Aimpoint - Chapter Nine
Tim sat huddled in the corner on the roof of an old building, holding his rifle and watching the crowd on the street below. The rain was dripping off his hood, his gloves and pants were soaked through and he was starting to get cold. He ran through a series of isometric exercises to try to warm up and keep from getting stiff. He cursed the late November weather and cursed himself for not taking the extra week off when Art suggested it.
Truthfully though, he was glad to be back on active duty even if one of his first assignments was court security in shitty weather. Tim wasn't afraid of much except time, time footloose and alone. He would see ghosts, and he dreaded it. His solution was to keep busy and he went about it methodically and obsessively. He checked off every house repair on his list, read through any article he could find on new sniper weapons, techniques and ammunition, started a physics course for a part-time studies degree at the university, faithfully applied himself to his rehab and then some, and gave all of his weapons a thorough cleaning. When he needed a rest he'd read. And when he was fit enough he was back at the range honing his skills and finally back on the paths running. He would only break to eat and sleep or hang out when someone came to visit, especially if it was Miljana who had taken to making house calls.
He was certainly fit for duty. His left arm was still a bit weak and that pissed him off but other than that he felt well enough and confident enough to be sitting in the rain behind his rifle, watching through the scope for targets.
This was not really court security. It was a public meeting to take questions on an EPA report for another proposed coal project and there had been threats against the government representatives who had signed off on it. Tim wasn't sure how he felt about the whole issue. His time in Afghanistan had blown holes in his moral certitude and he wasn't as quick to pass judgment anymore. He would happily have taken up a quiet rural life like Thoreau, ignoring the world, but he figured the solitude would have driven him to a desperate familiarity with his handgun. So instead he did his work thoroughly, changed the oil in his truck and checked out the specs on new sniper scopes.
The one he was using today was one he'd bought himself. There was no way Art could have put it through on a purchase order, it was too expensive.
He tapped his earpiece when it started crackling. It was probably shorting out somewhere with all this rain. Communication is key was a phrase one of his ranking NCOs always barked at them and he swore once if he heard it again he would shoot the guy. Now here he was repeating it back to himself. He checked the time, glad for his waterproof watch, rolled his shoulders and settled back into position, scanning rooftops and windows.
He saw the door to the building open and watched Raylan and another Marshal escorting the officials through the crowd of protestors gathered out front. Raylan made sure they were safely in their car with their security team then walked toward his vehicle at the corner. The officials' car was pulling out onto the road when Tim noticed Art waving to him, giving him the 'all clear' signal. He guessed his radio had finally given up.
He was just standing up when he heard the shot. He crouched down quickly and put his eye to the scope, searching for the source. He wasn't the only one to react. The crowd stood for a moment in disbelief then started to scatter in panic, running in every direction like shrapnel from a blast point centered in front of the meeting hall. Tim watched Rachel point to a building out of his line of sight and head off at a run with two officers. He was about to move to the other side of the roof to offer support when someone in the crowd caught his eye.
One man was walking deliberately against the flow of fleeing protestors. Only Tim, from his vantage point, could see the anomaly in his movement. He focused in on his face but a baseball cap covered his features. His left arm was swinging freely but his right hand was firmly planted in the pocket of his jacket. The body language screamed concealed weapon. Tim followed him in his path, moving the rifle with him. He wanted to get someone's attention but with the radio out, the only way to do that would be to take his eye off the suspect.
He lifted his head from his scope for a moment to see where the man was heading, not for the officials' car, the obvious target, but for Raylan who had his back to him. Tim set the man in his sights, flicked off the safety and steadied his breathing. When the suspect pulled the handgun out of his pocket and pointed it at Raylan, Tim squeezed the trigger.
The sound of a second shot gave the slowing crowd renewed energy. The block was quickly emptied of protestors and the car carrying the visitors sped away. Soon all that remained were the security team of Marshals and a few local police officers. Tim stayed on the roof, still searching the area. He saw Raylan walk over and look at the body behind him. He stooped down and pulled the weapon out of the gunman's hand then turned and looked up at Tim. He tipped his hat. Tim grinned at the Raylan gesture.
Rachel and a local walked into view leading a man in handcuffs and put him into the back of a cruiser. Rachel, Art and Raylan stood talking for a moment then all three of them looked his way. Art started waving up at him again so he picked up his rifle and headed down to the street. He walked out of the building and squelched across the road to where they were standing.
"Gee Tim," said Raylan, "I didn't know you cared."
"Cared enough to send the very best," he replied.
"Glad to see you haven't lost the skills," Raylan added more seriously.
"But I was aiming for you," Tim responded, equally serious.
Raylan grinned. "Well, come see the guy you shot instead."
The four of them walked over to where the gunman still lay on the sidewalk. It was another perfect shot, just behind the right ear.
"Recognize him?" Raylan asked.
"Shit," Tim exclaimed. "That's Carl Finley. What the hell?"
"Yeah," Art concurred. "What the hell?"
"And we've got Daryl Strong in the car," added Rachel.
The following morning Rachel took over the conference room, spreading files and evidence bags over the table. She worked carefully, checking and double checking that everything was properly reported. She didn't want to give the defense any cracks in their testimony to get a finger hold in.
Once Harold had given them the evidence they needed to show that the attack in the alley was meant for Raylan, Art had pulled the case out from under him and given it to Rachel. Raylan wasn't happy about it, but had to concede the point. Neither he nor Art wanted the case thrown out for prejudice. Rachel had gone about it with more than her usual diligence. And since the victim was Tim, she had taken it personally when the trail had gone cold and they were told to stop wasting man-hours actively hunting for the suspects. Now that the case had closure she was gleefully attacking the report, her frustration from the last two months finally finding an outlet.
Tim went out for coffee around 10:30am and brought one for Rachel. He wandered into the conference room, set her cup down beside her and looked at the organized piles. She had the items found on the body of Carl Finley laid out in front of her and the items taken from Daryl Strong when he was arrested in a separate box at the end of the table. Rachel glanced up and smiled then went back to her work.
Tim peered into the box then looked over the items on the table. He picked up a knife and stared at it. Rachel watched his face curious to see his reaction, but he gave none. He set the knife back on the table and continued his examination of the other objects. He cocked his head to one side and frowned. Reaching across her he picked up a handgun and held it out for Rachel to see with a questioning look.
"That's Finley's," she said. "Raylan took it off him after you shot him. Art wants it sent out for ballistics to add to the federal database."
"Finley had this?" he asked, confirming.
She nodded. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away, just stood looking closely at the gun, turning it over in his hands.
"I've never seen one like this," he finally said. "It looks like a P7, but it's got some non-standard features."
"Like what," she asked, not really interested but patiently entertaining his passion for firearms.
"A suppressor thread for one," he explained pointing to the muzzle. "Can I borrow this a minute?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You shouldn't take that," she called out to him. "Hello, does chain of custody mean anything to you? Tim, you'd better bring that back quickly!"
She huffed, watching him march back to his desk. He tossed the evidence bag down and started banging away on his keyboard.
An hour later she'd finished itemizing the objects and walked over to Tim's desk. He was concentrating, his eyes going back and forth from his computer screen to the gun which he had balanced on his open palm. She snatched the evidence bag out of his hand and glared at him.
He looked up at her and gestured to the weapon. "It's a rare handgun," he said to explain his interest.
She continued to glare at him.
He rolled his eyes and glared back. "Can I get a copy of the evidence photo then?"
"Maybe," she replied tersely.
"And can I see the ballistics report when it comes back?" he requested.
"Maybe," she answered as she headed back to the conference room. "If you're good."
After lunch Art strolled out of his office and stopped in front of Raylan's desk. Rachel was finishing her work back at her computer, and even Raylan was making a rare appearance in his chair. Art smiled at them; he had some news.
"Well," he started happily, "I just heard that Ms. Ootes will not be returning."
He turned to see Tim's reaction but it was Rachel who let out a whoop and punched her fist in the air.
"Any particular reason?" Tim asked, looking sideways at Rachel and grinning.
"Now, the rest of it is just hearsay and I don't approve of spreading gossip," Art stated sanctimoniously.
He stuck his chin up and looked at them down his nose for a minute then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "She was having an affair. She's filed for a divorce and has run away with her Yoga instructor to California."
Just before 4pm, Tim headed out to the elevator. He ran into Art coming off and the Chief held out a hand to stop him.
"Rachel tells me you're looking into Finley's handgun," he said.
"Yeah. It's an unusual one. If it's what I think it is, there aren't many of them around," explained Tim. "I've emailed the photo to a friend for confirmation."
Art nodded then asked, "Where are you headed?"
"Appointment with the psychologist," Tim replied. He ran his hand through his hair and studiously avoided looking at his boss.
"For the shooting?"
Tim nodded and looked at the ground.
"That was only yesterday. Aren't you supposed to let that fester for a week or two first?" Art said looking at Tim suspiciously.
"Department policy," Tim said shrugging. "Got to suck it up."
"She's applied for the job, you know," said Art.
"I know."
"Tim," Art stated, including a full warning in his tone.
"I know," Tim responded impatiently and ducked around him opting for the stairs.
Art scowled and watched him go.
xxxxxx
Author's note: Time lines are tricky. I've let over two months go by - a month watching baseball and another month and a half in rehab, etc. If anyone out there has any experience with injuries and wants to comment, please do! Oddly enough, no one has ever come at me with a knife...