similar case in his own jurisdiction in Montana, and would like to compare notes. He added that he would be out of the office—he was on vacation at the moment—so Keller should try his cell.
Landry wasn’t worried about Keller getting back to him. Desperation was a strong motivator, and Landry sensed there was plenty of desperation with a puzzling case like this one. A school shooter shot and killed by an anonymous sniper? He’d call back just out of curiosity.
Landry left the City Hall office and walked down the hallway and out the doors into the desert sunshine. Back in his car he cranked up the AC and drove back to the hotel parking garage. As he reached the elevator, his phone chimed.
Keller.
His voice gruff, Keller introduced himself and said, “I hear you have some information on a similar shooting.”
No hello, no how’re you doing. Some FBI agents were like that. Maybe they watched Dragnet reruns too many times as little kids.
One of the greatest tools available to man was the ability to mirror the person he was speaking with. People love their own mirror images. They loved to talk to themselves, or reasonable facsimiles of themselves. So Landry spoke in the same kind of shorthand. He launched into a dry description of the shooter at the community college, his escape from the school, the crash, and how he vanished into the mountains. He said it concisely and neutrally—no hail-fellow-well-met. Copspeak.
“Interesting. Is your theory that we are dealing with the same subject?”
“At first glance, it looks like the same deal, which is why I am calling.”
“I’m calling you .”
Anal-retentive. He could work with that. “Do you think there may be a connection?” Landry asked.
“Doubtful.” But he didn’t hang up.
“It sure is a puzzler, which is why I called you. Do you have a make and model on the vehicle he left behind?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share that information. You understand. Ongoing investigation.”
“I understand. The man we were seeking—still are seeking—I was hoping we were seeing something similar. We believe our guy stayed with his vehicle, and found a way to hide it.”
“Our man didn’t have a chance to do that.”
“Because he was shot and killed.”
“Yes.”
“This sounds a lot like the guy we’re looking for. Did his car have Montana plates?”
“No, the vehicle did not have Montana plates.”
Talking to this guy was like trying to pull a sliver out of your finger. “I’m thinking that the shooter in Zephyr favored a particular kind of vehicle. A big SUV with four-wheel drive. The kind a wealthy rancher would drive.” Feeling like he was playing Twenty Questions.
“Do you have any photos of your shooter?” the SA asked. “From the school cameras?”
“Unfortunately, the school was new, and they hadn’t gotten around to putting cameras in yet.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
Landry said, “A witness saw him, though.”
“What did he look like?”
“Describe your guy and I’ll tell you.”
Silence on the other end.
Crickets . . .
Landry started mentally counting down from one hundred. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven.
Landry hit eighty-three when the SA spoke up. “Might as well tell you—a description will be in the news tomorrow. Caucasian male, five foot nine inches in height, one ninety in weight. Brown and blue.”
“Was he fit?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car?”
Silence again. Then, “Two thousand eleven Chevy Tahoe, dark green, four-wheel drive. Wiped clean. Stolen.”
“Stolen? From where?”
“San Diego. Three days before the shooting. Now, your turn. Did anyone get a good look at your man?”
“The driver of the car he ran into,” Landry said. “He described him as medium size, medium build, brown hair. The man wore dark glasses so he couldn’t see his eyes. Dressed in black, bulky around the torso, so the driver thought he might be wearing a bulletproof vest. He wasn’t sure about age.
Landry wasn’t worried about Keller getting back to him. Desperation was a strong motivator, and Landry sensed there was plenty of desperation with a puzzling case like this one. A school shooter shot and killed by an anonymous sniper? He’d call back just out of curiosity.
Landry left the City Hall office and walked down the hallway and out the doors into the desert sunshine. Back in his car he cranked up the AC and drove back to the hotel parking garage. As he reached the elevator, his phone chimed.
Keller.
His voice gruff, Keller introduced himself and said, “I hear you have some information on a similar shooting.”
No hello, no how’re you doing. Some FBI agents were like that. Maybe they watched Dragnet reruns too many times as little kids.
One of the greatest tools available to man was the ability to mirror the person he was speaking with. People love their own mirror images. They loved to talk to themselves, or reasonable facsimiles of themselves. So Landry spoke in the same kind of shorthand. He launched into a dry description of the shooter at the community college, his escape from the school, the crash, and how he vanished into the mountains. He said it concisely and neutrally—no hail-fellow-well-met. Copspeak.
“Interesting. Is your theory that we are dealing with the same subject?”
“At first glance, it looks like the same deal, which is why I am calling.”
“I’m calling you .”
Anal-retentive. He could work with that. “Do you think there may be a connection?” Landry asked.
“Doubtful.” But he didn’t hang up.
“It sure is a puzzler, which is why I called you. Do you have a make and model on the vehicle he left behind?”
“I’m afraid I can’t share that information. You understand. Ongoing investigation.”
“I understand. The man we were seeking—still are seeking—I was hoping we were seeing something similar. We believe our guy stayed with his vehicle, and found a way to hide it.”
“Our man didn’t have a chance to do that.”
“Because he was shot and killed.”
“Yes.”
“This sounds a lot like the guy we’re looking for. Did his car have Montana plates?”
“No, the vehicle did not have Montana plates.”
Talking to this guy was like trying to pull a sliver out of your finger. “I’m thinking that the shooter in Zephyr favored a particular kind of vehicle. A big SUV with four-wheel drive. The kind a wealthy rancher would drive.” Feeling like he was playing Twenty Questions.
“Do you have any photos of your shooter?” the SA asked. “From the school cameras?”
“Unfortunately, the school was new, and they hadn’t gotten around to putting cameras in yet.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
Landry said, “A witness saw him, though.”
“What did he look like?”
“Describe your guy and I’ll tell you.”
Silence on the other end.
Crickets . . .
Landry started mentally counting down from one hundred. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven.
Landry hit eighty-three when the SA spoke up. “Might as well tell you—a description will be in the news tomorrow. Caucasian male, five foot nine inches in height, one ninety in weight. Brown and blue.”
“Was he fit?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car?”
Silence again. Then, “Two thousand eleven Chevy Tahoe, dark green, four-wheel drive. Wiped clean. Stolen.”
“Stolen? From where?”
“San Diego. Three days before the shooting. Now, your turn. Did anyone get a good look at your man?”
“The driver of the car he ran into,” Landry said. “He described him as medium size, medium build, brown hair. The man wore dark glasses so he couldn’t see his eyes. Dressed in black, bulky around the torso, so the driver thought he might be wearing a bulletproof vest. He wasn’t sure about age.
Similar Books
