Closure (Jack Randall) (14 page)

Paul set the barrel on the lathe and performed his usual one-minute search for the chuck key. After tightening the chuck down on the barrel just enough to hold it in place, he slid the tail-stock up to meet the business end of the barrel. The tail-stock held a centering fixture he had machined up yesterday to fit the barrel. This was necessary to accomplish two things. It would hold the barrel perfectly straight, yet also provide enough clearance for the tool to machine the very end. He then produced a dial indicator and set the magnetic base on the tool rest. The needle was rested against the barrel and he turned the lathe by hand and gently tightened the chuck until the needle no longer moved with each spin. The tail-stock was then tightened down and the barrel once again spun a full 360 degrees. The needle remained in place. Paul was now ready to turn.

He powered up the lathe and adjusted the RPM to the appropriate speed. Another pause while he located his bottle of turning oil and a set of safety glasses that weren’t too scratched up. Paul quickly had the barrel turned down to a diameter of .600. He rotated the tool rest and proceeded more slowly to a diameter of .500. He paused to let the metal cool and got himself a drink. The smoke from the oil cooking on the hot metal always made him a little nauseous. Paul looked over his work while sipping a Coke. He was ruining this barrel for accuracy, but then again range would not be a real problem. Sam had called it a “Hush Puppy.” Like the shoemaker. Said they had been used in Vietnam to silence dogs. Well, his would be a crude copy based on a sketch Sam had made and Paul had refined. The principles were the same. Paul understood what he was making. It was just his first time.

After making some careful adjustments to the lathe and consulting his old machinist handbook, he began a series of turns to place threads on the barrel. Half-sixteen threads; they had to be perfect in relation to the bore. If the angle was off, even just a little, it was time for a new barrel. Paul took his time and checked the needle gauge after every pass. When he felt he was deep enough he turned off the lathe and blew the barrel clean with an air hose. The barrel showed a shiny set of threads from the tip back about three-fourths of an inch. He adjusted the RPMs to a very slow speed and picked up a rat-tail file. With the barrel turning he applied gentle pressure to the first two threads. After a few passes, he again blew the barrel clean. Now for the moment of truth. He pulled a thread gauge out from his tool box and slid back the tail-stock. The gauge went on the threads perfectly and spun with moderate resistance until it bottomed out at the end. Paul jiggled the gauge. No movement. The threads were perfect. He removed the barrel from the chuck and took it to his parts washer. After a thorough rinsing, he again blew it clean with his air hose. Looked good. If he could, Paul would have shown it to his amateur machinist buddies. But that wasn’t really an option. Besides, he was only half done. He applied a coat of oil to keep it from rusting and set it aside.

Under the bench, he found a second box with some objects wrapped in the pink-red rags he used in the garage. They were slightly wet with oil to protect the pieces from rust. Paul unrolled a six-inch long steel tube from the rags and another of loose parts. The tube showed a 3/8 inch hole in one end while the other had a hole tapped for half-inch fine threads. This end also had a knurled finish on it for about an inch. Paul gripped the knurled end and spun the cap off the tube. The cap was so finely machined you couldn’t see the seam at the end of the knurled section. The cap spun loose slowly as Paul could not afford to drop it and damage the threads. Once the cap was off, he set it aside and reached for the pile of parts he had laid out. The parts were simple, and Paul was proud of his design. By using pre-manufactured parts, he had made the job both easier and elegant. All engineers loved simple, clever solutions to such problems, and he was no exception. Paul had purchased a length of 3/4 inch stainless steel hydraulic tubing, and a pile of 3/4 to 3/8 reducer bushings from a local supplier. After turning the inside diameter of the steel tube to fit the outside diameter of the tubing down to a slip fit tolerance, he’d then cut the tubing to lengths that allowed him to use them as spacers between the reducer bushings. By sliding the reducers down the steel tubing and placing a spacer between each one, Paul created a series of cone shaped chambers within the tube with a 3/8 inch hole still running down the center. The last inch was taken up by a heavy spring. When the end-cap was screwed down, the spring was compressed and everything was held firmly in place.

Paul held the assembled silencer up to the light. He could see clearly down the tube. The hole was straight as an arrow and allowed just enough clearance for a .22 round. He walked it over to the bench with the barrel. The two pieces slid together perfectly. This time he looked down both the barrel and the tube and was pleased to see the two were in perfect alignment. Pulling them apart he reassembled the pistol and applied the silencer before holding it out at arms length. It was heavy. Paul had a hard time keeping a sight picture on the gas can in the corner. But then there was no sight in the front anymore. Maybe he could tack one on the end of the silencer? That might get caught on clothing. Did Sam even need one? He would have to ask him next time he called. Paul walked to the basement and opened the locked door on his office. He extracted a box of .22 subsonic rounds from his bottom desk drawer, and then went upstairs and out into the back yard. He sat down on the picnic table and loaded a five round clip. After ratcheting the slide back to load a shell, he aimed out into the wood-line, extended the pistol to arm’s length and turned his head away. He trusted his work, but you never knew. His finger slowly squeezed off a round. The sound was not what he expected. Instead of the chirp noise he had heard in the movies, he heard more of a cough. Like a man sneezing loudly into a handkerchief. Looking at the pistol, he saw that the slide had returned, and there was now another round in the chamber. Switching to a two-hand grip he squeezed off the other four rounds, same noise as before, no louder or softer. Good. It worked just as Sam said it would. The baffles created by the bushings and spacers trapped the expanding gases leaving the barrel. This, and the round being sub-sonic, drastically reduced the noise created by the shot. Sam said they could quiet it even more if they added a lock to the slide, preventing it from moving during the shot. Doing so would require the lock to be disengaged, the slide worked by hand, and the lock then re-engaged between each shot. Something they’d decided was too time consuming.

Paul checked his watch. The sun was going down, and his butt was getting cold. He policed his brass up off the snow and stowed it in a pocket. It was time for something to eat. But first he went back to the barn to clean and oil his new creation.

The state of Indiana holds 23,069 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,474 are repeat offenders.

—FOURTEEN—

“S
ydney Lewis! How the hell are ya?” She threw her arms open for a hug. Stacie Shaw was from Tennessee, you only had to hear her speak to know. Despite her higher education and years in Las Vegas, she still had a strong accent.

Sydney couldn’t help but smile as she was wrapped up in her friend’s arms. She and Stacie had been in school together back in Tennessee. Sydney was three years her junior when Stacie took a shine to her and helped her through some rough spots. As a result, they had formed a solid friendship, and kept in touch. Now they had their first chance to actually work together on a real case.

Stacie held her friend at arm’s length and looked her over.

“Don’t you eat, girl? Skinny as when I saw you last. Who do I have to do to get my own plane? Must be nice. Wanna see the car? Where’s Jack?”

Sydney’s grin got wider. Stacie’s method of rapid talk with equally rapid changes in topic threw off most people. The best way to deal with it was just to dive in and try to keep up.

“Jack’s talking to your boss. Not my plane, belongs to the Deputy Director. You have the car here?” she replied.

“Sure, still gift-wrapped so-to-speak. Real mess your boy made. We still have people out at the scene cleaning it up. It’s out in the barn. Follow me people!” Sydney’s crew picked up their bags and followed as ordered.

The barn turned out to be a large garage at the rear of the facility with an overabundance of white light and a spotless floor. In the middle of the room sat a large somewhat car-shaped object wrapped in layers of clear packaging wrap. Off to one side were five orange barrels, similarly wrapped. The door on the other side opened, and several people emerged as they walked into the room. They lined up like opposing football teams. Sydney caught a few looks she recognized.

“My crew.” Stacie proclaimed with a sweep of her arm. Her people proceeded to make self introductions all around. Most were friendly, some not. Sydney couldn’t blame them. Nobody liked their territory stepped on. It made her think of what Stacie must be thinking. She decided to defuse the whole situation.

“Well.” Stacie looked at her. “Where do you want to start?”

“Stacie, this is your ground. We’re just here to assist and tie it in with what we have from the Florida shooting. We start from wherever you think is best.” Sydney gave her friend a look.

Stacie smiled. Sydney wasn’t going to embarrass her in front of her crew. She would do the same for Sydney.

“Okay, let’s pair your people up with mine and open our presents.” She then split the crews, divided the work, and soon everyone was busy.

“Coffee?” Stacie asked ten minutes later. She cocked her head toward her office.

“Sure.”

Once she had her friend inside and the door closed, Stacie was back in friend mode.

“I will thank you now for not taking over. Some of my people were a little put off by you coming here. You are a class-act, girl. How’s Jack, has he still got that nice ass I seem to remember?” Stacie flopped in her chair and pulled out the bottom drawer of her desk to hold up her feet.

Sydney dropped into the only other chair. She knew this was coming.

“Thank you, I wouldn’t dream of stepping on your head and Jack’s ass is no longer mine to worry about.”

“Are you telling me you don’t keep track?”

Sydney hesitated, “I believe everything is in its place.”

“Ha!” Stacie pointed. “I knew it. I will of course verify this information when I see him myself. Working together okay?”

“Yes, he takes care of all his people, but I’m a little worried about him on this one. The pressure is on now that it’s gone public and he can’t afford for me to miss anything. We have to really nail this down.”

“Don’t you worry, girl, my people are top-notch. They might be a little tired at the moment because I’ve had them working the scene for the past two days. The scene sucked as far as weather conditions. The open area to the south across the airport really let the wind do its thing. We dished the stuff we could see as quickly as we could. I had them use a grid that was tighter than usual. I’m considering having the concrete barriers brought in so they can open the road back up. I also found some pieces stuck in a sign, so that’s coming in. Other than that, it looks like a minefield of Petri dishes, a hole in the road, and some fire and shrapnel damage. Bombs. I hate ’em, lots of dust, a ton of chemistry to run, scene degradation, body parts, just a damn mess. It’ll be weeks before we have everything done.”

“Jack just needs the highlights. Something to connect your bomber with our shooter, other than the letter, would make his day. Any ideas?”

“Nothing off hand. Your guy likes cars, both of the victims done in the car, strange fetish?”

Sydney thought about that. The cars, nobody had even brought that up before. Could that have something to do with it? She doubted it, but it was worth mentioning to Jack.

“Who knows?” She sighed. “Should we go pitch in and make sure the kids are playing nice together?”

“You always did like to get dirty.” Stacie tossed her a box of gloves. “Bodies or car?”

“Bodies.”

•      •      •

Sam rubbed his freshly shaven jaw as he drove steadily west at the posted limit. It had been some time since he had been in the open desert, and he missed it. He was looking for a place to accomplish a few necessary things, things that were necessary before his next destination. With hundreds of miles of desert around, he just needed the right spot and a little privacy. He slowed to check out the next dirt road, just a rut through the desert, leading off north-west into hilly terrain. It was the fourth such road he had encountered. This one showed no recent tracks. The on-line weather site had reported no rain in the area for weeks. A good sign this might be it. Sam checked his rearview for any cars that might see him pull off. Negative, he was the only car in sight. The road led fairly straight away from the highway for about two miles before he entered some hills and it began to wind and deteriorate. The rental Jeep did just fine in the sand, spinning the tires only once. Sam kept an eye on the surrounding area. No sign of motorcycles or other off-road toys. He was quite some distance away from the nearest town. He hoped people did not come out this far to play. The road meandered for another three miles before ending in a washout. The two-foot drop into the soft sand convinced him he could go no further. He exited the Jeep to look around. It was in sort of a natural amphitheater, with hills on three sides, and miles of desert off to the north out the open end. Sam consulted his map and pulled out his Garmin GPS, a gift from his wife two years ago. The Garmin confirmed what he already knew. He was in the middle of nowhere. At least with the GPS he knew exactly where in the middle he was. Sam looked around and smiled. It was not only perfect for what he needed, he found it gorgeous. Sam reached into the backseat of the Jeep and pulled out his camelback, a hat, and some Chapstick. He slathered on some sunblock for Dr. Maher before grabbing his sunglasses. After locking the Jeep behind him, he set off in the direction he had come, skirting the road by fifty meters or so. He watched for snakes while examining the brush and cactus.