The Practical Spy by Doug Walker
CHAPTER TWELVE
Recently, Delilah had been hammering relentlessly on the need for gun control legislation. She was appalled by news that two gun manufacturers were actually opening a new factory in North Carolina. She wondered, would there never be enough guns and ammunition in the world? Aside from sport shooting and hunting, guns had only one purpose. That seemed obvious. Self-defense seemed a hollow argument, except in the gun culture promoted by the National Rifle Association.
Orson was a bit concerned. It was this sort of binge crusading that had resulted in the car bomb that mangled her once attractive and well put together entirety. Of course, Orson with his scarred face and mutilated eye could ignore her deformities. They were a tight-knit couple and lovers even though not living together and despite Orson’s occasional transgressions.
He had some concern for her safety, but living in an isolated spot with Cook seemed superior than the crowded city. Because she was used more and more by NPR and attracted a tight phalanx of fans, they had added on a pair of interns, one male, one female, who lived with her most of the time in the rambling old house on the beach.
They were Jeb Miller and Nora Noto, both political science students receiving credit for their NPR internships. Delilah provided room and board, their parents pitched in with spending money. Jeb was a product of Birmingham, Alabama, where his parents were into old money from traditional steel mills. Nora from Boston cameth forth, the daughter of a seafood restaurant owners, a small chain of three eateries featuring raw-bars and steamed shellfish.
Both interns were skilled with computers and spent hours skimming for scraps of information that Delilah considered fodder for her commentary. Armed with her sharp appetite for what may or may not be on the public mind, combined with gems dredged up by the interns, she had developed a large following and was often quoted, often invited to appear on various TV talk shows and she invariably turned down the invitations for obvious reasons. Thus she was something of a mystery woman to the uninitiated.
The mystery tended to fire the imagination of the legions of confused gun nuts, clustered all about, a confused outrage egged on by constant drumfire from the NRA, fueled by the well larded gun interests. Money was the source of this evil, depending on your point of view.
She was brought down by a single shot as she walked on the beach. A heavy round of ammunition ripped through her chest creating chaos with heart, lung and anything else in its path. Another beach walker discovered the body within the hour and used her cell phone to call 911.
She was thoughtful enough not to disturb the body, obviously dead and clad in clam diggers and a frayed gray sweatshirt. She was known to the other beach walkers. The police taped off the scene and notified Cook and the two interns. Cook called Orson, who was assisted by the White House in rushing to the scene.
Sheriff’s deputies, Long Island police and FBI agents were all present when Orson arrived, escorted by a pair of Secret Service agents. Because it may have been a hate crime, a ranking FBI agent, John McBride, was in charge. The body had been removed to the nearest morgue.
Orson was calm. He knew such a thing might happen. He asked McBride if a suspect had been identified.
“No, Sir. We’ve looked for tracks on the beach, have deployed various lawmen throughout the area. She was hit by a heavy round, and the body may have been thrown into an unusual position. That means the trajectory is difficult to determine.”
Orson thought for a moment, surveyed the scene. The day was overcast, dismal, a sullen surf with a few sea birds. “Sniper rifle from a boat.”
“Yes, Sir. I think you’re correct. I alerted the Coast Guard a few minutes ago. But there’s been plenty of time for a getaway. These waters are not deserted.”
“Which is good and bad. A lone boater can be anonymous, or he had a crew. But others may have seen him and noticed something. Not your best weather for a pleasure cruise.”
“Yes, Sir. We have orders directly from the White House. We will stay on this case.”
“That’s proper. She was probably killed because of the strong views she expressed on NPR. I’m guessing it could do with the gun lobby.”
McBride perked up. “You blame the NRA?”
“Only indirectly. Gun manufacturers and munitions people funnel millions into their coffers. They in turn tend to appeal to basic, and sometimes unwholesome, emotions of gun owners and weapons collectors. Some of these people might be driven to do harm to someone like Delilah.”
“I must say you seem quite calm for a man who has just lost his wife,” McBride observed.
“I have lost many things in my life, including an eye. By keeping my emotions in check I have survived this long. I would advise others to follow suite. If you would, keep me informed and I will do the same with you.”
“You intend to follow the case up, then. Possibly seek revenge?”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I am not the Lord. But I will deliberately seek clues. If the person or persons who did this can be brought to the bar of justice it might be a mark against the NRA and a victory for the wonderful woman who was shot down like a rabbit on a ride.”
“Or a woman walking on a lonely beach,” McBride said. It was obvious the two men were in sync.
Orson went off to arrange for Delilah’s cremation. Later he would scatter her ashes. He would participate in no memorial service, although more than one would be held by an assortment of groups.
One thing puzzled him. How did the gunman know where Delilah lived and that she frequently took morning walks on the beach. It was a form of meditation. He ruled out Cook, but ruled in the two interns.
He chatted with them at length. Both had told family and friends that they worked for Delilah, gathering information, following up leads, for her NPR shows.
“Were either of you questioned about her personal habits?” Orson asked.
“Not I,” Nora said. “My folks listen to her programs. Not unusual. They’ve been NPR fans ever since I can remember. You might say she was one of their heroes, or heroines. She was brilliant and she spoke her mind. And she paid a price.”
Jeb shrugged and agreed. “I’m much the same. As far as my friends go. My parents never listened to NPR as far as I know. I really don’t know their preference, but usually it would be TV. Maybe talk radio in the car, but not NPR. There are a lot of Southern talk shows.”
“No one asked you about Delilah’s personal habits. Walking on the beach, going shopping, that sort of thing?”
“Not that I can remember. I often met friends in the city on weekends. Sometimes Nora and I would go together, but usually we each did our own thing.”
“I am not going to be a fulltime sleuth on the case,” Orson explained. “The FBI and others are taking care of that. But I will be doing some investigating. There may be others asking you questions, so I hope you will take it in stride.”
“Of course,” Nora said.
“What kind of questions?” Jeb asked.
“I haven’t any idea. I’m just informing you both that there is an ongoing investigation. And that you and Cook are involved to the point that you shared a house with Delilah and were aware of her habits.”
“We’re not suspected of anything?” Jeb asked. He seemed a bit suspicious.
“Why would you be suspected of anything? Do you own a sniper’s rifle? Did you have a grudge against Delilah?”
“Of course not,” Nora asserted.
“There you are. Let’s forget the paranoia and all contribute what we can to bringing this villain and his backers to justice.”
“You’re saying it was a conspiracy,” Jeb said.
“I’m not saying anything. Try to curb your imagination.”
“Great idea,” Nora agreed. “We are both out of a job.”
Which was true. They were gone, leaving Cook alone. Orson made a tough decision. He moved Cook to Georgetown and put the Long Island house on the market. Many memories went with it. His new life, his new love, plans they had made for
the house, plans they had made for their future.
The body released, the cremation complete, Orson took the ashes to the beach house, waited until well after dark, and then by the light of a half moon waded in the surf and disposed of them in the receding tide.
Returning to the house, he could not sleep. Finally he hopped in his rental car, drove the short distance to JFK and waited for the next flight to National.
Back at the White House, the President asked him, “Who would have a sniper’s rifle?”
“The joke’s on us, Mary. Probably anybody. There’s a non-military sniper’s rifle sold by King Arms Cybergun. It’s a licensed Kalashnikov. Fires a 6mm projectile at 400 to 550 feet per second. Perfect for the synthetic terrorist.”
“What’s a synthetic terrorist?”
“That’s a term I made up. Catchy, isn’t it?”
“Sounds like a song title, like a Rhinestone Cowboy.”
“Maybe I’ll take up song writing. I suppose you’d call that a hook.”
“You can song-write all you want. What I’d like you not to do is spend time and emotional energy tracking down your wife’s killer. Let the FBI have that chore.”
“Believe me, I won’t. I may hire a private investigator to scout around. I wouldn’t be personally involved. But back to a sniper’s rifle. Probably anyone who put their mind to it could obtain the military version. This has a range up to 2,500 yards. If fired from a boat, it could likely be steadied on an edge, or mounted on some sort of tripod.”
“So your man will go boat hunting.”
“No. Delilah was an anonymous voice on NPR. Her past history was fairly well known, but not her current situation. Someone had to know both her location and her habits to sit out there on the water with a powerful scope to find her walking on the beach just after coffee. I will seek out that someone.”
“There might be a paid someone?”
“For love or money. Something came down. Finding that person will be my contribution. But I’ll not do it myself. If you think I may be emotionally involved, you’re right.”
“I’ve always thought that sniper is an odd term,” the President said.
“It’s from snipe hunting. Supposedly a difficult bird to find, but not really. They’re water birds, waders. But it builds on the prank – snipe hunt. You’ve heard of that. A dope, or easily duped person is taken into a wooded area and told to hold an empty bag while the other pranksters will cleverly drive a snipe into it. Of course the major snipe hunter is left holding the bag. Also an expression.”
“I do know of that trick, although I’ve never been left holding the bag, so far.” Mary chuckled. “Possibly I left my husband holding the bag. He was with a slew of bags during his exciting career.”
Recently, Delilah had been hammering relentlessly on the need for gun control legislation. She was appalled by news that two gun manufacturers were actually opening a new factory in North Carolina. She wondered, would there never be enough guns and ammunition in the world? Aside from sport shooting and hunting, guns had only one purpose. That seemed obvious. Self-defense seemed a hollow argument, except in the gun culture promoted by the National Rifle Association.
Orson was a bit concerned. It was this sort of binge crusading that had resulted in the car bomb that mangled her once attractive and well put together entirety. Of course, Orson with his scarred face and mutilated eye could ignore her deformities. They were a tight-knit couple and lovers even though not living together and despite Orson’s occasional transgressions.
He had some concern for her safety, but living in an isolated spot with Cook seemed superior than the crowded city. Because she was used more and more by NPR and attracted a tight phalanx of fans, they had added on a pair of interns, one male, one female, who lived with her most of the time in the rambling old house on the beach.
They were Jeb Miller and Nora Noto, both political science students receiving credit for their NPR internships. Delilah provided room and board, their parents pitched in with spending money. Jeb was a product of Birmingham, Alabama, where his parents were into old money from traditional steel mills. Nora from Boston cameth forth, the daughter of a seafood restaurant owners, a small chain of three eateries featuring raw-bars and steamed shellfish.
Both interns were skilled with computers and spent hours skimming for scraps of information that Delilah considered fodder for her commentary. Armed with her sharp appetite for what may or may not be on the public mind, combined with gems dredged up by the interns, she had developed a large following and was often quoted, often invited to appear on various TV talk shows and she invariably turned down the invitations for obvious reasons. Thus she was something of a mystery woman to the uninitiated.
The mystery tended to fire the imagination of the legions of confused gun nuts, clustered all about, a confused outrage egged on by constant drumfire from the NRA, fueled by the well larded gun interests. Money was the source of this evil, depending on your point of view.
She was brought down by a single shot as she walked on the beach. A heavy round of ammunition ripped through her chest creating chaos with heart, lung and anything else in its path. Another beach walker discovered the body within the hour and used her cell phone to call 911.
She was thoughtful enough not to disturb the body, obviously dead and clad in clam diggers and a frayed gray sweatshirt. She was known to the other beach walkers. The police taped off the scene and notified Cook and the two interns. Cook called Orson, who was assisted by the White House in rushing to the scene.
Sheriff’s deputies, Long Island police and FBI agents were all present when Orson arrived, escorted by a pair of Secret Service agents. Because it may have been a hate crime, a ranking FBI agent, John McBride, was in charge. The body had been removed to the nearest morgue.
Orson was calm. He knew such a thing might happen. He asked McBride if a suspect had been identified.
“No, Sir. We’ve looked for tracks on the beach, have deployed various lawmen throughout the area. She was hit by a heavy round, and the body may have been thrown into an unusual position. That means the trajectory is difficult to determine.”
Orson thought for a moment, surveyed the scene. The day was overcast, dismal, a sullen surf with a few sea birds. “Sniper rifle from a boat.”
“Yes, Sir. I think you’re correct. I alerted the Coast Guard a few minutes ago. But there’s been plenty of time for a getaway. These waters are not deserted.”
“Which is good and bad. A lone boater can be anonymous, or he had a crew. But others may have seen him and noticed something. Not your best weather for a pleasure cruise.”
“Yes, Sir. We have orders directly from the White House. We will stay on this case.”
“That’s proper. She was probably killed because of the strong views she expressed on NPR. I’m guessing it could do with the gun lobby.”
McBride perked up. “You blame the NRA?”
“Only indirectly. Gun manufacturers and munitions people funnel millions into their coffers. They in turn tend to appeal to basic, and sometimes unwholesome, emotions of gun owners and weapons collectors. Some of these people might be driven to do harm to someone like Delilah.”
“I must say you seem quite calm for a man who has just lost his wife,” McBride observed.
“I have lost many things in my life, including an eye. By keeping my emotions in check I have survived this long. I would advise others to follow suite. If you would, keep me informed and I will do the same with you.”
“You intend to follow the case up, then. Possibly seek revenge?”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I am not the Lord. But I will deliberately seek clues. If the person or persons who did this can be brought to the bar of justice it might be a mark against the NRA and a victory for the wonderful woman who was shot down like a rabbit on a ride.”
“Or a woman walking on a lonely beach,” McBride said. It was obvious the two men were in sync.
Orson went off to arrange for Delilah’s cremation. Later he would scatter her ashes. He would participate in no memorial service, although more than one would be held by an assortment of groups.
One thing puzzled him. How did the gunman know where Delilah lived and that she frequently took morning walks on the beach. It was a form of meditation. He ruled out Cook, but ruled in the two interns.
He chatted with them at length. Both had told family and friends that they worked for Delilah, gathering information, following up leads, for her NPR shows.
“Were either of you questioned about her personal habits?” Orson asked.
“Not I,” Nora said. “My folks listen to her programs. Not unusual. They’ve been NPR fans ever since I can remember. You might say she was one of their heroes, or heroines. She was brilliant and she spoke her mind. And she paid a price.”
Jeb shrugged and agreed. “I’m much the same. As far as my friends go. My parents never listened to NPR as far as I know. I really don’t know their preference, but usually it would be TV. Maybe talk radio in the car, but not NPR. There are a lot of Southern talk shows.”
“No one asked you about Delilah’s personal habits. Walking on the beach, going shopping, that sort of thing?”
“Not that I can remember. I often met friends in the city on weekends. Sometimes Nora and I would go together, but usually we each did our own thing.”
“I am not going to be a fulltime sleuth on the case,” Orson explained. “The FBI and others are taking care of that. But I will be doing some investigating. There may be others asking you questions, so I hope you will take it in stride.”
“Of course,” Nora said.
“What kind of questions?” Jeb asked.
“I haven’t any idea. I’m just informing you both that there is an ongoing investigation. And that you and Cook are involved to the point that you shared a house with Delilah and were aware of her habits.”
“We’re not suspected of anything?” Jeb asked. He seemed a bit suspicious.
“Why would you be suspected of anything? Do you own a sniper’s rifle? Did you have a grudge against Delilah?”
“Of course not,” Nora asserted.
“There you are. Let’s forget the paranoia and all contribute what we can to bringing this villain and his backers to justice.”
“You’re saying it was a conspiracy,” Jeb said.
“I’m not saying anything. Try to curb your imagination.”
“Great idea,” Nora agreed. “We are both out of a job.”
Which was true. They were gone, leaving Cook alone. Orson made a tough decision. He moved Cook to Georgetown and put the Long Island house on the market. Many memories went with it. His new life, his new love, plans they had made for
The body released, the cremation complete, Orson took the ashes to the beach house, waited until well after dark, and then by the light of a half moon waded in the surf and disposed of them in the receding tide.
Returning to the house, he could not sleep. Finally he hopped in his rental car, drove the short distance to JFK and waited for the next flight to National.
Back at the White House, the President asked him, “Who would have a sniper’s rifle?”
“The joke’s on us, Mary. Probably anybody. There’s a non-military sniper’s rifle sold by King Arms Cybergun. It’s a licensed Kalashnikov. Fires a 6mm projectile at 400 to 550 feet per second. Perfect for the synthetic terrorist.”
“What’s a synthetic terrorist?”
“That’s a term I made up. Catchy, isn’t it?”
“Sounds like a song title, like a Rhinestone Cowboy.”
“Maybe I’ll take up song writing. I suppose you’d call that a hook.”
“You can song-write all you want. What I’d like you not to do is spend time and emotional energy tracking down your wife’s killer. Let the FBI have that chore.”
“Believe me, I won’t. I may hire a private investigator to scout around. I wouldn’t be personally involved. But back to a sniper’s rifle. Probably anyone who put their mind to it could obtain the military version. This has a range up to 2,500 yards. If fired from a boat, it could likely be steadied on an edge, or mounted on some sort of tripod.”
“So your man will go boat hunting.”
“No. Delilah was an anonymous voice on NPR. Her past history was fairly well known, but not her current situation. Someone had to know both her location and her habits to sit out there on the water with a powerful scope to find her walking on the beach just after coffee. I will seek out that someone.”
“There might be a paid someone?”
“For love or money. Something came down. Finding that person will be my contribution. But I’ll not do it myself. If you think I may be emotionally involved, you’re right.”
“I’ve always thought that sniper is an odd term,” the President said.
“It’s from snipe hunting. Supposedly a difficult bird to find, but not really. They’re water birds, waders. But it builds on the prank – snipe hunt. You’ve heard of that. A dope, or easily duped person is taken into a wooded area and told to hold an empty bag while the other pranksters will cleverly drive a snipe into it. Of course the major snipe hunter is left holding the bag. Also an expression.”
“I do know of that trick, although I’ve never been left holding the bag, so far.” Mary chuckled. “Possibly I left my husband holding the bag. He was with a slew of bags during his exciting career.”