online, while posting on the sniper message boards, but he doesn’t really know how to calculate the actual degrees. In the forest preserve near his house, Munchel can hit a target from five hundred yards and keep the grouping within a four-inch radius. Who cares what the MOA is? It’s good shooting no matter how you calculate it.
The target has his back to Munchel. He’s in his living room, on the first floor of the two-flat, sitting at the computer. Just like he is every day at this time.
Predictability is a killer.
The blinds hanging in the large, three-section bay window are open, and Munchel can see straight down the hallway, all the way to the back of the house. He nudges the rifle slightly, to check what the target is surfing.
Pornography. Some weird shit with chicks wearing rubber aprons and wielding whips.
Munchel glances at his watch, a Luminox 3007, the same kind that Navy SEALs use. Less than a minute left. Munchel’s hands start to shake, and he realizes he’s breathing heavy. Not from fear. From excitement. All the training, all the planning, it all comes down to this moment.
The butt plate is snug against his armpit, his face is tight against the cheek pad, the safety is off. The aluminum gun chassis is on the concrete planter behind the dogwood, a hard surface that ensures the gun will stay steady. Munchel takes a deep breath, lets it out through his teeth. His ears tell him there is no traffic coming, which is essential because he’s shooting across the street – it would be bad if a car entered his line of fire at the moment of truth.
The target stands up, walks toward the window, seems to look right at him. Impossible, of course. He’s much too far away, too well hidden. But it’s still unnerving. Munchel chews his lower lip, begins the countdown.
The target turns. Munchel completely empties his lungs and waits… waits… waits… then squeezes the trigger with the ball of his finger, trying to time it between heartbeats like he’s read about online.
There’s a loud
Munchel sucks in some air and lets it out as a laugh.
He reaches for his canteen – also an army/navy store purchase – and slurps down some purple Gatorade. His untraceable prepaid cell phone vibrates, and he stares at the number. It’s Swanson. Anxious to see how it went, to meet at the rendezvous point and brag over beer and chicken wings.
Munchel ignores the call. He has other ideas of how to celebrate.
A streetlight comes on, its sensor activated by a timer. Munchel loads a round, aims, and takes it out. That’s two shots now. Still, no one seems to notice. How disappointing.
He takes out his phone and dials 911.
“I was walking down Leavitt and heard someone shooting. I think my neighbor has been killed.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“He’s at forty-six fifty-two. I think someone shot him.”
“Can you give me your name?”
Munchel hangs up, sips more Gatorade, and hunkers down to wait for the police to arrive.
5:32 P.M.
JACK
MY PARTNER, Sergeant Herb Benedict, crams the last mini chocolate donut into his mouth, wipes a hand across his gray mustache, and then tries to heave his bulk out of the less-than-comfortable confines of my 1984 Chevy Nova. He has to rock, twice, before he gets enough momentum to break the tug of gravity between his ass and the seat.
“Thanks for not judging me,” he says as we approach the yellow police tape.
“Because you ate two packages of donuts even though your doctor put you on a high-fiber diet?”
Herb nods. “Man cannot live on bran alone, Jack. Every day, as a snack, my wife mixes me a high-fiber sugar-free weight loss shake. Then she adds even more fiber.”
“Sounds healthy.”
“You want some? I got a zipper bag in my pocket full of the stuff. It’s like drinking a stalk of wheat.”
Dried leaves in shades of gold, red, and brown blanket the sidewalks. The cool air carries a crisp, woodsy scent. Spring and summer smell like garbage and sewage. Winter, like car exhaust. Fall is the only time of year Chicago smells nice.
The setting sun casts long shadows on the street, and ours walk ahead of us. I like September because the climate is moderate, and because I have brown hair and brown eyes, and 85 percent of my clothing matches this particular season.
“Does your wife know you’re snacking between nutritious meals?” I ask.
Herb’s basset hound jowls are turned down: his serious face. “She suspects. Last night she found some powdered sugar on my tie. I spent twenty minutes trying to convince her it was heroin.”
A rookie guards the crime scene, keeping away reporters and gawkers. Young, curly hair, eyes intent. I don’t recognize him, and he doesn’t recognize us, asking for ID. This is perfectly acceptable. I’m wearing a pumpkin- colored Anne Klein jacket with a red chevron pattern, taupe Armani pants, and rust Gucci pumps. He probably thinks I’m a waif runway model looking for my photo shoot. Well, a retired one, maybe. There aren’t too many fashionistas in their late forties.
I open my clutch – a Wal-Mart purchase, but hey, it matches the outfit – and remove my star, flashing it at the noob.
“Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Homicide. This is Sergeant Benedict.”
The rookie – his name tag reads
“She’s just trying to look out for you, Herb,” I say.
“I know. But I have a feeling that the extra years this high-fiber diet may allow me to live will get cancelled out by the amount of time I spend on the john.”
Herb and I each take some plastic booties out of the box by the door and slip them over our shoes. There are gloves as well, and I snap one on.
The house isn’t very well lit, one thrift shop floor lamp and a living room chandelier with two bulbs not working. The CSU has brought in a portable halogen light, which illuminates the space to operating room brightness. There’s a computer desk, empty pop cans, fast-food wrappers, and CDs randomly strewn over the top. The monitor is a flat screen, and there are speakers screwed into the walls. A red beanbag chair which doesn’t match the red shade of the sofa which doesn’t match the red shade of the drapes. The TV is an older model, sitting on a cheap pressboard cabinet. The walls are bare except for a poster of a topless Jenna Jameson.
The victim is a male Caucasian, average build, sprawled out facedown on the floor. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else. His blond hair is matted with blood, and a halo of red has soaked the beige carpeting around his head. I’ve seen enough gunshot wounds in my day to recognize the cause of death.
I crouch down, squint at his right hand. In the webbing between his thumb and index finger there is a black tattoo of a tombstone. Written on its face is a number five with angel wings on it.
A bulge in the back of the vic’s pocket appears wallet shaped, and I tug it out with a gloved hand. Driver’s license shows me a picture of a man named Robert Siders who resides at this address. The hair seems the same. I
