Pop Goes the Weasel

by James Patterson

  Shafer pushed me again with both hands. He made a loud grunting noise. “If you’ve beaten better, then I should be a pushover. Isn’t that so? I’m just a pushover.”

  I almost threw a punch; I wanted to. I ached to take him down, to wipe the smug, superior look off his face.

  Instead, I grabbed him hard. I slammed Shafer up against the stone tunnel wall and held him there.

  “Not now. Not here,” I said in a hoarse, raw whisper. “I’m not going to hit you, Shafer. What? Have you run to the newspapers and TV? But I am going to bring you down. Soon.”

  He came out with a crazy laugh. “You are fucking hilarious, do you know that? You’re a scream. I love it.”

  I walked away from Shafer in the dark tunnel. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. I wanted to beat the answers out of him, get a confession. I wanted to know about Christine. I had so many questions, but I knew he wouldn’t answer them. He was here to bait me, to play.

  “You’re losing… everything,” he said to my back.

  I think I could have killed Geoffrey Shafer on the spot.

  I almost turned, but I didn’t. I opened the creaking door and went outside instead. Sunlight streamed into my eyes, half blinding me for a dizzying moment. Shading my face with an arm, I climbed the stone stairs to the parking area, where I got another unwanted surprise.

  A dozen grim-faced members of the press, including some well-known reporters, were gathered in the back parking lot. Someone had alerted them; someone had tipped them off that I was coming out this way.

  I looked back at the gray metal door, but Geoffrey Shafer didn’t come out behind me. He had retreated and disappeared back into the basement.

  “Detective Cross,” I heard a reporter call my name. “You’re losing this case. You know that, don’t you?”

  Yes, I knew. I was losing everything. I just didn’t know what I could do to stop it.

  Chapter 98

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was taken up with my cross-examination by Catherine Fitzgibbon. Catherine did a good job of redressing some of the harm done by Jules Halpern, but not all of it. Halpern consistently broke up her rhythm with his objections. Like so many recent high-profile trials, this one was maddening. It should have been easy to convict and put away Geoffrey Shafer, but that wasn’t the case.

  Two days later, we got our best chance to win, and Shafer himself gave it to us, almost as if he were daring us. We now realized that he was even crazier than we’d thought. The game was his life; nothing else seemed to matter.

  Shafer agreed to take the stand. I think I was the only one in the courtroom who wasn’t completely surprised that he was testifying, that he was playing the game right in front of us.

  Catherine Fitzgibbon was almost certain that Jules Halpern had advised, begged, and warned him not to do it, but there Shafer was anyway, striding toward the witness stand, looking as if he had been called up there to be ceremoniously knighted by the queen.

  He couldn’t resist the stage, could he? He looked every bit as confident and in control as he had the night I arrested him for Patsy Hampton’s murder. He was dressed in a navy-blue double-breasted suit, white shirt, and gold tie. Not a single blond hair was out of place, nor was there any hint of the anger that was boiling just under the surface of his meticulously groomed exterior.

  Jules Halpern addressed him in conversational tones, but I was sure that he felt uneasy about this unnecessary gamble.

  “Colonel Shafer, first, I want to thank you for coming to the witness stand. This is completely voluntary on your part. From the very beginning, you’ve stated that you wanted to come here to clear your name.”

  Shafer smiled politely and then cut off his lawyer with a raised hand. The lawyers on both sides of the bar exchanged looks. What was happening? What was he going to do?

  I leaned way forward in my seat. It struck me that Jules Halpern might actually know that his client was guilty. If so, he wouldn’t be able to cross-examine him. Legally, he couldn’t ask questions that disguised the real facts as he knew them.

  This was the only way Shafer could have his moment in the sun: a soliloquy. Once called to the stand, Shafer could give a speech. It was unusual but absolutely legal—and if Halpern knew that his client was guilty, it was the only way Shafer could take the stand and not be incriminated by his own attorney.

  Shafer had the floor. “If you will please excuse me, Mr. Halpern, I believe I can talk to these good people myself. I really can manage. You see, I don’t need a lot of expert help to tell the simple truth.”

  Jules Halpern stepped back, nodded sagely, and tried to keep his poise. What else could he do under the circumstances? If he hadn’t known before that his client was an egomaniac or insane, he surely knew it now.

  Shafer looked toward the jury. “It has been stated here in court that I am with British intelligence, and that I was MI-Six, a spy. I’m afraid that I am actually a rather unglamorous agent—Double-or-Nothing, if you will.”

  The light, well-aimed jab at himself drew laughter in the courtroom.

  “I am a simple bureaucrat, like so many others who toil away their days and nights in Washington. I follow well-established procedures at the embassy. I get approvals for virtually everything I do. My homelife is simple and orderly as well. My wife and I have been married nearly sixteen years. We love each other dearly. We’re devoted to our three children.

  “So I want to apologize to my wife and children. I am so frightfully sorry for this hellish ordeal they’ve had to go through. To my son, Rob, and the twins, Tricia and Erica, I’m so sorry. If I’d had any idea what a circus this would become, I would have insisted on maintaining diplomatic immunity rather than trying to clear my name, our name, their name.

  “While I’m making heartfelt apologies, I’ll make one to all of you for being a bit of a bore right now. It’s just that when you’re accused of murder, something so heinous, so unthinkable, you want desperately to get it off your chest. You want to tell the truth more than anything else in the world. So that’s what I’m doing today.

  “You’ve heard the evidence—and there simply isn’t any. You’ve heard character witnesses. And now you’ve heard from me. I did not kill Detective Patsy Hampton. I think you all know that, but I wanted to say it to you myself. Thank you for listening,” he said, and bowed slightly in his seat.

  Shafer was brief, but he was poised and articulate and, unfortunately, very believable. He always held eye contact with the jury members. His words weren’t nearly as important as the way he delivered them.

  Catherine Fitzgibbon came forward to do the cross-examination. She was careful with Shafer at first; she knew he had the jury on his side for the moment. She waited until near the end of her cross-exam to go after Shafer where he might be most vulnerable.

  “Your statement was very nice, Mr. Shafer. Now, as you sit before this jury, you claim that your relationship with Dr. Cassady was strictly professional, that you did not have a sexual relationship with her, correct? Remember, you are under oath.”

  “Yes, absolutely. She was, and hopefully will continue to be, my therapist.”

  “Notwithstanding the fact that she admits to having a sexual relationship with you?”

  Shafer held his hand out toward Jules Halpern, signaling for him not to object. “I believe that the court record will show that she did not admit to such.”

  Fitzgibbon frowned. “I don’t follow? Why do you think she didn’t answer counsel?”

  Shafer shot back, “That’s so obvious: because she didn’t care to dignify such a question.”

  “And when she hung her head, sir, and looked down at her lap? She was nodding assent.”

  Shafer now looked at the jury and shook his head in amazement. “You misread her completely. You missed the point again, Counselor. Allow me to illustrate, if I may. As King Charles said before being beheaded, ‘Give me my cloak lest they think I tremble from fear.’ Dr. Elizabeth Cassady was deeply embarrassed by your associate
’s crude suggestion, and so was my family, and so am I.”

  Geoffrey Shafer looked at the prosecutor with steely eyes. He then acknowledged the jury again. “And so am I.”

  Chapter 99

  THE TRIAL was almost over, and now came the really hard part: waiting for the verdict. That Tuesday, the jurors retired to the jury room to commence their deliberations in the murder trial of Geoffrey Shafer. I allowed myself to actually think the unthinkable—that Shafer might be set free.

  Sampson and I sat in the rear row of the courtroom and watched the twelve members depart: eight men and four women. John had come to court several times, calling it the “best and sleaziest show this side of the Oval Office,” but I knew he was there to give me support.

  “The son of a bitch is guilty; he’s mad as little Davey Berkowitz,” Sampson said as he watched Shafer. “But he has a lot of good actors on his side: doting wife, doting mistress, well-paid lawyers, Silly Billy. He could get away with it.”

  “It happens,” I agreed. “Juries are hard to read. And getting harder.”

  I watched as Shafer courteously shook hands with the members of his defense team. Jules and Jane Halpern both had forced smiles on their faces. They know, don’t they? Their client is the Weasel, a mass murderer.

  “Geoffrey Shafer has the ability to make people believe in him when he needs to. He’s the best actor I’ve seen,” I said.

  Then John left and I snuck out the back way again. This time neither Shafer nor the press was lying in wait downstairs or in the rear parking lot.

  In the lot, I heard a woman’s voice, and I stopped moving. I thought it was Christine. A dozen or so people were walking to their cars, seemingly unaware of me. I felt fevered and hot as I checked them all. None of them was her. Where had the voice come from?

  I took a ride in the old Porsche and listened to George Benson on the CD player. I remembered the police report about Shafer’s thrill-seeking ride that ended near Dupont Circle. It seemed a strangely appealing prospect. I took my own advice not to try to guess how the jury would decide the case. It could go either way.

  I let myself think about Christine, and I choked up. It was too much. Tears began to stream down my cheeks. I had to pull over.

  I took a deep breath, then another. The pain in my chest was still as fresh as it had been the day she disappeared in Bermuda. She had tried to stay away from me, but I wouldn’t let her. I was responsible for what had happened to her.

  I drove around Washington, riding in gently aimless circles. I finally reached home more than two and a half hours after leaving the courthouse.

  Nana came running out of the house. She must have seen me pull into the driveway. She’d obviously been waiting for me.

  I leaned out of the driver’s-side window. The deejay was still talking congenially on Public Radio.

  “What is it, old woman? What’s the matter now?” I asked Nana.

  “Ms. Fitzgibbon called you, Alex. The jury is coming back. They have a verdict.”

  Chapter 100

  I WAS APPREHENSIVE as could be. But I was also curious beyond anything I could remember.

  I backed out of the driveway and sped downtown. I got back to the courthouse in less than fifteen minutes. The crowd on E Street was even larger and more unruly than it had been at the height of the trial. At least a half-dozen Union Jacks waved in the wind; contrasting with them were American flags, including some painted across bare chests and faces.

  I had to push and literally inch my way through the crush of people up close to the courthouse steps. I ignored every question from the press. I tried to avoid anyone with a camera in hand, or the hungry look of a reporter.

  I entered the packed courtroom just before the jury filed back inside. “You almost missed it,” I said to myself.

  Judge Fescoe spoke to the crowd as soon as everyone was seated. “There will be no demonstrations when this verdict is read. If any demonstrations occur, marshals will clear this room immediately,” he instructed in a soft but clear voice.

  I stood a few rows behind the prosecution team and tried to find a regular breathing pattern. It was inconceivable that Geoffrey Shafer could be set free; there was no doubt in my mind that he’d murdered several people—not just Patsy Hampton, but at least some of the Jane Does as well. He was a wanton pattern killer, one of the worst, and had been getting away with it for years. I realized now that Shafer might be the most outrageous and daring of all the killers I’d faced. He played his game with the pedal pressed to the floor. He absolutely refused to lose.

  “Mr. Foreman, do you have a verdict for us?” Judge Fescoe asked in somber tones.

  Raymond Horton, the foreman, replied, “Your Honor, we have a verdict.”

  I glanced over at Shafer; he appeared confident. As he had since the trial began, he was dressed today in a tailored suit, white shirt, and tie. He had no conscience whatsoever; he had no fear of anything that might happen to him. Maybe that was a partial explanation for why he’d run free for so long.

  Judge Fescoe looked unusually stern. “Very well. Will the defendant please rise?”

  Geoffrey Shafer stood at the defense table, and his longish blond hair gleamed under the bright overhead lighting. He towered over Jules Halpern and his daughter, Jane. Shafer held his hands behind him, as if he were cuffed. I wondered if he might have a pair of twenty-sided dice clasped in them, the kind I had seen in his study.

  Judge Fescoe addressed the foreman again. “As to count one of the indictment, Aggravated, Premeditated Murder in the First Degree, how do you find?”

  The foreman, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  I felt as if my head had suddenly spun off. The audience packed into the small room went completely wild. The press rushed to the bar. The judge had promised to clear the room, but he was already retreating to his chambers.

  I saw Shafer walk toward the press, but then he quickly passed them by. What was he doing now? He noticed a man in the crowd and nodded stiffly in his direction. Who was that?

  Then Shafer continued toward where I was, in the fourth row. I wanted to vault over the chairs after him. I wanted him so bad, and I knew I had just lost my chance to do it the right way.

  “Detective Cross,” he said in his usual supercilious manner. “Detective Cross, there’s something I want to say. I’ve been holding it in for months.”

  The press closed in; the scene was becoming smothering and claustrophobic. Cameras flashed on all sides. Now that the trial had ended, there was nothing to prevent picture-taking inside the courtroom. Shafer was aware of the rare photo opportunity; of course he was. He spoke again, so that everyone gathered around us could hear. It was suddenly quiet where we stood, a pocket of silence and foreboding expectation.

  “You killed her,” he said, and stared deeply into my eyes, almost to the back of my skull. “You killed her.”

  I went numb. My legs were suddenly weak. I knew he didn’t mean Patsy Hampton.

  He meant Christine.

  She was dead.

  Geoffrey Shafer had killed her. He had taken everything from me, just as he’d warned me he would.

  He had won.

  Chapter 101

  SHAFER WAS A FREE MAN, and he was enjoying the bloody hell out of it. He’d wagered his life. He had gambled, and he had won big-time. Big-time! He had never felt anything quite like this exhilarating moment following the verdict.

  Shafer accompanied Lucy and the children to a by-invitation-only press conference held in the pompous, high-ceilinged grand-jury room. He posed for countless photos with his family. All of them hugged him again and again, and Lucy couldn’t stop crying like the brain-dead, hopelessly spoiled and crazy child she was. If some people thought he was a drug abuser, they’d be shocked by Lucy’s intake. Christ, that was how he’d first learned about the amazing world of pharmaceuticals.

  He finally punched his arm into the air and held it there as a mocking sign of victory. Cameras flashed everywhere in the room. They
couldn’t get enough of him. There were nearly a hundred reporters wedged into the room. The women reporters loved him most of all. He was a legitimate media star now, wasn’t he? He was a hero again.

  A few gate-crashing agents of fame and fortune pressed their cards at him, promising obscene amounts of money for his story. He didn’t need any of their tawdry offers. Months before, he had picked out a powerful New York and Hollywood agent.

  Christ, he was free as a bird! He was absolutely flying now. After the press conference, claiming concern for their safety, he sent his wife and children ahead without him.

  He stayed behind in the court law library and firmed up book-deal details with Jules Halpern and representatives from the Bertelsmann Group, now the most powerful book-publishing conglomerate in the world. He had assured them that they would get his story, but of course they weren’t going to get anything close to the truth. Wasn’t that the way with the so-called tell-all, bare-all nonfiction published these days? The Bertelsmann people knew this, and still they’d paid him dearly.

  After the meeting, he took the slow-riding lift down to the court’s indoor car park. He was still feeling incredibly high, which could be dangerous. A set of twenty-sided dice was burning a hole in the pocket of his suit trousers.

  He desperately wanted to play the game. Now! The Four Horsemen. Or better yet, Solipsis—his version of the game. He wouldn’t give in to that urge, though, not yet. It was too dangerous, even for him.

  Since the beginning of the trial, he had been parking the Jaguar in the same spot; he did have his patterns, after all. He’d never bothered to put coins in the meter, not once. Every day there was a pile of five-dollar tickets under the windshield wiper.

  Today was no exception.

  He grabbed the absurd parking tickets off the windshield and crumpled them into a ball in his fist. Then he dropped the wad of paper onto the oil-stained concrete floor.