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  TRACKING SHOT

  A Vince McNulty Thriller

  Colin Campbell

  PRAISE FOR THE BOOKS BY COLIN CAMPBELL

  “Very real. And very good.” —Lee Child

  “There’s nothing soft about Campbell’s writing. If you enjoy your crime fiction hard-boiled, the Jim Grant series is a must read.” —Bruce Robert Coffin, author of the Detective Byron series

  “A cop with a sharp eye, keen mind, and a lion’s heart.” —Reed Farrel Coleman

  “Campbell writes smart, rollercoaster tales with unstoppable forward momentum and thrilling authenticity.” —Nick Petrie

  “Grim and gritty and packed with action.” —Kirkus Review

  “The pages fly like the bullets, fistfights and one-liners that make this one of my favourite books of the year. Top stuff!” —Matt Hilton

  “An excellent story well told. A mixture of The Choirboys meets Harry Bosch.” —Michael Jecks

  “Sets up immediately and maintains a breakneck pace throughout. Its smart structure and unrelenting suspense will please Lee Child fans.” —Library Journal Review

  “This is police procedural close-up and personal. A strong de-but with enough gritty realism to make your eyes water, and a few savage laughs along the way.” —Reginald Hill

  Copyright © 2021 by Colin Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Colin Campbell

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Tracking Shot

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Preview from Moonlight Rises by Vincent Zandri

  Preview from Trigger Switch by Bryon Quertermous

  Preview from It’s Ugly Because It’s Personal by Ryan Sayles

  PART ONE

  “I’ve seen dead. And it’s nothing like the movies.”

  —Vince McNulty

  ONE

  “The thing about superhero movies is nobody ever dies.”

  “Of course people die.”

  Larry Unger gave an exasperated shrug. “Yeah, but they never stay dead. They just come up with some anti-Kryptonite gizmo, and bang—they’re alive again. I mean, look at Spock in that Star Trek movie.”

  Vince McNulty laughed. “Star Trek isn’t superheroes.”

  “Same principal though. In real movies, when you’re dead you’re dead.”

  McNulty looked at his producer and couldn’t help stating the obvious. “You don’t make real movies, Larry.”

  Larry looked offended. “More real than all that sci-fi bullshit.”

  McNulty shook his head. “I’ve seen dead. And it’s nothing like the movies.”

  Titanic Productions hadn’t planned on filming dead people at the Chester Brook Orphanage, but that’s the way it turned out. McNulty hadn’t planned on advising about dead people, either. As Titanic’s technical adviser and an ex-cop, he had already turned Alfonse Bayard into a credible movie detective, so much so that Larry had quickly put the sequel into production. Dead Naked. He had wanted to call it The Naked and The Dead until McNulty told him they’d already made a war movie with that title. Next choice had been The Naked Dead, but Leslie Neilson had ruined starting any title with “naked,” unless it was a spoof. Larry didn’t make spoofs. Not intentionally, anyway.

  “This is my chance to go legit,” the producer told McNulty. “Anyone can get lucky once. We get a franchise. We’re McDonald’s.”

  McNulty let out a long, slow breath. “McDonald’s makes the same shit with zero taste everywhere.”

  Larry ignored the implied put-down. “McDonald’s makes big money.” He raised an eyebrow. “And everybody loves a beefy hunk.”

  McNulty snorted a laugh. “Alfonse isn’t a beefy hunk.”

  Larry tapped the side of his head then pointed at McNulty. “He could be. With your help.”

  The bustle of activity in the lobby grew louder. The crew were almost ready. Chester Brook Orphanage had allowed them to use the west wing, and Titanic Productions had transformed it into a courthouse. Their request to film at the real District Court building farther along Linden Street had been refused, but the architecture at the orphanage was close enough to make no difference. A bit-part player wearing a judge’s gown walked across the lobby. Bright lights went on in the next room, which had been set up as a courtroom. Amy Moore applied a last-minute brush to Alfonse Bayard’s makeup.

  Larry turned again to the ex-Yorkshire cop. “The auto body shop knows to stop working. Right?”

  McNulty glanced at the actor playing the hero detective but his real interest lay with the makeup artist kneeling beside him. Amy Moore paused and looked at McNulty. She smiled and McNulty smiled back, gave her a little nod, then looked back at Larry and stood to his full height. He towered over the diminutive movie producer.

  “I’ll go make sure.”

  He didn’t like being around the camera when they were filming. It made him feel self-conscious and mildly embarrassed. This wasn’t what being a cop was all about, and he couldn’t help thinking of himself as a cop. All ex-cops did. He walked along the corridor and out through a side door into the clean, bright Massachusetts air, looking for all the world like a cop walking his beat.

  McNulty’s beat today was a two-block stretch of Linden Street, Waltham, Massachusetts. Twelve miles west of Boston in Middlesex County. Fifty yards either side of the Chester Brook Orphanage. He still wasn’t sure what constituted two blocks in America, whether it was intersections or buildings, but in the small town of Waltham, it was walking distance. Just as well on a sweltering June afternoon.

  Linden Street had temporary roadblocks at the fifty-yard limit. Men with walkie-talkies let the traffic flow until they got the message that filming was about to start. The message had been sent. The street was empty. A dark grey panel van pulled into a side street just beyond the barrier at the main entrance to the west wing of the orphanage. The assistant spoke into the walkie-talkie. McNulty nodded his approval and crossed the street. Abko Auto Body was part of the car sales and auto parts strip heading out of town. Along with Ace Motor Cars, Accel Automotive and Aston Martin of Boston, they had all been asked to keep the noise down during shooting. There was no need to remind them, but when Larry got a bug up his ass it was easier to agree than explain. McNulty ignored Abko Auto Body and spoke to a sharp-suited salesman standing in front of Aston Martin.

  “You expecting James Bond?” The sales manager proved he had a sense of humor.

  “Not unless Titanic Productions has upped its budget.” McNulty smiled. “You’ve heard about us then.”

  The sales manager stood with one hand in his pocket, looking cool. “This is Middlesex County. We hear about everything.”

  McNulty nodded. “Close-knit community, huh?”

  The sales manager raised his eyebrows. “In a small town even a small movie company makes a big impression.”

  McNulty looked at the cars in the showroom window. “Well, thanks for helping out. Recordin
g dialogue on location saves having to loop it later.”

  The sales manager jerked a thumb toward the auto body shop. “Without a lot of banging and screeching in the background, I guess.”

  McNulty waved at an Aston Martin DBS in the showroom window. “Or a throaty roar and ejector seat.”

  The manager was about to make an ejector-seat joke when a throaty roar sounded from the side street, followed by a screech of tires then a series of gunshots. The manager looked toward the orphanage. “I didn’t know you were doing action today.”

  McNulty didn’t answer as more gunshots ripped through the quiet. He was already sprinting across the driveway and along Linden Street. The gunfire wasn’t special effects. And the screaming wasn’t acting.

  TWO

  There were several more gunshots as McNulty slammed into the side door of the orphanage. Somebody screamed as two more shots rang out. McNulty sprinted down the hallway toward the noise, taking a right at the end and then a quick left. He found himself in the empty lobby area that had been teeming with activity only a few minutes earlier. Amy Moore’s makeup chair had been knocked over and was wedged between the double doors to the back of the courtroom, but Amy Moore was nowhere to be found. Alfonse Bayard would be inside the courtroom, and Larry Unger would be watching his performance. Blood seeped from under the double doors.

  McNulty grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall, unfolded the nozzle and tightened his grip on the trigger handle. Turning sideways and keeping low, he shouldered the double doors and prepared to spray anyone who got in his way. What he wasn’t prepared for was the carnage and bloodshed on the other side of those doors.

  Cops never know what’s behind the door. Even routine inquiries mean knocking on the door and hoping for the best. McNulty had taught Alfonse that on his first day, back when the actor used to walk like a duck instead of a cop. Standard procedure is to step aside in case it turns into an angry-man situation. The courtroom was already an angry-man situation.

  A car door slammed outside and the squeal of tires signaled a quick getaway. McNulty didn’t waste his time giving chase. He stood in the middle of the room and dropped the fire extinguisher. He couldn’t believe he’d just attempted to do combat with a gunman with foam spray and a harsh word. The Panavision camera stood unmanned on its tripod. The handheld Arriflex was on its side beneath the Stars and Stripes at the left of the bench. Sirens sounded in the distance. With the danger gone and the scene secure, McNulty focused on triage.

  The first officer on the scene has to make snap decisions. When it comes to the injured parties, there are important rules of thumb. The first rule is that the noisy ones aren’t a priority because making a noise means they’re alive and kicking. None of the victims of the Chester Brook Orphanage shooting was making a noise.

  Smoke hung in the air, highlighted by shafts of sunlight streaming in through the windows. The smell of cordite mingled with the odors of singed cloth and burned flesh from contact wounds. Splashes of color stood out against the dull brown interior—blood splatters and spray patterns that later would be mapped and photographed to position the gunman at the time of the shooting. For now, the blood splatters highlighted the victims, none of whom was moving.

  The actor dressed as a judge was draped across the court clerk’s desk with half of his back missing. A woman lay on the floor near the makeup chair. Two men had been shot in the back, once panic had sent almost everyone scurrying for the only other exit behind the judge’s bench. Outside the courtroom in the lobby, McNulty had failed to spot a man lying dead just inside the main entrance, contact wounds and singed clothing making him the first person to be shot when the shooter arrived.

  There was no sign of Amy or Larry or Alfonse.

  And the angry man had gone.

  McNulty scanned the courtroom and quickly ruled out three of the victims. The judge had only half a spine. The guy near the door was twisted into an awkward shape. A woman just inside the double doors had bled so much it had spread all the way into the lobby. McNulty checked the rest of them, one at a time. Not all the victims were dead. An arm twitched. Somebody tried to get up. McNulty laid a gentle hand on an extra’s shoulder and spoke in a whisper.

  “Stay down.”

  The second rule of thumb is don’t move the injured unless to protect them from imminent danger, because any movement can open the wounds and cause more damage. This was all about stabilizing until the paramedics arrived. The paramedics wouldn’t arrive until the police had ensured that the scene was safe and the gunman had left. McNulty needed to tell them that straightaway. These people needed immediate treatment.

  The door behind the judge’s bench creaked open and a shuffling huddle peered through the gap. McNulty raised his head.

  “Keep out.”

  He waved a hand.

  “Shut the door.”

  Now he was thinking about scene-preservation. Emergency personnel would disturb enough evidence without having witnesses trampling all over it as well. The sirens echoed around the outside of the building. Blue lights flashed through the windows. Armed men would be deploying around the perimeter to seal off the building. They didn’t know the scene was secure. McNulty leaned down and whispered into the extra’s ear.

  “It’s okay. They’re here.” Meaning the paramedics, once the police knew the gunman had left.

  McNulty crossed the room and headed toward the main entrance. He paused and took a deep breath. Moving slowly and carefully, he opened the door and stepped outside. Half a dozen guns swung toward him. He stood on the orphanage steps, holding his hands high in the air.

  THREE

  “You came in with a fire extinguisher?”

  McNulty looked at Amy and shrugged. “You were in trouble.”

  Amy widened her eyes. “I wasn’t on fire.”

  They were sitting in the staff canteen at Stephen’s Industrial Cleaners next door to the orphanage. All the witnesses were sitting in the canteen, a staging area the police were using until they’d taken statements from everyone who had been present during the shooting. The orphanage had been evacuated and was now a crime scene bigger than anything the Waltham Police Department had ever dealt with. Boston PD was sending help and the Middlesex County Sheriff’s Department were already on-scene. Jurisdiction issues could be sorted later. For now they were in the evidence-gathering phase.

  McNulty leaned forward in his chair and hugged himself. He shuddered and let out a trembling sigh. The adrenaline was wearing off and the shock of what he’d seen was beginning to set in. He’d been a police officer for more than twenty years before Titanic Productions had hired him, but even cops had to let go sometime. Usually after the dust settled and realization dawned. Realization of just how stupid charging in with a fire extinguisher had been was dawning on him now. A shiver ran down his spine and robbed him of his voice.

  Amy saw the look in his eyes and pulled her chair up beside his. She rested an arm across his shoulders. She was in shock as well. Making light of it was her way of dealing with that. McNulty smiled a sad little smile. Gallows humor. The cops’ get-out-of-jail card. He would use it himself later, once the shakes stopped and allowed him to get his mind straight. But not yet.

  As with all major incidents there was an element of organized chaos at the beginning. First priority was the injured, so preserving the evidence took a backseat for the first hour or so. Things got moved out of the way. Footprints were trampled over. The usual medical detritus mingled with blood splatters and bullet holes. Shell casings were kicked around and furniture moved aside. The only thing that wasn’t moved was the Panavision camera, and that was only because the tripod was too heavy.

  The witnesses were another case where best-case scenario had to be worked around available manpower and space. Ordinarily witnesses would be kept apart so their stories weren’t contaminated by other witnesses’ opinions. Descriptions could easily be tainted by herd mentality, everyone discussing what they saw a
nd bending the facts to blend with the overall view.

  Initial witness statements were brief and to the point. Time, date and location. Why you were there. What you saw. What you did. More in-depth statements would be taken later. Anyone who saw the shootings was flagged for special attention. Anyone who could describe the shooter or his vehicle was taken to police headquarters on Lexington Street. Generally they all said the same thing: White male. Between twenty and thirty. Short hair. Medium height. Medium build.

  The only thing they all agreed on was the dark grey panel van, and the only reason McNulty knew it was the getaway vehicle was because the witnesses had been corralled in the staff canteen of Stephen’s Industrial Cleaners. It was the dark grey panel van that he had seen turn into the side street just beyond the western barrier.

  Initial accounts took almost three hours, the witnesses being allowed to leave one at a time once they’d given their statements and provided contact information. McNulty was last to leave, even though he hadn’t seen the shooting. Being first on the scene gave him a unique perspective that not even the first responders had. By the time the police began recording the scene, all sorts of things had been moved or added. Crime scene photos weren’t taken until after emergency medical personnel had messed up the scene. Getting McNulty’s perspective on where everything had been immediately after the gunman fled was crucial.

  “And then you came charging in with a fire extinguisher?” The lead detective didn’t sound as incredulous as Amy Moore had. “Ballsy move.”