I Kill Rich People: New Edition Released 11/27/14 Page 4

“Identical .300 Win Mag,” Tremaine read aloud. “Well, that’s helpful,” he added sarcastically. “Let’s see, about a million weapons floating around that use .300 Winchester Magnums. No point wasting time on that. Sold in all fifty states. Stores, gun shows, Craigslist. Shit.” Tremaine pulled a maple scone from the bag he carried and bit half of it up in one bite, then looked like a dog eating peanut butter as it dried up his mouth. He took a long draw from his caramel macchiato then grimaced, swallowing down the thick lump in his throat. “What about photography? Guest list? Staff list?”

  At that moment, the Bureau was holding one of its dog-and-pony shows for the Secretary of Homeland Security as host to a “high-level” inter-agency conference reviewing the attack. While Nassau County PD and the FBI sifted for leads, NSA and CIA, Defense Intelligence and even the Treasury Department kept dredging for anything referencing a pending attack. They pinged informants from Pakistan to London.

  No indication whether to conclude this was a singular event or the first attack. Shooter at-large. No leads.

  Concrete barriers were being moved into place in front of twenty-one structures associated with the Israeli Government, and major Jewish Institutions had already responded by putting into place response procedures that had been codified in early 2002 following 9/11.

  A contact tree employing text, email, and automated telephonic messaging alerted all Jewish congregations to consider adopting their highest-level security measures. Police patrols were to be deployed to synagogues in the New York and across the Tri-State Area ahead of the Friday night services.

  A twenty-two-year-old unpaid intern with a communications degree from Columbia sorted through Emerson Elliot’s incoming mail. Address. Stamp. “I Kill Rich People.” Nothing more. She stared at the index card, not knowing what to do.

  Crazy Thumbs’ instincts told him to tear up the index card and throw it away. EE needed to get his shit back together and get funny again. Show some sparkle, wit, verve.

  Thumbs read and re-read the line, then soccer-kicked his wastebasket down the hallway. He had to tell EE. That and pray EE would do the rational thing and contact the police.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At Sag Harbor, the easy, open surroundings were in complete contrast to the nighttime action at Sands Point. No event. No Mossad. No dogs. From a technical standpoint, no challenge whatsoever. This was a gimme. He was fighting boredom. An exercise in self-control. KISS: Keep It Simple Stupid.

  Sag Harbor Bay stretched wide. Glistening sunshine bounced off the water, leading him to momentarily reflect on a memory of Chesapeake Bay before channeling his refocus entirely back to his purpose. The technical elements offered no challenge whatsoever. He went through his routines, feeling none of the rush that came from a real mission. Pivot angle = 195 degrees. Key.

  Options. Fifteen craft < 350 meters. Sun behind, 3/5 arc. Left to right, southwest to north. Five > 32’. Range calc— Boat length/3.3/mil dot X 1000 = XM. 64 (64/120mil dot X 1000 = 160m), 55 (225m), 48 (300m), 42 (65m), 41 (330m). One, two, three, four, five. Five cartridges in the mag. Five boats. 270 cartridge, 130 grains. Zero to 4 inches at 330m.

  The name of the boat he chose first was written in red block lettering across the stern. Hedge Fun. The Marquis 64 was bobbing along, hardly moving at all. Through the Schmidt & Bender 12.5-50X56 PMII optics he could lip read the people on deck. The middle-aged passengers were seated together. One was asking for another beer.

  150 meters.

  He was already invisible. When he retreated back into trees it wasn’t about hiding himself but to make for some technical stimulus. For a moment, he even imagined shooting lefty.

  Deeper within the woods, his field of vision narrowed. Backing more. Threading the needle. 20-degree wedge south, trees, 25-degrees, trees. Go in deeper, he told himself. He kept a five-degree window to the south, trees, with a tight three-degree center window, trees, two-degree, trees, eight-degrees.

  Key One. Hedge Fun. Helmsman uniformed, main bridge interior salon. Looking to Loran, eyes on water depth. Deep draft. The helmsman was a hired professional sailor.

  Through the scope he looked past the crosshairs back to the upper deck. Two couples, the men in their fifties, women unclear—wide hats. The thin man was talking more, gesturing left hand, right tall glass. Heavy man, relaxed shoulders, both arms on armrests. His physical manner identified him as the owner. Bald patch, reddening, spotted darker blotches.

  Swing Two Gap. Zero. Three Gap. Zero. Four Gap. Three degrees. Bow coming into view. Five gap. Zero. One, slow drift. Two, five knots. Flashes of light coming off the water along the sight-line. Looking into the sun through a telescope. Swing on plane.

  In the four gap there was an Italian-designed 130-foot motor yacht. 1000m, anchored off Shelter Island. King of the World. Little Sunfish to Bayliner, 32s to the Sea-Doos zipping by like screaming lawnmowers, throwing up spray, going out to see the custom-made 130. He resisted. Too much distance. That shot was made for a Barrett 50, not the Remington. Pass.

  Five gap. Key Two. Upper bridge, 48’ Viking Convertible, “GoNGetter” on the stern. Single helmsman.

  One. 64. 210m. Acquire. Bald spot. Smooth, even trigger action. Shoulder recoil, mainly below collarbone. No loss of target between aim and impact. Breathe-Relax-Aim-Sight-and…Squeeze. BRASS. .270 center of the bald spot. The man must have been thin-skulled. He saw the bullet enter cleanly, instantly followed by the burst of blood, skull, and brains exploding through the face on the other side. The women jumped up from their chairs. The wind was to his back; their mouths framed silent screams that blew out toward the water away from the trees where he was standing. The thin man remained seated. Never moved at all. Helmsman was cutting the engines, running to the ladder and sliding the rails down to the rear deck.

  He swung the 24” barrel toward “GoNGetter.” Closer, 120, 130m. Boat rocking across beam. He allowed for plus two inches. Center torso. Acquire. Breathe-Relax-Aim-Sight-and…Squeeze BRASS. Soft tissue. The yachtsman snapped forward and back again, knocking against the captain’s chair. He watched as the seat swiveled around and the target actually stood up, leaving a wide brushstroke of bright red blood on the back of the seat. The guy looked around him, scanning with curiosity. Through the crosshairs, he kept his eyes set on the boater and chambered a second round. Incredibly, the man turned, reached back to the steering wheel, before he went down, his knees buckling lifelessly out from under him.

  Sweep. Gap One Zero, Two Zero, Three Zero, Four Zero, Five out. No third shot. Retrieve cartridges. Break scope. Break stock. Break barrel. Secure. Zip bag. Discipline. Mechanics. Getting through this.

  On the 48’, the rudder turned an exaggerated swing to port, with GoNGetter on an unmanned heading toward Bay Street and the breakwater.

  * * * * *

  Suffolk County police craft set emergency preparedness protocols into action, closing the waterways to all private watercraft from Sag Harbor to Southampton and north to Montauk. Police, including K9 units, fanned along the shoreline. No suspects, no evidence. Slugs extracted from the bodies of Colin Merrill, 61, and Stephen Denning, 41, fifth and sixth victims, were rushed to ballistics. Confirmed—positive match. Same weapon, Sag Harbor and Sands Point.

  Within hours, thousands of vacationers were packed up and headed back to the city. Couples staying inside $10,000 per week beach house rentals argued over losing their week versus losing their lives.

  Colin Merrill was amongst the top twenty earners on Wall Street, with a personal income that year of $340 million. Major donor to his alma mater, Harvard University, where the Merrill Bio-Sciences Building bore his name. Stephen Denning, a self-described “serial investor,” was an early investor in BriteLine; Denning was also dabbling in mergers and acquisitions, often making use of his private yacht, the “GoNGetter,” for lavish parties.

  * * * * *

  EE w
as feeling so much better about his world. “Thumbs,” he shouted, “Merrill and Denning, the new dead guys…100 percent goyim!”

  The violence wasn’t directed against Jews! The guy was killing billionaires. I KILL RICH PEOPLE.

  EE had money, but in Manhattan society he was never going to be identified as rich. He swam his listeners into the world of yachts, double-parking limos, private jets, and society events, contexts that 99.9 percent of them could never relate to.

  “‘Hedge Fun’? OK, I get it. The SOB was rich. But does he need to stick it in our faces? For real! ‘Hedge Fun’?”

  Elliot’s shoulders relaxed as he repeated to himself: I KILL RICH PEOPLE is not about Jews! His outlook surged, manically shifting to a positive high that gave him the urge to riff humor against the dark backdrop of the killings.

  He loved to extend himself and improvise; so long as his listeners knew that he was there for them, that his focus was always self-deprecating and never about him, they loved Elliot.

  “So Dukie,” he asked a regular Thumbs put through on the phone, “Tell me about your Fourth of July. I take it you were having a nice day on your yacht…?”

  “Yeah right, EE, my yacht. I watched the hot dog eating at Nathan’s and then was over to my sister’s to watch the fireworks on TV. It’s always amazed me that more of these assholes aren’t getting shot.”

  Crazy Thumbs cross-pollinated the radio show in real time to Twitter and FB and coordinated the advertising, managing to do all this while looking as though he had nothing to do. Elliot had renamed him “Crazy Thumbs” because his thumbs were the only visibly moving part. Crazy Thumbs had a Bluetooth relay set up from his Android phone to the sound effects board; like magic, the sound of rattlesnakes made their angry rattling warning shot across the airwaves.

  “So I passed Blind Louie coming in to the station today and spotted him a twenty,” EE said to his audience. “Louie says thanks, spits, and gets to jamming on his harmonica, and all of a sudden I just felt like this invisible wave hitting me. Thumbs, how long has Louie been there? Like ten years. Never heard a complaint pass his lips. When it’s so damned cold that he can’t stay warm on top of the heating grates, Louie has a smile on his face and something positive to say.”

  EE was on a roll. “The row of yachts at Levy’s birthday party looked like Cleopatra was in town! Are they getting the message? How much do these people need to have?”

  Crazy Thumbs held up his white board, telling EE that every line had callers, all twenty-four of them. He routed them to part-time overflow screeners. 15 percent were livid, 85 percent loved the topic. The live metrics were showing that their story was getting traction from coast to coast, in France and Germany, and even in Japan.

  “So what are we going to call this shooter?” he asked into his microphone. “What do you think, people?”

  The Sands Point Killer. The Sag Harbor Sniper. Billionaire Blaster. The Independence Day Killer. Bullets for Billionaires. Crazy Thumbs built a spreadsheet to keep track of all the suggestions, then put through a caller to test the waters and push a little harder.

  “Emerson, Man, my sister got shot on Monday night. For real. I know who did it and the police they have not done absolutely nothing. She got two little ones and now they don’t got nobody and does anyone, like, even care? Her two babies are someplace with Social Services and I can’t even take care of my own nieces. So you tell me what’s up with that?”

  “How is your sister doing?”

  “She dead.”

  “And Social Services have the children. That’s terrible.”

  “That’s right. Terrible. And who is helping her or me? You want somebody’s help, you got to be somebody, ’cause nobody is helping no how.”

  EE gave Thumbs a big thumbs-up. Rich guys getting killed was a national headline and then just another dead girl from the projects. Beautiful.

  Owen went through his automatic check: medallion/service weapon/keys/phone. Matching socks. Jacket and tie worked OK.

  “O,” Callie protested, “I’m working.”

  “I got called in,” Owen shouted, stating what she already well knew.

  “What about the boys? Today is your day.”

  “I got called in,” he repeated. He opened the refrigerator, scanned, and shut it again without finding anything. A browning banana on the windowsill still appeared passable. He grabbed it.

  “Where are the boys going to go?” Callie shouted back.

  “Fuck’s sake!”

  “Don’t ‘fuck’s sake’ me,” Callie griped. “You got called in. Why’s it on me? So I just end up the one who’s late?”

  Owen bit down half the banana. What part of reality didn’t she get? he asked himself. He was a cop. She knew the drill. If somebody’s teeth didn’t get cleaned, so what!

  He loved doing coach-pitch for Liam. What did she think, that he’d rather be dropping everything on a Saturday off to chase down an ABN—A Big Nutjob?

  Both shootings were outside the Five Boroughs; Sands Point was Nassau County PD, Sag Harbor was Suffolk County PD, but Intel Division was built post-9/11 to cover terrorism far beyond jurisdictional boundaries. Ever since David Cohen came over from CIA post 9/11 with billions in federal funds and the mandate to craft a CIA sister entity that could operate inside the United States and outside the FBI, the work fell on Intel Division. For Owen, that meant dropping everything on a Saturday.

  I KILL RICH PEOPLE looped through Owen’s head as he drove in to Manhattan. Talk radio was all over the attack. One side was selling tragedy and how the “left wing constantly pushes class warfare” while Emerson Elliot’s program was nicknaming the killer.

  At the commercial break, Crazy Thumbs tried pointing out that rich people were even more politically diverse than the general population, that Buffet and Gates were vocal as hell about the wealthy getting too many breaks. Besides, liberal radio was always a loser. There’s no money in hating on the rich.

  “Thumbs, I don’t give two fucks if Gates wants to give away all his money after he dies. Rich is rich, man. Rich is rich,” Elliot crooned. For right now, their metrics were off the charts.

  Web-voting was running 92 percent in favor of Bullets for Billionaires. EE liked the ring of it. He was already shortening the working nickname to “Bullets.”

  “Asshole,” Owen shouted at the radio.

  * * * * *

  “Thumbs, get hold of the police,” Elliot said. “Somebody needs to know about this. ‘I KILL RICH PEOPLE.’ This changes everything!” Elliot was already planning to put one of NYPD’s finest into the interview chair.

  Owen didn’t share Elliot’s excitement. “Sir, you want a statement from the department, you need to contact a spokesman. You don’t put me on the air. You called in that you have evidence. Do you or don’t you?”

  Elliot passed the index card into the evidence bag which Owen extended. Examining at it through the clear plastic, Owen read the simple four word phrase and considered. The chances of raising fingerprints were slim to none after going through the mail, but even an idiot should have known not to make things worse. “We’ll investigate this. Could be nothing, but keep a low profile for a while just to be safe,” Owen advised.

  “Why?” asked Elliot. It’s not threatening me! I feel great.”

  This wasn’t like the usual sort of threats that Owen usually heard, that every policeman hears. It was more like a statement of fact. Like, ‘Hello, what do you do for a living? Oh, I kill rich people.’

  Maybe this wasn’t just another ABN. I KILL RICH PEOPLE.

  Owen left the shock jock behind and drove the index card directly to “The Bunker,” Intel Division’s high-tech department within the department. He didn’t think about telling anyone about meeting Emerson Elliot. He wasn’t thinking about celebrities; he was thinking about Callie, w
hich pissed him off because he should have been on the job 100 percent.

  It wasn’t going to kill the boys to be with a babysitter for a few hours, he thought. So what if they watched cartoons all morning? You marry a cop, you got to adapt. Callie knew what she was getting into.

  Eamonn, his dad, was a cop, Owen was going to be a cop. Cullens are cops; she’d known that since they were fourteen years old. Owen had never considered any other type of life. 9/11 had sealed it for him.

  Eamonn Cullen had boomed his way through life as a career blue-uniform street cop. He had been at his happiest when he was drinking and brawling and meting out street justice—rules be damned. Fuck the lawyers, fuck the DA, fuck the lot of them because the entire bunch knew fuck-all; he was known to pontificate when he was “into his cups.”

  “What is the sense of arresting a stupid dosser, losing hours to bring him into the station, typing out the fucking reports, in triplicate mind you, then bringing charges and taking up the court’s time, then maybe wasting six months on the public dole for his three hots and a cot and the schooling in how to become a more successful criminal? Sure, a couple nicely placed short jabs will do a better job of making him think twice the next time,” the Big Man had said on more than one occasion.

  Owen loved being a cop, loved his division, loved NYPD. For fuck’s sake, Owen thought, didn’t Callie push him to get his shield and his medallion after that?

  He pulled into the underground garage, screeching the tires around the corners to his parking spot, and slammed on the brakes a foot before hitting the wall.

  * * * * *