he’d heard on several local news shows throughout the west. He thought they must all go to the same canned-news-music provider.
Behind the boyish-looking anchor and the female anchor in the blue suit, words flashed large on the screen: “Midtown Shooting.”
Ted Landigran, the boyish anchor, adopted a grave expression. “We now bring you live to the scene of a shooting in midtown where three people are dead. We have a reporter on the scene. Gary, tell me what you know.”
They went live to Gary, who looked a lot like Ted Landigran, except his hair was brown and Landigran’s was blond. He gripped the microphone hard, his voice strained. Still, he did a decent job.
There had been shots fired and a man screaming.
A jogger who lived in the neighborhood heard shots around three thirty in the afternoon and called the police.
The door to what looked like a duplex was open and in the garish light of the camera Landry saw what might or might not be a small section of a blue-jeaned leg. According to the news report, there were two bodies in the front room, and one in the back bedroom.
Back to Ted Landigran. He looked deadly serious. His handsome face had been transformed into a full frown, his eyes large and sad. When he spoke, he didn’t have the bantering tone he’d used for the Street Fair story. His voice was now measured and sad.
Footage ran of a police officer unspooling crime scene tape from a wheel, walking carefully around the edge of the house. The duplex was probably built in the seventies—fired-brick adobe painted over with white. The camera panned to a car in the driveway, then to a couple of people inside the doorway, barely visible, wearing what looked to be hazmat suits. One big guy stood there, his latex-gloved arms hanging out from his side, ignoring the camera.
Ted Landigran did not give the names of the three people in the duplex. But Landry could guess who they were.
He would know soon enough if he was right.
A knot of people stood nearby. One of them was being interviewed by the reporter. They’d all heard shots fired. They’d all heard a car drive away at a high rate of speed.
Ten minutes later, the victims were identified. Landry didn’t recognize the names: Gary Short, James Berk, and Amy Diehl. But he recognized the photos that flashed on the screen not long after.
Two of them—one of the men and the woman—had manned the checkpoint the day Landry had driven through, right before the third member of the group was shot to death.
More information came in. One witness described the car, a late-model white subcompact. The car had sideswiped a pole with the right front fender.
Landry got up, turned the TV off and the light out and stood back five feet from the window. He could see his rental car from here, the white Nissan Versa.
It was still nose-in to the other car. But now he could see that there was a difference to the shape of the hood. Now that he looked. The hood looked bent up just a little on the right side.
Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but he trusted his instincts. The dull electric feeling in his jaw was back.
He grabbed the few things he’d left out in the room, once again glad he’d taken the time to leave the run bag and its contents in the storage facility. He left the TV on, and the bathroom light, and pocketed the key. He’d throw it in the nearest Dumpster he could find. He wiped down everything with a towel from the bathroom just to be on the safe side. Made sure no one saw him before walking around the end of the top floor and down the steps past the pool. It was full dark now, but there were plenty of lights. He kept to the shadows and started walking.
Sure enough, two city police cars swooped by—no sirens but they had their flashers going and the light bars on. They slowed and turned into The Satellite INN parking lot, and gunned around the back.
He found a place where he could watch the activity. It wasn’t perfect, just a sorry-looking
Behind the boyish-looking anchor and the female anchor in the blue suit, words flashed large on the screen: “Midtown Shooting.”
Ted Landigran, the boyish anchor, adopted a grave expression. “We now bring you live to the scene of a shooting in midtown where three people are dead. We have a reporter on the scene. Gary, tell me what you know.”
They went live to Gary, who looked a lot like Ted Landigran, except his hair was brown and Landigran’s was blond. He gripped the microphone hard, his voice strained. Still, he did a decent job.
There had been shots fired and a man screaming.
A jogger who lived in the neighborhood heard shots around three thirty in the afternoon and called the police.
The door to what looked like a duplex was open and in the garish light of the camera Landry saw what might or might not be a small section of a blue-jeaned leg. According to the news report, there were two bodies in the front room, and one in the back bedroom.
Back to Ted Landigran. He looked deadly serious. His handsome face had been transformed into a full frown, his eyes large and sad. When he spoke, he didn’t have the bantering tone he’d used for the Street Fair story. His voice was now measured and sad.
Footage ran of a police officer unspooling crime scene tape from a wheel, walking carefully around the edge of the house. The duplex was probably built in the seventies—fired-brick adobe painted over with white. The camera panned to a car in the driveway, then to a couple of people inside the doorway, barely visible, wearing what looked to be hazmat suits. One big guy stood there, his latex-gloved arms hanging out from his side, ignoring the camera.
Ted Landigran did not give the names of the three people in the duplex. But Landry could guess who they were.
He would know soon enough if he was right.
A knot of people stood nearby. One of them was being interviewed by the reporter. They’d all heard shots fired. They’d all heard a car drive away at a high rate of speed.
Ten minutes later, the victims were identified. Landry didn’t recognize the names: Gary Short, James Berk, and Amy Diehl. But he recognized the photos that flashed on the screen not long after.
Two of them—one of the men and the woman—had manned the checkpoint the day Landry had driven through, right before the third member of the group was shot to death.
More information came in. One witness described the car, a late-model white subcompact. The car had sideswiped a pole with the right front fender.
Landry got up, turned the TV off and the light out and stood back five feet from the window. He could see his rental car from here, the white Nissan Versa.
It was still nose-in to the other car. But now he could see that there was a difference to the shape of the hood. Now that he looked. The hood looked bent up just a little on the right side.
Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but he trusted his instincts. The dull electric feeling in his jaw was back.
He grabbed the few things he’d left out in the room, once again glad he’d taken the time to leave the run bag and its contents in the storage facility. He left the TV on, and the bathroom light, and pocketed the key. He’d throw it in the nearest Dumpster he could find. He wiped down everything with a towel from the bathroom just to be on the safe side. Made sure no one saw him before walking around the end of the top floor and down the steps past the pool. It was full dark now, but there were plenty of lights. He kept to the shadows and started walking.
Sure enough, two city police cars swooped by—no sirens but they had their flashers going and the light bars on. They slowed and turned into The Satellite INN parking lot, and gunned around the back.
He found a place where he could watch the activity. It wasn’t perfect, just a sorry-looking
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