The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6) Read online

  Twenty feet separated her from McGill.

  “He didn’t get far,” DeWitt said. “That could mean a few things.”

  McGill gestured for the deputy director to continue.

  DeWitt said, “One, he was lost in thought, paying only superficial attention to his surroundings. Two, he was distracted at just the wrong moment by a loud noise or an unusual sight. Three, the killer took pains to hide his weapon.”

  Benjamin walked over to join the three men.

  McGill and DeWitt saw her approach.

  Deke didn’t let himself be distracted. He watched the threat horizon.

  Benjamin said, “We know from the ballistics reports that the rounds fired at the Winstead School and here at the Mall came from the same weapon, an HK-MP5K. That’s a compact weapon; it would be easy to hide behind a hip.”

  McGill considered that. “Witness statements from the school say that Mays concealed the weapon under his coat. That makes sense because he wanted to surprise his victims. If the players and the coaches saw him coming with a gun from a long way off, they all could have run. Mays likely wouldn’t have gotten all the people he wanted, if he did that. But why would he conceal his weapon to shoot one man at random? From what I’ve heard so far, no one has established a connection between Abel Mays and Jordan Gilford.”

  DeWitt said, “The Bureau hasn’t found one yet.”

  McGill positioned his hands in front of his torso as if he were holding a compact assault weapon.

  “Do I have the spacing about right for Mays’ HK?” he asked.

  Both DeWitt and Benjamin nodded.

  “So if Mays had been holding the weapon in an open manner, Gilford must’ve have been really distracted not to have seen it at a greater distance than he apparently did.”

  The FBI people had to agree with that, too.

  McGill said, “I’ll have to ask Zara Gilford if her husband was given to daydreaming as he ran, but I doubt he was.” He walked on ahead to the divot Benjamin had found and then added ten more paces. He put his right hand behind his hip as Benjamin had suggested, mimicking a man hiding a weapon, and called out to the others. “If the shooter stood like this, Gilford could’ve gotten as far as the point where he made his turn, before the weapon was revealed. Gilford was older than I am. He could have had four more miles at a measured pace left in him, but reversing his field and fleeing at an all-out sprint would have been tough. I can see him getting hit right about where he died.”

  He walked back to the others.

  Benjamin said, “Your scenario explains what your client thinks: Some other dude did it.”

  McGill said, “Not just some dude, a professional.”

  “Someone who killed Mays first and then used his weapon to mislead the investigation?” DeWitt asked. “How would he even have known who Mays was?”

  McGill thought about that. “We’ll have to find out when the first images of Mays were broadcast during the manhunt. Compare that time to Gilford’s estimated TOD.”

  Benjamin was about to say something, possibly critical, but caught herself. Had another thought and changed her mind. “I suppose a high-tech killer could have a tablet computer with him to watch streaming news broadcasts.”

  “Might have a scanner to listen to police calls, too,” McGill added.

  DeWitt nodded. “Sensible precautions, if there was a professional killer. But what proof of that do we have?”

  “You’re not buying how close Gilford got to his killer as a sign that maybe Mays wasn’t the guy?” McGill asked.

  “I’ll give you a maybe, but by itself, it’s not enough for me.”

  Oddly enough, the thoughtful expression on Benjamin’s face made McGill think she might be starting to lean his way. Or she just played devil’s advocate to any position DeWitt took. But McGill wasn’t going to get distracted by any dynamic going on between the two feds.

  “Okay,” McGill said. “How about this? Abel Mays was a big guy, stood 6-4. Jordan Gilford was more than a half-foot shorter, just over 5-9. If Mays killed Gilford, there should be some downward trajectory to his shots, right? The entry points of Gilford’s wounds would be higher than the exit points. Anybody checked on that?”

  DeWitt and Benjamin gave each other a look.

  “Not that I know of,” DeWitt admitted. “Have you had another case where this type of calculation mattered?”

  McGill nodded. “Once I heard how tall Mays was, it came to mind. Got me thinking that even if the same weapon was used at both crime scenes, maybe the guy on the trigger was different. I’ve come to trust my client’s instincts about her husband’s situation.”

  “It’s an interesting idea,” DeWitt said, “that shooters can have what amounts to a signature.”

  Benjamin took that notion a step further. “If that’s the case, maybe shooting signatures can be forged like any other kind.”

  Could be, McGill thought. “How big a clip was used in each crime? Did Mays have to reload after the first shooting?”

  DeWitt said, “Thirty rounds were accounted for at each scene. That’s capacity for one of the clips the weapon can hold.”

  “In each instance, the arc of fire was over 130 degrees,” Benjamin added.

  “Sprayed almost wall to wall,” McGill said. He thought about that.

  The feds waited politely for McGill to emerge from his reverie. All sorts of people cut him slack. That was one of the perks of being married to the president.

  Returning to the moment, he said, “Sorry. I was just thinking: If there was a second shooter, and he was a pro, and he’d heard of Mays’ rampage, would he be intuitive enough to mimic an amateur? To forge the other shooter’s signature, as Special Agent Benjamin put it so well.”

  DeWitt said, “If you want to take a look, we have photographs on hand of all the victims, taken where they fell. We could compare the victims at the first crime scene to Mr. Gilford.”

  McGill winced. “Won’t be fun, but I think we’d better.”

  Deke led the way back to the SUV. He got in front with Leo.

  Benjamin sat between McGill and DeWitt in back. Her lap was used as a display table for the gory photos. She professed not to mind, said she had the best seat in the house.

  Cop humor, of the darkest kind.

  They didn’t have to look all that hard to find something probative.

  The fatally shot victims at the Winstead School had all been done in — as the photos revealed — by no more than two rounds each, and the distance between wounds was no less than what appeared to be three to four inches. The overall impression was that Abel Mays had wielded his weapon with the speed of the Grim Reaper swinging his scythe.

  Jordan Gilford, on the other hand, had three tightly grouped wounds in the middle of his back. The two feds looked at one another and then at McGill. Each nodded to him.

  Giving credit where it was due.

  DeWitt said, “Mr. Gilford’s killer forged Mays’ signature, but only up to a point.”

  “This second guy has had training,” Benjamin added. “It took over, and he might not even have noticed it.”

  “Sonofabitch still got the job done,” McGill replied.

  The Oval Office — The White House

  Edwina Byington, in her early 70s, still worked a seven-day week when need be. She greeted Putnam Shady when he appeared at her desk outside the Oval Office on Sunday morning. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice, Mr. Shady. The president has instructed me to ask if you’d like something to drink.”

  “A bottle of Poland Spring would be good.”

  Edwina pulled one from a desk drawer, still cold, and handed it over to Putnam along with a coaster and a napkin. He smiled at her acumen. Wondered what other preferred goodies she had available to him, if he were to make a request. He decided it would be more fun to speculate than to know.

  Even so, he asked, “Ms. Byington, if you don’t mind my asking, what did you do before you came to work for the president?”

>   “Well, I ran a small business. I made a few million dollars selling cosmetics from my pink Cadillac. That and I worked like the dickens to make sure the president won New Hampshire. She appreciated my efforts, and now you really shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

  Putnam stepped into the Oval Office, half-expecting to find Galia Mindel with the president, but only Patricia Grant was there to greet him. She stood in the middle of the room and extended a hand to him. He took it with his free hand, thinking he could see the first signs of aging that the presidency inevitably wrought on anyone who held the office.

  “Thank you for coming on a Sunday, Putnam. I woke up this morning and decided I needed to see you without delay.”

  “Happy to oblige, Madam President.” He took one of the two facing chairs to which she gestured him. Put his coaster, napkin and bottle on a side table.

  The president sat and asked “Edwina didn’t offer you a glass?”

  He unscrewed the bottle cap, took a sip and smiled. “She must’ve heard I like my Poland Spring straight from the bottle. I hope that’s all right with you.”

  Patricia Grant nodded. “How is Maxine?”

  “Adjusting well. There are still some difficult nights, but Margaret has a gift for providing comfort, and Maxi says it helps that I resemble my late brother, though I wonder if that isn’t a mixed blessing.”

  The president said, “I hope you won’t mind, but I made an inquiry of the FBI. It’s been some time since they last thought you might be in touch with your parents. I instructed Director Haskins that he was to make sure your pending adoption of Maxi was not to be considered a reason to resume surveillance of you or your family.”

  Putnam wasn’t surprised the president knew of his and Margaret’s plans to adopt Maxi. Margaret and McGill were partners. Putnam was sure the two of them still held confidences he didn’t share, and that was fine. There was no reason Margaret shouldn’t have told McGill about the adoption, and if he knew, the president would, too.

  He was unprepared to hear the president had intervened with the feebs to make sure he wasn’t pestered. He felt more than personal relief. Now, he wouldn’t have to explain to Maxi that her paternal grandparents were crooks on the lam. Not for a few years anyway.

  “Thank you, Madam President. That’s good news.”

  She nodded and clasped her hands in her lap. “So what can you tell me about Cool Blue?”

  “Darren Drucker and I were talking one night. He was complaining about the character defects of most office-holders in Congress. How their primary interest is self-interest. Everything they do is seen through the lens of hanging on to their seats.”

  “The same might be said of presidents,” the president said.

  Putnam smiled again. “True enough, but how many of them take leave of their job and risk their skin to save a stepson’s life?”

  The question caught the president by surprise, took her back to the awful days Kenny McGill’s life hung in the balance. Her own as well. “As far as I know, just one.”

  “I suggested to Darren that maybe a vaccine could be developed to immunize first-time candidates for public office against vain ambition and careerism,” Putnam said.

  The president smiled.

  Putnam did, too. “Yeah, I think that’s half the reason Darren keeps me around: I make him laugh. Not many people are willing to take the risk of joking with a billionaire. Anyway, he said my idea would take too long. He told me he wanted to create a new progressive party that would run candidates who were fearless.

  “I thought that was more of a reach than my idea, but then I had a thought. Recruit candidates who were charismatic leaders in business, academia and the arts, jobs they could return to after a short stretch in government.”

  “Term limits?” the president asked.

  “Yes, but mandated by the party not the law.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Cool Blue party label is good for only three terms of office in House or one in the Senate. Six years in Congress should be enough for any sane person.”

  “And then what?”

  “If you don’t leave Washington, your party affiliation gets yanked, and you have to run against a new Cool Blue opponent.”

  “You’re saying you’d discharge a candidate who was a favorite for reelection?”

  “Interesting that you’d say discharge, Madam President. The way we’re pitching the people we want to join Cool Blue is likening their service to a hitch in the military, one that has a specific discharge date. And, yes, Darren and I would have no problem giving someone the heave-ho.”

  “You say that now,” the president said.

  “Yes, we do. That’s not to say that former Cool Blue representatives and senators will have to leave matters of governance behind entirely. We expect them to help the party develop our policies regarding domestic and foreign issues. We’ll also want them to help recruit their replacements and pinpoint vulnerable opposition seats.”

  For a long moment, the president just looked at Putnam.

  “You’re really quite the imaginative thinker,” she said.

  Putnam shrugged. “I do what I can.”

  “Are you going to cast your candidates, pick people with pretty faces?”

  “Darren and I talked about that. We looked at how you called on your Hollywood friends to help you with your last campaign.”

  “And your judgment was?”

  “We won’t specifically exclude high-end beauty or handsomeness, but in general we’re looking for people who might be better thought of as character actors. Someone you’d consider your best friend rather than a fantasy figure.”

  The president laughed. “I’m starting to look like a character actor.”

  Putnam took a sip of water, put the bottle down and shook his head.

  “No way, Madam President. You and Mr. McGill are the most glamorous White House couple since the Kennedys. It’s in your interest and the country’s to maintain that image.”

  “If my looks go, so does my political standing?”

  “Never let the bastards think they’re getting the better of you, right?”

  “Never,” the president agreed. “I’ll have to try to get a little more sleep.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “How many candidates will Cool Blue run in the mid-term elections?”

  “We’re starting small. A dozen House candidates, two for the Senate.”

  “Opposing whom?”

  “Evenly divided against Democrats who like to vote against their party and Republicans and True Southers on the extreme right of their parties.”

  “Do you plan to run a presidential candidate in 2016?”

  “Unlikely. If we have success with the Congressional races, we’ll start looking at state legislatures next.”

  Putnam thought that might be the end of his presidential visit, but Patricia Grant turned the conversation back to a personal matter.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Putnam, may I ask what effect the shooting at the Winstead School has had on you and Margaret? Are you considering any changes for Maxi’s schooling?”

  Putnam told the president of the idea he and Margaret had discussed earlier that day.

  Then he said, “I think it’ll work out for us, but the downside is it isn’t practical on a national scale. I did have another thought on the drive over here … but I was going to save it for Cool Blue.”

  The president nodded, held Putnam’s gaze without further comment.

  Not a doubt in his mind the woman’s eyes still held star power.

  Made you forget all about the few new wrinkles.

  “Okay,” he said, “you talked me into it.”

  Putnam told the president his new idea for keeping schoolchildren safe.

  Safer anyway. The president liked it, political risks and all.

  Chief of Staff’s Office — The White House

  While the president was speaking with Putnam Shady, Chief of Staff
Galia Mindel was on the phone with White House Counsel Karen Rosemeyer about a question of federal spending. The counsel, also known at the president’s official lawyer, was the attorney who helped define the dividing line between official activities and political ones.

  Galia said, “Karen, please remind me of the Holy Writ on government spending.”

  “That’s an easy one. ‘Thou shalt not spend any funds without the authorization and appropriation of said funds by Congress.’”

  “And once the funds are authorized and appropriated?”

  “Come on, Galia.” The two women had known each other for years. “You know how it goes. Sometimes, most times lately, Congress micro-manages how every penny gets spent. In a diminishing number of other cases, the president has some latitude in directing how funds get distributed.”

  “Such as the disbursement of FEMA funds in response to natural disasters.”

  “Right. What are you getting at here, Galia?”

  “Would the public health and social services emergency fund be considered in the same vein?”

  “From the Department of Health and Human Services, sure. Are you talking about a public health crisis?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then there should be no problem. Hey, should I get some kind of inoculation?”

  Would that there were such a thing, Galia thought.

  “Just be careful out there, Karen.”

  After saying goodbye to the White House counsel, Galia made a call to Jeffrey Berry, CEO of Eyes Only, the country’s largest outdoor advertising company. She introduced herself and apologized for bothering the man at home on a Sunday, but said the federal government wanted to buy specialized billboard space coast to coast and border to border and maintain that purchase for an indefinite period of time. Would that be possible?

  Berry replied, “Ms. Mindel, when manna from heaven falls in my lap, I have no problem working on a Sunday, and I’ll do everything I can to see you get just what you want.”

  Galia said, “That’s wonderful. I’d like to start with a billboard opposite an office building in Falls Church, Virginia.”

  She’d checked beforehand to make sure the perfect location was available, and it was.