The Outsider

by Anthony Franze

  owh

  Three is Enough

  “I wonder what that’s all about,” Lauren said.

  “It explains why the agent was looking for anyone around here who liked owls,” Gray said.

  “What agent?” Lauren asked.

  Gray hesitated. Milstein had always been so stern with him about not disclosing anything. But this was Lauren. “After the garage attack, an FBI agent contacted me. It’s a long story.” He wasn’t quite up to telling her or anyone about his paranoid suspicions or about the embarrassing Praveen debacle. Milstein had told him to just be a law clerk, and that’s what he was determined to do.

  “They don’t think this is related to the attack on you and the chief, do they? Is that the Supreme Court connection?”

  “No … well, maybe, but I think they’ve been focusing on a kidnapping case from the nineties.”

  Lauren looked at him. “I didn’t know I was dating a wannabe G-man.”

  Gray smiled. “I didn’t know we were dating.”

  “Three is enough?” Lauren said, studying the photo of the graffiti sprayed at the Dupont Underground scene. “Why is that so familiar?” Then, she said, “It reminds me of Buck v. Bell.” Gray knew the decision, which was considered another one of the worst Supreme Court cases in history. Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes had upheld a state’s right to sterilize a mentally disabled woman. Referring to her and her mother and daughter, he wrote, “Three generations of imbeciles is enough.”

  “That’s weird,” Lauren said, pointing to the photo of Dupont victim Amanda Hill.

  “What?”

  “I could swear I saw the chief and that woman out on the plaza this summer. I remember because they seemed to be having an argument.”

  “Hmm, that is weird.” Gray looked back at the photo on the screen, the messy spray paint on a grimy wall:

  owh

  The closest he ever came to an owl clue at the court was noticing the animal symbols all over the Supreme Court building. Turtles, lions, owls. Ever since Justice Marcus’s clerk told Gray about them, he’d started noticing animals everywhere. Owls among the motifs on the frames outside the elevators, in the ornamental metopes in the Great Hall, and even one on the frieze in the courtroom.

  “You think it says ‘owl’?” Lauren asked. “The L looks weird to me.”

  Gray examined the spray-painted word more closely.

  owh

  She was right. The L seemed off. Like it might be an H. Could it be O-W-H? What could that mean if it wasn’t the word owl? He thought about it more. Three is enough. O-W-H. Oliver Wendell Holmes.

  Then it hit him.

  “Give me the phone. I need to call the FBI.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Gray called Milstein several times, but it always went to voice mail. If the former FBI agent’s murder really was connected to Dupont Underground, she was likely busy. He tried her one more time before he left for the First Saturday event. He’d hoped that the chief and Justice Wall would cancel since Saturday was so early in the the year, but no luck. This one, thank God, was less physical than zip lining and there would be no scary trip in a small plane. They were attending a “mixology” class at a place called Ripple in Cleveland Park, a drink-making course taught by a well-known D.C. bartender. It still surprised him the weird things rich people did with their money.

  Ripple was in a long, narrow space, filled with attractive young Washingtonians. The private room in the back was set up like a classroom with tables facing the bartender, a bald, unshaven guy with sleeve tattoos, who instructed them on how to make the drinks. It wasn’t ten minutes into the gathering when the chief and Justice Wall turned the whole thing into a competition. A blind taste test to see which team made the best drink. The event ended with everyone tipsy, except Praveen, who sipped soda water.

  With inhibitions down, the clerks asked the justices a lot of questions. What’s it like to be a member of the court? Were they going to the State of the Union next week given the president’s criticism of the court at last year’s speech? What’s the best part of the job? The worst? And then the questions turned personal.

  “You both met in high school?” Lauren asked Justice Wall, though she knew the answer to the question.

  Wall, thick-tongued, said, “Boarding school. We met on the cricket team, right, Bones?”

  The chief justice nodded.

  “Is it only Justice Wall or did everyone call you ‘Bones’?” Lauren asked the chief.

  But it was Wall who responded. “I came up with it. He was skinny as a rail; couldn’t hide behind a stripper pole if he needed to. Though there were one or two times we tried.”

  The chief seemed to grow uncomfortable. Gray couldn’t tell if it was the ribbing or because Wall was letting his guard down too much.

  “All right, enough about two dumb prep-school boys,” the chief said.

  “Is that when the competitions started?” Lauren pressed.

  The room went suddenly quiet. The competition between the men was obvious, but also unspoken.

  “Since the beginning,” Wall said, “Bones and I had to one-up each other. He was number one, I was number two in our high school class. He got into Yale first too. But I stole his girlfriend in college. And I got the job at the SG’s office.” Wall was less playful than he was during his remarks at Georgetown. “But, alas, he got the center seat.”

  The talk turned more serious when Wall’s clerk Audrey asked about the media reports that the Dupont Underground murders and the killing of the former FBI agent and his family were connected to the Supreme Court. The question seemed harmless enough, but it appeared to sober up the chief.

  “As I’m sure you can understand, the investigation is confidential. But, truthfully, I’m in the dark as much as you. We need to trust that our police squad is looking out for us. What I do know—what I can assure you—is that none of you are in any danger.” The chief then thanked everyone for coming, signaling that the question-and-answer session was over. “Next month,” he said, “we’ll try paintball.”

  Gray could only image the carnage of Douglas and Wall in camo, paint pellets flying.

  The group started gathering their coats and bags. Gray noticed the chief justice watching the way Lauren straightened Gray’s shirt collar, so he decided to put some distance between them. He made a point of leaving first and alone. The plan was to meet at Lauren’s place in Logan Circle.

  Gray stood on Connecticut Avenue, looking for a cab. His iPhone was dead, so he couldn’t get an Uber. Across the street was the Uptown Theater, one of the oldest movie houses in the District. When he was a kid, taking the subway to the Uptown was a special treat. It had a giant single screen and grand balcony. The theater had seen better days, however. The bulbs on the p in UPTOWN had burned out, and the building looked tired. With only one screen, it was hard to compete with a megaplex less than a mile away.

  As he looked over at Ripple to see if the others were making their way out, he heard a woman give an exaggerated clear of the throat in the parking lot nearby. He turned to look when she did it again. Agent Milstein. She was leaning against a dark sedan. She made eye contact with him, then disappeared into the car.

  Gray scanned the area. None of the clerks had left Ripple yet, so he walked over quickly and climbed into the sedan.

  “How’d you know I was here?” Gray asked.

  Milstein cocked her head to the side.

  “Right,” Gray said, “you’re the FBI.”

  A hint of amusement crossed Milstein’s lips. “If only it was so easy to find someone,” she said. “Your voice mail—you said you were going to Ripple.” She rolled her neck. “Your call sounded urgent?”

  “I think I found something.”

  Milstein sighed. “Found what?”

  “You’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

  She gave a rattle of the head, like she was getting annoyed he was keeping her in suspense.

  “The killer didn’t paint the word
owl on the wall at Dupont.” Gray pulled up a link to the Post story on his phone and zoomed in on the photo he’d bookmarked:

  owh

  “The L isn’t an L. I think it’s an H. The killer carved O-W-H.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean something?”

  “Oliver Wendell Holmes. O-W-H.”

  Milstein released a loud breath.

  “Oliver Wendell Holmes was one of the most revered Supreme Court justices,” Gray said. He was feeling less confident in his great detective work.

  “I know that, Gray. But even if you’re right that the letter is an H, it could mean anything. Thousands of people probably have the same initials.”

  “But did thousands of people use the phrase ‘Three is enough’ in a judicial opinion?”

  Milstein’s eyes narrowed. He had her attention. “Go on.”

  “Holmes was known as one of the court’s great writers. He was kind of the king of catchy one-liners, like ‘clear and present danger’ and the idea that free speech doesn’t mean you can ‘shout fire in a crowded theater.’ But he’s also known for authoring one of the most offensive lines in Supreme Court history.” He explained Holmes’s “three generations of imbeciles is enough.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Milstein said, holding up her hands. “Holmes said you shouldn’t ‘shout fire in a crowded theater’?”

  Gray gave a slow nod, realizing that he’d inadvertently given her some other useful information.

  “At the Franklin Theater,” Milstein said. “Some of the survivors reported that before anyone saw the smoke or blaze, someone started shouting that there was a fire, causing a panic, a stampede.”

  His heartbeat quickened with the thrill of giving her a real lead. The killer may have based two crimes—Dupont Underground and the Franklin fire—on decisions by Oliver Wendell Holmes.

  Milstein seemed lost in thought. She then pulled out a folder. “There’s something I want you to see.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Milstein found Cartwright in the field office gym, huffing on the elliptical machine, like he did every Monday morning. The baggy shirt covering his large frame was wet with sweat. For such an active person, he seemed incredibly out of shape. All Peggy’s big meals, and the beer he loved so much.

  She told him about the meeting with Grayson.

  “It’s interesting,” Cartwright said, “but we’re supposed to be focusing on Kevin Dugan, not the Supreme Court. Aaron’s confident that Dugan’s the perp and they feel like they’re closing in on him.” His arms moved back and forth on the machine.

  Milstein rolled her eyes. “The task force has two dozen agents looking for Dugan. They’re so focused on Kevin Dugan, they’re ignoring the connection to the Supreme Court. The killer spray-painted a line from a Supreme Court case at Dupont, and staged the Franklin fire based on another case. We know someone at the Supreme Court was looking for the reporter’s address. And the feather pens. Does that sound like a Kevin Dugan revenge plot? Dugan was a broken man, not a sadistic killer. And the Whitlock case had nothing to do with the Supreme Court.”

  “No, there is a connection to the Supreme Court,” Cartwright said. “Chief Justice Douglas is the guy who ruled that Kevin Dugan’s beatdown of the storekeeper required a child molester go free. It also ruined Dugan. Helped in the civil case against him. And it explains why there’s no physical evidence. Dugan knows what we look for, he was a career agent. And let’s not forget, Dugan has disappeared. You don’t drop off the grid unless you’re planning something. I hate to say it, Em, but you seem like you’re missing the forest for the trees.”

  “You know I hate stupid expressions.”

  “We need to focus on the Whitlock case. Finding Dugan.”

  “I’m doing that.”

  “Yeah? What’s the status with John Whitlock’s prison records? Have you checked the visitor logs? Called the halfway house he stayed at? Called homeless shelters?”

  “Don’t be a dick,” she said. “And let me ask you: have you or the task force checked the morgues for John Does? Have you considered that the last anyone saw of Dugan he was destitute, an alcoholic mess who more likely died choking on his own vomit than committing the crime of the century? Have you asked yourself how he got the feather quill pens and why?”

  Cartwright slowed his pace on the machine. “Good thought on the morgues,” he said. This is why it was so hard to get mad at him. He could disarm conflict so casually.

  Milstein said, “I’ve got Simmons calling around checking on the John Does.”

  “Keep making her work so hard, and she’ll stop idolizing you,” Cartwright said. He stepped down from the exercise machine and wiped his brow with a small towel. “Look, I’m fine focusing on the Supreme Court angle, but let’s not lose sight of the ball here.”

  “I’m not. The murderer, he’s trying to say something with these crimes. We just need to figure it out.”

  “You’ve been over and over that horror show, and you’ve found nothing.”

  Milstein hesitated, then said, “That’s why I let Hernandez see more crime scene photos.”

  Cartwright frowned. “Em, I told you last time that was a bad idea.”

  “He saw something in the Dupont scene no one else did. Maybe he’ll see something with the others. I’m desperate, Scott. You know what tomorrow is, don’t you?”

  Cartwright nodded. “The fifth of the month.”

  CHAPTER 53

  “You said you’d tell me about the crime scene photos,” Lauren said in a quiet voice.

  They were sitting in the private clerks’ room in the court’s cafeteria. Two of Justice Anderson’s clerks were eating lunch nearby.

  Gray picked at his limp salad. He looked over to Anderson’s clerks. “Can you tell your boss, please, for the love of God, can we just get some pizza or hamburgers in this place? The health food changes are killing me.” As the most junior member of the court, Justice Anderson was head of the cafeteria committee, and recently overhauled the menu to make it more healthy. Anderson was also the note taker and door opener for the justices during their secret deliberations. The high court’s hazing rituals for the newest justice.

  Anderson’s clerks laughed.

  Lauren wasn’t smiling.

  “You really wanna hear about all this?” Gray said. “The photos are horrible.” He put down his fork; the wilty salad was bad enough, now he had the bloody victims in his head.

  Lauren looked at him. “Why’d she show you the pictures?”

  “I’m not sure. She said they were closing in on the killer. She said people above her think they have the case solved, but she’s not so sure. We were the only ones who understood the messages left at the Dupont killings, and who helped link the Franklin fire to an Oliver Wendell Holmes decision. Milstein thinks the other scenes might have similar clues.”

  “So they’re gonna arrest someone soon?”

  “I think so. Someone connected to the Whitlock case, but Milstein still thinks they’re missing something.”

  Lauren ate a spoonful of her yogurt. “Did you see anything in the photos? Make any other connections?”

  “Not yet. The woman at the convenience store, she’d been beaten with a bag full of canned food. It’s hard to look at the pictures for more than a couple seconds at a time.”

  Lauren scrunched her face.

  “Did you tell the agent about the chief justice visiting with Amanda Hill?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to. She was in a rush. But we know the chief isn’t a suspect—he was attacked. And he was with us on Christmas when they think Ben Freeman was abducted.”

  “I know the chief isn’t involved. But what if Amanda Hill was at the court about something else and just visiting him? It could give them something to go on. I still think you should’ve told her.”

  “Relax, Nancy Drew. I’ll give her a call.” He was kicking himself for getting dragged back into the FBI mess. He decided to change the subject. “You said you’ve gotta take
off early today?”

  “Yeah, doctor’s appointment.”

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Of course. They make me see a shrink to get my Adderall prescription for my ADHD. Such a waste of time.”

  He’d seen a number of pill bottles in the medicine cabinet at her place. He didn’t snoop, but it made more sense now. He didn’t know she had ADHD. She was type-A, so it didn’t seem to fit. She was always surprising him.

  “Emilio’s got ADHD, and Miranda says the same thing. I guess they make you jump through hoops because the meds are technically a controlled substance.”

  “Anyway, the doctor’s office is in Logan Circle, so I’ll probably just work from home rather than lug all the way back here.”

  “I’ll call you if anything comes up. We’ve got everything covered for the chief, so no worries.”

  “Tell that to Keir.” She finished her yogurt and placed the empty container on the tray. “Can I see the crime scene photos?”

  Gray fished out his phone. He scanned the cafeteria before pulling up the images. Anderson’s clerks were cleaning up their trays to leave. “Milstein only let me take a couple pictures of the crime scene shots. You sure you want to see them? You’ll never be able to erase them from your memory.”

  Lauren nodded.

  The first photo was of Ben Freeman’s house. The killer had lined up Freeman’s son and his girlfriend on the ground. He dismembered them, but staged the bodies so they were symmetrical. They looked like two people lying next to one another, but their heads and limbs were separated from their torsos. Lauren seemed like she was suppressing a gag. Gray quickly swiped to another photo, this one the convenience store. It wasn’t of Sakura Matsuka’s bloody corpse, but something the killer wrote at the store in Matsuka’s blood: KORA MATSU.

  “The victim’s name was Sakura Matsuka, and the agent said that no one called her ‘Kora’ so they’re trying to figure out what it means. They think the killer may have been interrupted, since he wrote only the first five letters of her last name, which is Matsuka, not Matsu.”