Jill the poet.
CHAPTER
105
MAYBE I WAS a glutton for crime and punishment, but I came back alone to her apartment very early the following morning. I was there by eight, long before anyone else. I wandered back and forth in the small apartment, nibbling from an open box of Nutri-Grain.
Something was still bothering me about the sexy spinster and her hideaway in Foggy Bottom. Detective’s hunch. Psychologist’s intuition.
For nearly an hour, I sat crouched at a window seat that looked out on K Street. I fixated on a bus shelter poster for a Calvin Klein perfume called Escape. The model in the poster looked unbearably sad and forlorn. Like Jill? Someone had written a thought balloon above the model’s head. It read: “Someone feed me, please.”
What gave Sara Rosen sustenance? I wondered as I peered out into the D.C. ether. What was her secret? What drove her to the madness of celebrity stalking—or whatever she had been doing before she was killed in the Peninsula Hotel? She had been murdered in New York. What was her connection to Jack?
What was the whole story? What was the real story? What secret still hadn’t been unlocked?
I started in on the massive collection of books that dominated every room in the apartment, even the kitchen. Sara had been a voracious reader. Mostly literature and history, nearly all of it American. Sara the intellectual; Sara the real smart cookie.
Diplomacy by Henry Kissinger. Special Trust by Robert McFarland. Caveat by Alexander Haig. Kissinger by Walter Isaacson. On and on and on. Fiction by Anne Tyler, Robertson Davies, Annie Proulx, but also Robert Ludlum and John Grisham. Poetry by Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton. A volume entitled Woman Alone.
I opened each book, then carefully shook it out. There were well over a thousand volumes in the apartment. Maybe a couple of thousand. Lots of books to look through.
There were handwritten pages of notes stuffed into some of the books. Jottings Sara had made. I read every loose scrap. The hours went by. Meals were skipped. I didn’t much care.
Inside a biography of Napoleon and Josephine, Sara Rosen had written “N. considered high intelligence an aberration in women. Stroked J.’s breasts in public. Cur. But J. got her just deserts. Cunt.”
Jill the poet. Jill the book lover. The mystery, the fantasy woman, the enigma. The killer.
There were several videotapes of movies in the den, and I began to open each of the containers.
Sara Rosen’s film collection featured well-known romances, mystery thrillers, and romantic thrillers. The Prince of Tides, No Way Out, Disclosure, The Godfather trilogy, Gone With the Wind, An Officer and a Gentleman.
She also seemed to like older movies, especially noir mysteries: Raymond Chandler, James Cain, Hitchcock.
I opened every single cassette, row by row, every box. I thought it was important, especially with someone as orderly as Sara. If Sampson had been around, I wouldn’t have heard the end of it. He would have called me crazier than Jack or Jill.
I opened a cassette box for Hitchcock’s Notorious. I didn’t remember ever seeing the film myself, but one of Hitchcock’s favorite male leads, Cary Grant, was featured on the box cover.
I found an unmarked cassette inside the box. It didn’t look like a movie. Curious, I popped the cassette into the VCR. It was the fourth or fifth unmarked cassette that I had viewed so far.
The film wasn’t Notorious.
I found myself looking at footage of the murder of Senator Daniel Fitzpatrick.
This was apparently the uncut version, which ran considerably longer than the film that had been sent to CNN.
The extra footage was even more disturbing and graphic than what had been viewed on the TV news network. The fear in Senator Fitzpatrick’s voice was terrible to hear. He begged the killers for his life, then he began to cry, to sob loudly. That part had been carefully edited from the CNN tape. It was too strong. It was brutal beyond belief. It put Jack and Jill in the worst possible light.
They were merciless killers. No pity, no passion, no humanity.
I jabbed at the PAUSE button. Jackpot! The next shot in the film had started tight on Senator Fitzpatrick, then pulled out to a wide angle, maybe wider than intended.
The killer wasn’t Kevin Hawkins!
I suddenly wondered if Jill had left the tape here for someone to find. Had she suspected that she might be betrayed? Was this Jill’s payback? I thought that maybe it was: Jill had fucked Jack, straight from hell.
I studied the frozen frame revealing the real Jack. He had short, sandy-blond hair. He was a handsome-looking man in his late thirties. There was no emotion on his face as he pulled the trigger.
“Jack,” I whispered. “We’ve finally found you, Jack.”
CHAPTER
106
THE FBI, Secret Service, and Washington police cooperated and worked closely together on a massive and important manhunt. They all badly wanted a piece of this one. It was the ultimate homicide case: a president had been murdered. The real killer was still out there. Jack was still alive; at least, I hoped that he was.
And he was!
Early on the morning of December 20, I watched Jack through a pair of binoculars. I couldn’t take my eyes off the killer and mastermind.
I wanted to take him down. I wanted him for myself. We had to wait, though. This was Jay Grayer’s plan. It was his day, his show, his plan of action.
Jack was just walking out of a three-story Colonial house. He went to a bright red Ford Bronco that sat in a circular driveway. By then, we knew who he was, where he lived, nearly everything about him. Now we understood a lot more about Jack and Jill. Our eyes had been opened very, very wide.
“There’s Jack. There’s our boy,” Jay Grayer said to me.
“Doesn’t look like a killer, does he?” I said. “But he got the job done. He did it. He’s the executioner of all those people, including Jill.”
Jack was herding along a small boy and a girl. Very cute kids. I knew that their names were Alix and Artie. Also coming along for the ride were the two family dogs: Shepherd and Wise Man, a ten-year-old black retriever and a frisky young collie.
Jack’s kids.
Jack’s dogs.
Jack’s nice house in suburbia.
Jack and Jill came to The Hill… to kill the President. And then Jack murdered his partner and lover, Jill. He executed Sara Rosen in cold blood. Jack thought he got away with the murders, clear and free. Jack had an almost great plan. But now we had Jack in our sights. I was watching Jack. We all were.
He looked like the perfect suburban Washington dad in just about every way. He had on a navy hooded parka that was unzipped in spite of the cold weather. The open jacket exposed a blue plaid flannel shirt and stonewashed dungarees. He wore floppy, tannish brown Topsiders, gray woolen socks.
His hair was cut short, military-style. His hair was dark brown now. He was a ruggedly handsome man. Thirty-nine years old. The President’s assassin. The stone-cold killer of several political enemies.
A conspirator.
A world-class traitor.
A real heartless bastard, too.
He is just about the perfect American killer, I thought as I watched him in command of his obedient troop of children and pets. He was a near-perfect assassin. He was a daddy, husband, clean-cut as could be. He looked absolutely beyond suspicion. He even had alibis, though none of them would hold up because of the film footage of his shooting Senator Fitzpatrick. A Jackal for our age, for our country, for our naive and very dangerous way of life.
I wondered if he had watched the President’s burial ceremony on TV, or maybe even attended it, as I had.
“He’s just a devil-may-care fucker, isn’t he?” Jay Grayer said. He was sitting beside me in the front seat of the unmarked car. I hadn’t heard Jay Grayer curse much before today. He wanted to take down Jack real bad, real hard.
That’s what we were going to do. This was going to be a famous morning for all of us.
“Get ready to follow Jack,” Grayer spoke into a handheld mike in our car. “You lose him, anybody, and you can just keep going. In whatever direction you’re headed.”
“We won’t lose him. I don’t think he’ll even run,” I said. “He’s a homebody, our Jack. He’s a daddy. He has roots in the community.”
What a strange country we lived in. So many murderers. So many monsters. So many decent people for them to prey on.
“I think you’re probably right, Alex. Spot on. I don’t get it yet, I don’t fully understand him, but I think you’re right. We’ve got him nailed. Only what exactly do we have here? What makes Jack run? Why did he do it?”
“Money,” I told him a theory I had about Jack. “Look for the money. It cuts through and simplifies all the other stuff. A little politics, a little cause, and a lot of money. Ideology and financial gain. Hard to beat in this venal day and age.”
“You think so?”
“I think so. Yes. I’d bet a lot on it. He has some strongly held beliefs, and one of them is that he and his family deserve to live well. So, yes, I think money is a part of this. I think he’s probably acquainted with some people with a lot of money and power, but not as much power as they would like to have.”
The Bronco took off and we followed it at a comfortable distance. Jack was a careful driver of his valuable cargo. He must have been impressive to his kids, maybe even to the dogs, undoubtedly to his neighbors.
Jack the Jackal. I wondered if that was another of Sara Rosen’s word games.
I wondered what Jill’s very last thought was when her lover betrayed her in New York. Had she expected it? Had she known he would betray her? Was that why she left the cassette in her apartment?
Jay wanted to talk, maybe he needed to keep his mind busy right now. “He’s taking them to the day school down yonder. His life is back to normal now. Nothing happened to change that. He just planned the murder and helped execute a president. That’s all. No biggie. Life goes on.”
“From what I can gather in his military records, he was a first-class soldier. He left the Army as a full colonel. Honorable discharge. Participated in Desert Storm,” I said to Jay.
“Jack’s a war hero. I’m impressed as hell. I’m so goddamn impressed with this guy that I can’t begin to tell you. Maybe I’ll tell him.”
Jack was a war hero, officially.
Jack was a patriot, unofficially.
As we rode along, I remembered the inscription on the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery. Here rests in honored glory an American soldier known but to God. Somehow, I thought that was how Jack probably thought about himself. A soldier-hero known only to God.
He probably believed he’d gotten away with several murders—in a just war.
Well, he hadn’t. He was about to go down.
He dropped the two children off at the Bayard-Wellington School. It was a beautiful place: fieldstone walls and rolling, frost-slicked lawns; the sort of school I would have loved to send Damon and Jannie to; the kind of school where Christine Johnson ought to teach.
You could move out of D.C., you know, I told myself as I watched Jack kiss each of his children good-bye.
So why don’t you? Why don’t you take Damon and Jannie away from Fifth Street? Why don’t you do what this rotten piece of shit son of a bitch does for his kids?
Jay Grayer spoke into the hand mike again. “He’s leaving the Bayard-Wellington School now. He’s turning back onto the main road. God, it’s pretty out here in Jackville, isn’t it? We’ll take him down at the stoplight up ahead! Just one imperative: we take him alive! We’ll have four cars at the light with him. Four of us to get Jack. We take him alive.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” I said.
“What the hell are you saying?” Jay Grayer turned to me and asked.
“Just getting it out of the way. He doesn’t have any rights. He’s going down.”
Grayer offered up a crooked smile. We both understood why. The good part was coming now. The only good part in this whole affair. “Famous stuff, huh? Here we go. Let’s get this son of a bitch.”
“Absolutely. I want to have a nice long talk with Jack, too.” I want to kick his ass from this stoplight, all the way back to Washington.
I want to meet the real Jack.
CHAPTER
107
NOBODY had figured out the assassination plot until now. Not one of us had even been close. No one had been able to solve the mystery of Jack and Jill until it was too late. Maybe we would unravel the whole mess now. A retrospective on Jack and Jill.
We were less than a hundred yards away from capturing Jack. He was heading down a steep, rolling hill toward a stoplight.
It was a very picturesque scene. Long lens, like in expensively made movies. The light turned red and Jack stopped—a law-abiding citizen. Unconcerned about anything.
A free man.
Jay Grayer and I eased up right behind his trendy, off-road vehicle. I could read the sticker on the rear bumper of the Bronco: D.A.R.E. to keep kids off drugs.
Beartrap was the code for our operation. We had four mainline vehicles. Another half-dozen cars and two helicopters for backup. I didn’t see how Jack could escape. I was thinking ahead to the massive ramifications of the assassin’s capture, and the even more shocking surprise still to come.
This was going to get worse, much worse.
“We take him down on three,” Jay Grayer said into his hand mike. He was extremely cool now, the consummate professional, as he had been from the beginning. I liked working with him enormously. He wasn’t an egomaniac; he was just good at his job.
“We take him real easy,” I said.
The beartrap was sprung.
I was one of the six who jumped out of the intercept cars stopped at the innocent-looking country-road light. It was an honor.
There were two civilian cars waiting at the light as well. A gray Honda and a Saab.
It must have looked like utter madness to them. That’s because it was, and much worse than it looked. The man in the Bronco had killed the President. This was like arresting Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan, John Wilkes Booth. An ordinary stoplight in northern Maryland.
I was there! I was glad I was there. I would have paid a huge admission price to be there for this.
I got to the passenger door of his vehicle as a Secret Service agent yanked open the driver’s door. The two of us happened to be the quickest on our feet. Or maybe we were the ones who wanted Jack the most.
Jack turned toward me—and he got to look right into the wide-eyed barrel of my Glock.
He got a real good look at death in an instant.
Execution-style!
Very professional!
“Don’t move. Don’t even breathe too hard. Don’t move a millimeter,” I said to him. “I don’t want to have an excuse. So don’t give me one.”
He hadn’t been expecting us. I could tell that by the shock spread across his face. He thought he’d gotten away clean with the murders. Thought he was home free.
Well, he had it all wrong for once.
Jack had finally made his first mistake.
“Secret Service. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and that’s a real good idea!” one of the agents barked at Jack. The agent’s face was bright red with anger, with outrage at this man who had murdered President Thomas Byrnes.
Jack looked at the Secret Service agent, and then back at me. He recognized me. He knew who I was. What else did he know?
At first he’d been startled, but now he became calm. It was astonishing to see the calmness and cool take hold. He’s calm as death, I thought.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was the real Jack. This was the President’s killer.
“Very good,” he finally said, commending us for doing a good job, for our professionalism. The son of a bitch nodded his approval. “I’m proud of you.
You did your jobs extremely well.” It made my blood boil, but I knew the order of the day: we take him real easy. The gentle beartrap.
He slowly got out of the spit-shined red vehicle. Both his hands were held up high. He offered no resistance; he didn’t want to be shot.
Suddenly, one of the Secret Service agents sucker-punched him. The agent threw a hard roundhouse right that connected with the killer’s jaw. I couldn’t believe he’d done it, but I was glad.
Jack’s head snapped back and he dropped like a stone. Jack was smart. He stayed down. There was no provocation for the agent’s punch, no excuse whatsoever—except that the freak sprawled on the ground had murdered the President in cold blood.
Jack shook his head and worked his jaw as he looked up at us from the pavement. “How much do you know?” he asked.
We didn’t answer him. None of us said a goddamn word. It was our turn to play games. Now we had a few surprises for Jack.
CHAPTER
108
JACK WAS ONLY THE BEGINNING. We knew he was only part of the puzzle we were attempting to solve. We had decided to take him down first, but now came the second crucial stop.
As we rode back to his house on Oxford Street, I felt distant from the scene, almost as if I were watching myself in a dream. I remembered the few meetings I’d had with Thomas Byrnes. He’d told us all to have no regrets, but that advice didn’t work out in the real world. The President was dead, and I would always feel partly responsible, even if I wasn’t responsible at all.
I wasn’t thinking only about the President’s murder. There was thirteen-year-old Danny Boudreaux. I felt an unsettling connection between the two cases. I had from the very beginning. The murders and unprecedented violence were everywhere. It was as if a strange, crippling disease were spreading across much of the world, but especially right here in America. I had already witnessed too much of it. I didn’t know how to make the nightmare stop. No one did.
It wasn’t over.
We were finally at the beginning of the awful mystery.
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