Chapter Twenty-one
Vince squeezed the trigger and caught his breath. He’d been at it for almost forty minutes. Since losing his sight, this was the first time he’d discharged his Glock 9-millimeter pistol without a sound beacon attached to the target.
“Nice shot,” said the firearms trainer.
At first, his supervisors had scoffed at the idea of target practice for the blind, but Vince had made them believers. A series of slow rhythmic beeps from the target worked best for him. He’d learned to measure the pulses in each ear until the sound was equal in the left and right-which meant that the beacon was centered on his nose. From there, it was all about technique, focus, and instinct: Square your shoulders; draw an imaginary line from your eyebrows, heart, and shoulders to the target; raise the gun slowly to check the alignment from your heart to your palms holding the gun; and, finally, using your mind’s eye, picture the gun’s barrel before you and the target beyond, and when you can “see” one last imaginary line from your center of gravity, between your wrists, and along the image of the gun’s sights… pow!
Brainport changed the game entirely.
Vince worked as a training advisor on “human issues” with the Academy Detail, but the new Miami Police Training Center in downtown Miami had been built after his accident. He’d never had an actual look at the new Firearms Unit. His role was to teach courses on “mental preparation” and “ethics and professionalism” with the Officer Survival Detail, and to conduct advanced multijurisdictional sessions on crisis negotiation skills, which covered everything from outright hostage takings to convincing an armed drug addict not to commit suicide. Stimulating work, but it was still just the classroom. He longed to get out, and a morning at the Firearms Detail with Brainport was a big step in that direction.
“I never would have believed it, but you could very well get to a passing level on stationary targets at close range,” the trainer said. “Moving targets… well, we’ll wait and see.”
Vince focused the Brainport camera lens on a black-and-white target peppered with gunfire. The stated policy of the Institute for Human amp; Machine Cognition was never to let the device leave the Pensacola campus, but Chuck Mays had a way of making things happen. It made Vince’s heart race with excitement to see-literally-the results.
Vince removed the mechanical “lollipop” from his mouth. “This is so unbelievable.”
He hated to shut down the device, but he was authorized to use it only in controlled environments like the Police Training Center. If he stumbled down the stairs or tripped on the sidewalk and broke it, he’d not only be on the financial hook to replace the prototype, but they’d drop him from the pilot program.
The firearms trainer helped him put the components back inside the carry case. Vince used his walking stick to find the door. Sam was waiting for him in the hallway.
“One day I’ll take you huntin’, Sam,” he said as he folded away the stick. Together they went to the elevator and rode down to Vince’s office. Sam brought them to a stop in the open doorway, and Vince sensed that someone was waiting inside.
“Hi,” said Alicia.
Alicia’s police work often brought her to the department headquarters next door, but even so, unannounced visits from his wife weren’t the norm. “What’s up?”
Vince heard more than one person rising from the chairs in his office. Alicia said, “I have Detective Burton with me from Miami-Dade Police. He’s from the Homicide Division, working the Lincoln Road Mall case.”
Miami-Dade was the countywide force, akin to a sheriff’s office, and it wasn’t surprising that Miami Beach Police would bring them into the investigation once a homicide was suspected. Vince shook the detective’s hand, invited him and Alicia to return to their seats, and made his way to the chair behind his clunky metal desk. For the hundredth time, he nearly sliced open his thigh on the pointy metal corner of the government-issued furniture. Whoever was in charge of procurement definitely wasn’t blind.
“You didn’t mention that you were working with Miami-Dade on this case,” Vince said.
“I’m not,” said Alicia.
“I’m here on what you might call a professional courtesy,” said Burton. “After I interviewed Jack Swyteck, it was clear that my investigation ties in pretty closely with the criminal case against Jamal Wakefield. It seemed appropriate for you to be informed, given your-you know, given what happened to you. I thought you might want your wife present.”
Vince didn’t make an issue out of it, but the detective’s actions were so typical. You go blind, and the world thinks you can’t do anything alone. Still, Alicia knew better. She should have told Burton that there was no need for her to tag along.
Why did she come?
“There are a couple of things you might like to know,” said Burton.
“Okay, shoot.”
“One, we’re still waiting on the final toxicology report, but the medical examiner suspects some kind of quick-acting toxin that induced cardiac arrest.”
“I’d heard that,” since Vince. “Detective Lopez from Miami Beach gave me an update before handing the case over to you. Any idea how the toxin was administered?”
“That’s the tricky part. The body shows no puncture wounds-no sign of a needle injection. It’s possible he ingested it. But we also have some footage from an outdoor security camera that raises an interesting possibility.”
Miami Beach PD hadn’t mentioned anything about a videotape. “What’s it show?” Vince asked.
“There are surprisingly few security cameras in the area, but they do have one at every cross street. About an hour before the paramedics arrived, we have a series of frames showing the victim in the crosswalk at Jefferson Avenue, which bisects the mall. He’s headed east. Another pedestrian is headed west, and the two of them collide.”
“What’s wrong with that guy, is he blind?” said Vince, smiling.
“Actually, he is,” said Burton, his tone serious. “That’s the interesting thing. We don’t have an ID yet, but whoever ran into Chang was using a walking stick, and the tip of it jabbed Chang in the ankle. The medical examiner notes a strange discoloration of the skin at the point of impact.”
Vince waited for him to say more, but the ball seemed to be in his court. “Anybody get a look at the suspect?” asked Vince.
“No. It was after dark, and the quality isn’t that good, even with digital enhancement. The camera has a head-on view of Ethan Chang, so we can tell that it’s him, but the suspect is filmed from behind. The dark sunglasses and hat don’t make it any easier.”
“Might not even be blind,” said Vince. “Could have just been a disguise.”
“That’s possible,” said the detective.
“Seems more than possible, when you consider the note Swyteck found on his table. Not an easy thing for someone to do without the benefit of sight-find his way to someone’s table and scribble out a note on a napkin.”
“Another valid point,” the detective said.
Vince listened as the detective filled in a few more details, but he was less than totally engaged, still wondering why Alicia had felt it necessary to come with him.
“Anyway,” said the detective, “I won’t take up any more of your time. Let me just say that before I made detective, I was in charge of the team that ran perimeter control around the motel on Biscayne when you were lead negotiator. I have tremendous respect for how you’ve bounced back. For what it’s worth, I hope the state attorney nails the son of a bitch who did this to you.”
“I appreciate that,” said Vince.
Alicia and the detective exchanged good-byes, and Vince thanked him. The detective closed the door on his way out, leaving Vince alone with his wife.
“You didn’t tell him about Brainport,” she said.
