Bombshell

by Catherine Coulter

  Dr. Hardy said, “I agree these look like massive deceleration injuries, Sherlock, such as a fall from several stories.”

  Sherlock rose and dusted off her hands on her pants. “Yeah, but not here, which means the killer carried him here, to this public stage, where he arranged him just so.” She stared silently down at the broken body. “He’s so young. This is such a waste, such a horrible, needless waste.” She shivered, tucked a hank of curly hair back beneath her wool cap. “Dr. Hardy, can you tell us anything else about him?”

  “Not a great deal. I’d say he was placed here within the last twelve hours; that’s as close as I can get since he’s frozen. He was alive when he suffered the visible injuries to his face and head. We’ll know at autopsy whether any of his other injuries were postmortem. I’ll have more for you this afternoon.”

  She said, “Thank you, Dr. Hardy. We’ll leave him to you, then. Ben, let’s go see Danny Franks.”

  As they carefully made their way through the heavy snow down the steps of the memorial, Savich asked her, “Sean’s okay?”

  “Sean’s well occupied with Simon and Lilly. Computer games and popcorn at your sister’s house.” Sherlock shivered. “It’s cold, Dillon; it’s so very cold. What kind of monster would do this? And why?”

  Savich said, “A monster wanting to make a statement, though it’s not clear what it is. Picking the Lincoln Memorial was a sure way to make the international news very fast.”

  Sherlock said to Ben Raven, “I’ll bet you Callie is already getting photos emailed to her at The Washington Post. I see the newspeople are setting up already.”

  Ben said, “I got a call from my wife a few minutes ago about the email she got along with a grainy photo shot from the sidewalk—impossible to see anything clearly through the snow. She wanted to know what was happening. Of course I couldn’t tell her.” He grinned. “It doesn’t keep her from hammering at me, though.” He looked up at the fat white flakes pelting down thick from the steel-gray clouds. “We’ll find out who our victim is soon enough, no doubt about that.” He paused, looked out over the Reflecting Pool. “Why are the weatherpeople always right when it comes to predicting the bad stuff?”

  Savich looked one last time over his shoulder through the falling snow at the statue of Lincoln. What kind of statement did this horrific act mean to send? Would they be hearing from this killer again? Soon? He saw the media had arrived en masse despite the weather, newscasters speaking urgently into microphones as they stood on steps that began at the edge of the Reflecting Pool, probably leading off by describing the Lincoln Memorial with its thirty-six Doric columns and what it means to all of us. What else would they have to talk about until they learned something about the dead young man up there?

  Ben eyed all the reporters. “Don’t let it slip your mind, Savich, that we’re standing on federal land, and that means you’re in charge. And these guys are all yours.” He gave Savich a huge grin and slithered off into a crowd of WPD officers.

  Savich manned up and spoke to the reporters. It was nice to tell them he didn’t know a thing yet, and not lie.

  Lincoln Memorial

  “Makes me sick,” Danny Franks said to Savich and Sherlock as they sat beside him in the Metro squad car. “Awful thing. I haven’t ever seen anything like that, I mean, this poor young guy, frozen dead, and he looked like someone beat him to pieces.” Franks’s voice shook, and he sucked in a deep breath, and focused his eyes on Sherlock’s face. She’d pulled off her wool cap, sending a riot of red hair around her face. Mr. Franks didn’t seem to be able to pull his eyes away from her hair. “I mean,” Mr. Franks continued, “you see dead bodies all the time on TV, even see them medical examiners cutting them open, showing bloody organs, whatever, but it isn’t real, you know it isn’t real.”

  Danny looked back up to the memorial. “That young man was so young, barely starting his life.”

  “I know what a shock it was, Mr. Franks,” Sherlock said, squeezing his gloved hand in hers. Even if she’d found his outpourings fascinating, she had to bring him back on track. “We need your help, sir. You seem like an insightful person, very visual. Can you tell us what you saw when you found the body?”

  “My wife always says I’m clueless, thick as a brick. It’s good to know an FBI agent thinks she’s wrong. I already told a bunch of cops everything, but I know you’re federal, so if the U.S. government wants to have another go, it’s all right with me.” He gave her a big smile. “You guys are at the top of the cop food chain.”

  Sherlock grinned back at him. “Start at the beginning, Mr. Franks, if you would.”

  He nodded. “It was almost nine o’clock when I climbed all those steps . . . Geez”—he looked down at his watch—“that was less than two hours ago. I didn’t see him at first. I was whistling ‘Yesterday,’ you know, the Beatles? Anyways, I was making sure everything looked like it’s supposed to when I nearly stepped on him.” He swallowed. “I really did nearly step on him. I looked down and couldn’t believe it. It’s a dead kid was all I could think, and someone took all his clothes and left him lying beside Lincoln and he’s frozen stiff.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “Not a soul; no one was out yet in this miserable weather. It was real cold, I was huffing my breath into my gloves to keep my pipes from freezing up, and like I said, I nearly stumbled over him.”

  Sherlock squeezed Franks’s hand again, kept all her attention on his ruddy face, seamed from years in the sun. He looked nearly sixty, a steady man, straightforward, and he was badly shaken. “It’s all right, Mr. Franks. Take your time.”

  “Okay. Like I said, there wasn’t anybody around except for the one guy I saw standing by himself by the Reflecting Pool, looking down at the water. I wondered if the guy was nuts. I mean, why stand there and freeze? I was thinking he wouldn’t want to come trudging up here, not with the wind howling all around the columns and the blowing snow.

  “As soon as I saw the kid, I called 911. It took a good five minutes for a couple of squad cars to arrive. I think the squad car we’re in is one of them. Glad they’ve got the heat cranked up. The officers came running up and we all stood around the kid—the body. Nobody could believe it. I mean, the cops weren’t as shocked as I was, but they were surprised, I could tell. One of them said to the other, ‘Call Detective Raven, he’s on.’ And so they did. In twenty minutes or thereabouts, here comes this big young guy, and he looks down at the body and says, ‘Federal land, FBI,’ and he called you guys, then sent his men to interview anyone they could find.”

  “So it wasn’t long until people started coming up to the memorial?”

  “Folks seem to sniff out when something bad’s happened. I’m sure you know that. They came by ones and twos, and the worst part of it was all of them wanted to rush in and freak themselves out. The cops pulled out crime scene tape, bright yellow, like on TV.

  “There were about twenty people, all yapping to beat the band, wanted to know what was going on, and they were snapping photos like you wouldn’t believe, until the cops managed to get them away again. I don’t know if they got any of the kid, though. I sure hope not. You think about his mama seeing her son like that—”

  Savich kept his voice slow and calm. “You said you saw a man standing by the Reflecting Pool, Mr. Franks. Did you see anyone else nearby? Anyone hurrying away? Running?”

  “No, only that one guy standing by the Reflecting Pool. Like I said, I remember wondering why he was here, I mean, you could freeze your eyeballs early this morning.”

  Savich said, “Can you describe him, Mr. Franks?”

  “He was all bundled up in a dark blue parka with the furred hood pulled up, nearly covered his face. I couldn’t tell if he was fat or thin, he just looked bulky. I was too far away to even guess how tall or short he was, sorry. I’d guess he wasn’t exactly fat; he gave me the impression he was strong, big, but I could be wro
ng.”

  Sherlock said, “Did you see this man anytime later? Could he still be here?”

  “No, and I’ve looked for him. Haven’t seen him anywhere since before the cops arrived.”

  Sherlock said, “Mr. Franks, when repairs are needed, how do you access the area above the ceiling in the central chamber where Lincoln is sitting?”

  “You don’t; there’s no access. If anything needs attention they’ve got to bring in those really big extension ladders, or put up scaffolding.”

  Savich said, “Did you look at the boy, Mr. Franks? At his face?”

  Danny Franks lowered his own face to his hands, both his hands still clutching Sherlock’s. “Yeah, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him good.”

  “Mr. Franks, did you think the young man looked familiar?”

  Mr. Franks shook his head. “His face was such a mess, I don’t have a clue who he is.”

  • • •

  TWO HOURS LATER, Savich and Sherlock were at the Hoover Building when Palmer Cronin, the retired former chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank, called the FBI to identify the dead boy as his grandson, Tommy Cronin, still on his winter break from Magdalene College. His grandmother had made out her grandson’s white frozen face in a photograph picked up by an Internet news site. Someone had posted it on YouTube.

  Maestro, Virginia

  Early Saturday afternoon

  Griffin had to pull over for half a dozen big SUVs on his prayer-filled drive through winding snow-drenched streets on his way from the hospital to Professor Salazar’s house on Golden Meadow Terrace in Maestro. He slid up as close as he could to the curb in front of Professor Salazar’s ranch-style home. Its sloping roof and large front yard were covered with snow and flanked by snow-laden oak and pine trees. He counted four cars in the driveway. Was the party still going on?

  The front door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.

  A woman about his age, wearing pink shorts, of all things—and in the winter and while it was snowing—a nubby pink sweater, and black boots to her knees blinked up at him. Her hair was long and black, parted in the middle, hanging down on either side of her pale, striking face. She eyed him. “Oh, I thought it was Barbara finally back from Starbucks, but no, you are a guy.”

  She sounded French. She’d spoken formally, but her English seemed perfectly fluent. A student?

  “How can you tell?” Griffin’s face was covered up to his eyebrows.

  She said, “You are tall, and I can picture your legs inside those nicely fitting jeans. Come on in; everyone is in the living room and kitchen. Hurry, I am freezing. Hang your coat on the rack.”

  No wonder she was freezing, Griffin thought, watching her hurry into the house, her hair streaming down her back, straight as a board. He shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his parka and wool scarf, pulled off his ski cap and gloves, and hung everything on a coat rack near the front door. She called over her shoulder, “I am Gabrielle DuBois. I am Parisian, in case you are wondering about my accent. I play the oboe. Rafael and I make beautiful music together.”

  Guitar and oboe duets?

  “I sing as well—in fact, better than I play the oboe.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Griffin said.

  She turned to say something else and her mouth snapped shut. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

  “Mon Dieu, if you had been at the party last night every female would have wanted to leave with you. C’est pas bon—Rafael isn’t going to like you at all. Who are you?”

  Griffin thought she sounded both a bit alarmed and amused. Her French accent had thickened, and why was that? He fumbled pulling his creds out of his jeans pocket because her eyes were following his every move. He gritted his teeth, finally held up his shield. “Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith, FBI.”

  “Mais c’est impossible!” came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, “But how can you be an FBI agent? I mean, you should be a movie star like Brad Pitt.”

  “Can’t act,” he said.

  Gabrielle gave him a classic Gallic shrug. “Ah, but who would care if you can act, except for those idiot critics no one with a heart pays any attention to?”

  A male voice heavy with the mellifluous cadence of Barcelona called out, “Gabrielle! Who is at the door? Is it Barbara? With my Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte?”

  Griffin waved a hand toward the voice. “Professor Salazar, I presume?”

  “Yes, that is he, and he is not going to like you, pas du tout.” Gabrielle gave him a wicked smile, and sashayed away, hips at full throttle. Griffin smiled after her since he wasn’t dead, and followed her mobile butt and swinging hair toward the noise. He’d hoped to find the professor alone, but that was not to be.

  He stepped into a long, narrow living room to see a half-dozen women, though none in shorts like Gabrielle, all chatting and laughing as they filled plastic tubs with dirty plates and glasses, emptied overflowing ashtrays, rearranged furniture. How did the good professor manage to pull off a cleaning crew like this? And in this weather? Griffin was impressed.

  Professor Salazar was the only man in the room. Griffin hadn’t taken the time to check up on Salazar before he came over. He wanted to get a sense of his character before knowing anything else about him. He was tall and dark, his black eyes heavily lidded—smooth-looking was the word that came to Griffin’s mind. His haughty dark brows and high-bridged nose were set in a face that hadn’t seen forty in a good long time. He had thick black hair, with distinguished flecks of gray at the temples, and beautiful hands, with long, tapered fingers. All in all, Griffin thought, he managed to carry off the European aristocrat look rather well, but sadly, he also reminded Griffin of a complacent lizard sunning on a rock, fully aware that his rock was the most important anywhere around. He was wearing dark slacks, moccasins, and of all things, he wore a smoking jacket. A cigarillo dangled between his fingers. Maybe he was trying for the Barcelona Bohemian look. Griffin wanted to tell him he was an idiot to smoke.

  He was staring toward Griffin, not moving. He did not look happy. And why was that, since his house was getting cleaned for him?

  “Oh, hi,” said another young woman, stepping in front of him. She came to his armpit, a little fairy with long glossy light brown hair kept back from her face with a gold band. She was wearing sweats and sneakers. “I’m Gloria. I play the viola.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “My goodness, I can’t believe Professor Salazar actually asked you here to help clean up. Why haven’t I ever seen you before?”

  “I just got into town.”

  She brightened. “What is your instrument?”

  “Sorry, no instrument.” He pulled out his creds again. “He didn’t invite me. I’m from the FBI, here to see the professor.”

  Gloria blinked up at him as she quickly stepped back. “I swear we didn’t smoke anything but a little weed last night, and Professor Salazar didn’t know about it, well, maybe he did, but he didn’t have any—I didn’t see any cocaine or anything really illegal like that, really.”

  “I’m here because of Delsey Freestone.” He’d raised his voice a bit and the room fell silent, every face fastened on his. “Have you heard what happened to her?”

  Griffin saw Professor Salazar straighten when he said Delsey’s name. He hurried over, introducing himself in midstride. Griffin showed him his creds and the good professor waved them away.

  “What do you mean about Delsey? Something’s happened to her? Is she all right? She left last night without telling me. I looked for her, but someone said she slipped out the back door. I tried calling her this morning to see if she wanted to come over, but there was no answer, only voice mail. Why is the FBI here?”

  Griffin told them Delsey was in the hospital with a concussion because she’d been struck down in her apartment late last night, assailant unknown. He said nothi
ng about the blood in the bathtub. “No one called any of you? Apparently, it’s all over town.”

  Salazar said, “Our little party ended rather late. I gather many of us have hardly been out. But she will be all right, will she not?”

  Griffin nodded.

  “I’m so sorry,” another young woman said, this one thin as her black pigtails, and wearing six rings on her fingers. She reminded him of Abby on NCIS, but without the tattoos. “Delsey’s a sweetheart. Was it a robbery?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “Can we see her?”

  “She has a concussion, so she’s not up to visitors yet,” Griffin said.

  “Please tell her we’re all hoping she gets well soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s awfully cold out. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I prefer to wait for Barbara and that Starbucks nonfat mocha cinnamon latte.”

  There were nervous laughs.

  “This is terrible,” Salazar said, stubbing out his cigarillo in an ashtray held out to him by another woman, this one about Delsey’s age. Salazar’s accent grew exponentially thicker as he said, flapping his hands, “My beautiful Delsey, how could such a thing happen here in Maestro? This is hardly New York, where robberies take place every second. Who would do this? She should have been safe here, but then again, this is America, and who knows what can happen anywhere in America? There is too much violence on your television. It is disgraceful.

  “Poor Delsey would have stayed here if Elliot had left her alone, but no, he was all over her, getting her to drink his deadly margaritas—and that is why she went home and interrupted a robbery, is this correct? It is his fault this happened.” Salazar caught himself when he realized every ear in the living room was wide open and receiving.

  “We don’t know yet whether or not it was a robbery.”