LITMIR.BIZ

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pay off student loans. Having come from small town America, his choice of Williams College was intentional. He liked the conservative reputation of the school, its academic quality and the opportunity to interface with the faculty. He was serious but discouraged and recent events only added to that discouragement.

      After the family shared, Pastor Holt said the usual things about Taylor Jones being “a good man” who “worked hard” and “cared for his family.” His death was a “great tragedy” and no one could know why “God allowed” him to be killed by the sniper, but we could be assured “that he was now at rest in a far better place.” The Bible reading was from that passage where Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled … in my Father’s house are many rooms … I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may be where I am.”² Good words but Paul had to wonder if they really applied to the petty old man in the box.

      Taylor Jones had been a church regular at First Christian Church of Williams since he moved to the city 28 years ago, but if you tried to do a business deal with him on a Monday, you had better count your fingers after you shook his hand. He was a classic example of the problems Paul was studying in his business ethics class at the Williams College MBA program. Did he really want to be in business like Taylor Jones? Was dishonesty really what it took to be successful?

      Pastor Holt knew, even as he spoke, that Taylor Jones took care of one of his families, but ignored the first, and the first was Samantha’s family – Samantha, her mom and two brothers, those he had abandoned when he sought “the desires of his heart” and forgot the commitment of his youth. The other family was also present and Paul held his tongue but hoped that God, if there was a God, had a higher standard for residence in this “Father’s house” than that evidenced by Taylor Jones’s life or the words of the lying preacher. In his opinion, the religious hypocrite deserved a different address, though the murder still troubled him.

      Suddenly, his view began to change. It was as if a mist was falling before him and as it fell, it slowly began to reveal a view unlike anything he had seen before. Paul struggled to focus as his eyes began to take in the scene. High over the cemetery, Paul saw what appeared to be wisps of darkness, multiple figures of varying sizes with fiery orange eyes, pitch black skin and huge hands with enormously long fingers. They seemed to be gathering together in deference to one who held a pen and book. They were laughing and celebrating, although he heard no sound. The largest one handed something that looked like papers to smaller ones who immediately departed in different directions as if being sent on separate missions, each with a definite purpose.

      Turning away in horror, he looked back at those standing in the crowd before the coffin. For a moment, it was as if he had been removed from the cemetery, suspended above, and was looking down up on the scene. He saw large dark beings standing behind most of the people in the crowd. Their great hands rested on the heads of the people, their long fingers seemingly piercing the skulls as if they were cradling their brains. The eyes of each one of the people they touched were crusted over and the palms of their great hands covered the ears, yet the people seemed not to notice the presence of the wisps or the limits and control being exercised over what they could see or hear.³

      Suddenly Paul saw a pair of great yellow hands reaching toward his head and his eyes began to itch. Screaming in terror, he awoke. And then the Curtain closed.

       A City Under Siege

      Fear is real – conscious – cutting like a knife. It is an ever-present force paralyzing its victims, and all those now living in Williams were victims. For 128 days they had lived with a reign of terror that began with the shooting of John Sample as he sought to fill his car with gas at the Chevron on 6^th and Main. The latest was last Thursday when Taylor Jones was killed as he walked from the parking garage to his office on the other side of town. Paul had attended the funeral, but it was only later that more of what had occurred there began to be revealed to him, and him alone, through a disquieting dream.

      For over four months the city had been under furtive attack. Thirty-eight people had been killed or wounded, ranging from a five-year-old in a preschool playground to a senior citizen in a church parking lot. What made the situation so frightening was the absence of any clear pattern, just death or injury randomly inflicted by an unknown assailant or assailants, whenever and wherever they chose. Sometimes it was only one victim, sometimes more, and thankfully, on occasion, the shooter missed. To date, people had been shot at near schools, churches, homes, parks, banks, gas stations, and grocery stores. Shots had been fired at people driving their cars, walking, running, bike riding or simply sitting outside in a park. No place or activity seemed safe in Williams.

      Fear was beginning to take its toll. People were now openly contemplating leaving the city. Among those who remained, there was a developing bunker mentality. Outside activities of any nature were minimized. Businesses were hurting as both customers and employees increasingly stayed away from any public place. Some parents were now keeping their children home from school.

      The only businesses that were not suffering were those that sold firearms. The level of anger and outrage was rising. There had already been shootings of innocents as frightened residents fired at sounds in the night or early morning. The situation was getting out of hand. Something had to change – fast. The violence had to end, and the people had to believe they were safe.

      Headquartered in room 107 at 1632 Washington Avenue was a group of four men and one woman who were charged with this task. There, throughout the ordeal, they had pored over files, notes, interviews, pictures and forensic evidence looking for anything which would provide a clue that could lead to the capture of the snipers and end their reign of terror. They had used computer models and experts, other law enforcement agencies, and even mediums, all to no avail. They had sought national help including requests for the use of spy satellite imagery and photographs to help find the sniper or his means of transportation after an attack. They had sought security camera videos following attacks seeking to identify anything that would lead to the sniper. It was almost as if a phantom force motivated, protected and controlled this human killing machine, inflicted for some unknown reason on this small Midwest American college town.

      The appointed team leader was Detective Pete Samson, an organization man. He left no stone unturned, using task forces and division of labor to cover all the bases. It sounded trite, but it worked by forcing accountability on each member of the team who had a single responsibility, leaving him in control, able to look at the big picture and plan, rather than simply react to the shooter’s next move.

      “Listen up. I just got back from a meeting with the mayor, and we have to change our focus. This thing has gotten crazy. The governor is threatening to call up the National Guard for additional manpower and institute a curfew. We are going to lose control of this investigation if we cannot find the sniper quickly or calm the public and buy some time. The politicians seem to be more concerned about their survival in office than they are about dead people in the streets. We have become the target. Expect more public criticism. It’s coming. They are looking for someone to blame and that someone is us!”

      “Whatever happened to a simple police investigation?” Troy Dallas asked in frustration and disgust.

      “There is nothing simple about this investigation,” answered Inspector Todd Wilson, the old man on the team. “We’ve followed procedure and worked through all the logical means to identify the killer, and we are no closer today than when we began. People are afraid with good reason. This sniper seems to kill simply for the pleasure of killing. He doesn’t care who he kills. How can we stop someone like that? He’s inhumane. He kills indiscriminately. He even targets children. What kind of monster does that?”

      The marker board was out, and Officer Sally Johnson wrote two words in capital letters – WHAT NEXT. “Enough already,” she said. “Let’s go to work and stop this killer.”

      Located less than a half a mile from room 107, the shooter was considering how to proceed and how she wanted this all to end. She felt safe, protected and concealed in her garage apartment close to the campus. The key for her was the garage. It provided a place where she could do in secret everything

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