by Steven James
“I think we should take a closer look at her.”
“You think she might be one of the killers?” I was shocked. “And what? Cassidy is her partner?”
“I’m only saying they warrant a closer look.”
“Run it down.”
“Remember how earlier today I was looking into law enforcement connections? I started with the six names you gave me, but that didn’t take me anywhere.”
“And then you were going to explore the lack of DNA evidence.”
“Yes, but here was the problem: since we hadn’t found evidentiary DNA at the scene, we’d been assuming the killers hadn’t left any.”
I considered her words. “That assumption seems pretty well-founded.”
“I decided to assume the opposite.”
“You assumed that the killers did leave their DNA.”
Yes. Nice.
She pulled the lab analysis reports from the stack of papers.
“I had the lab rerun the samples, you know, in case the killers had tried to alter or fake the evidence, but it all came back with the same results, so I took a closer look at the evidence that we did have, the DNA that would naturally be present—”
“From those who worked the scenes.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what led you to Farraday and Cassidy.”
As she spoke, she pointed to various notes she’d highlighted in the reports. “Take Natasha first. She’s worked every crime in this series, was the first to arrive at the hotel the day you were shot. She was the one who found the wheelchair in room 809, the one who cleared Mahan’s car and the handicapped van, and was even the agent who oversaw the evidence handling when the congressman went to identify Mollie’s body at the hotel.”
“The suitcases.”
“Yes.”
“So of course we would expect to find her DNA at every crime scene.”
“Yes. And we do.”
There had to be more. “What else?”
“The timing of her arrival at the primate center on Tuesday night would have given her just enough time to leave the facility in the guise of Aria Petic and then return with the emergency responders after Sandra Reynolds’s 911 call.”
Hmm.
An idea formed in my mind.
Some aspects of the Bureau’s personnel files are confidential, but some are not. I flipped open my computer, set it on a desk. “Still all circumstantial.”
“Her age fits, she has a build similar to Aria’s, knows forensics, has a submissive personality, and arrived in the DC area shortly before the crime spree began.”
Again, all circumstantial, but admittedly, each additional fact added weight to the possibility that Lien-hua was on to something.
Imagine it, Pat, the thrill of committing a crime, and then returning to process it. It would be overwhelming, the sense of power . . .
And it would be very difficult to build a case against you based on the presence of your DNA at the crime scene since your DNA would naturally be present.
“Cassidy found the luggage claim tag,” I said, “but Farraday went through the car first.”
“She could have planted it.”
I shook my head. “But why take that chance if you were the killer? Why not just leave the claim tag when you left the laptop?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Good point.”
I tapped at my computer, brought up Natasha Farraday’s files.
Lien-hua watched me. “I checked, Pat. She lives less than a quarter mile west of the hot zone.”
One step ahead of me.
“So she fits both the psychological profile and the geoprofile.”
“Yes.”
“She’s a new transfer . . .” I mumbled. Now I was scanning Cassidy’s files. “And Cassidy is her superior, and his personality is more dominant . . .”
“I know it’s nothing solid,” she admitted. “Just a series of coincidences.”
“But apparent coincidences—”
“Always warrant closer inspection.”
“Very nice,” I said, “word-for-word from my book.”
“What can I say, I’m a fan.”
I glanced over the evidence again. “What have you done so far to try and disprove Farraday and Cassidy’s involvement?”
“Well, of course, that’s the tricky part here. It’s all a house of cards. Circumstantial, like you said. I can’t just start showing pictures of my colleagues to the Rainey children or the taxi driver.”
I considered that.
The Rainey boy had said that the man leaving the alley was scarred, but Cassidy had no scars on his face.
Scars can be faked.
“Could someone be setting them up?”
She shook her head. “I don’t see how. The crime scene assignments came from either dispatch, Margaret, or Rodale. The killers would need to know the ERT’s dispatch protocol and response time.”
Who would know those times?
I’d first met Natasha Farraday at the primate center Tuesday night . . . then I saw her at the hotel on Wednesday . . . then—
Wait.
SED-UAR.
IPR-OMI.
Said you are . . .
I promised you are . . .
Natasha had mentioned she read my books . . .
She questioned you about Mahan’s car, how you knew that one was the vehicle the killer had used . . .
I closed my computer. Stood.
“What are you thinking?”
“The lab at Quantico,” I said.
Lien-hua shook her head. “We don’t have enough here to justify talking to them. We barely have—”
“I don’t want to talk to them. I want to look more closely at what they brought back from the scenes.”
She quickly collected her things. “I’ve been in this building since 10:30. I’m coming with you.”
I had no quarrel with that.
“We’ll take my car,” I said. “There are a few tunnels I want you to help me explore on the way.”
Tessa answered the door.
Detective Warren stood on the porch holding a grocery bag in one hand, her computer satchel in the other. “Hey,” she said.
Tessa moved aside. “Come on in.”
Cheyenne held up the groceries as she entered. “How does falafel burgers, humus, and tortilla chips sound? Oh, and some root beer?”
“Righteous.” Tessa closed the door.
The detective’s eyes flitted to the chessboard. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Tessa.”
“Not this time. Tonight you’re the one who’s going down.”
A slight grin. “We’ll see about who’s going down. Come on, let’s get something to eat, and then we’ll get started with the game.”
Margaret stepped into Semansky’s Bar.
A few pool tables. Air that reeked of stale beer. Slow, heavy country music drawled from the speakers hidden in the ceiling. A thin film of smoke creased the air. It was illegal to smoke in restaurants in DC, but it was pretty clear that the owners of Semansky’s weren’t too concerned about that ordinance.
She looked around.
A few sleepy businessmen sat in the shadows, caressing their drinks. Two of them looked up when she walked in but then disappeared into their own little worlds when she ignored them.
What a pit.
No sign of Rodale.
Over the loudspeakers, a country singer was hoping to get his wife back.
She scanned the room again, and this time saw Greg seated by himself in a corner booth, an empty beer glass on the table in front of him. She approached him, and he greeted her a little too warmly: “Margaret.”
“Greg.” She took a seat across from him in the booth. “Thank you for taking the time.”
“Of course.”
A wispy waitress with frenzied hair and too much makeup appeared out of nowhere. “Refill?” she asked him.
“Give me another Strasman Dark.” He looked toward Margaret. “Want a drink?” She wondered h
ow many he’d had already.
“No thanks.”
“You sure?” the waitress asked her.
“I’m sure. But thank you.”
“Thank you,” she replied in that tone of voice that means “Then why are you taking up my table space?”
“Bring us a basket of fries too,” Greg added.
Their server sloughed off into the darkness. Music throbbed.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“You wanted to discuss some memos.” Obviously he wasn’t interested in wasting any time.
“Greg, you passed along Defense Department files to the private sector before they’d been carefully reviewed, vetted, and cleared.”
“There was nothing top secret in the research, Margaret. Project Rukh had been terminated. Besides, the program had originally been subcontracted to a private firm.”
“Under the oversight committee’s supervision.”
He let a moment pass. Didn’t reply.
“The decision was ill-advised and premature.”
He dismissed her concerns. “So we have a difference of opinion concerning the matter. What else?”
“Tell me about Dr. Renée Lebreau.”
“You’ve been talking to Ralph Hawkins.”
“How do you know her?”
He gazed into the shadowy confines of the room. Ran his finger gently across the tabletop. “Renée and I met at a conference years ago, before I was appointed FBI Director, before she was a professor.” He said the words as if they were a prepared statement.
“Before your divorce.”
He eyed Margaret coolly. Stilled his hand. “Yes. Before my divorce.”
“Did you suggest that she look into Richard Basque’s case two years ago? Is that how she became involved?”
“Why are you bringing this up, Margaret?”
“Because she disappeared and Basque is here in DC and I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Now you sound like Bowers.”
The waitress reappeared, deposited the basket of fries, Rodale’s beer, and a glass of cloudy water for Margaret, then vanished into the shadows again.
Greg took a sip of the beer. “Considering all the media hype and Basque’s claims over the years that he was innocent—and the fact that the case involved Bowers, one of our highest profile agents—yes. I reviewed Basque’s files.”
“And?”
“And I felt there were enough inconsistencies to justify a lawyer giving his case a fresh look.”
“Not just a lawyer, a law professor. He had plenty of lawyers. She’s one of the nation’s most outspoken anti-death penalty—”
“I knew Lebreau.” His words had turned hard. “I gave her a call. That’s it. There’s nothing unethical about that. On the phone you mentioned nanotechnology.”
Now for the big one. “You stand to benefit if the Gunderson Foundation has any breakthroughs.”
“How’s that?”
“Stock.”
“The Gunderson Foundation is a nonprofit organization. What are you talking about?”
“It was clever,” she said. “If they make any breakthroughs, it’ll catapult the whole industry forward, sending stock prices at the other firms in the business skyrocketing. But through it all, you stay one step removed. Still, with the purchase of those stocks, we have breach of trust, conflict of interest, possibly insider trading.”
He took a long sip of his drink. “Did you come here to blackmail me, Margaret?”
“By no means, but there are too many holes in all this. It’s going to come to light eventually. I’m giving you the opportunity to bypass all that, to come clean before it happens.”
“Before you make it happen.”
She didn’t reply.
He set down his beer and gave her a look that seemed to contain both derision and defeat. “You just want my job, Margaret.”
He was right about that, and they both knew it. The FBI Director was appointed by the President of the United States with the Senate’s approval, but an executive AD would almost certainly make the short list if the Director resigned or was asked to step down. “That’s what this is all about,” he said, then repeated, “You want my job.”
“That’s not all I want.”
He nodded as if he’d been expecting that. He slid the beer aside. “What else?”
“I want what’s best for the Bureau, Greg.”
He waited as if expecting her to go on, but when she didn’t he said, “You can’t prove any of this.”
“Give me time. I’m pretty good at connecting the dots.”
He poured ketchup on the fries. “So you want me to resign, is that it?”
“I want you to give a press conference. Explain your reasons. Clear the air.”
“And then resign?”
“Do what you feel is right.”
He left the fries alone but drank some more beer, and it seemed to bring him new resolve. “You quoted a bogus regulation to keep Bowers off this case for forty-eight hours.”
“He was shot. I was doing it for the good of the Bureau. For his own good.”
“That might not be how the Office of Professional Responsibility will see it. We all know your history with Bowers; you’ve been gunning for him for years. I assigned him to the case, and even though he was willing to continue working it, and physically able to, you lied to him, pulled him from it, and hampered the investigation. It might have put innocent people’s lives at risk.”
“That’s absurd.”
His voice grew softer, but colder. “You didn’t follow up to make sure the ME positively identified the body found at the primate center Tuesday evening. If you had, Mollie might still be alive. Two hours ago the Summie family filed a lawsuit against the Bureau. Now that’s on your shoulders. Something you’re going to have to answer for.”
Margaret hadn’t heard about the lawsuit and wasn’t sure what to say.
“If you want to play hardball, Margaret, I can play hardball.”
“With all due respect, sir. Bring it on.”
A stiff silence.
“Do you know where she is?” Margaret asked. “Renée Lebreau?”
“No.”
“Do you know why she might have disappeared this week?”
A deep sadness swept across his face, and Margaret was shocked to see how quickly his demeanor changed. “Basque,” he said. The strain in the word told Margaret that Greg had not just known Renée casually. “I was wrong about him.”
“So now you believe he’s guilty?”
No reply.
“Is she dead, Greg?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in over a year.” Margaret wasn’t sure if she believed that. She waited for him to go on.
Rodale cradled his beer in his hands, and she realized that he looked small and frightened. But she was wary. She’d learned long ago that when people get scared they become desperate. And desperate people take desperate measures.
He took a breath, met her gaze. “Think about what I said concerning you and Bowers. Your last run-in with OPR ended up with you stuck at a satellite office in North Carolina for what? Almost five years? Think about your future, Margaret.”
“Oh, I am, Greg.” She stood. “That’s why I came here tonight.”
Then she paced out the door and left for home to prepare the statement she was going to give to the press tomorrow morning.
99
Lien-hua and I were on I-95 heading toward Quantico.
I checked my texts again. Tessa was home and she was fine and I was starting to feel like an overprotective parent—not a bad feeling. I had Lien-hua text Tessa for me, asking what she was doing, and she replied: “nmjc c/dw.”
I knew that nmjc was teen texting lingo for “nothing much just chillin’.”
With a little deduction I realized c/ is short for the Latin word “cum,” which means “with,” and dw would be Detective Warren.
I only wishe
d it was that easy to decipher this case.
As Lien-hua set down the phone, she said, “So what are these tunnels you’d like to explore?”
“Psychopathology and justice reform.”
A moment. “Go on.”
“Here’s what I’ve been thinking. The congressman is financially in bed with this whole neuroscience research industry.”
“That’s Washington, Pat. Special favors, lobbyists. Politics as usual.”
“Except that because of the location of Twana’s murder, it ties in with this case. Besides, people only lobby when they have an agenda. And it’s almost always either money or morals—to make a buck or to make a point.”
“That sounds like profiling.”
“Just an observation.”
“No, definitely profiling. I must be wearing off on you.”
“Well, I won’t argue with that, but here’s the thing: the Gunderson Foundation is researching primate metacognition, neuroscience, and aggression—the neurology of violence. Meanwhile, Fischer is cosponsoring a bill that’ll provide federal funding for the in-vitro testing of babies for neurological or genetic disorders.”
She listened quietly. “I didn’t know that.”
“And two of his biggest campaign supporters are firms that provide this service.”
“They stand to benefit a lot if the bill passes.”
“And if they benefit, so does he.”
Silence. “How do you see this relating to the murders?”
“I’m not sure, but in the context of the Project Rukh files and Gunderson Foundation research, what if scientists could do that?”
As a profiler, Lien-hua was one of the Bureau’s top experts on criminal psychology. I was anxious to hear her take on this. I continued, “What if it were possible to definitively identify the specific neurological or genetic conditions that cause violent behavior or psychopathology?”
“We already know some of the neurological factors,” she said, “but behavior could never be pinned down that narrowly, that conclusively. There are just too many things that influence our decisions and condition and affect our behavior. You know that as well as I do.”
“Upbringing, socialization, environmental cues, neurological differences, genetic makeup, chemical imbalances—some people even think spiritual forces are at play—”
“Yes, but we can’t blame bad genes or our parents or the devil for our crimes. We’re each accountable for our own choices.”
