Read Online Penance: A Chicago Thriller by Dan O'Shea - Free Book Online
Authors: Dan O'Shea
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said. “Those windows up on four, that or the roof. Probably the windows, though.”
The building was four stories, each story with long banks of divided glass windows. Almost all the glass was broken out of the first two stories, and large chunks of it were gone out of the third. Most of the fourth-floor windows were intact.
Cunningham went through the building in complete silence and with aggravating patience. Stopping in each doorway, standing for a time, walking over to the windows, sometimes squatting down to look at the floor, touching the glass in a couple of places, sometimes assuming a shooting position as he looked back toward the church. Lynch followed along feeling useless as hell.
The place got some use. Lots of graffiti inside, lots of garbage. Fast food wrappers – lots of Popeye’s Chicken boxes. Popeye’s was back in the strip mall across the tracks behind the building, Lynch thinking he should ask over there, see if he could get anything. Lots of malt liquor cans, beer cans, busted liquor bottles – bottom-shelf stuff mostly. Pop cans here and there. One room with an old mattress on the floor and used condoms scattered around. Maybe talk to vice, see if there’s a local girl he should check out.
Cunningham had gone through the first wing, back through the north-south section, and was most of the way through the last wing. Finally, he stepped into a room and said, “Bingo.” Just like that.
“What’cha got?” Lynch asked.
“This was the room. Smell it?”
“Smell urine,” said Lynch. “Gonna be smelling that for a while, I think.”
Cunningham walked directly to the right front corner, where the windows looked out toward the church. He pointed to a broken pane shoulder high and two rows in from the wall. “Took the shot through here. See the smudges in the dust here? Him setting his feet. Right-handed. His toes are pointing east. No tread in the tracks, though. Probably wearing booties over his shoes, like they do in the hospital. Didn’t want to leave us prints.”
“So he sticks his gun out the window there?”
“Rifle, Lynch. Guns are artillery. No, not out the window. Smart boy like this, he’s standing back a couple of steps. Shoots through the hole. Almost like a silencer – traps most of the sound in the room here.”
“That’s why he’s in this back section, not up front by the houses? Quieter?”
“Most likely. Brass balls, though, giving up another fifty meters just to cut down on noise nobody’s gonna be able to place anyway. Get crime scene to check the window here, probably get some residue.” Cunningham taking up a shooting position again, frowning a little.
“What time she get hit? Around 3 o’clock, wasn’t it?”
“Quarter after.”
“So why this side of the room? OK, this whole face of the building is in shadow because of the step-back layout, but why not tuck back in against the west wall? Be even darker over there. Could even brace against the wall if he wanted to.”
“Really matter?”
“This kind of shooting, everything matters. It’s like a math problem. For each tactical situation, there is one best answer. So far, everything adds up. This wing to cut down on the noise. Also, it’s shaded that time of day. He’s two doors from the stairwell on the east end. Close enough to get out quick, far enough away that he’s got a little time if he hears anyone coming up. Also, look around in here. Less shit in here than in a lot of the rooms. Not a popular spot for some reason, and, trust me, our boy ain’t looking to win no popularity contests. So why does he get all that right and pick the wrong side of the room. Maybe that window was already busted, he didn’t want to risk the noise breaking another one.”
Lynch walked over, looked at the window, shook his head. “He picked the pane, broke it himself. Most of the rooms we’ve been in, if there’s broken glass, it’s in here. Kids throwing rocks through the windows from the
The building was four stories, each story with long banks of divided glass windows. Almost all the glass was broken out of the first two stories, and large chunks of it were gone out of the third. Most of the fourth-floor windows were intact.
Cunningham went through the building in complete silence and with aggravating patience. Stopping in each doorway, standing for a time, walking over to the windows, sometimes squatting down to look at the floor, touching the glass in a couple of places, sometimes assuming a shooting position as he looked back toward the church. Lynch followed along feeling useless as hell.
The place got some use. Lots of graffiti inside, lots of garbage. Fast food wrappers – lots of Popeye’s Chicken boxes. Popeye’s was back in the strip mall across the tracks behind the building, Lynch thinking he should ask over there, see if he could get anything. Lots of malt liquor cans, beer cans, busted liquor bottles – bottom-shelf stuff mostly. Pop cans here and there. One room with an old mattress on the floor and used condoms scattered around. Maybe talk to vice, see if there’s a local girl he should check out.
Cunningham had gone through the first wing, back through the north-south section, and was most of the way through the last wing. Finally, he stepped into a room and said, “Bingo.” Just like that.
“What’cha got?” Lynch asked.
“This was the room. Smell it?”
“Smell urine,” said Lynch. “Gonna be smelling that for a while, I think.”
Cunningham walked directly to the right front corner, where the windows looked out toward the church. He pointed to a broken pane shoulder high and two rows in from the wall. “Took the shot through here. See the smudges in the dust here? Him setting his feet. Right-handed. His toes are pointing east. No tread in the tracks, though. Probably wearing booties over his shoes, like they do in the hospital. Didn’t want to leave us prints.”
“So he sticks his gun out the window there?”
“Rifle, Lynch. Guns are artillery. No, not out the window. Smart boy like this, he’s standing back a couple of steps. Shoots through the hole. Almost like a silencer – traps most of the sound in the room here.”
“That’s why he’s in this back section, not up front by the houses? Quieter?”
“Most likely. Brass balls, though, giving up another fifty meters just to cut down on noise nobody’s gonna be able to place anyway. Get crime scene to check the window here, probably get some residue.” Cunningham taking up a shooting position again, frowning a little.
“What time she get hit? Around 3 o’clock, wasn’t it?”
“Quarter after.”
“So why this side of the room? OK, this whole face of the building is in shadow because of the step-back layout, but why not tuck back in against the west wall? Be even darker over there. Could even brace against the wall if he wanted to.”
“Really matter?”
“This kind of shooting, everything matters. It’s like a math problem. For each tactical situation, there is one best answer. So far, everything adds up. This wing to cut down on the noise. Also, it’s shaded that time of day. He’s two doors from the stairwell on the east end. Close enough to get out quick, far enough away that he’s got a little time if he hears anyone coming up. Also, look around in here. Less shit in here than in a lot of the rooms. Not a popular spot for some reason, and, trust me, our boy ain’t looking to win no popularity contests. So why does he get all that right and pick the wrong side of the room. Maybe that window was already busted, he didn’t want to risk the noise breaking another one.”
Lynch walked over, looked at the window, shook his head. “He picked the pane, broke it himself. Most of the rooms we’ve been in, if there’s broken glass, it’s in here. Kids throwing rocks through the windows from the
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