Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

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. Recording 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