Web for the world to see.’

The lights in the auditorium dimmed further and the screen behind the speaker became illuminated with the introduction to a PowerPoint presentation. The caption read: ‘Cleveland, Ohio.’

‘What I’m about to show you is a series of five videos

No one in the room moved a muscle.

‘The reason we are showing you these films is to highlight the critical importance of tracing the murderers who posted these films. They are still out there, probably still killing, or planning to kill, and we have absolutely no idea who they might be. They are extremely computer proficient. For this reason, I warn you not to discuss this case with fellow hackers who have not been invited to this seminar. If you do, you may unwittingly be talking to one of the killers. All of you here have been thoroughly vetted to the very limits of our resources. Still, we realize that the vetting process is not perfect, and that some of the murderers may be in this room at this very moment.’ He paused for effect, pleased to see a few attendees cast sidelong glances at their seatmates.

‘Now. The films you’re about to see have already been seen by hundreds of thousands of people on the Web, but very few of those people realize that what they were watching was actually real. Nor do they understand that these may not be anomalies, but perhaps the very grim beginning of an unimaginable new cyber crime.’

He tapped some keys on his laptop to roll the first film

You had to see a body close-up, touch it with your own hands, to connect with the deadly real loss of a single human from the entire race. Everyone in this room saw murders almost every day. On television, in movies, video games, on computer screens that showed that which was real, and that which was staged. The average person never connected a depiction of death with a human being, and that was more than a problem; it was a moral catastrophe.

‘These are real people,’ he said in the break between one film and another. ‘People who were here one moment, and cruelly torn from the world the next. Please remember that.’

In the very back row, in the darkness under a balcony, Grace MacBride watched the next film and felt her heart take a double beat, because if this couldn’t be stopped, it could change everything.

The thermometer on the sleek black Cadillac read eighty-five degrees when Detectives Leo Magozzi and Gino Rolseth pulled into a slot in the underground garage.

It was a new car, relatively speaking, confiscated from a dealer who’d been smart enough to finance a bells-and-whistles model and too stupid to latch the trunk. A couple of kilos of coke started blowing out behind him on the freeway, leaving a Hansel and Gretel trail right to his front door. Magozzi and Gino had the Caddy on loan from Narcotics for a week until their new bare-bones sedan was delivered.

Gino had pretended disdain when Narcotics made the offer. ‘Oh, yeah, sure. Every major dealer in Minneapolis tools around in a Beemer or a Mercedes, and the only one you guys can catch is some low-level incompetent with a stinking Cadillac. Thanks a million. Does this piece of crap have a GPS?’

The guy from Narcotics shrugged. ‘If you hadn’t beaten your old sedan to a pulp you’d still have a nice ride.’

‘The damn thing was three years old and the only thing that worked in it was us.’

‘Whatever. Is Angela cooking for Thursday-night poker?’

‘Maybe. We’ll see how I like the car.’

As it turned out, Gino liked the car just fine. It had GPS,
Kama Sutra
. Angela had cooked for Thursday-night poker, and they had the Cadillac for another week.

Magozzi turned off the engine and opened his door. The garage was stifling already, and it was barely eight o’clock. The imposing red block building that was Minneapolis City Hall squatted on top of the garage like a stone comforter, holding the heat and humidity its ventilation system never handled very well on days like this. Gino started mopping his brow immediately.

‘This sucks. Let’s get back in the car, push the seats on full recline, crank up the air, and plug in some tunes. They’ll never find us.’

‘Nice talk for a crime fighter.’

‘It’s too hot to fight crime. You know what I’ve been thinking? About shifting from homicide over to Water Rescue, just for the summer.’

Magozzi glanced over at his partner’s generous paunch.

‘What?’

‘I just had a really scary visual flash of you in a wet suit.’

Gino gave his protruding belly a fond pat. ‘Some women find this profile irresistible.’

‘What women?’

‘Some women. Somewhere.’

Amazingly, Detective Johnny McLaren had beat them to work and was trolling City Hall like he usually did at least a few times during any given day, looking for scraps of conversation like a dog at a barbeque. It’s wasn’t that the skinny Irishman had a shortage of friends in the department, but

He didn’t look hungover, but his wardrobe choice made Magozzi think twice about the condition Johnny had been in when he’d dressed himself this morning – he was wearing a terrible blue seersucker suit that had surely been pulled out of the throw-away bin at the Goodwill. With his blue suit, flame-red Irish hair, and Pillsbury Dough Boy complexion, he sort of looked like an American flag. Not that Magozzi was on the
GQ
style radar by any stretch, but Johnny had found a niche for himself in the annals of bad taste.

Next to him, Gino snorted, his train of thought obviously tracking Magozzi’s own. ‘Jeez, Johnny, there must be a naked homeless guy out there somewhere.’

McLaren gave him an indignant look and brushed an imaginary speck of lint from his puckered sleeve. ‘This is the height of sartorial genius, Rolseth. You’re looking at a five-foot-four walking chick magnet. See, women are threatened by men who dress better than they do, so you have to look like you don’t care.’

‘Mission accomplished. I sure as hell hope you aren’t wearing that thing in your on-line dating profile or you’re never gonna see any action.’

Johnny scowled, looking a little sheepish.

‘How’s that going, by the way?’

‘Sucks. Everybody’s looking for Brad Pitt. I signed up for a new one, though. JDate.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘And you’re Catholic.’

‘Well, I’m not having any luck with my tribe, so I figured maybe I could find a nice Jewish girl and convert.’

‘Seems like sound reasoning,’ Gino said. ‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in Colorado this week?’

‘Yeah. But my brother blew his knee doing some weekend-warrior bullshit and had to have surgery, so I canceled my trip.’

‘Bummer.’

‘Yeah, bummer, but he’s a dumbass. Still thinks he’s eighteen, and that rock climbing is a good idea. Anyhow, I figure no way I’m going to spend seven days’ vacation time listening to him whine. So instead, I’m an even bigger dumbass and decide to take the holiday fund and hit every casino in Minnesota.’

‘How’d that work out for you?’

‘I’m back here, three days into my vacation, how do you think it worked?’

‘Probably better than if you’d put that money into your retirement account.’

‘Ain’t that the sad truth.’

They heard heavy footfalls echoing in the hall long before they turned a corner and saw Joe Gebeke jogging toward them, all dolled up in his Bomb Squad gear.

McLaren raised a hand in greeting as he approached. ‘Hey, buddy. Got an exercise today?’

Joe Gebeke was a big man, and the gear he was wearing

He paused, gave them all a nod in greeting, then took a second to catch his breath. ‘Ninety-nine percent of this job has been an exercise lately. Right now, we got an anonymous tip on a suspicious package in the food court at Maplewood Mall. Last week it was Rosedale Mall.’

‘What’s going on?’ Gino asked.

‘Snot-nosed delinquents messing around, thinking they’re cute and sucking up tax dollars. They’re driving us crazy – last month we had four call-outs at four different high schools during finals week. Now that the school year’s over, the little bastards are terrorizing the malls.’