Corrector Page 7

  Over the last few years he’d gotten clever with the credit card and ID linkage. He assumed the police who might be looking for a specific card would probably have a means to obtain the names to which the cards were issued and look for commonality there as well. That had led him to certain kinds of subterfuge. When he used a credit card, he’d noted how casually everyone looked at the identification they requested along with the card. People looked first at the picture, and sometimes at the last name. They seldom looked at the first name. He had even experimented when not back-tracking using his own card. He’d had one made up with his supposed “wife’s” name on his account, and for several weeks had used that instead of his own. No one noted that the card he handed them said “Amy” instead of “Jake”.

  After that, he started using cards with certain changes to make it harder for any legal authorities that might be looking for him to get a list of names that would recur. He used initials instead of first names on the cards. A “B” and an “E” look very much the same at a quick glance. Couple that with a common last name, and the database was corrupted. Sometimes he had the credit cards made up with a different name. John instead of Jim. The most effective deterrent was something he’d read about in an Internet mail that someone had sent him. That was the ability of the mind to read words or names that were incorrectly spelled or to read the name that was expected from an incomplete or incorrect set of letters. He would use names on the cards that if examined correctly weren’t the same as the name on his ID. But by handing the ID first and having given the desired name, those who examined the credit card with it’s careful selection of letters for the last name, would “see” what wasn’t there. As a result, he was certain that even if any attempt was being made to track him by the credit cards, the effort was not being successful. The use of multiple cards with the same ID, and the conflicting names he’d been able to pass along with the ID should have totally confused the effort.

  Even so, he thought it was time to get another ID, just in case. Too long with anything increased the risk. And, like the rifle barrels, he wanted to have supplies on hand. He hoped to back away from his Corrector activities, but had found compelled to go forward in the past. He couldn’t tell yet how successful he was going to be at making such a change to his lifestyle.

  Chapter 8

  Brady Larken had done this before. Twice before, actually. The cops had never come close to finding him or developing a clue who he might be. For one thing, he didn’t live anywhere near here. He didn’t even live in Southern California for that matter. His home was in New Mexico, and he had come a long way hoping for a chance like this. He had planned on taking action over the 4th of July several weeks ago, but the security over holidays like that was still far greater than one might expect. It hadn’t taken any real brainpower to decide that it was better to wait. That had led to this trip.

  His motorbike that waited nestled in the trees a few feet away was secondary transportation, something that fit on the back of his motor home which was parked at the campgrounds up by Santa Clarita, a long way from here. Santa Clarita was far enough away that the police would be a long time before looking in that direction for the shooter, and by then he would be gone again.

  He had found the location by a combination of searching maps and using the satellite photos for a likely spot. Then he’d scouted a half dozen places he’d selected over the past week as he explored the area. He’d liked this one best for several reasons. To start with, the large regional park behind him gave an open area where there were few people, especially at this hour and in the middle of the week. Also, the park had stands of trees, one group of which he was hidden in at the moment, that came up very close to the freeway in front of him. The freeway was also somewhat special. Within a short distance of where he sat, three freeways, the 10, the 71 and the 57 all joined and intermingled. All of these were heavily traveled and provided key routes from the busy downtown area out to the bedroom communities on the eastern edge of the city. This morning the traffic was already starting to build, although it would be more than an hour before gridlock set in and the pace slowed to a crawl. That was fine with him. He didn’t want the traffic to be nearly stopped. The kinds of reactions he hoped for wouldn’t be possible if everyone was moving slowly. No, this time was perfect. The early travelers were moving along briskly, many still half asleep as they made their way into work, retracing a route they had taken countless times before. Some of the women were trying to put on makeup, even while moving at freeway speeds. Idiots, he thought.

  His rifle was already out of the case and assembled, the two halves fitting together smoothly as they had done countless times before on the range. He had a twenty round magazine inserted and a round chambered. He also had two more twenty round magazines, but he didn’t expect to use them. By the time the one magazine was expended, it would be time to go. He knew he could get off a number of shots before anyone realized what was happening. Afterwards, he would jump on the bike, the rifle taken down and stowed in a special case designed to carry the two parts. Disassembled and stored in the small case, the weapon wouldn’t scream to anyone what he was carrying.

  There was a small overpass not too far from where he was hidden. At this time of day it was seldom used, and he could slip over the freeway and into one of the housing complexes in a matter of minutes. With the winding and nearly random layout of the streets, he could easily lose anyone who didn’t know the area. He’d made a point of learning the layout of the streets and had a mental picture of the best routes through the maze.

  It was time. He felt his pulse quicken as it had in the past. The range would be relatively short and he’d chosen a low power setting on the military grade scope. He focused on the busier of the freeways and selected the traffic moving toward him which gave him a clear view of the drivers behind their windshields. The rifle was resting on a padded blanket over a large limb of the tree which he knelt behind. He’d practiced his move, and could easily swing to cover almost a third of a complete circle easily.

  He fired the first three shots quickly, the three vehicles moving almost parallel in the lanes toward him. He saw the last of the drivers driven back as the small .223 round smashed through the windshield and hit him in the face.

  “Gotcha,” he exclaimed, seeing the bullet strike home.

  All three cars swerved, out of control as their drivers died or were badly wounded. The next shot killed the driver of a large truck carrying a load of caustic liquid in the large tank behind the forward cab. As the driver died and lost control, the truck wandered across several lanes of traffic, pushing nearby cars aside effortlessly causing additional collisions. Finally the truck jack-knifed and tipped, the large tank breaking open and spilling the load across multiple lanes of traffic. Brady knew it would take hours to clean up the mess, ensuring a monumental traffic jam today.

  He shot a couple of additional passing vehicles on another of the freeways, counting to himself as he fired round after round. His last shot went into a large SUV that was moving far too fast for the traffic and had been cutting in between other cars with far too little margin as he shifted between lanes. Brady’s snap shot had been extremely lucky. As the driver died, he pulled the wheel to the side, side-swiping an ambulance that was also moving fast, driving the emergency vehicle into the side of an overpass. Both the driver and the pregnant woman who was in labor died in the resulting crash.

  Larken had expended his planned twenty rounds. For the briefest of moments he wondered if he could take the chance of firing another magazine. He wouldn’t have to be as careful with his shots as he’d been with the first batch. He could simply hose down the freeway before he split. Better stick to the plan, he decided. The word had to be getting out by now. Everyone had a cell phone and a number of the drivers had to be calling into the police in panic by now. He should be departing.

  Quickly he stripped the rifle into two parts which packed neatly into the padded case. He pushed the empty magazine into t
he empty slot next to the two loaded ones, then closed the case. It no longer looked like a rifle, and the case sitting on the back of his bike would go unnoticed.

  He looked at the brass scattered around the ground. There was little he could do about that. Some of it he could retrieve, but some of the cases had bounced down the slope and were resting in the brush out of sight. It would take too long to try and retrieve it and if he couldn’t get it all there was little point of going after any of it. He’d never handled it without gloves, so unless the cops got their hands on his rifle, it wouldn’t matter. He was confident they would never get close to him and have a chance to make that kind of a match-up. Let ‘em try.

  With the rifle secured, he stood and walked away from the tree that had provided him cover and support. The pack was quickly strapped into place, and he slung a leg over and settled into the seat. The bike started first try, and after a moment to let the engine settle, he twisted the throttle and bounced the few feet across the dirt and grass, over the sidewalk, and onto the small overpass. Within minutes he was motoring along one of the larger back streets of the residential neighborhood, well away from the carnage he had caused.

  Jake knew that time was running out if he were to act. He had been tracking the story carefully for a number of days now and it was obvious the police hadn’t learned anything useful about the freeway sniper and were no closer to coming up with a suspect for the shooting. The asshole who had done this was going to get away. He had almost certainly gone to ground, if he was even still in the area. Fifteen people had been shot by the killer, twelve of them dying from their wounds. Another nine victims had died from accidents associated with the attack, and at least seventy more people had been injured. The news had moved onto other stories the last couple of days so Jake didn’t know if any others had died since the last report.

  For the first two days the media had been full of video and photos of the freeways and the snipers hide where he had launched the attack. The man was a lunatic and careless to boot. He had left a lot of evidence that would hang him if he was ever apprehended, but that was seeming to be more unlikely as each day passed. There was always the chance another encounter would eventually reveal who the culprit was, but that would more than likely be after more innocent people died.

  Jake was convinced the shootings were random, and not a cover for a specific target. It would have been difficult to ensure taking down a specific person as he passed by on the freeway. The choice of weapon was telling as well. The .223 was a small bullet, and wouldn’t have been the best selection for penetrating a speeding car window and ensuring a selected kill. A heavier round would have been preferable. No, the killer had used the most common center fire semi-auto rifle round rather than something designed to ensure a specific target. He had wanted to cause as much general mayhem as possible.

  What to do? Jake stewed about his options. He had made a private pledge to back off on his personal involvement in such things. Of late, he and Karin seemed to be getting back on track, and he didn’t want to jeopardize that in any way. But it was unacceptable to him that this situation could stand. He worked through all of the rationalizations regarding the number of people who died that he couldn’t help, but it didn’t matter. A doctor couldn’t save the world, but that didn’t stop him from doing what he could for those he encountered.

  Perhaps he could back-track and inform the police of the impending attack? Unfortunately, he was pretty certain how that would go. Who was he and how did he know of an upcoming attack? His call would probably be treated as a crank call, and if investigated at all it would be a simple patrol car that might be dispatched. If it arrived late, the attack would be underway and it would be unlikely they would be able to do more than cut the attack short. People would still die. If the police came too early they would scare the shooter away. Jake was very concerned with that. If he read the killer correctly, the man would be enraged and would seek another opportunity soon. It was likely he already had selected an alternate location. Given the nature of the attack, any number of locations would be suitable. That would mean Jake’s interference would save certain people, but cause others who had been safe to be killed. That seemed even worse.

  What Jake wanted was the police to dispatch a sniper team of their own and be in place and ready to take the SOB down permanently before he could cause any death or destruction. Sadly, he knew the police wouldn’t take such action on the basis of a call from an unidentified individual. Perhaps if enough of these situations arose with warning calls they would start to take the warnings seriously, but Jake didn’t even want to go there. How many would die before that might happen?

  It had been seven days now. Given the time it would take him to make preparations and to get in place to deal with the man as well as ensure his own escape, he had to decide this afternoon.

  Jake had enjoyed the drive down 395 to Los Angeles the previous afternoon. He had taken his BMW, savoring the feel of the powerful machine as he watched the snow covered peaks of the mountains flow past on his right. The weather had been clear and the skies cloudless, making for an easy drive. He had driven across town, passing by the scene where the attack would be taking place, noting the scene he had seen on television multiple times. He had seen the overpass near where the killer had hidden, and the open park behind where he’d been.

  Jake had headed straight toward Los Angeles International Airport, where he had parked the BMW in the multilevel lot of the Hilton Hotel and where he had booked a room the day before. His car was just one of many in the lot, a significant fraction of which belonged to people who were not staying at the hotel. People stopped by for meetings, for lunch, or to visit other guests. No one kept track of the cars parked here, and leaving his car for a couple of days wouldn’t attract attention.

  He brought only his luggage bag as he made his way into the hotel to the reception area to check in. His other gear would be safe enough in the trunk for now. At the desk he handed the receptionist, a tall and pretty woman with long brown hair, his ID, in this case a fake driver’s license, followed by his credit card which he took a moment to dig out of his wallet. As was always the case at hotels and rental car agencies, especially if the ID was offered first, the receptionist checked the name on the ID, then only casually glanced at the credit card as she ran an imprint through the machine. It was different in retail stores. There they expected the credit card first, and checked the name on the card. When they asked for confirming ID, they then looked at the name on the supporting documentation and were more likely to catch the discrepancy. Jake always made sure the name on the credit card matched the ID when he made purchases in such places. He actually carried two credit cards that were linked to the ID he was carrying. The American Express account was a true match to his Driver’s license. All, of course were fake.

  He actually had two wallets. The black one he was carrying at the moment carried his fake identity. The brown one, hidden away in a special compartment in his car, had his real papers. He’d switched just before leaving the car, and would switch again on his way back to Reno.

  “You’re checked in for three days,” the pretty lady told him as she handed back his ID and credit card having missed the differences in the names on the two. It shouldn’t matter, as the bill would get paid when submitted, and the hotel would never pick up on the error. “Have you been here before? Do you know the way to your room?”

  “First time,” Jake admitted.

  She pointed the way to the elevators and gave him a quick set of instructions Jake assumed she repeated a hundred times a day from the speed at which she spoke.

  Jake nodded his understanding, grabbed the handle of his rolling suitcase, and headed in the direction indicated. He stopped in his room only long enough to set his suitcase in place and use the head, then left, taking the elevator to the lobby where he headed outside and asked for a cab to the airport.

  The cab dropped him at the American Airlines departure terminal, the cabbie grumbli
ng at the short trip until Jake handed him a significant tip. As the cab pulled away, Jake headed into the terminal, then made his way down the interior escalator to the arrivals level where he headed past the baggage carousels and out onto the street. There he stepped across the first traffic lanes to a pickup point for the courtesy van that would take him to the rental car office. Thirty minutes later he was driving a year-old gray Chevy Malibu east on the 105 freeway, headed toward the park where the shooting had occurred. He wanted to get his first on-site look today so he could think matters through tonight.

  Jake walked slowly along the path, a short distance up the hill from the freeway. He could see where the shooter would position himself the day after tomorrow and why it was such an effective location. Reaching a shaded area with a couple of picnic tables, Jake sat and raised the small laser range finder. One hundred and thirty-two yards the device told him. And easy shot. He didn’t have to be concerned that anyone would be suspicious of him. Nothing had happened here yet.

  Jake looked around at the area. He could park fifty yards away. A short walk would bring him to this location, which was elevated with respect to the hide the sniper would use, and somewhat concealed from the other position. The only thing suspicious would be the time of day for someone to be here, but few would be around to notice. He could setup and then watch from concealment behind one of the trees until the sniper arrived. Then he could settle in on the bench, make the shot and leave. Unlike the sniper, he wouldn’t be making a major disturbance and wouldn’t need to hurry. The rifle he planned to use was suppressed, so the shot would go unnoticed out here in the open. Since he would kill the sniper before he fired any rounds, there would be no other noise, and the body would be hidden in the brush where he had been preparing to shoot. Jake suspected it would be hours before the body was discovered. Someone would notice the bike, and that would lead them to the dead man.