Once Stalked. Блейк Пирс

asked, “What else did they have in common?”

      “Not much. Two were white and one was black, so it isn’t a racial issue. They were in command of separate units, so they had no recruits in common.”

      Riley added, “You’ve probably already pulled the files of soldiers reprimanded for disciplinary or psychological issues. AWOLs? Dishonorable discharges?”

      “We have,” Larson replied. “It’s a very long list and we have been through it. But I’ll send it to you and you can see what you think.”

      “I’d like to talk to the men in each unit.”

      Larson nodded. “Of course. You can catch some of them after the funeral today, and I’ll set up any additional meetings that you want.”

      Riley noticed that Lucy was taking notes. She nodded to the young agent to ask her own questions.

      Lucy asked, “What caliber were the bullets?”

      “NATO-caliber,” Col. Larson said. “7.62 millimeter.”

      Lucy looked at Col. Larson with interest. She said, “It sounds like the weapon might be an M110 sniper rifle. Or possibly a Heckler and Koch G28.”

      Col. Larson smiled a little, obviously impressed by Lucy’s knowledge.

      “Due to the range, we’re guessing the M110,” Larson said. “The bullets all seem to have been from the same weapon.”

      Riley was pleased to see that Lucy was so fully engaged. Riley liked to think of Lucy as her protégé, and she knew that Lucy thought of her as a mentor.

      She’s learning fast, Riley thought proudly.

      Riley glanced at Bill. She could tell by his expression that he was pleased with Lucy as well.

      Riley had questions of her own, but she decided not to interrupt.

      Lucy said to Larson, “You’re guessing someone with military training, I assume. A soldier on the base?”

      “Possibly,” Larson said. “Or an ex-soldier. Someone with excellent training, at any rate. Not just an average shooter.”

      Lucy drummed her pencil eraser against the table.

      She suggested, “Someone who has it in for authority figures? Drill sergeants especially?”

      Larson scratched her chin thoughtfully.

      “I’ve been considering it,” she said.

      Lucy said, “I’m sure you’re also considering Islamic terrorism.”

      Larson nodded.

      “These days, that simply has to be our default theory.”

      “A lone wolf?” Lucy asked.

      “Maybe,” Larson said. “But it could be that he’s acting on behalf of some group – either a small cell near here, or something international, like ISIS or Al-Qaeda.”

      Lucy thought for a moment.

      “How many Muslim recruits have you currently got at Fort Mowat?” Lucy asked.

      “Right now, three hundred forty-three. That’s obviously a very small percentage of our recruits. But we’ve got to be careful about profiling. In general, our Muslim recruits have been exceptionally dedicated. We’ve never had any problems with extremism – if that’s what this is.”

      Larson looked at Riley and Bill and smiled.

      “But you two are being very quiet. How would you like to proceed?”

      Riley glanced at Bill. As usual, she could tell that he was thinking the same thing as she was.

      “Let’s go have a look at the murder scenes,” Bill said.

*

      A few minutes later, Col. Larson was driving Riley, Bill, and Lucy through Fort Mowat.

      “Which of the locations do you want to see first?” Larson asked.

      “Let’s see them in the order they happened,” Riley said.

      As Larson drove, Riley noticed soldiers drilling, running obstacle courses, and practicing marksmanship with various weapons. She could see that it was rigorous, demanding work.

      Riley asked Larson, “How far along in their training is this round of recruits?”

      “The second phase – the White Phase,” Larson said. “We’ve got three phases – red, white, and blue. The first two, red and white, are three weeks each, and these recruits are in their fifth week overall. Their last four weeks will be the Blue Phase. That’s about as tough as tough can get. That’s when the recruits find out if they’ve got what it takes to be an Army soldier.”

      Riley heard a note of pride in Larson’s voice – the same pride she’d often heard in her father’s voice when he talked about his military service.

      She loves what she does, Riley thought.

      She also had no doubt that Col. Larson was excellent at what she did.

      Larson parked near a footpath that led through the camp. They got out of the car, and Larson led them to a spot on the path. It was in an open area, free of trees that might block a view.

      “Sergeant Rolsky was killed right here,” Larson said. “Nobody saw or heard it happen. We couldn’t tell from the wound or the position of his body where the shot came from – except that it must have been a considerable distance.”

      Riley looked all around her, studying the scene.

      “What time was Rolsky killed?” she asked.

      “At about twenty-two hundred hours,” Larson said.

      Riley mentally converted that to civilian time – 10:00 p.m.

      She imagined what this place would look like at that time of night. There were a couple of lamps standing within thirty feet of the spot. Even so, the light here would have been pretty dim. The shooter must have used a night scope.

      She turned slowly around, trying to guess where the shot came from.

      There were buildings to the south and north. It was unlikely a sniper would have the opportunity to fire from within any of those places.

      To the west, she could see across camp to the Pacific Ocean, faint in a hazy distance.

      There were rough hills to the east.

      Riley pointed to the hills and said, “My guess is that the shooter positioned himself somewhere up there.”

      “That’s a good guess,” Larson said, pointing to another spot on the ground. “We found the bullet right here, so that indicates the shot must have come from somewhere up in those hills. Judging from the wound, the shot was fired from between two hundred fifty and three hundred feet. We’ve scoured the area, but he didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

      Riley thought for a moment.

      Then she asked Larson, “Is hunting allowed on Fort Mowat grounds?”

      “In season, with permits,” Larson replied. “Right now it’s wild turkey season. Shooting crows by day is also allowed.”

      Of course, Riley knew that these deaths were anything but hunting accidents. As the daughter of a man who had been both a Marine and a hunter, she knew that no one would use a sniper rifle to kill crows and turkeys and such. A shotgun was the more likely hunting weapon of choice around Fort Mowat at this time of year.

      She asked Larson to take them to the next location. The colonel drove them up into some low hills at the edge of a hiking trail. When they all got out of their vehicle again, Larson pointed to the spot on a trail that wound its way uphill.

      “Sergeant Fraser was killed right here,” she said. “He was taking an after-hours hike. The shot seems to have been about the same distance as before. Again, no one heard or saw it happen. But our best guess is that he was killed at about twenty-three hundred hours.”

      Eleven o’clock