“You new, kid?”
He knows damn well I am. “Yes, sir.”
“Everyone gets some form of tarnish in the beginning. Rite of passage. They’ll dog your ass over this until the next new boot fucks up. Laugh and take it or they’ll eat you alive.”
He snorted while stuffing the bottom half of his tie between two buttons and securing it inside his shirt.
“At least you didn’t fuck up my scene. I’ll make sure they give you points for gut control. Might shave off at least a week of torture.” On a deep grunt, he bumped knuckles with Brian, turned, and walked away.
Cory felt like he’d popped out of a vacuum as the seasoned detective moved further down the walkway. “Brian?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for pulling me out before I hurled in there. He’s the last man I ever want to piss off.”
Brian nudged him on the shoulder and chuckled. “You’ll be fine, kid. He’s stingy on handing out advice to someone he doesn’t know. Consider yourself privileged. Come on. Let’s help with the interviews. The faster you dive back into the thick of things the sooner the guys bore of razzing you. Ready?”
Gun shoved back into the holster, Cory inhaled a deep breath and straightened his spine.
“Sure. Why not. At least I didn’t piss my pants. Think they’ll give up a few more points?”
He shook his head and followed in the wake of Brian’s soft laughter. They both knew it was just the respite before the evil shit waiting for them at the end of the building dug its claws back into their hearts.
Chapter 3
Max studied the crowd of Bagwell customers now experiencing the aftermath of adrenaline leaving the body at a rapid pace. Docile bodies perched on the curb tried to keep their heads from wobbling on loose necks as the EMTs continued tending minor cuts and scrapes. He looked down at his notes.
Butch, Brian, and the new kid pulled enough info out of them to confirm six stood one register over from the hot zone and considered themselves lucky enough not to have taken a round in the back as they tripped over others throwing themselves to the floor. All reported the same thing: Heard the shots. Woman with dark hair holding a gun. I ran. All planned on buying lottery tickets tonight.
On instinct, the remaining followed the stampeding herd as they fled from whatever monster lurked up front and saw nothing of consequence. After finding the rear doors dead-bolted, they clustered on the back dock, clamped hands over mouths unable to stop crying, and prayed the beast from hell wasn’t making its way through the building. Major fire safety violation on Bagwell’s part, but this was someone else’s problem. Max glanced over at Brian’s unit.
Camo guy, as he would be forever known, aka Irwin Smith, became his saving grace when cluing the cameras were toast after she killed the first two victims. Even still, Max knew he’d met every detective’s dream. Calm, rational, and recounted in vivid detail her exact movements without added commentary on his now traumatized life or he was only there to buy milk. The man had seen combat. This was just another event Irwin would shove into one of those dark slots in the back of his brain to keep from losing it every time a door slammed shut. They gave each other a knowing look and exchanged head nods before Max turned to the store.
Martinez and Higgins met him at the glass doors as he snapped gloves in place. Both faces were pale. Martinez pushed out a weak, “Clear,” and Higgins shook his head, mumbling, “God damn, Max. Get ready,” before they walked away. He bet they carried a little more sympathy for the new boot right about now.
Once inside, Max refused to do nothing more than count bodies as he walked through the scene on his way to register two, the start of everything. This is where he would settle himself and try to enter the mind of a killer.
Careful to avoid shell casings scattered about, abandoned carts full of groceries, and pools of blood now thickening under each form, Max continued to make small tick marks on the notepad. As he reached the targeted counter and added the young kid slumped on the other side, he tallied nine dead. Six females and three males. He avoided looking at the nametag pinned to the shirt, refusing to see them as individuals. Not right now anyway.
After a careful study of the counter, he upended the paper sack resting next to the bag carousel and found melted Blue Bell ice cream, package of yellow gloves, small bottle of bleach, and children’s cold medicine. Random items from various aisles and unrelated except for the bleach and gloves.
Maybe she grabbed shit to blend in with the other shoppers as she cased the place.
Max shook his head and looked around. “No, doesn’t make any sense. You knew full well you had a packed store by counting cars in the lot. You could’ve stuck to the front where the money was. Less eyeballs on you. In and out. Fast. There was no need to shop, so why did you?” His eyes tracked from one body to the next as he stepped through the sequence, placing himself at each location.
“Ending these nine didn’t accomplish hiding your identity, either,” he whispered. “If it were the goal, you would’ve put something over your face and blasted the cameras first. Irwin said you never tried pursuing the others. What you saw, you shot. Were you waiting for the right person to get in line, masking your target by adding more?” He glanced back at the carnage. “Yeah, the focus of all of this was on the killing. Wasn’t it?”
Squatted next to the manager’s body, Max replayed Irwin’s chilling recall of events. The cold smile as she pointed the Glock at each target and fired without an ounce of hesitation, the selection of candy from the shelf, nonchalant enjoyment of a cigarette at the door, and the ecstatic expression while blasting this last gentleman all to hell and back.
“Nah. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the money secondary—an afterthought. You got off on the chaos. The power.”
Assessment of the crumpled man left Max fighting an insane desire to right the toupee, to give the guy a little more dignity before cameras starting clicking and forever captured this moment.
“Irwin said he couldn’t see your face when this went down,” Max whispered to the corpse. “Did you say something to her? Was it to beg for your life, or did you clue to the inevitable and tell her to fuck off?” He exhaled on a sigh. “I hope it was the last one, buddy.”
The sight of multiple holes in what was once a light purple shirt, allowed a little bit of empathy to seep into his emotions while his thumb traced across an old wound riding the side of his own throat. He could still recall the flash of fire sending the bullet through Fergus’s left cheek before exiting and entering him like a hot poker, splitting skin, burrowing into muscle, and chipping bone. Without doubt, he could understand what each of these victims experienced, yet he’d been the lucky one and got to walk away.
“You’d shit if you saw this one, Gus,” he huffed. “Finale’s worse than when the couple over on Skyline knifed their neighbors and offed themselves in the backyard.”
Max liked to think some of his best friend still rode inside him after all these years, maybe nudging him in a right direction every now and again. He found comfort in knowing their blood mixed before Fergus took his last breath. Except for genetics, he was his brother in every sense. The only person he’d been able to bounce off a half-baked idea and get back five possible leads spit out in a deep Irish brogue, making them sound that much more plausible.
Startled at the ringing phone disturbing the eerie quietness, Max released a soft chuckle as he stared at the incoming number for a few beats. “You being funny, Gus?” It was Sean McLellan, Fergus’s son. He was smart like his dad. It wouldn’t