Alex Cross, Run

by James Patterson

  Right now, all of that was a question mark. But for the baby’s sake, as well as the mother’s, we had to assume that there was still someone out there to save.

  CHAPTER

  12

  FOR THREE DAYS WE GOT NOWHERE. THERE WAS NO SIGNIFICANT MOVEMENT on the Darcy Vickers or Elizabeth Reilly murders, and the phone call I kept hoping to get from Sampson never came. You could just feel these cases going cold.

  Then on that Saturday morning, we had a new development. The worst kind. Another body popped up in Georgetown.

  I was home when I got the call from Sergeant Huizenga. She wanted me to keep going in the direction I’d been going, and monitor this homicide alongside the other two. The trick would be to see this scene on its own merit first, without comparing it to anything. Sometimes if you go looking for connections, you start to see what you want to see instead of what’s really there.

  I took Pennsylvania, and then M Street, all the way to the Key Bridge and parked just below it. Several cruisers were already on-site, and they’d strung an outer perimeter of yellow tape across Water Street, on the south side of the Potomac Boat Club.

  A maintenance worker had found the boy’s body that morning, lodged under one of their docks. By now someone had pulled him onto the shore and left him there, on a little spit of dirt and grass just beyond the white-clapboard-and-green-shingled building.

  The first sight of him was a shock, even for me. The apparent cause of death was a gunshot to the face, with an ugly, wide-open entry wound that told me he’d been hit at close range. It was hard to know what kind of powder burns or stippling had washed away in the water, but there were still a few dark marks around the remains of his cheekbone. A couple of smashed teeth were exposed where the flesh had been blown away, and it gave him a kind of sideways grimace, almost as if he were still in pain.

  That wasn’t all. His jeans were stained dark all around the hips and crotch, presumably from stabbing. There were at least half a dozen ragged perforations in the denim of his pants, clearly centered around the genital area. It was a horrible proposition to think about what had happened to this poor kid. I could only hope for his sake that he’d been shot dead first, and mutilated after. Not much consolation there.

  The most depressing part was how young he was. He didn’t look any older than eighteen, and his waterlogged letterman’s jacket was from St. Catherine’s, a private high school in Northwest DC. How he had gotten here, like this, was anyone’s guess.

  My one clear hit was that this had been done in anger—possibly at the victim himself, but also maybe out of the killer’s own sense of self-loathing. Mutilation can be a signifier of that, as often as not. Either way, our perpetrator obviously had some kind of demons to exorcise. You don’t need a gun and a blade if your motivation is strictly murder.

  In fact, it felt a little to me like this killer was getting out all of his ideas at once—stabbing, shooting, drowning. But why? What need did that satisfy?

  After I’d taken in all the details I could, I slipped on some gloves and checked the boy’s pockets. They were all empty, but I did find a name, Smithe, stenciled on the back of his jacket. I called it in right away.

  It didn’t take long to get word back, either. A few minutes later, a call from our Command Information Center told me that an eighteen-year-old senior at St. Catherine’s, Cory Smithe, had been reported missing by his parents two days earlier. Six one, blond hair, and a small birthmark on his right wrist. Check, check, and check.

  “Have you got an address?” I asked the dispatcher.

  “Already sent it to your phone,” she told me.

  Because we both knew what I had to do next.

  CHAPTER

  13

  WHEN I HEADED BACK TO MY CAR ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE BOATHOUSE, I saw that the locust storm had descended—the kind with cameras, microphones, and broadcast towers.

  Instead of the usual half-dozen reporters we might have seen by now, there were dozens of them, just waiting for the story. Trucks were lined up on Water Street, and without a designated press space everyone was right there on the tape line.

  This was three bodies in less than a week, centered around one of DC’s least violent neighborhoods. By comparison, the previous three murders anywhere west of Rock Creek had been spread out over a fourteen-month period. People were definitely sitting up and taking notice.

  “Detective Cross, over here!”

  “Who’s the victim, Alex?”

  “Are you considering this a serial investigation at this point?”

  It’s a little like being a rock star, without any of the fringe benefits. I gave them the bare minimum, which was all I could afford to do right now.

  “Sergeant Huizenga will be out to brief you after the family has been notified,” I told whoever was closest. “We won’t be releasing any details in the meantime.”

  “Detective Cross, will you be overseeing all three of these cases?” Shawna Stewart from Channel Five asked me.

  “I don’t know yet,” I told her.

  “How are the Darcy Vickers and Elizabeth Reilly investigations coming along?”

  “They’re coming,” I said, just as I reached my car.

  “Hey, Alex, is it true you pulled Elizabeth Reilly’s dead body out of that window before a proper examination?” someone else yelled out. “Doesn’t that compromise the investigation?”

  That one stopped me cold. Maybe I should have kept moving, but instead I turned around to see who had asked the question.

  This guy struck me as a one-man operation from the first glance. I’d seen his type before—camera around his neck, a handheld recorder pointed my way, and a notebook sticking out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. He also had a full beard, and no press credentials that I could see. Everyone else around him had laminated badges from the city, clipped to their lapels or hanging on lanyards around their necks.

  “I don’t recognize you,” I said. “Who are you with?”

  “I’m just trying to get the facts, detective.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” I said. “I asked who you’re with.”

  He raised his voice then, enough to make sure the microphones all around us were picking him up. “Am I a suspect, detective? Are you saying you want to detain me?”

  He was baiting me. I’ve seen it a million times. If they can’t get the story they want, they’ll try to create one—especially the hacks and the wannabes.

  “No, I’m not detaining you,” I said. “It was just a simple question.”

  “Why? Am I required by law to identify myself?” he said.

  Now he was just being a dick. The civilian in me wanted to shove that recorder right down his throat.

  “No,” I said again. “You’re not required to identify yourself.”

  “In that case—no comment,” he said, fighting back a smile. It got a laugh from a few in the crowd, but not from me. The best thing I could do right now was get in my car and leave.

  I had somewhere more important to be, anyway. And it couldn’t wait.

  CHAPTER

  14

  BY THE TIME I PULLED UP IN FRONT OF CORY SMITHE’S HOME, I FELT LIKE I HAD a fifty-pound bag of gravel sitting on my chest. Family notifications are the hardest part of my job, hands down.

  The Smithes lived in one of the thousands of early twentieth-century row houses that line the streets of Northwest DC. This one was on Shepherd Street in Petworth, with a tiny, terraced stamp of green lawn halfway up the stairs to the front door. In the middle of the grass was a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by a bed of spring tulips. Maybe the Lady would give these people some comfort when they needed it most.

  I’d already notified the Fourth District missing persons unit. They had Victims Services on the way over, but this part was all on me. I climbed the stairs and rang the bell.

  Cory’s father answered the door almost right away. He looked a lot older than I would have expected, and had a cane hooked over his wrist.


  “Can I help you?” he asked, a little warily.

  “Mr. Smithe? I’m Alex Cross from the police department,” I told him. “I’m here to speak with you about Cory. May I come in?”

  There are a few things you want to avoid in this kind of situation. One of them is mentioning up front that you’re from Homicide. Notifications need to unfold at the right pace—not too fast, but not too slowly, either.

  “Come in,” he told me, and opened the screen door. “My wife’s in the back.”

  He hobbled on ahead of me, and I followed him through to a screen porch off the kitchen. Mrs. Smithe was there, in slippers and a flowered housecoat. She clutched the neck of it closed and stood up as I came in. The cordless phone on her lap fell onto the floor, but neither of them seemed to notice.

  “What is it?” she said. I could tell by her face that she’d already been contemplating the worst. I quickly reintroduced myself, and then got right to it.

  “I wish there was an easy way to say this,” I told them.

  “Oh Lord. No . . .”

  “I’m so sorry, but Cory’s been killed. He was found this morning.”

  It was like her voice cracked the air. There weren’t any words now, just a gut-wrenching expression of grief. Loss. Devastation. She sank down onto her knees and leaned against her husband, who was still holding the cane, trying not to go down himself, I think. He bent his head toward his wife’s with his eyes squeezed shut, the cane shaking between the two of them.

  “Where?” Mr. Smithe choked out. “Where was he?”

  “In the Potomac,” I said. “At the Georgetown waterfront.” There’s no sense holding back information at this point. It was better for them to get it from me than some other version on the news later.

  “Killed?” he said. “As in—”

  “Somebody did this to him, yes,” I said. “Again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  I think a lot of people assume that’s lip service when cops say it, but the truth was, I could have cried right there with them. The loss of a child is a tragedy, whoever’s it is. You learn to keep it inside.

  I waited until I felt like they could hear more from me, and then moved on.

  “I know how hard this is,” I said, “but if you could give me a little information about Cory, it could be a big help.”

  Mr. Smithe nodded, still on his feet. His wife was back in her chair, quietly weeping.

  “What do you need to know?” he asked.

  “The kinds of things Cory liked to do, where he hung out, the friends he spent the most time with. That sort of thing,” I said.

  His mother looked up then. “Was he in some sort of trouble?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told them honestly.

  “He was a good boy,” Mr. Smithe said. “I know every parent must say that . . . or maybe they don’t. But Cory walked hand in hand with God. He prayed with us every night. In fact, he’s supposed to start at Catholic University in the fall. A theology major.”

  Later I’d learn that Mr. Smithe was a deacon at the family’s church, and his wife had been a nun for twenty years. This had to feel to them like the cruelest possible blow from God.

  I pressed them for as much as I could, and took down the names of Cory’s closest circle. There was a girlfriend, Jess Pasternak, they said. She lived only a few blocks away. That was as good a next stop as any.

  Then I gave the Smithes my card with my cell number written on the back, and left them to grieve in private. The best thing I could do for them now was keep moving.

  As usual, time was not on my side.

  CHAPTER

  15

  “IS THAT WHAT THEY TOLD YOU? CATHOLIC U? ALTAR BOY, AND ALL THAT?”

  Half an hour later, I was sitting in my car with Jess Pasternak. She had her legs pulled up on the seat, hugging her knees to her chest and crying bitterly while we talked.

  When I’d shown up at her house, she’d asked to speak with me outside. Since she was eighteen, like Cory, that was her prerogative. After a tense exchange with her parents at the door, she’d followed me down to the curb.

  Now, whatever it was she had to say, it wasn’t coming easily.

  “Why?” I asked her. “Is there something Cory’s parents didn’t know about?”

  She pounded the seat with her fist, literally fighting back the tears. It was like she was two parts devastated, and one part pissed off about something.

  “I warned him,” she said. “I really did.”

  “Jess? What are we talking about?” I said. “I know this is hard, but you’ve got to tell me everything.”

  She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes. It left a dark streak of makeup on the back of her hand, and she absently wiped it onto the knee of her torn jeans.

  She was a pretty girl, but not in the traditional, St. Catherine’s kind of way. Her blond hair was cut short above her ears, and she wore a wifebeater with thin leather suspenders over it, along with calf-high black boots. She looked more rocker chick than cheerleader to me.

  “Cory wasn’t even going to college,” she said. “We were going to travel in the fall. You know—France, Italy, la-la-la.” She corkscrewed her hand in the air like it was all so much folly, now.

  “How does that relate to what’s happened?” I asked. I hadn’t given her any of the specifics of Cory’s murder, but she seemed to assume that something awful had been done to him. Which it had.

  “I swore I’d never say anything,” she told me, twisting the withered tissue in her hand. I could tell she was getting close, so I just sat quietly and waited.

  Suddenly, she hitched up on the seat and pulled a silver phone out of her back pocket. I thought she was about to make a call, but instead she went onto the web and navigated to a page of some kind.

  “There.” She dropped the phone on the seat between us. “I didn’t say a word, okay?”

  When I picked up the phone, I saw she’d opened up a site called Randyboys.com. More specifically, it was a profile for Cory Smithe—or Jeremy, as he called himself there. When I thumbed down the page, I saw there were pictures, too—Cory, with his shirt off; in his underwear; nude from behind, with his face obscured. The profile said he was available for outcalls only, no overnights, no travel. No Sundays either, I noticed.

  “They told me you were his girlfriend,” I said.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Jess let out a scoff between her tears. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Mr. and Mrs. Smithe are super nice and everything. They’re just kind of clueless about the whole gay thing. Much less”—she gestured at the phone without looking at it—“all that.”

  “Do you know anything about the men Cory was hooking up with?” I asked. “Were there regular customers?”

  She held up her hands in a shrug. “He just said they were all letches and chicken hawks. Guys with money, I guess.”

  “Do you know where he’d meet with them?”

  “Wherever they wanted,” she said. “At a hotel, in the park, down by the waterfront . . .”

  She rolled her eyes, and it seemed to hit her all over again that her friend was gone. Then the tears started back up.

  “I told him to be careful. I really did, but he wouldn’t listen. That asshole!”

  I gave Jess my last tissue and let her cry. I didn’t read too much into the anger, other than a defensive kind of reaction to feeling overwhelmed. As far as I could make out, she was telling me everything she could about Cory.

  And, if I was lucky, she’d just given me a little bit about his killer, too.

  CHAPTER

  16

  TALK ABOUT HAVING TO PULL IT TOGETHER. AFTER SPENDING THE DAY ON WHAT would be any parent’s worst nightmare, I had to turn around and show up at home with something like a smile on my face. Especially tonight. This was Damon’s last night before he had to go back to school for fourth quarter, and I was taking everyone out to dinner at Kinkead’s.

  For once I was glad to be running behind when I got h
ome, if only as an excuse to grab a few minutes by myself. One shower, shirt, and blazer later, I was at least looking fit for public consumption.

  By the time I was sitting down at my favorite restaurant, with my family chattering and laughing all around me, I was even starting to feel halfway human again. David Yarboro was on piano that night; I had a nice glass of pinot noir in front of me; and for just a little while, I could pretend that my biggest problem was deciding between the salmon and the New York strip with Kinkead’s Scotch whiskey sauce.

  Life was good. It really was.

  After everyone ordered dinner, I pushed back my chair and stood up with my glass. It got some glances from around the room, and I noticed Jannie looking a little mortified—but if embarrassing your kids isn’t one of the privileges of being a dad, I don’t know what is.

  “I’d like to make a toast,” I said.

  “White, wheat, or rye?” Nana joked, and got a laugh all around the table. My grandmother reads me as well as anyone. I’m pretty sure she could tell I needed a boost that night.

  “To our guest of honor,” I said. “Damon, you make me proud, every single day. We’re going to miss you like crazy while you’re gone, but in the meantime—here’s to you. Here’s to a great quarter at Chapin. And most of all, here’s to summer vacation, when we get to see you again.”

  “Here’s to summer vacation!” the kids chorused back.

  “Close enough,” Bree said, and we all clinked glasses around the table.

  After that, Damon stood up to make a toast of his own. I could see all too well that my oldest boy, standing there at the head of the table in a jacket and tie, wasn’t really a boy anymore. It didn’t help that he was fifteen but looked twenty.

  “Here’s to Ava,” he said, looking right at her. “I know you and I haven’t really spent that much time together, but I just want to say, welcome to the family.”

  “Welcome to the family!” everyone echoed back.

  I looked over at Ava and was a little shocked to see her grinning from ear to ear. Ever since the school lottery, she’d been scowling her way through the day, and spending long stretches of time alone in her room. Now it was like someone had turned on the lights for the first time in a long time.