The Bishop

by Steven James

  “I was looking for you.”

  Tessa’s words jarred me out of my thoughts about Adkins, and it took me a moment to mentally shift gears. “In the luggage room?”

  A nod. “I had a visitor.”

  “A visitor?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “Paul Lansing.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Lansing was there? Did he do anything to—”

  “It’s okay. I got some good footage.”

  “Footage?”

  I listened as she summarized her meeting with Lansing, but even as she spoke I realized I needed to see this footage for myself, so I exited the highway, parked at a gas station. Then she flipped open her laptop.

  And pulled up the video.

  65

  I watched the digitally recorded conversation three times, shocked by what Lansing had told her, incredulous that he’d followed us, angry at myself for not noticing his car.

  His claims seemed outrageous.

  But also, though I hated to admit it, perhaps not so outrageous after all.

  Actually, if what he was saying was true, it would explain a lot, including how Vice President Fischer knew him and had heard about the custody case, why Christie never told me the identity of Tessa’s father or informed him that he had a daughter—and also why I hadn’t been able to find out more about Paul Lansing’s past.

  Of course, I would need to confirm everything, but the more I thought about it, the more I found myself anticipating that his story was going to check out.

  Momentarily, I had a disturbing thought, and I was ashamed at myself for even thinking it, but as an investigator I couldn’t help it: Tessa’s father was in this hotel six years ago when the shooter tried to assassinate the vice president . . . Because of his involvement he would likely know about the two rooms on the eighth floor . . . He was here this week at the time of this crime spree . . . The use of the two rooms pointed to a connection between the crimes . . .

  Could he possibly—

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Unlike the man we’d caught on tape pushing Mollie into the hotel, Lansing was over six feet tall and broad shouldered, didn’t favor either leg, wasn’t left-handed.

  Regardless, one thing remained certain: I was going to take a closer look into Paul Lansing’s past as soon as we got home.

  Another passage.

  Another tunnel.

  “If he tries to contact you again,” I told Tessa, “don’t talk with him or respond to his emails. And let me know right away.”

  “I will.”

  After a stretch of silence I felt the need to veer the conversation away from Lansing. “Good job, by the way, on getting this video. You’d make a great FBI agent.”

  She was quiet but seemed pleased by my comment.

  “Do you know how to read lips?” I asked her.

  She seemed taken aback by my question and shook her head.

  “Good.” I pulled out my cell.

  “What are you doing?”

  I cranked the door open. “Two quick calls. I’ll be right back.”

  After telling Missy Schuel about Lansing’s claims and assuring her that I would send her a copy of the video when I got home, I spoke briefly with Lien-hua, and she informed me that the congressman had been contacted and was on his way to make a positive ID.

  When I told her about Lansing and the Secret Service angle, she offered to do a little poking around to confirm that he really had been an agent. “Thanks,” I said, “but I’ll take care of it. Listen, it’s possible the killers didn’t just leave Mollie’s body there to confuse us. It’s possible they meant to come back for her.”

  “I already thought of that. With so many responding officers here and all the news coverage, it’s probably too late, but I did convince Margaret to get us three undercover agents to surveil the entrances and exits in case.”

  “As always, you continue to impress me, Agent Jiang.”

  “Thank you.” A pause. “In all seriousness, Pat, nice work on this.”

  “Thanks. Give me a shout later.”

  “I will.”

  I hung up.

  And took Tessa home.

  Four unzipped suitcases lay at Margaret’s feet.

  Seeing the contents reminded her of the time a killer had left the torso of one of his victims in the trunk of her car. Just to taunt her.

  A tight iciness coursed through her.

  Not a good memory.

  Congressman Fischer had insisted on making the ID here rather than at the ME’s autopsy room, and finally Margaret had agreed. He’d asked for all four suitcases to be opened, and now he was staring into the smallest one, at his daughter’s face. And when Margaret did as well, she noticed that Mollie’s eyes were still open.

  She felt a splinter of anger. As a show of respect, it’s standard procedure for the Evidence Response Team to close the victim’s eyes before any family members arrive. She glared at Agent Natasha Farraday, the ERT member who should have taken care of this, but obviously had not, then knelt and gently closed Mollie’s eyes herself.

  The congressman nodded to Margaret in appreciation for the gesture. Then, after a long unsteady moment, he looked into one of the suitcases on the left, pointed to a birthmark on Mollie’s left arm. “It’s her,” he whispered. “There’s no doubt.”

  Despite his apparent certainty, Margaret wanted conclusive DNA testing done before she released any information to the public.

  It took Agent Farraday a few moments to do the on-site test. As she did, Margaret couldn’t stop thinking about that body in the trunk of her Lexus in North Carolina—

  “It’s her,” Agent Farraday announced. “It’s Mollie.”

  The third confirmed victim since Tuesday night. Still no clear suspects, no persons of interest in the case.

  Margaret cleared the room so that the congressman could have some time alone with his daughter, then after a few minutes, he exited and his entourage shuffled him out of the hotel.

  As she watched Fischer walk away, she thought again of his brother’s connection to this hotel, and to the attempt on his life by the pro-death penalty activist.

  Cheyenne had asked her to see if Vice President Fischer’s speech had anything to do with primate metacognition, and she’d found that it had not: it was about the Constitution as a living document and what implications our changing views on the 5th Amendment’s rights to life and liberty might have on social issues today.

  The right to life.

  To liberty.

  Knowing the congressman’s stand on these issues might help the task force identify potential groups that might be politically motivated to harm his family, and perhaps provide a link to the assassination attempt six years ago.

  A look at the clock on her cell phone told her it was almost 5:30.

  You’ve been working for eleven hours straight, Margaret. Go home.

  But she doubted she could step completely away from the case. Tonight after dinner she would take a closer look at Congressman Fischer’s voting record and what might be at stake in this case.

  She left to pick up her things from her office and head home to feed Lewis.

  66

  5:34 p.m.

  As soon as Tessa and I arrived home, I forwarded to Missy Schuel the video Tessa had taken of her conversation with Paul Lansing, and only moments later, as I was getting ready to start looking into Lansing’s past, Missy called me.

  “I was debating whether or not to contact you,” she said, “but now, in light of everything that’s happened . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “One of Lansing’s lawyers finally returned my calls. I have a meeting with them tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow? I thought you said you were hoping—”

  “Next week. Yes. I expected that would be the earliest they might agree to meet. So now I’m wondering if this sudden eagerness to get together has something do to with Lansing’s
encounter with Tessa this afternoon.” A pause, and then, “Is it possible Paul was aware that their conversation was being taped?”

  I considered that. “The way he acted on the video, it didn’t appear so.”

  After a moment she said, “I concur, but in either case, these things never move this fast. Something else is going on here.”

  Immediately, I thought of Lansing’s connection with the former vice president. “I’m coming to the meeting,” I said.

  “I think it’s best if I go alone. At least for this initial—”

  “Missy, I’m coming.”

  “That’s not the way to play this.”

  “You have three children of your own,” I replied. “Did you attend the lawyers’ meetings after your husband left you? Or did you just trust that someone you barely knew was going to help you keep custody of your kids?”

  A thin pause. “Point taken. But if we’re going to work together, you’ll have to trust me.”

  “I do.”

  It’s Lansing I don’t trust, I thought, but I kept that comment to myself.

  “All right,” she said. “I advise against it, but it’s your decision. The meeting is at 3:30. My car is in the shop, so if you can pick me up at my office at 2:30, that’ll give us time to discuss specifics before heading over.”

  I agreed, and we ended the call.

  After my conversation with Missy, I went to the living room to see how Tessa was doing, and I found her lying on the couch reading a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. “I thought you hated Doyle in favor of—”

  “Poe. Yes. I do.” She didn’t bother to look up.

  “So you decided to give Doyle another shot?”

  “Pandora likes him. She’s always asking me to read these Holmes stories.” Finally she looked at me. “But this is definitely Doyle’s last chance.”

  Knowing Tessa, I guessed she’d turned to reading, one of her favorite pastimes, as a way of dealing with the trauma of the day. I tend to do the same thing—retreat into the familiar when faced with the overwhelming. “Tessa, would you like to talk about—”

  She went back to the book. “I’m not ready.”

  “Okay.”

  I tried to figure out how best to balance my obligations as a dad with my duties as an FBI agent for the rest of the night, but in the end I decided that until Tessa was ready, I’d let her be and get back to seeing what I could dig up on Lansing’s amorphous past.

  I took my laptop to the back porch, out of Tessa’s sight.

  From the notes Christie had left in her diary, I knew that Lansing hadn’t changed his name since they met, so I logged onto the Federal Digital Database and typed it in. Both Angela Knight and I had looked into his past when I first found out he was Tessa’s father, but I hadn’t explored a Secret Service angle and I doubted she had either.

  To begin, I targeted my search on the Secret Service’s discharges and transfers.

  Electronic trails like this are rarely conclusive, but when the government decides to erase your identity, the cover-up is also rarely airtight, so although there were gaps in what I found, there was evidence that one of the agents had moved to Wyoming shortly after the shooting. I worked for nearly an hour, and in time I uncovered enough hints, references, and inconsistencies to convince myself that Lansing’s story was true.

  In addition, I found that steps had been taken to remove the identity of one of the agents present the day of the assassination attempt.

  Yes, Lansing had been an agent and he had been there that day, but I noticed one major discrepancy between his story and the information I found: it appeared that the agent who’d used lethal force on the gunman was the one who had moved out West, not an agent who’d run for cover.

  Which in a way made sense, since it did seem odd that Vice President Fischer would remain friends with a disparaged Secret Service Agent whose failure to respond appropriately during an exchange of fire might have cost him his life.

  After a few more minutes of looking through the files, I realized I wasn’t going to make any more headway here. I would have to ask Lansing about it when I saw him tomorrow at the custody meeting. Deal with it then.

  For the moment I had what I needed, and there were a few other things that I needed to check into.

  I clicked to my email and found that Director Rodale had sent eight pdf files containing the research articles he’d promised me. In addition, Congressman Fischer had kept his word and forwarded his phone records and the accounts of his Gunderson Foundation financial contributions.

  Before reading through any of those files, though, I emailed the congressman expressing my sincere sorrow over what had happened to his daughter.

  Finding the right words to say in a situation like that is one of the toughest things to do, and it took me awhile to find ones that were not mere platitudes.

  At last when I was done, I cross-referenced the timing of his contributions against the list of potential suspects’ bank accounts, credit card statements, and bank deposit records, but found no correlation.

  I studied the financial records themselves, but honestly they looked innocuous enough, although his contributions were surprisingly generous.

  Nothing striking in the phone records, either, apart from a substantial number of calls to and from Director Rodale since March.

  After I was satisfied, I perused the Project Rukh research from Rodale, most of which contained equations about the temporal and spatial correlation of hemodynamic and electrophysiological signals in brain imaging, and although much of it was indecipherable to me, I did recognize that the research centered around the neural impulses that relate to different areas of cognition.

  Metacognition?

  Theory of mind?

  More caverns to the case.

  Last February when I was working the case in San Diego in which we’d stumbled across Project Rukh, I’d met a neuropathologist named Dr. Osbourne. He’d mentioned this type of research to me, and I gathered from what I read here that some of his work had survived. I would have contacted him now, but he’d died in a head-on collision in March.

  I wondered if there were any unusual circumstances surrounding his death, and I emailed Detective Dunn, a homicide detective in San Diego, to have him look into it for me.

  As I was sending the email, I saw Tessa approaching the deck. She leaned her head out the door to speak to me. “I made supper plans.”

  I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost 7:30. She must have been starving. “Right on.”

  “Please don’t say ‘right on.’”

  “Aren’t kids saying that again?”

  “Yes. Kids are. Adults are not.”

  “Gotcha. What’s for dinner?”

  “Chinese. Delivery.”

  A taste for Chinese food was one of the few things Tessa and I had in common. “Groovy,” I said.

  She looked at me incredulously. “I hope I just misheard you.”

  I smiled. “Come here.”

  She pulled up one of the deck chairs. “It should be here in like twenty minutes or so.”

  “Okay.”

  It had been a hard day, and I wanted to comfort her but had no idea what the right words might be. I said, “This afternoon. The primate place, I know it upset you, and then the hotel, that was horrible—believe me, if I’d had any idea that either place—”

  “I know, I know—you wouldn’t have taken me. Don’t worry, I’m just . . .” She shrugged again. “Anyway . . .”

  “If you decide you want to talk, I promise to listen and not say ‘right on’ the whole time.”

  “Or groovy.”

  “Or groovy.”

  It was a long time before she finally spoke, and when she did, she was staring intently into the twilight-enshrouded woods rather than at me. “Patrick, do you believe some people are born pure evil?”

  Her words struck me deeply but did not surprise me.

  Considering everything that had happened over the past fe
w days, it seemed like a pretty natural question to ask.

  I couldn’t help but think of psychopaths like Richard Basque, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Sevren Adkins, Gary Ridgeway, and of course, the killers from this week and their grisly, shocking crimes.

  You can’t work in law enforcement for any amount of time without the question of evil coming up, and over the years I’d thought about it frequently and eventually formulated an opinion, even if it wasn’t a complete answer.

  “I guess I think of it more like we’re all born with a shell of good around us, but it’s fractured—for everyone it is. We all know what’s right—even psychopaths who lack empathy are aware of their lack of compassion. I think all people know what’s good, even though, all too often, we’re attracted to what is not.”

  “To the fractures.”

  “Yes.”

  She thought for a moment. “Are you saying we have an instinct for evil?”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that. But we definitely have a weakness for it. I guess I’d maybe even say an inclination toward it.”

  She peered at the forest. “Because sometimes we enjoy doing it.”

  “Yes.” It was troubling to admit. “Sometimes we do.”

  “And if we’re good, then we seal up the fractures? Is that what you’re saying?”

  This is where things got a little sticky. “Actually, I don’t think we can seal them, Tessa. I don’t think anyone ever has. That’s why we have to be aware of—”

  “Dr. Werjonic.”

  “What?”

  “What he said: ‘The road to the unthinkable is not paved by slight departures from your heart, but by tentative forays into it.’”

  “Yes.” I was reminded that I wasn’t the only one who was still mourning his death. “He did used to say that.”

  We were both quiet.

  I wasn’t quite sure I agreed with Calvin’s statement, but knowing that Tessa was familiar with Shakespeare, I said, “I know it sort of flies in the face of that old ‘to thine own self be true’ quote.”