Crawford shouted, “Texas Ranger Hunt! Chet’s down.”
“Oh, Crawford, jeez. What happened?”
Civilians were beginning to crowd in behind the nervous bailiff. “Get those people to take cover. Notify officers downstairs that we have a shooter. He’s masked, dressed in white from head to toe. Tell them not to mistake me for him.”
By now he’d made it to the side exit through which the gunman had disappeared. He opened the door a crack and when nothing happened, banged it open and lunged through, sweeping the pistol from side to side. The long, narrow corridor was empty save for a woman standing in the open doorway of an office, her mouth agape, a hand to her throat.
“Go back into your office.”
“What’s happening? Who was that painter?”
“Which way did he go?”
She pointed toward the door to the fire stairs. When Crawford came even with her, he pushed her inside the office and pulled the door closed. “Lock it,” he said through the door. “Get under your desk and don’t come out. Call 911. Tell them what you saw.”
He jogged down the hall toward the fire stairs.
A man from another office poked his head out into the hallway, saw Crawford, and his eyes went wide with fear. “Please, I—”
“Listen.” Wasting no time on an explanation, Crawford gave him terse instructions about taking cover and staying there until given the all-clear. The man ducked back into his office and slammed the door.
Crawford slowed down as he approached the door to the fire stairs, closing the remainder of the distance with caution. He took a quick peek through the square, wired window in the top third of the door. Seeing nothing through the glass, he cautiously pulled the door open and, with his gun hand extended, made a wide sweep of the stairs above and below him. Nothing happened.
He entered the stairwell, where he paused, waiting for a sound or a motion that would give away which direction the shooter had gone. Then, from behind him—
He spun around as a deputy sheriff stepped through the corridor door. They recognized each other, which was fortunate because their weapons were aimed at each other’s heads. The deputy was about to speak when Crawford placed his index finger against his lips.
The deputy, nodding understanding, motioned that he would go down, Crawford up. Careful, Crawford mouthed.
Keeping close to the wall, Crawford crept up the stairs to the next landing. He opened the door onto a corridor exactly matching the one on the floor below. Aggregate flooring, walls painted government-building beige. Here and there hung a framed portrait of a dour, bygone official. Doors to various offices lined both sides of the hall.
About midway down, two men and a woman were conferring quietly, their aspects fearful. One of the men, seeing that Crawford was armed, raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m a Texas Ranger,” Crawford whispered. “Did you see a person dressed all in white?” Remembering how the first woman had described the shooter, he added, “A painter?”
They shook their heads.
“Lock yourselves in an office. Stay clear of the door and don’t open it to anyone except police.”
Crawford slipped back into the stairwell. He heard footsteps coming up from below and figured the deputy sheriff had picked up a few reinforcements on their climb up from the first floor of the building where the Prentiss County Sheriff’s Office was located. Obviously they hadn’t encountered the shooter going down the stairs. If they had, there would have been considerably more noise, likely gunshots, echoing in the stairwell.
Crawford continued up. When he reached the sixth-floor landing, he stepped to the door and looked both ways through the window into the corridor. Another group of courthouse personnel was huddled together, looking frightened, but not hysterical, which they would have been had the masked gunman just raced past them.
He cracked the door and, staving off their questions about the gunshots they’d heard, identified himself and whispered instructions about taking cover, which they were quick to act on. He eased back into the stairwell and proceeded up to the next landing, which was only half a flight. It ended at the door that opened onto the roof.
In the corner adjacent to the door lay a pair of white coveralls, white cap, a pair of latex gloves, and shoe covers. Probably beneath the heap he’d find the mask, but he didn’t touch anything.
Noticeably missing from the pile of castoff items was the gunman’s pistol.