Read Online Supreme Justice by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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clientele, the perps herded the customers away from the counter, and the bartender from behind it, into a group near others seated at tables.
As in the Venter killing/robbery, the holdup man with an AK-47 stood at the bar, near the door, weapon trained on the cowed crowd, while his partner with the pistol relieved the customers of their valuables. With his back to the bar, AK-47 didn’t see an employee emerging from the back room into the serving area behind him.
Chewing a last bite of carrot like Bugs Bunny contemplating Elmer Fudd’s next move, Rogers paused the video to check her printout of the police report.
This new player was Nick Karlin, twenty-six, another bartender, who—before the robbery began—had gone back into the stockroom. No police record. Husky Nick had been a walk-on with the University of Maryland Terrapins football team; just as the media had made much of Venter’s gridiron career fueling his “heroics,” Karlin really was an athlete, or anyway a former one. He was also the only person hurt in any of the out-of-state robberies.
She unpaused the video.
AK-47 was standing close enough to the counter that Karlin could reach over and hook the intruder around the neck, jerking him backward.
Stupid , she thought. What if the intruder had started firing, spraying bullets around the bar?
But that hadn’t happened, thankfully. With the counter awkwardly between them, the two men struggled, the gunman using only one hand on his surprise attacker, his other hand maintaining a grip on the AK-47; but at these close, clumsy quarters, the intruder couldn’t bring his weapon to bear on the ill-advisedly heroic bartender.
As they grappled, the gunman managed to gradually turn, until finally he was facing Karlin, who tore at the man’s mask, pulling it almost off before the gunman broke away, swinging the AK-47 up and jamming its stock in Karlin’s face. The bartender dropped behind the counter, a reverse jack-in-the-box.
Rogers knew from the police report that Karlin was unconscious, his nose and jaw broken.
Karlin had almost gotten the intruder’s mask off, but at the time his head was buried in the man’s shoulder and he had not seen the man’s briefly exposed face. And the camera angle didn’t help.
Shit.
She watched the two men do battle again, this time in slow motion, and then went through the footage again. Only this time, she observed the struggle in the mirror behind the bar . . .
Frame by frame now, she watched as the pair grappled, the gunman turning as Karlin ripped at his mask. Then . . . there !
She froze the video.
In the mirror, the reflection of the gunman’s largely revealed face glowered at her.
“Miggie!”
Altuve looked up from his monitor, and Rogers waved him over, then turned toward Reeder at his desk. “Joe—you should see this, too.”
The two men came over and peered over her shoulders as she pointed to the scowling oval face in the barroom mirror—close-set eyes, lumpy nose, wide mouth with irregular teeth.
“Miggie,” she asked, “is that image clear enough for you to use your facial-recognition software on it?”
Altuve frowned in thought. “Maybe. Yeah. Have to reverse it, obviously. Yeah, maybe, possibly.”
Jeez, Mig, could you hedge a little bit more?
Reeder patted her shoulder. “Gabe said you were smart, kid. Good catch.”
She grinned back at her new partner. “Thanks . . . Okay, Miggie— ‘do do that voo -doo that you do so well.’ ”
Reeder returned her grin. “Sinatra reference. I like a youngster with a sense of history.”
She shrugged. “So we liked the Rat Pack down on the farm.”
The computer expert, not much for chitchat, had already slipped back to his station.
Reeder went over to Bishop’s desk. Riding the high of finding a real clue, Rogers sneered at the monitor. “Got you,” she told the contorted face in the barroom mirror.
She felt, more than heard, Reeder go back to his desk. Before he sat down, he
As in the Venter killing/robbery, the holdup man with an AK-47 stood at the bar, near the door, weapon trained on the cowed crowd, while his partner with the pistol relieved the customers of their valuables. With his back to the bar, AK-47 didn’t see an employee emerging from the back room into the serving area behind him.
Chewing a last bite of carrot like Bugs Bunny contemplating Elmer Fudd’s next move, Rogers paused the video to check her printout of the police report.
This new player was Nick Karlin, twenty-six, another bartender, who—before the robbery began—had gone back into the stockroom. No police record. Husky Nick had been a walk-on with the University of Maryland Terrapins football team; just as the media had made much of Venter’s gridiron career fueling his “heroics,” Karlin really was an athlete, or anyway a former one. He was also the only person hurt in any of the out-of-state robberies.
She unpaused the video.
AK-47 was standing close enough to the counter that Karlin could reach over and hook the intruder around the neck, jerking him backward.
Stupid , she thought. What if the intruder had started firing, spraying bullets around the bar?
But that hadn’t happened, thankfully. With the counter awkwardly between them, the two men struggled, the gunman using only one hand on his surprise attacker, his other hand maintaining a grip on the AK-47; but at these close, clumsy quarters, the intruder couldn’t bring his weapon to bear on the ill-advisedly heroic bartender.
As they grappled, the gunman managed to gradually turn, until finally he was facing Karlin, who tore at the man’s mask, pulling it almost off before the gunman broke away, swinging the AK-47 up and jamming its stock in Karlin’s face. The bartender dropped behind the counter, a reverse jack-in-the-box.
Rogers knew from the police report that Karlin was unconscious, his nose and jaw broken.
Karlin had almost gotten the intruder’s mask off, but at the time his head was buried in the man’s shoulder and he had not seen the man’s briefly exposed face. And the camera angle didn’t help.
Shit.
She watched the two men do battle again, this time in slow motion, and then went through the footage again. Only this time, she observed the struggle in the mirror behind the bar . . .
Frame by frame now, she watched as the pair grappled, the gunman turning as Karlin ripped at his mask. Then . . . there !
She froze the video.
In the mirror, the reflection of the gunman’s largely revealed face glowered at her.
“Miggie!”
Altuve looked up from his monitor, and Rogers waved him over, then turned toward Reeder at his desk. “Joe—you should see this, too.”
The two men came over and peered over her shoulders as she pointed to the scowling oval face in the barroom mirror—close-set eyes, lumpy nose, wide mouth with irregular teeth.
“Miggie,” she asked, “is that image clear enough for you to use your facial-recognition software on it?”
Altuve frowned in thought. “Maybe. Yeah. Have to reverse it, obviously. Yeah, maybe, possibly.”
Jeez, Mig, could you hedge a little bit more?
Reeder patted her shoulder. “Gabe said you were smart, kid. Good catch.”
She grinned back at her new partner. “Thanks . . . Okay, Miggie— ‘do do that voo -doo that you do so well.’ ”
Reeder returned her grin. “Sinatra reference. I like a youngster with a sense of history.”
She shrugged. “So we liked the Rat Pack down on the farm.”
The computer expert, not much for chitchat, had already slipped back to his station.
Reeder went over to Bishop’s desk. Riding the high of finding a real clue, Rogers sneered at the monitor. “Got you,” she told the contorted face in the barroom mirror.
She felt, more than heard, Reeder go back to his desk. Before he sat down, he
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