The Divide

by J. L. Brown

  “Pardon me?”

  “Income redistribution. I don’t believe in it, and it would be political suicide for me. I’d rather give people opportunity. Give them a fair shake.”

  Jo straightened her back. “Which ‘people’ are you talking about?”

  “All the people who need it. Shoot, Jo, you know I don’t care what color you are or whom you pray to.”

  To Mo, Whitney said, “Opportunity. I’ve heard that before—more succinctly, by the way—from Senator Hampton.”

  Mo laughed. “Unlike my esteemed colleague from the Commonwealth of Virginia, I can find my backbone on an anatomical chart.”

  “Hampton is weak,” Jo agreed.

  “I believe in creating opportunities for everyone,” Mo said, glancing at Jo, “especially those who’ve been left behind by technology or trade. We’ve been dealing with these issues in Mississippi for a long time.”

  “Same with California,” Jo said.

  “If you don’t like my proposal,” said Whitney, “do you have something better?”

  “Instead of free college and all that give-the-store-away foolishness, how about a national apprentice program? There are more jobs than available workers. Jobs that don’t require a college degree. Employers want workers with experience. We can give it to them.”

  Whitney said, “I can support that.”

  “Me too,” said Jo.

  “What about providing capital to encourage the creation of small businesses?”

  “We tried that with New New,” Whitney reminded her.

  “But that was the part of your legislation that I liked. That most of my party liked, before some of them lost their godforsaken minds. Some of my colleagues aren’t for anything anymore. They just want to stop progress. Let’s keep that part in.”

  “And increase the federal minimum wage,” said Jo.

  “To a living wage,” Whitney agreed.

  “We need to take care of our workers,” Jo said. “Notably, workers of color.”

  Mo shook her head. “No can do. You start fiddling with the market, it gets all messed up.”

  There was a difference between compromising and, as Mo said, giving away the store. Increasing the minimum wage was important to Whitney’s base. She wouldn’t forget the people who had voted her into this office.

  “What would you suggest?” Whitney asked.

  Mo stared at her thoughtfully. “Do you mind if we liven things up in here?”

  “In what way?”

  The senator reached for her purse, perched next to the lamp on the round end table, and pulled out a flask covered in glitz and sparkle.

  She held it up. “I always carry.”

  “I heard that about you people,” Jo kidded.

  Mo poured a small amount of the liquid into her tea. She held out the flask to Whitney.

  “I’m too old to be drinking out of a flask,” Whitney said to the older woman.

  “Suit yourself,” said fifty-five-year-old Jo, extending her cup. Mo poured a drop. Jo continued to hold out her cup.

  “You don’t need much,” Mo said. “Trust me.”

  Jo took a sip and swallowed. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. “She speaks the truth.”

  Whitney proffered her own cup. “I guess this is our version of breaking bread.”

  After Mo poured a drop for Whitney, the three women clinked cups.

  “Cheers,” they said.

  Whitney took a sip and coughed from the strong, bitter taste.

  “What is this?” asked Whitney, still coughing.

  “A little Mississippi moonshine.”

  “Is it legal?”

  Mo winked. “Depends on which state you’re in.”

  “Since we’re not in a state,” Whitney said, “we should be all right. Now, what were you suggesting before we… livened things up?”

  Mo’s response was measured. “I could tolerate regional minimum wage increases tied to the standard of living.” She waved her hand. “We can let our staffs work out the nitty-gritty details.”

  “What do you think, Jo?” Whitney said.

  “I think we can make that work.”

  Whitney took another sip of her moonshine-laced tea, this time without coughing. “Let’s also help people save money so they’ll be able to retire.”

  “We can privatize retirement,” Mo said. “I could sell that to my colleagues.”

  “I’m sure you could,” said Jo, between sips of tea.

  Whitney waved her hand as if shooing a fly. “Now you’ve gone too far, Senator Mo. It won’t work. Even if it did, it wouldn’t work fast enough. What if we required employers to contribute a mandatory amount to retirement accounts? No matching required. That would go over well with the American people.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Jo said.

  Retrieving her flask, Mo poured more moonshine into her own cup. Jo held out hers for a refill. Whitney hesitated but did the same.

  “I can’t support that,” Mo said. “My people want less government intervention, not more.”

  “Even if it’s for their benefit?” Jo asked.

  “That’s a nonstarter, Madam President. Madam Vice President. Sorry.”

  Whitney gazed out the window at the West Colonnade, the West Wing, and beyond to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. The retirement savings of baby boomers and Generation Xers had been depleted or wiped out by the Great Recession. She considered their retirements an impending crisis. It was one of the many worries that kept her up at night.

  “I remember that time,” Mo said to Whitney, “when you filibustered the Protection of Rights for All Citizens bill. The longer you talked, the more Senator Hampton’s face scrunched up, as if he smelled something bad.”

  “I can top that,” Jo said. “I remember when you”—she pointed at Mo—“filibustered a bill by reading Gone with the Wind. All one thousand pages of it. Your accent made it seem twice as long.”

  “You’re not disparaging my floral ways, are you?” Mo said.

  The three women laughed.

  “Hampton was a young pup then,” Jo continued, “and he kept interrupting you. And you kept talking over him. I thought you all were on the same side.”

  “We may be in the same political party,” Mo said, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, “but that doesn’t mean we’re always on the same side.” She turned to Jo. “Veep, I remember when you were a guest with him on Meet the Press while trying to pass the ERA. You told him, ‘I’m a strong black woman, and I shall not be intimidated by anyone. Especially by a skinny, spineless little prick like you.’ The network didn’t beep you fast enough.”

  “I thought he was going to shit his pants,” Jo said.

  Mo fell against Jo with the weight of her laughter. Whitney bent over with hers.

  Finally, Jo eased Mo off her shoulder, her expression turned serious.

  “You’ll need to hit the road,” Jo said to Whitney. “Sell this thing.”

  “I can do that,” Whitney said.

  “I can too,” Mo said. “There’s only one problem remaining with our proposal.”

  “What’s that?” Whitney said.

  “There’s no bad guy. If we work together, no one can blame either party. People need someone to blame.”

  Whitney drained the remainder of her tea. “I’m sure we can find someone for them to hate, Mo and Jo, because… I’ve got my mojo!”

  The three women burst into hysterical laughter.

  “Wait! Wait!” Mo said. She held out her cup. “A toast! To the resignation of Senator Paul Sampson!”

  “Hear, hear!” said Whitney.

  “To one fewer old, out-of-touch white guy making decisions for the rest of us,” Jo said. She drank and reached for the flask on the table. “Still almost full. We’re going to need some more tea.”

  Whitney reached for the phone. “I can take care of that.”

  “Now this,” said Mo, spreading out her arms, “is a Tea Party.”

>   Chapter Thirty-Three

  Washington, DC

  Jade checked her watch with its slim black band before glancing back at The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, perfectly aligned with the right corner of her desk. She lifted the hefty tome and opened it where she’d placed the first blue sticky note.

  She checked the time again, then shut the book.

  After the third murder, the newly formed Shakespeare Killer task force moved to a major-case room. The team was meeting there now, which was why she remained in her office—to prevent herself from hijacking Dante’s meeting.

  For a long time, Zoe had been nagging her to meditate, instructing Jade to clear her mind and count her breaths: “one” on the inhale, “two” on the exhale.

  Jade closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. One. She needed to give Dante the space to do his job. Start over. One. She believed he could do it. One. She wondered what they were discussing. One. Had they thought about—

  She popped out of her chair and left her office.

  Jade stepped through the doorway into the crowded case room. Christian, Pat, Micah, and Max sat in chairs in the front row. Christian’s seat was turned around, his forearms on the top of the chair’s backrest. A score of other agents and representatives from other law enforcement jurisdictions were spread out behind them.

  Dante, positioned at the front of the room, said, “All the victims were between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five. Scofield, fifty-four. Carr, fifty-five. Hurley, thirty-five.”

  “The victims that we’re aware of,” said Pat. The clicking of her fingers on the keyboard was audible from the back of the room.

  “Right,” he said. “Pat, check out VICAP”—Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—“for cases with similar characteristics.”

  “Yes, boss,” she said, her fingers tapping furiously.

  He squinted at her, as if assessing whether she was making fun of him. After a moment, he seemed to conclude that she wasn’t. “No hair, fiber, or other trace evidence was found on any of the victims,” he said.

  “Were they acquainted with each other?” Micah said.

  Pat’s eyes stayed glued to her computer. “I’ll check that out too.”

  Glancing back down at his notes, where his index finger kept his place, Dante said, “Both males were married. Hurley, divorced. All three were white.” He spotted Jade at the back of the room. “Can I help you, boss?”

  Standing just inside the door, Jade shook her head.

  “Like I was saying—” he said.

  She raised her hand. “How are you doing with Twitter?”

  Dante shook his head, smiling, and pointed. “Pat?”

  Pat was the team’s liaison with the FBI’s Cyber Division.

  She turned to face Jade. “The company refuses to release the identity of The God of Veritas. Legal is preparing a court order.”

  “The God of Veritas,” Micah said. “Humble that one.”

  “What about Scofield’s, Carr’s, and Hurley’s social media accounts?” asked Jade.

  Pat read off her computer. “Carr and Hurley weren’t on social media.”

  “Carr probably because he was secretive,” Dante said. “Hurley, being in cybersecurity, didn’t trust it.”

  “But Scofield lived on social media,” Pat said. “He tweeted his every move, making it easy for anyone who wanted to hurt him.”

  Dante asked Jade. “Anything else?”

  She waved her hand. “Carry on.”

  He turned his attention back to his team.

  “As I was saying”—his eyes cut to Jade and then back to his notes—“all the victims came from similar socioeconomic backgrounds.”

  “They were rich,” Christian said.

  “More like wealthy,” Micah said.

  To Max, Dante said, “What are you thinking?”

  Jade hadn’t seen Max since they’d shared a quiet Christmas dinner at his house. She looked at him now. The faint wisps of blond hair on the top of his head had disappeared after his wife left him.

  “Usually, the motive of a serial killer comes down to anger, financial gain, thrill, or attention seeking,” Max said. “I can’t narrow it down yet. Could be any of them or some combination. There’s a lot of rage here. The victims suffered from deep, penetrating wounds through muscles, organs—even to the bone, in Finn Hurley’s case. The killer is also organized.”

  “But an organized killer doesn’t usually murder his victim in the same place where the body is found,” Jade called out. “Usually, he’ll move it and dump it somewhere.”

  Max pushed up his rimless glasses and then conceded the point. “He might be mixed. I would lean toward organized rather than disorganized. The murders were well planned.”

  “He seems to enjoy an audience,” Dante said. “Scofield and Carr were murdered in front of witnesses, and Hurley’s murder was witnessed by the entire GW Parkway’s early-morning commuter traffic.”

  Christian glanced back at Jade. She gave him a look. This is why I picked him.

  “Signature?” Jade asked, for the benefit of the others in the room.

  “The sonnets, of course,” Max said. “I’m not sure yet if they relate to the victim, a situation, the perp, or if he wants us to think he’s smart. An intellectual.”

  “What do you make of the absence of defensive wounds on the arms and hands of the victims?” she said.

  “You’re getting ahead of us here,” Dante said, checking his notes.

  “Then catch up,” she said to him. “Max?”

  Max’s lips twitched. “That’s true. Either the victims knew and trusted the suspect, or the murderer caught all of them unawares.”

  “The perp possesses some knowledge of anatomy,” Micah said thoughtfully. “He stabbed Carr in the aorta and Hurley in the femoral artery. If help didn’t come immediately, death was all but certain.”

  Max looked pleased. “Very good.”

  Jade did a private eye roll at the teacher praising his favorite pupil.

  “Why did he leave the knife in?” Christian asked.

  “Good question,” Max said. “Extracting the knives would’ve exacerbated the victims’ injuries. Made them suffer.”

  “Which doesn’t fit with the rage or anger motive,” Christian pointed out, glancing at Jade as if to say, “You still should have picked me.”

  “You’re right,” said Max.

  Micah said, “Or he’s not totally heartless.”

  “What else, Max?” asked Dante.

  “Serial killers were often abused as children: physically, emotionally, sexually. Usually by a family member.”

  “Here we go,” Dante said sarcastically.

  “There’s been no evidence of sexual activity with any of the victims,” Micah said.

  “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t abused,” said Pat.

  “Let’s move this along, Max,” Dante said, “since everyone’s been abused these days. Let’s say he was abused in some way.”

  “What a twit,” Micah whispered to Pat, in a voice that reached Jade in the back of the room.

  “I heard that,” said Dante.

  “Many serial killers were bullied, rejected, and neglected as children,” Max said, ignoring them both. “They grow up seeking approval from parents, sexual partners, friends, but they never receive it. Over time, the serial killer develops an inability to attach.”

  “Psychopathy,” said Micah.

  Dante said, “Same sad story.”

  “Unfortunately, it usually is the same sad story,” Max said. “What’s unusual in this case is the age of the victims. Your odds of being a victim of a serial killer significantly decrease after thirty.”

  “Thank God,” Pat said as she continued to type.

  Dante eyed her. “There are always exceptions.”

  Pat scratched the side of her head with her middle finger. Some of the other agents laughed. Even Dante cracked a smile.

  “New York City, Chicago, and here,” Christi
an said. “The perp has some means.”

  “He does his homework,” Max said. “He studies his victims, learns their habits, where they’ll be.”

  “Not a lot of time between the murders, though,” Christian said.

  “What if he planned them all beforehand, then struck?” Dante said.

  No one had a response.

  “Anything else?” Dante asked the group.

  “Update them on our meeting with the professor,” Jade called out to Dante.

  He scowled but did as she said.

  “Anything back on the paper the sonnets were written on?” Christian asked.

  Pat stopped typing. “The same paper was used in the Scofield and Hurley murders. The analysts believe it was manufactured in England. Same paper used by the royal family.”

  “Makes sense,” Dante said. “Shakespeare and all.”

  “The perp has fine taste,” Micah said.

  “What about the kids?” Jade called out.

  Brow furrowed, Dante said, “Huh?”

  “Shakespeare keeps telling his friend that he should bear children so his beauty can live on for eternity,” Jade said. “Maybe this has something to do with the victims’ kids.”

  Dante blinked at her before turning to Christian. “Why don’t you take that on?”

  Christian smirked. “You sure you’re up to this supervising thing, compadre?”

  Dante’s eyes returned to his notes. “Just check it out, Merritt.”

  The team discussed next steps and batted ideas back and forth. After a time, no one seemed to remember that Jade was in the room.

  As the discussion continued, she slipped out the door without anyone noticing.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Dante burst into her office, his eyes alight with excitement.

  Jade looked up from the email she was typing.

  “We’ve got a lead,” he said. “A solid one.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “New York.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The White House, Washington, DC

  “Madam President, Lei Min is on the line.”

  Whitney frowned. “Put him through,” she told Sean through the speakerphone.