I turn to the detective, who’s wearing a badly fitting suit that stretches across some fairly impressive biceps. His badge, which is hanging crooked on a lanyard around his neck, identifies him as Detective B. Hitchens.
“Sir, I have credible evidence?—”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time. What evidence? Where?”
I hesitate. I have what he’s asking for, but it’s on my smartphone, not the burner in my hand. The noise of the crowd surges and…dammit.
I surreptitiously put away my burner, take out my real phone, pull up the Hell_AI app, and then navigate to the chat before shoving the screen under his nose.
“What am I looking at?”
I scroll up to seedyarmedandready bragging about picking up the gun from a group that I suspect is a dwindling local white pride chapter, then back down to the chat that’s already fourteen minutes old.
“This guy has the means and motivation to hurt a lot of people, and he’s in the middle of carrying it out right now.”
“Do I wanna know how you put all of this together, or why you didn’t contact authorities with your concerns?”
“As I told the officer, I volunteer with a group that monitors several gun and ammo chat groups for this exact reason, and you just interrupted me trying to convince this officer that there’s a problem. Also, I’m on hold with 9-1-1.”
Hitchens wiggles my phone. “You’re not on a call right now.”
I sigh and pull the burner from my pocket.
His eyes narrow. “Got it.” Tightening his jaw, he asks, “What does the target look like?”
“He’s described himself as male, mid-thirties.” I take my phone back from him. “I’ll have the specifics momentarily.”
“Exactly how do you intend to get those details?”
I press my lips together.
Detective Hitchens takes a different tack. “Where do you think he’s going?”
“I dunno, wherever he can cause the most damage.”
Hitchens rubs his forehead, racing thoughts practically visible on his forehead. Mentally, I go through each element of the Pecan Street Festival, though it’s been a hot minute since I’ve bothered to come to one of these. There’s shopping. There’s the food court, a distinct possibility since it’s dinnertime. What else is there?
Just as I ask myself that question, someone begins tuning their guitar over a loudspeaker. Hitchens and I stare at each other.
“Shit,” we curse, pretty much simultaneously.
The place we need to be is over the bridge and six city blocks up a deceptively steep incline, so we jump over the barricade and start running across the bridge.
“Hey!” shouts the uniformed officer. “Where are y’all going?”
“The concert: Congress and 6th!” Hitchens yells over his shoulder.
Running flat out, Hitchens grabs something from his front pocket and shoves it in his ears. “BOLO. Possible active shooter in the vicinity of the concert. Male, mid-thirties. Description inbound.”
Rising above the surrounding buildings, a few blocks to the east, is the Martinez Building, where Rami lives. Before I can wonder too much about whether or not he’s okay, my WhiteHat app goes off.
Setting aside the tiny flare of guilt, I pull up the chat while still running, grateful I’ve kept up with my cardio.
gandalfsgoodboy: seedyarmedandready is Seaward Dennis, 17-year-old male, senior at Austin High School. Varsity quarterback.
The picture he sends over is of Dennis in his football uniform, looking sunny and youthful.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s, what, a couple of weeks out from graduation? Why would he go and ruin his life like this?
