The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(30)

He kindly addressed the woman in standard jail orange.

“Randi, you feeling okay to talk for a few minutes?”

“I guess.”

“This won’t take long. You were in the ER when you asked my partner if she’d ever read Competitive Shooting. You need a how-to book on shooting?”

“I can always get better. I was heading off to a range when you and your fellow gangsters pulled up. You go to a range, too, don’t you?”

Conklin smiled and changed the subject.

“There was a video game on your open computer when we ruined your day. Something called Moving Targets.”

Randi scoffed. “You ruined more than one, I’d say. Anyway. Moving Targets. Len and I both play.”

“So, what’s the appeal of target shooting? I looked you up. You’re proficient with just about any kind of weapon.”

“Target shooting is fun and it keeps me sharp—”

Selby interjected, “That’s enough, Randi. Are we done, Inspector?”

Randi overrode her lawyer. She said to us, “You know—or maybe you don’t. Some people like to shoot and some people like to kill. I like to shoot—at targets.”

I said, “Can you explain what you mean about people who like to kill? Are you talking about psychopaths?”

“Maybe. I’ve seen some military people who get addicted to shooting humans. In particular, bad humans. Enemies. You get permission and a weapon, and for some people it’s the greatest high. That’s how they talk about it.”

Conklin said, “I’ve never seen that. I mean, sure, I’ve seen people without conscience, but tell me more about this thrill or high.”

I knew he was hoping Randi would implicate Leonard. Would we get that lucky? Selby put her hand on Randi’s to get her to stop, but her client wanted to talk.

“Here’s something I’ll never forget. Me and three others from my platoon were in a parking lot outside the base camp, same parking lot we’re in every day. Do you know the term Blue on Green?”

I shook my head no.

Randi said, “Green is the friendly host-country forces, the ones that we were mentoring in Afghanistan. We’re the Blue. So we’re getting into our jeep, like we do every day, and a shot is fired, and Major Buck Stanley is hit in the face and goes down.

“And there’s a truckload of Greens fifty yards away coming back from the range. I run to Stanley. I’m guessing one of the Greens became radicalized or was turned by the insurgents, and he looked for an opportunity to shoot an American. He might have palmed some rounds at the range ….

“And in that same moment one of our officers comes out into the lot and starts shooting the Greens we were training. We knew them. Worked with them every day. Oh, my God, the screams, the blood spraying, men climbing out of the truck, running. Our guy was firing and firing and walking over to the fallen and shooting each one in the head.

“We should have had an investigation. Done the right thing.”

Randi shook her head, then looked at me and Conklin.

She said, “I looked at this officer’s face. He felt good. Maybe great. Was he a psycho? Maybe. Or he’d become addicted to killing. I still don’t know. And no, it wasn’t Len. The officer who killed, I don’t know, twenty-five Greens was a US Navy lieutenant name of Tom DeLuca. Don’t bother looking for him. He didn’t come back.”

No one spoke for a long moment, taking in Randi’s words and the shock on her face.

And then Conklin said, “We’re looking for a killer, Randi. An expert sniper or sharpshooter, maybe military, maybe not. I’m thinking I might get a bead on the killer, even identify the shooter, if I join Moving Targets.”

“I can’t help you with that,” said Randi. “I’m ready to go now. Okay?”

“Sure,” Conklin said. “I’ll get your dog home to you by the end of the day. What’s his name?”

“Barkley.”

“His name is Barkley Barkley?”

Randi said, “Yeah, and he barks. But stop. It only hurts when I laugh.”

Conklin grinned. “Sure, Randi. I’ll see you later.”





CHAPTER 46





I FOUND CLAIRE in the autopsy suite, still wearing her scrubs.

“Claire?”

She looked up, surprised to see me, and said, “Oh, my God.”

She pulled a sheet over the dead man, patted his hand, then called out to her assistant, “Bunny, can you put Mr. Ryan away? Thanks.”

Those closest to Claire had made a care plan, each of us with an assigned role. Edmund would be meeting us at the hospital. Cindy and Yuki would be going to see Claire at the end of the day. I would be driving her to Johnson Hughes Cancer Treatment Center and staying with her until she was tucked into her bed at one of the best facilities in the country.

She said, “I’m sorry, Lindsay. I forgot you were coming. Paging Dr. Freud.”

“We still have time. How are you feeling?”

“Never better.”

“Right,” I said, playing along. “So get dressed.”

Twenty minutes passed like a snail race, and finally Claire was sitting beside me, buckled into the passenger seat of my car. When I’d parked this morning, I’d found an empty spot on Harriet Street, convenient to the ME’s office and the Hall.