The Tiger Always Eats Last

By Joel Mark Harris

It’s just another day for John Webster, a reporter for the Daily Globe, when disaster strikes from out of nowhere. A sniper kills a prominent figure at a news conference and all hell breaks loose. With very few clues, the police are stumped. They have never seen anything like it before. A perfect headshot from over a 1,000 meters away.

John is one of the few people around who has experience dealing with snipers. In Iraq and Afghanistan he saw a lot of good people die and he understands how terrifying a trained killer can be.

At first Detective Cherie Killian, John Webster’s girlfriend, wants to keep John far away from the investigation. But as the sniper keeps terrorizing people, she has no choice to entrust John and enlists his help.

However working together is difficult and soon it tears at the fabric of their relationship. John may have to choose between stopping a murderous psychopath and the chance to reset his life and settle down.

As they investigate, they go down the list of military-trained sharp shooters. But very soon Cherie Killian and John Webster exhaust all possibilities without anything to show for it.  It seems the sniper can kill without consequence.

When the sniper slaughters an entire family, however, the full brunt of the police force goes against him but he seems to be able to disappear into the shadows at will. No security cameras can pick him up; no witnesses live to tell their story.

But little do they know that the killings are anything but random. In fact, they are deeply personal and the only person who can stop the killer is John Webster. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joel Mark Harris
• Release date: Dec 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519927217

Joel Mark Harris

Joel Mark Harris graduated from the Langara Journalism School in 2007. He is an award-winning journalist, novelist, screenwriter, and producer. His first novel, A Thousand Bayonets, won an Editor’s Choice Award and the Pinnacle Achievement Award for Best Thriller. His feature-length film Neutral Territory won ten awards. He lives in Vancouver. 

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COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or personas, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 JMH Enterprises

www.joelmarkharris.com

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13:978-1519724748 

ISBN-10:1519724748 

Cover and logo design by Amy Chae

CRITICAL PRAISE FOR JOEL MARK HARRIS

Praise for A Thousand Bayonets

Gritty, hard-hitting action that grabs you and won’t let go.

-Topbookreviews.com

Praise for Shame The Devil

Has everything you could ask for in a mystery novel

-Genius Book Review

Full of twists and turns to find the wrong-doers who will elude you to the very end

-Best Chaplit

Joel Mark Harris does not fail to deliver! Make sure you have time to spare because you won’t want to put this one down.

-Allison Cosgrove, author

For more on Joel Mark Harris go to www.joelmarkharris.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my family for always being supportive and understanding, especially my sister Stephanie Harris for reading early versions of the manuscript and offering suggestions. Also fellow writer Fiona Quinn helped me with some of the technical aspects for this novel.

Many thanks to my editor Lacie Redding of Pelican Proofing for her hard work and dedication to the book.

Lastly, my girlfriend, Shiva Kashi, and her family for always cheering me on and being amazing fans of my work. She keeps me grounded.

LOGO

THE TIGER ALWAYS EATS LAST

Wooing the press is roughly akin to picnicking with a tiger. You may enjoy the meal, but the tiger always eats last.

-Maureen Dowd

DEATH COMES

WE ALL DIE, one way or the other. Sometimes it is so quick, we don’t realize what happened. A snap of the fingers. A tick of the clock. And sometimes we feel it will never come, like a neglectful parent.

John Webster, a veteran journalist for the Daily Globe, had been shot twice; both times he had thought he was going to die, but somehow he had survived. He had been prepared but his body wouldn’t give up even when his mind had tried to sleep.

He had seen the men in front of him with guns pointing. It had all seem so slow, the hammer fall, the sparks ignition and the ripple of the shockwave.

John shouldn’t have been surprised when death came so quickly and spontaneously that rainy afternoon. But he was.

John was waiting underneath covered asphalt, watching the rain come down, hearing it hit the cerement in some singsong pattern.

They were waiting for Finnish hockey player, Hans Filmonsen to come out and talk to reporters as he had promised in the morning practice skate. Until about two weeks ago, Filmonsen was the highest scoring defenceman in the league. His skating drew comparisons to Paul Coffey, the defenceman who played for the Edmonton Oilers back in their heyday.

John never watched sports so he could only go by what others told him about how beautiful it was to watch Filmonsen skate and how he could make it look so easy.

But the security had been beefed up since it had been leaked that Filmonsen was under investigation for tax fraud. According to the government, he had underreported about two million.

John took a sip of his coffee and waited. Growing up in Vancouver, he loved the rain. It reminded him that he wasn’t in the blood-red sun of Afghanistan or Iraq. That there were no Taliban or Al Qaeda waiting for him.

John took another sip of coffee and looked around at the other reporters who were shifting anxiously on their feet or signing heavily. John was used to long stakeouts. They didn’t bother him.

The reporter beside John turned to him and said something about baseball.

What? he asked distractedly.

You play? he asked. His named was Mike Bowman and he was from one of the local television stations.

John didn’t answer him; instead he peered out at the gloomy rain. It was a dark mid-October and the sky had already turned black, the sun long since retired. The rain had relentlessly been pouring all day.

My father taught me to play when I was a kid, Bowman continued. We used to toss the ball around.

John looked over at Bowman. Why are we talking about this?

Bowman shrugged and lit a cigarette. It flickered and wavered in the dark air. You have any enlightening topics of conversation?

John wanted to tell Bowman just to be quiet but instead he shared, My father never played sports. He was a theater critic for the London Times.

How about cricket? Heard that’s a popular sport over there.

John decided if he looked away, Mike Bowman might just try to talk to someone else. Pick an easier target. John didn’t like thinking about his father even on bright, sunny days and on the rainy days it was even worse.

John Webster Senior had tried teaching John about classical literature, art and culture – in vain as it mostly turned out. John didn’t know much about those subjects and he wondered how much of it was just to spite his father who had died long ago.

You have any kids? Bowman asked.

John glared back at Bowman. Why?

Bowman smiled. I have two boys. Both are going to be great athletes. Professional caliber. I can tell. Whatever sport I play with them, I tell you, they are serious competitors.

John didn’t respond and thankfully Bowman seemed to take the hint and lapse into silence as well.

A couple of minutes later, Hans Filmonsen exited out a side door. He was wearing a leather jacket, jeans and was carrying an umbrella. Beside him in a blue suit was Filmonsen’s manager, a man originally from Italy named Edilio Boni. He seemed the perfect foil for Filmonsen.

Where Filmonsen was young and handsome, Boni was middle aged and bald except for a crown of closely cropped white hair. Filmonsen was fit with broad shoulders, massive arms and legs; Boni was pudgy and round.

Boni nodded to Filmonsen and guided him over to the reporters. The reporters were reluctant to get wet and several of them had expensive camera equipment so they stayed where it was dry underneath the asphalt.

Filmonsen and Boni looked both ways before crossing the street. The patch of street curved around the stadium and could be easily taken too fast. John knew it was a favourite for drag racers and Formula 1 used to use it as a racetrack back when they came to town.

The manager and the hockey player stepped out onto the road but they never made it to the other side.

Filmonsen’s head snapped back and a puff of red matter appeared in the air. His body crumpled to the ground. The umbrella he was holding seemed to be suspended in midair for a moment, almost surreally, and then floated daintily to the ground.

Boni took a step forward unaware of what had happened. He then stopped, stunned and looked back at Filmonsen as a large pool of blood started to form.

The journalists stood there stunned for a moment before reacting. Some started to film, others ran, some just stood there in shock.

John crouched low and looked for the gunner. Judging by the angle Filmonsen had fallen, the gunner was amidst the crowd of journalists. But John hadn’t heard a shot or seen a muzzle flash. He glanced around the nooks and alleyways for the gunner, but by then everyone was in a mass of chaos and confusion and he couldn’t make out anything clearly.

John ran over to Boni who was still staring down at Filmonsen. Large raindrops fell and John was quickly soaked. A car came from around the corner and had to brake hard and skidded on the sleek pavement, hitting the curb with a load crunch of metal on cement.

Boni blinked and looked at John and said something quickly in Italian.

What?

Boni shook his head, his eyes narrowed. Then in heavily accented English he asked, What the hell happened?

John stared down at Filmonsen. He had hoped to find an entry wound but Filmonsen’s head was completely destroyed in greyish-pink matter. It was impossible to see where the bullet had entered but judging by the damage, it looked like the bullet had completely passed through his head.

John knew this meant the shot hadn’t been taken by any ordinary gun, most likely a high powered rifle or a machine gun set on single shot.

John shook his head, trying to make sense of it all.

Was this over the tax fraud? Or was Filmonsen into something deeper? This was a professional hit, which probably meant organized gang.

Against his better judgement, John crouched to study the body closer. He had been a war correspondent for most of his life so dead bodies didn’t faze him as much as they did most people. Even so the stench of Filmonsen’s body invaded his nostrils.

John looked up at Boni. We have to get out of here, he instructed.

If this was some random shooting then the gunman would have kept shooting and more people would have been dead. The gunman was probably long gone by now, but still John didn’t want to take any chances.

Boni nodded, seemingly jolting out of his daze and started to run back towards the stadium. John thought about following him but he would have to get back to the office and file the story. The newspaper would want it up on their website as soon as possible.

The man who had hit the curb, got out of his car and looked at John in a daze.

What the hell happened? he demanded.

Just get back into your car and stay put.

The man looked down at Filmonsen as if just noticing the dead body for the first time and then rushed to get back into his car.

John heard the sound of sirens and knew the police would soon be there to rope off the street. They would want to talk to all the witnesses and John would be stuck there. He knew he couldn’t afford to wait around.

He took off running and didn’t stop until he got to his car.

SHAKESPEARE

DETECTIVE CHERIE KILLIAN felt like she was back in high school. She looked around the classroom with the bright chalk scribbled across the blackboard and the tiny desks with graffiti scrawled across them.

She turned when the door opened and faced a woman in her mid-fifties with straw-like blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She smiled at Cherie and motioned for her to take a seat at her desk.

It’s okay, I’ll stand, Cherie insisted.

The teacher kept smiling and unlocked her bottom draw and pulled out a blue file folder. It was thin and ordinary.

What is this? Cherie questioned.

This is Samantha’s project for Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Cherie opened the folder and saw crudely drawn stick figures. There were two men and two women naked. The two men seemed to have blood dripping from their heads.

Cherie stared at the drawings for a while, unable to speak.

She showed this to some of her classmates and obviously they were very disturbed. We have had complaints from their parents. They want her expelled.

Cherie finally looked up at the teacher. She was still smiling which made Cherie want to punch her teeth in but instead she sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. Time to be diplomatic, she thought. What should I do?

Finally the teacher’s smile wavered. Maybe you should consider counselling? I know your situation . . . is difficult. You work long hours in a very stressful job. Perhaps some expert advice would be helpful.

Cherie fought the urge to defend Sam, to say it was just a drawing. It didn’t mean anything. But instinctively she knew that was the wrong tactic to use against the teacher.

Will she be expelled? she asked.

Well . . . it all depends on whether her behaviour will improve, the teacher bargained. Forgive me . . .but is there anything at home that would prompt this?"

Cherie could think of several things but she wasn’t about to tell Sam’s teacher. Cherie had started dating again and Sam was having a difficult time with it. She, like all kids, wanted her parents to get back together, but that was never going to happen.

Cherie was the first to admit that she wasn’t the most diligent parent but Sam’s father had spilt long ago and her own parents had both died of cancer just after Sam was born. Cherie had been an only child and didn’t have much family support.

I don’t know, nothing recently, Cherie said.

But there have been incidents in the past? Traumatic incidents? the teacher asked.

Cherie shrugged, trying to stay calm. Sure, she certainly has had a tough childhood, but I can’t do anything about that crap now.

The teacher’s jaw twitched and Cherie knew she had made a huge tactical mistake. Don’t lose your shit now, Cherie warned herself. Sam’’s teacher probably already thought she was a terrible person and swearing in front of her probably only exasperated the problem.

Sorry—it’s the job, Cherie explained.

The teacher’s face didn’t change. She just sat there staring at Cherie.

Cherie shrugged again. Look, I’ll take her to counselling . . . I’ll try to talk to her, but you know what it’s like with teenagers.

The teacher didn’t get a chance to respond because Cherie’s phone rang. Cherie cringed. That was strike number two, Cherie thought.

Do you mind? It must be work, Cherie said.

For a moment Cherie thought the teacher was about to scold her like she was a schoolgirl but instead she just nodded.

Cherie took her phone out of her pocket. Killian, she answered.

You won’t fucking believe this, her partner, Crystal Pack, said on the other end.

Cherie hopped the teacher couldn’t hear Crystal on the other end. Cherie got up and walked to the end of the classroom.

What happened?

You know the hockey player, Hans Filmonsen?

Of course.

He was killed about ten minutes ago.

Shit. Where?

Just outside of the stadium.

It was Cherie’s day off and she wondered why her partner was calling her. The only reason could be the brass wanted her on the case and just for that reason, Cherie was tempted to tell Crystal to pass it onto somebody else. If the brass wanted her and Crystal it wasn’t because they were better than whoever had been on duty, it was because they needed the PR or some other bullshit political reason. They needed the only female partners to spin this.

This is high profile, Crystal said, as if reading Cherie’s mind. It could be big.

Crystal was much more ambitious than Cherie and wanted to move into management one day. Cherie was happy solving crimes and didn’t want to crunch numbers and think about budgets, but she also couldn’t be the reason Crystal never made it to the top. Okay, meet you there."

Cherie put her phone away and turned to the teacher. Sorry, I have to go. I’ll talk to the therapist and let you know how it goes.

The teacher smiled again. Great. Please do that as soon as possible. Samantha’s future could very well be at stake here.

I understand. Thanks for taking the time to talk with me.

Cherie walked quickly back to her car, an old Ford Focus. She flicked the sirens on and raced down Broadway and then over the Burrard Bridge. Her thoughts drifted from Samantha to Hans Filmonsen and then back to Samantha.

Sam needed something, but Cherie didn’t think therapy was it. Maybe she just needed her mother around more.

Cherie made it to the stadium in fifteen minutes.

She saw Crystal talking to a uniformed officer by the police line. The rain was still coming down heavily but Crystal didn’t seem to even feel it. Crystal was in her mid-forties, almost five years older than Cherie, a very good detective and very driven. She probably could have made lieutenant if it wasn’t for the sexism that still presided in the department. Crystal and Cherie had endured much taunting as partners. The other police officers had nicknamed them the ‘Double C’ and had stuck pictures of Victoria Secret models on their lockers. Cherie had pointed out to the idiots that there wasn’t even such a thing as a Double C bra size but the name stuck nevertheless.

Cherie hunched over her shoulders and brought an umbrella over to Crystal.

What happened?

Crystal gave a huge sigh. Not sure. None of the witnesses have been helpful. Filmonsen was killed by a single gunshot to the head. CSI is just looking at the body as we speak. The running theory was it was taken from a good distance. Whoever killed him is an excellent shot.

Professional then?

Almost certainly, Crystal replied.

Cherie stared off past the police line. She couldn’t see anything in the darkness and rain. The gunman must have been good, whoever he was.

You think this has to do with the tax evasion?

Crystal nodded. He obviously pissed off the wrong people. Perhaps someone was scared of what would come to light.

Cherie and Crystal ducked under the yellow tape and walked over to the body. A dozen forensic experts were working hard on the body and surrounding area.

Cherie knew with the rain CSI had to work fast in order to collect evidence, otherwise it would be washed away.

A middle-aged man with glasses stood up and nodded towards the two detectives. Cherie recognized him and knew he was one of the most experienced investigators in the department. His name was Martin. His hair was slicked back from the rain.

What do you have so far? Crystal asked.

The slug is a .50 caliber, it passed right through the vic and lodged into the sidewalk below. This would indicate that the killer shot from a steep angle, probably at least four stories high.

So are you saying this was some sort of sniper shot? Cherie said.

Martin shrugged. It would appear so and a highly experienced one, judging by the weather conditions. I would say military trained.

Cherie looked from Martin to Crystal. Her face was hard to read.

Well, that narrows down the list of suspects, Crystal said.

Cherie looked down at the umbrella that was next to the body. Blood splatter was all over the inside but the outside seemed undamaged.

Was the vic holding the umbrella? Cherie asked.

Crystal nodded.

So we have a sniper looking down at the vic here. Wouldn’t he just see the top of the umbrella? How did he manage to know who he was shooting?

Witnesses said he was resting the umbrella on his shoulder, therefore tilting the angle back, giving the shooter a clear shot, Crystal explained.

Very unfortunate for him.

I would say so, yes.

BLOOD

JOHN TRIED TO park the car in the underground parking lot but found his hands were shaking too badly. He clutched his hands together into fists and then tucked them under his armpits but nothing stopped them from shaking. His phone started to ring but he ignored it. Most likely it was one of his editors wondering where he was.

He looked around the lot. It was almost completely full and the spots that were left were tight and he didn’t think he would be able navigate them with his hands shaking so badly. He eventually just pulled up into the handicapped spot and got out.

If they want to tow me then let them, he thought.

He got out and pressed the elevator button and waited an agonizing several minutes for the elevator to descend. The blood rushed from his brain down his body and he felt lightheaded.

Finally the doors chimed open and he got in. He pressed the button to go to the top floor where the Daily Globe had its newsroom.

As he waited for the elevator to take him to his destination he did a mental check of himself, managing to calm himself down.

He replayed the incident in his mind. Hans Filmonsen’s head snapping back, a puff of blood, like a puff of smoke from a cigar. Then his body falling and John staring down at the body. He had not seen a gunman, heard a gunshot or seen a muzzle flash.

John had seen people die like that before in Afghanistan and Iraq. He had been wrong about the shooter being amidst the journalists. The shooter had been far away. A sniper. It was the only logical explanation.

But why would a sniper take out Filmonsen? And who had the expertise to make a kill shot through the rain and darkness?

The elevator door opened to the newsroom before John could find any answers to his questions. He supposed it would be a while before he had an answer of any kind.

John smiled at the receptionist, a lovely woman named Elise.

Elise muttered an agreement in return but then looked down at the carpet.

John, you’re tracking something in.

John looked down confused and noticed his right toe had something red on it. It didn’t compute at first but then John realized that it must be blood from Filmonsen. He had inadvertently stepped in his pool of blood. John looked behind him and realized he was also leaving bloody footprints behind.

John looked up at Elise and stuffed his hands in his pocket so she wouldn’t see them shaking.

John forced a smile on his face. I must have stepped in some paint. I’ll go wash it off.

John walked quickly to the washroom. The calmness from the elevator was gone and he felt himself on the verge of hyperventilating. Had he been in shock that whole time?

John pushed the door open, it seemed extremely heavy, and headed for the sink. He turned on the tap and splashed himself with cool water. He then looked up at himself in the mirror. His face had drained of all colour.

John unlaced his shoe and stuck it underneath the water. He started to scrub the blood with his fingers but it only spread across the leather. John grabbed some toilet paper and started to soak the blood up. That worked better.

The door opened and John turned to see Elizabeth Cochrane enter. She was in her early thirties and had long blonde hair and pale skin to match. She was mainly responsible for the paper’s online presence.

What the hell are you doing? she demanded.

What are you doing in the men’s bathroom?

Elise called me. Said you were acting weirder than usual.

Does anybody have any real work to do around here?

She was concerned, Liz said. She shuffled around so she could look over John’s shoulder. John tucked his shoe close to his body but he couldn’’t hide the blood that was in the sink.

Jesus, John. Is that your blood? Are you okay?

Yeah, I’m fine. It’s from Hans Filmonsen.

The hockey player? What the fuck happened to him?

Shot in the head by a sniper.

Michael Chu, a financial reporter, walked in, stopping suddenly when he saw John and Liz. John had worked with Michael on a previous story but they had never really warmed to each other.

Get out, Liz ordered.

But I need to use the bathroom.

Liz gave an exasperated sigh. Hold it for five minutes, for Christ’s sakes.

Michael looked over at John and then back at Liz before backing out.

Liz turned to John. How long ago was this?

I don’t know—perhaps twenty or thirty minutes ago.

Liz pulled out her phone and started typing.

What are you doing?

Tweeting it out, of course. It’s probably all over Facebook already.

Liz finished and then put her phone back into her pocket. She looked up at John. Don’t look at me like that. It’s our job."

John spread out his hands. I wasn’t saying anything.

I know that look, Liz said. She stared down at John’s shoe still in his hand. You want to go home and change?

No, I’ll be alright.

John didn’t want to put the wet, blood-stained shoe back on so he took off the other one off and walked across to the door.

That’s disgusting, Liz said.

As disgusting as wearing a shoe covered with someone else’s blood?

Liz shrugged as if to say, ‘you have a point’.

John went to his desk and sat down. He felt restless as soon as he stared at his computer. He felt his hands start to shake again and he clasped them together.

You’re not okay, Liz observed.

Don’t worry about me.

I can’t help it. You’re the only goddamn thing I care about in this shitty place.

If you don’t like it, you can just leave, John snapped.

Liz shrugged and walked back her desk. John made sure she sat down at her computer and wasn’t paying any attention to him before he focused on his computer screen. He stretched his fingers out over the keyboard but he found his hands were shaking too badly to type.

This had never happened before, even during the darkest days of Iraq when he saw at least a dozen dead bodies a day. He had always been able to type.

What is going on? John wondered.

John took a flask out from the bottom draw of his desk and took a long sip. Usually this helped him. He emptied the bottle but he just couldn’t stop shaking.

He concentrated on his fingertips. His sensation seemed fine, only he couldn’t control the shaking. He lowered his hands and tried to type but only gibberish appeared on his screen.

John quickly hit the delete button. Just in time as it turned out because he heard soft footsteps on the carpeted floor.

I’ll be fine, I just need to let the alcohol settle in, he thought.

John turned to see the city editor, Robert Smyllie scowling down at him.

The running joke in the newsroom was that Smyllie came from a family of happy, go-lucky Scotsmen but Robert Smyllie was dropped on his head as a baby and had been angry about it ever since.

If John didn’t know better, he would have thought Smyllie a former army coronel the way he strutted down and barked orders at people. His white hair was cropped in a military-style buzz cut, his face was red and his cheeks flush.

Webster, why haven’t I heard from you?

John told Smyllie what had occurred.

That’s fucking awful, Smyllie said. Then without missing a beat he said, I want it on paper in ten minutes. You understand?

Yes, sir.

John watched Smyllie walk back to his office, making sure he was unobserved before turning back to his computer.

He felt sweat appear on his temple as he tried in vain to type the story up again. After a couple of minutes he got up and went over to Liz.

You’ve come here to apologize?

You take the story.

What’s wrong?

John shrugged. Nothing. I need to go talk to the family. You do the writing. Your byline and everything.

I’m not one to kick a gift horse in the fucking mouth but you’re lying to me, Webster.

I told you I need to go talk to the family before it becomes a gong show there.

Liz opened her mouth to speak but John interrupted her before she could say anything.

Give it to Smyllie as soon as possible, John advised. He’s expecting it.

Okay, Liz said, turning to her desk. What should I write?

John told Liz everything he had witnessed.

Phone me if you have any more questions, John said. I have to get going.

John went over to the sports writers and got the home address for Filmonsen. Han’s wife was named Marinette. John searched her online and found her and Hans had been high school sweethearts. Both had been nineteen when they married. Her mother was Swedish but had lived most of her life in Denmark.

John took the elevator back down to the parking lot. If anybody knew what had gotten Filmonsen killed it would be Marinette.

As he approached his car, a parking attendant was writing out a ticket.

Handicapped zone, the attendant explained, needlessly.

John took the ticket and put it in his pocket. He didn’t have time to argue. He got into his car and drove out.

His phone rang. It was Liz with a few more questions; John answered her as best as he could.

You think it was a sniper rifle?

I’m positive, John said. The impact was from a .50 caliber. Nothing else makes that much damage.

Liz thanked John and hung up.

Filmonsen lived with his wife and two daughters on a mansion on Point Grey Road, which sat on the waterfront.

John pressed down on the gas, weaving in and out of the downtown traffic then over the Burrard Bridge and then turning right. The city had blocked off most of Point Grey Road, permitting only local traffic and bikers to use it so John had to go down a