The Bishop

by Steven James

Missy Schuel tapped her pencil against her desk.

  “You mentioned that in the first eight months following Christie’s death, that you two—you and Tessa—struggled relationally.”

  “Yes. Things were a little rough between us at first, but like I said, we didn’t know each other well, we were both hurting.” Our time was almost up, and I didn’t feel like we’d made much progress. There was still a lot to cover.

  “All right.” Missy let out a careful sigh. “Here’s what I would say if I were Paul Lansing’s lawyer: after her mother’s tragic death, you uprooted the girl, moved across the country, and there, in Denver, pursued a job that took you away most weekends, forcing her to stay with your parents, whom she barely knew. You endangered her by allowing her into a life that no grieving teenager should have to experience. In fact, as a direct result of one of your investigations, she was abducted, suffered unimaginable mental duress, and was nearly killed.”

  When Missy put things like that, I couldn’t imagine any judge landing on my side. “She was at an FBI safe house when she was taken.” The words seemed weightless. Without merit. “I did all I could to make sure she was safe.”

  “I’m afraid that might not matter. The fact that this killer managed to find her and attack her, that’s all the judge is going to hear—especially if he sees that scar, and you can be sure Lansing’s attorneys will make that happen.”

  I repositioned myself in my seat. “So where do we go from here?”

  Rather than answering my question, she asked one of her own: “Do we know for certain that Paul Lansing is Tessa’s biological father?”

  “We did a DNA test. It’s confirmed. He’s her dad.”

  She slid her notebook aside. “I’m going to be honest with you, this diary, this letter, they trouble me.”

  “It wasn’t the letter that convinced Christie to keep her baby.”

  “I understand that, but his lawyers will argue that it was, and we can’t prove that his words didn’t influence her, at least to some extent.” After a pause, “Can we?”

  “No.” I hated to admit it. “We can’t.”

  Over the years I’d worked enough with the judicial system to know where all of this was leading. “He’s got a good case.” I didn’t ask it as a question.

  “A tenuous case,” she corrected, but then hesitated for a long time before going on, and I had the sense that she was trying to find a way to put a positive spin on things. “Tessa would prefer being with you, rather than Paul, correct?”

  Her question felt acidic, not because of her tone, but because I wasn’t certain of the answer. “Does that matter?”

  “When a girl’s her age, yes, it does.”

  “I think so.”

  A nod. “And you are her legal guardian. You’ve been her sole caregiver and provider for over a year. That counts for a lot. It really does.”

  She paused.

  There was more.

  “But?”

  “But, Lansing apparently desired to be involved in her upbringing, and her mother denied him that. If indeed he is her biological father and took legal steps during Christie’s pregnancy to establish his paternal rights, he might . . . well, he might gain some sympathy from the judge. But listen to me, I’m good at what I do, and I promise I will do my best to help you keep sole custody of your daughter.”

  “Stepdaughter.”

  “No, your daughter,” she said simply, leaving me to interpret that as I chose.

  She glanced at the clock on her desk, and my eyes followed hers.

  1:18 p.m.

  “I need to go,” she said. “We’ll talk soon.”

  We both stood. “Get me that diary and the letter. Today.” She jotted an address on the back of a business card. “If you can’t get it here before 6:00, drop it off at my house.” She handed me the card. “And I’ll contact Paul Lansing’s lawyers. I’ll want to meet with them as soon as possible.”

  I hesitated. “Why as soon as possible?”

  “People only cower when they’re afraid or have something to hide. We don’t want it to look like we’re stalling or dragging our feet. If we move forward quickly and confidently, it’ll show the judge the truth: that we have a solid case and nothing to fear.”

  I liked the way she thought. “I’ll get them to you.”

  “One last thing. Does Paul Lansing know that you have his letter and Christie’s diary?”

  I let out a small breath. “We showed it to him when we met in Wyoming, when we first met him.”

  She kept her face expressionless. Pointed to her card. “Call my cell if you think of anything else that might be helpful. Anything at all. No secrets. Remember—”

  “You don’t like surprises.”

  “See you soon.”

  As I left her office, I glanced at the television screen in the corner of the receptionistless reception area. The congressman was stepping away from the podium. I punched up the volume just in time to hear a female correspondent say, “Bob, to reiterate, Congressman Fischer has just announced that Rusty Mahan, the primary suspect in the case, has been found dead in an apparent suicide. We don’t know the details yet, but we will be covering this breaking story closely as events unfold.”

  Great.

  While the reporter went on to summarize Fischer’s press conference, his daughter’s smiling photo floated in the upper left-hand corner of the screen and I realized that, apart from the brief glimpse at Cheyenne’s cell before I left the Academy to go to the scene, I had yet to see Mollie’s face.

  I observed her closely now. She had a thin jawline, jade eyes, an attractive dimple—I caught myself overlaying her features against the gruesome, chewed-off remains I’d seen the night before, and quickly I blinked the image away . . . light complexion, a pair of earrings in each ear, a small, delicate nose—

  A shiver ran through me.

  It can’t be!

  I yanked out my phone, speed-dialed Ralph. He answered immediately, harshly: “Pat, you are in deep—”

  “Listen to me,” I said. “Did Mollie Fischer wear contacts?”

  “What?”

  The picture disappeared from the television screen.

  “Contacts. Did she wear contact lenses?”

  “What are you—”

  “Check it, Ralph. The case files!”

  A long pause accompanied by the click of keystrokes.

  “No,” he said. “No glasses either. What’s going on?” The hot anger I’d heard in his voice only a moment ago was gone. I felt like we were on the same page again.

  “It’s not her.”

  “What?”

  “The woman we found at the primate facility, it’s not Mollie Fischer. The dead woman had only a single piercing in each ear, Mollie has two; and the iris found at the scene was blue. In her AP photo, Mollie’s eyes are green, and since she didn’t wear contacts—”

  “But she was positively IDed by her own father,” he mumbled, and I couldn’t tell if he was disagreeing with me or simply thinking aloud.

  “Her face was missing.” I was rushing out the door.

  Of course she was positively IDed, everything else pointed to her. The killers had dressed her in Mollie’s clothes, left her with Mollie’s driver’s license, purse, ring, necklace, phone. The depth of the deception we’d fallen for was staggering.

  Mollie Fischer might still be alive.

  I hit the sidewalk running.

  Mollie had been missing for nearly twenty-one hours, and with every minute our chances of finding her grew slimmer; Ralph knew all of this, I didn’t need to tell him. “Call the congressman,” I said. “Tell him to announce it now, at this press conference. If Mollie is alive—”

  “Yeah, I know. The public can help. Get to the Capitol, Pat. If he doesn’t listen to me, you can talk to him in person.”

  “I’m close. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

  “I’ll try to get an ID on the dead woman,” he said.

  End call.


  I bolted to my car.

  Brad closed the computer. Done.

  The woman lay unconscious; only her chest was moving, rising and falling. Steadily, steadily. With each gentle breath.

  For a moment Brad felt a thrill, the same excitement he felt when he was alone with Astrid after each game. He hesitated for a moment, then kissed the woman on the cheek, but that was all. He didn’t touch her, not in an intimate way. After all, he was a gentleman and would never take advantage of an unconscious lady.

  No, he would not touch her, not like that. It wasn’t part of the plan. Instead he held her hand gently for a few moments, then positioned her in the wheelchair and lowered it to the ground with the handicapped lift.

  Then he wheeled her through a side entrance and into the hotel.

  I burst through the door to the press corps room just outside the house minority leader’s office.

  The press conference was over, but the room was still full of lurking reporters hoping to snag congressional staff members for comments, and as I entered, every head turned my way.

  Why fake Mollie’s death?

  Why last night?

  Why there?

  And who is the woman we found at the primate center?

  I’d already flashed my creds at three previous security checkpoints, and now I did the same for the Capitol police officer beside the door. “Where’s Congressman Fischer?”

  Giving me a somewhat curious look, he pointed to the house minority leader’s office.

  I let myself in.

  Four people in the room—three men, one woman. The congressman was the only one I recognized: mid-fifties, slightly overweight, but he carried it well. Wire-rimmed glasses, a finely tailored suit, assiduously combed brown hair.

  Everyone stared at me, obviously not used to being interrupted like this.

  “I’m Patrick Bowers,” I said, “with the FBI.”

  “You’re Bowers?” Congressman Fischer said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re the one who noticed it? That the dead woman isn’t Mollie?”

  “Just a few minutes ago, sir. Yes. And I need to tell you—”

  “Give us a minute,” he interrupted me, then glanced around the room at his people, who dutifully, and without a word, grabbed their things and filed out the door.

  Fischer crossed the room and closed the door behind them.

  “Congressman Fischer, I—”

  “Is my daughter still alive?”

  “Unfortunately, at this point we have no way of knowing. I came here to—”

  “And who’s this girl who was killed? The one they found?”

  “I don’t believe she’s been identified yet. Listen to me, we have a good opportunity here. The press is already outside that door. All you have to do is walk back out there and tell them the truth.”

  “I just made a fool of myself.” He was shaking his head.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed to the door. “Out there. Just now. I told them Mollie was dead, that her killer committed suicide last night.”

  “We can fix that if you just—”

  “Dr. Bowers, don’t you understand? I’m the one who identified her body. They’ll say I didn’t even know my own daughter.”

  I could hardly believe I was hearing this.

  Maybe he was in shock.

  “With all due respect, Congressman, there’s a very real chance your daughter is still alive; you need to stop worrying about what people might think of you and start focusing on the best way to help her.”

  He was quiet. “Let’s not be hasty here.”

  “What? Do you have any idea what—”

  “I just had a chat with your superiors at the Bureau, right before you came in. They told me you would be showing up.”

  That had to be Margaret.

  Or Rodale.

  But why would either of them—

  “And,” Fischer went on, “they have assured me that waiting until a more strategic time before making this announcement will give us the upper hand in finding Mollie as quickly as possible.”

  “A more strategic time? Who did you talk to?”

  He ignored the questions. “Besides, we don’t even know for sure that Mollie was abducted. She might have just run off with some friends.”

  This was ridiculous.

  “Listen to me. The people who killed the woman in the primate facility found someone who was the same height and weight as Mollie. They dressed her in your daughter’s clothes, put Mollie’s necklace on her, and then murdered her in one of the most disturbing ways I’ve ever seen. Your daughter did not run away. Rusty Mahan did not kill himself, this is an elaborate setup—”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why my daughter?”

  “I don’t know that either, but—”

  “Well, what do you know, Agent Bowers?” His voice had turned oddly diplomatic, cultivated by years of careful political posturing, and considering the circumstances, his emotional detachment was unfathomable to me. “Do you know for certain that revealing all of this information will be in the best interest of my daughter?”

  “Here’s what I know: if your daughter is still alive, she’s in grave danger, and the sooner we get the public to start looking for her and phoning in tips, the better chance we have of—”

  “You’re what, Agent Bowers? A doctor? A criminologist? Is that correct?”

  I felt a flare of anger. “I’m the guy who finds and stops killers like this. I do it better than anyone. And manipulating the facts, misleading the public rather than allowing them to help is not the way to do that.”

  The Bureau only releases carefully prepared statements to the press, of course I knew that, but at this point I didn’t care. Although it was possible Mollie was already dead, she might be alive, and time was of the essence. “If you don’t go out there and make this announcement,” I said, “I will.”

  He eyed me. “I understand that you are involved in a custody battle involving your stepdaughter.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “I’m sure you would hate to lose your job at the Bureau because you did something rash. Being unemployed might endanger your chances to keep her.”

  I took a step toward him. “Are you threatening me?”

  How does he know about the custody case?

  “No. Just offering a free word of advice. One father to another.”

  “If you were a real father, you would do whatever it takes to protect your daughter. Congressman.”

  Do it, Pat.

  Go.

  I left his office; he called after me, but I ignored him.

  In the press corps room I approached the podium, stepped to the microphone, and after I had everyone’s attention, I said, “I’m Special Agent Bowers with the FBI, and I have an announcement to make.”

  And then, I told the world that Mollie Fischer was not the woman we’d found at the Gunderson Foundation Primate Research Center.

  29

  I was blunt, quick, to the point.

  The press conference was over in minutes, and the aftermath was swift and certain.

  A clump of reporters rushed me for additional comments, but I shouldered my way through them to a restricted area. Only then did they scurry away to write their articles, file their reports, film their live remotes.

  I looked at my phone.

  Four missed calls.

  Two since I’d initiated my impromptu press conference.

  How about that.

  One from Margaret, one from FBI Director Rodale. In addition, Tessa had called twice while my ringer had been turned off during my meeting with Missy Schuel.

  She’d left me two voicemails.

  “Patrick, um, I know you have like class or whatever, but I . . . Well, I was wondering if we could talk, maybe. If you have a break or something. I’m going home . . . So anyway. Call me when you get a chance.”

  And the second: “Ju
st seeing if you were still in your meeting. That’s all. Okay, talk to you later.”

  Beneath the words I heard an urgency that concerned me. I tried her number, but there wasn’t a signal and I realized that if she was on her way home, she might be on a Metro train where her cell wouldn’t work.

  Try her again in a bit. For now, get out of here. Get to the command post at police headquarters.

  Leaving the ringer on, I pocketed the phone and was heading for the tunnels leading to the underground parking garage where I’d left my car when I found Lieutenant Doehring scouring the corridor, looking for me.

  He jogged toward me. “That was ballsy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The right call too. Despite what Wellington is gonna say.”

  I recalled the congressman’s words: “Do you know for certain that revealing all this information will be in the best interest of my daughter?”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed Mahan was involved.” His voice was sharp with anger directed at himself. “I jumped the gun.”

  “None of that matters. We just need to—”

  “Find these psychos.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get to the command post.”

  He pointed toward the exit door. “My car is this way.”

  “Is it close?”

  “Right outside.” I could worry about my car later. We headed in the direction he’d pointed. “Fill me in,” I said. “What do we know?”

  “My officers just finished interviewing the primate center’s staff.” He sounded exasperated. “Keepers, researchers, custodians, administrators, interns—everyone who’s not on vacation.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing solid. I can’t see any connection between them and the crime.”

  I trusted he’d been thorough. “Forensics?”

  “The chimps managed to destroy or contaminate nearly all the evidence we might have pulled from the habitat. Also, there weren’t any incriminating prints on the leather straps or the contents of Mollie’s purse. All wiped clean. Nothing so far on the rope used to hang Mahan either.”

  Of course.

  We made it to the door, left the building.

  “There must be something. Do we know where Mahan’s abduction took place? Where his car might have been parked prior to appearing in the parking garage?”