blood sugar. I took them out to the car and scanned the headline story on Wardell in twenty seconds, lacking the luxury of more time to waste on it.
I once read that you’ll find at least five mistakes in any given news story if you know enough about the subject. From a cursory glance, the Des Moines Register was way ahead of the curve in terms of inaccuracy. They had the broadest details right, but everything else was a mix of rumor, speculation, and good old-fashioned sensationalism. For all that, though, the media was doing exactly the same thing I was: waiting for the next one.
I discarded the paper on the passenger seat and unfolded the map I’d bought from a gas station on the edge of town. In my head I went over the top three kill zones I’d identified.
On the face of it, the most likely option was a mall on the eastern edge of town, one that offered near-identical conditions to the shooting Wardell had carried out the previous morning. Another large open space offering a choice of unsuspecting targets, again providing plenty of cover and a choice of exfiltration routes.
Then there were a couple of spots in the center of town: Central Avenue would offer the single greatest amount of targets during rush hour and had a certain symbolic value: the beating heart of a small heartland city.
Five minutes’ walk away, City Square Park provided almost as many targets. It wasn’t the biggest of the city’s parks, but it would provide more viable positions from which to take the shot than any of the others.
I juggled the possibilities in my head as I sat in the parking bay outside the Red Ball, sipping the coffee and watching the morning traffic picking up. I’d developed a feel for the place in the last couple of hours; I guessed I knew the town about as well as a rookie cabdriver would. And even with the morning traffic approaching its zenith, the place was compact enough to be easily navigable. The three potential kill zones were all within easy reach of my current position. The mall was half a mile away. I estimated I could make Central Avenue in four minutes. City Square Park in seven. The only problem? I couldn’t be in all three places at once.
I eliminated the mall first. It was an ideal setup, and it was what Wardell had done yesterday; but that was why I found it so easy to discount. Five years before, Wardell had been scrupulously varied in his choice of both locations and victims.
Down to two strong possibilities, then: Central Avenue or the park. I drained the last of the coffee, keyed the ignition, and pointed the Cadillac south, toward the center of town.
Exactly four minutes later, I was headed west along Central. Full daylight had taken its time to arrive. Maybe it was as reluctant as anybody else to begin a cold day in late October. Rush hour was in full swing, which in a town this size, wasn’t saying much.
I covered the length of the town’s main street with relative ease, stopping only at a broken signal when instructed to by a traffic cop. As I waited for my stream of traffic to be granted permission to move on, I scanned the roofline on either side of the street. Nothing more threatening than pigeons. The big clock on the county courthouse at the top of the street was ten minutes slow. I peered up at the bird-festooned parapet on the roof of the building. It would make a dramatic vantage point for a shooting, albeit with some logistical drawbacks. Then again, it didn’t offer any intrinsic advantage over the open window on the sixth floor of the office building across the street, or indeed, the small park at the other end.
I took a right at the cross street after the courthouse, then zigged a left and zagged a right, to bring the car out on the east side of City Square Park.
The park was the width of two blocks. Commuters crisscrossed the green space, heading for offices and stores and schools and the big public library building. The square was flanked on all four sides by six-story
I once read that you’ll find at least five mistakes in any given news story if you know enough about the subject. From a cursory glance, the Des Moines Register was way ahead of the curve in terms of inaccuracy. They had the broadest details right, but everything else was a mix of rumor, speculation, and good old-fashioned sensationalism. For all that, though, the media was doing exactly the same thing I was: waiting for the next one.
I discarded the paper on the passenger seat and unfolded the map I’d bought from a gas station on the edge of town. In my head I went over the top three kill zones I’d identified.
On the face of it, the most likely option was a mall on the eastern edge of town, one that offered near-identical conditions to the shooting Wardell had carried out the previous morning. Another large open space offering a choice of unsuspecting targets, again providing plenty of cover and a choice of exfiltration routes.
Then there were a couple of spots in the center of town: Central Avenue would offer the single greatest amount of targets during rush hour and had a certain symbolic value: the beating heart of a small heartland city.
Five minutes’ walk away, City Square Park provided almost as many targets. It wasn’t the biggest of the city’s parks, but it would provide more viable positions from which to take the shot than any of the others.
I juggled the possibilities in my head as I sat in the parking bay outside the Red Ball, sipping the coffee and watching the morning traffic picking up. I’d developed a feel for the place in the last couple of hours; I guessed I knew the town about as well as a rookie cabdriver would. And even with the morning traffic approaching its zenith, the place was compact enough to be easily navigable. The three potential kill zones were all within easy reach of my current position. The mall was half a mile away. I estimated I could make Central Avenue in four minutes. City Square Park in seven. The only problem? I couldn’t be in all three places at once.
I eliminated the mall first. It was an ideal setup, and it was what Wardell had done yesterday; but that was why I found it so easy to discount. Five years before, Wardell had been scrupulously varied in his choice of both locations and victims.
Down to two strong possibilities, then: Central Avenue or the park. I drained the last of the coffee, keyed the ignition, and pointed the Cadillac south, toward the center of town.
Exactly four minutes later, I was headed west along Central. Full daylight had taken its time to arrive. Maybe it was as reluctant as anybody else to begin a cold day in late October. Rush hour was in full swing, which in a town this size, wasn’t saying much.
I covered the length of the town’s main street with relative ease, stopping only at a broken signal when instructed to by a traffic cop. As I waited for my stream of traffic to be granted permission to move on, I scanned the roofline on either side of the street. Nothing more threatening than pigeons. The big clock on the county courthouse at the top of the street was ten minutes slow. I peered up at the bird-festooned parapet on the roof of the building. It would make a dramatic vantage point for a shooting, albeit with some logistical drawbacks. Then again, it didn’t offer any intrinsic advantage over the open window on the sixth floor of the office building across the street, or indeed, the small park at the other end.
I took a right at the cross street after the courthouse, then zigged a left and zagged a right, to bring the car out on the east side of City Square Park.
The park was the width of two blocks. Commuters crisscrossed the green space, heading for offices and stores and schools and the big public library building. The square was flanked on all four sides by six-story
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