Fatally Bound

by Roger Stelljes

  “My guess is there aren’t any traffic or security cameras right around here,” Mac stated. “But we should pull traffic and surveillance cameras anywhere remotely around here and see if we see a truck or SUV leaving this area between 11:00 P.M. and midnight.”

  “We’ll do that,” Gesch answered. “However, I lived in this town for a while and know this area. There are lots of ways in and out of here, mostly through residential neighborhoods,” which meant no cameras, “but we’ll try.”

  Gesch was on his cell phone immediately.

  “We know how he got to her, but why kill her outside?” Delmonico asked. “That’s different.”

  “Maybe there was never a chance to get her somewhere inside,” Wire answered.

  “Or maybe leaving her body lying outside the television station, gutted unlike anything I’ve ever seen, has some symbolic meaning particular to Faye. She was a reporter, maybe there is something symbolic about that.”

  “Man, a reporter. This is going to be awful,” Delmonico moaned.

  “He’s getting braver and more daring for sure,” Mac suggested, “not to mention confident.”

  “And vicious,” Wire added. “That wound …”

  “He’s escalating.” Mac agreed. “And …”

  “What?” Delmonico asked.

  He shook his head, “He wouldn’t dare, I don’t think.”

  “What?” Wire and Delmonico asked in unison.

  “He wouldn’t be hanging around, would he?”

  Delmonico stopped, stared at him and said, “Probably not, but we shouldn’t …”

  “Take the chance,” Mac finished the thought. “We need all footage being shot, we need pictures and we need to go right now and see who is hanging around that shouldn’t be.”

  • • • •

  He wanted to stay around and watch. The itch to do it was there, especially with Sandy Faye.

  “A proud look, a lying tongue and hands that shed innocent blood.”

  Proverbs was perfect.

  Hers was, so far, the most satisfying of the kills.

  She was the one who pushed hard for them to keep going and not stop. She had her career, already off to a good start at the time, and nothing could get in the way of that.

  Now, all her friends, colleagues and rivals would be coming to the scene. The media swarm would have been fascinating to watch. It was tempting, but ultimately, the smart play was to stay away. Where he took her, where he left the body, the location behind the television station, all made the location too difficult to get to and not look out of place. That and the fact that the FBI might think he would be hanging around made it too dangerous, at least this time.

  The risk was simply too big.

  The news coverage would have to do.

  He wasn’t doing this for himself. This mission was to avenge someone else. However, he’d expected more media attention when it started, the biblical verses, the brutal murders, the Holy Cross, all elements that made for a great media story. With Donahue, and her family’s political and financial prominence, he thought more coverage would come, and there was an increase after her murder and plenty of attention was paid to the false alarm in Harrisburg. But overall, he expected more, he wanted more. To a certain degree, he was counting on it, to help with the misdirection.

  He was pretty certain now he would get it.

  Her prominence and his viciousness would assure it.

  Since her body was discovered early in the day, the news channels were just getting up to speed on the discovery, mostly borrowing from the local Baltimore television feeds. The FBI and local authorities were keeping the media a good distance away from the crime scene. In time, though, the people he’d been looking for appeared. First he saw Gesch and Delmonico. The agents chasing him for nearly three months now looked grim and tired. It took another while of flipping around from channel to channel on the coverage until he saw them, the tall blond man and attractive brunette. They were on the scene again.

  He’d been pretty certain they weren’t local cops in Harrisburg.

  They were Feds.

  Then around 8:30 A.M. as he was watching the coverage on Morning Joe on MSNBC, he finally was able to get names to go with the blond and brunette. Heather Foxx, an NBC correspondent, reported from the scene: “It appears that the FBI task force investigating the Reaper has added two investigators, Mac McRyan and Dara Wire.”

  “McRyan and Wire,” the Reaper muttered. “Those names ring a bell.”

  Heather Foxx continued: “As you will recall, they are the two that broke open the investigation on the Wellesley Campaign and their attempts to manipulate the vote in the days before last November’s presidential election.”

  “Heather, how is it we know Mr. McRyan and Ms. Wire are involved?” Joe Scarborough asked.

  “They were seen arriving at the crime scene this morning, Joe, almost within the hour of the discovery of Sandy Faye’s body.”

  “Heather, do we know how it is that these two have become involved in the investigation and how long perhaps they have been involved?”

  “We don’t as of yet, but that will be something we’ll be following up on to learn what role they may be playing.”

  “Thank you, Heather,” Scarborough then turned to Mika and the panel, which included Mike Barnacle and John Heilemann. “Well,” Joe stated, “let’s discuss this for a minute. Here’s what I’m thinking, guys. As you will recall, the Reaper’s last victim was Hannah Donahue, the daughter of William Donahue. We know Bill Donahue spoke with the president the day after his daughter’s death. Is it possible that the president turned to two trusted hands to help with the investigation? Is it possible Mr. Donahue asked the president …”

  “Bill Donahue doesn’t ask for things,” Heilemann said with a smile, “he demands things.”

  “Okay,” Scarborough replied. “Is it possible that Bill Donahue demanded results and the president perhaps suggested to FBI Director Mitchell that he assign some of his trusted people to the investigation?”

  “I think without question,” Mike Barnacle stated. “That’s what we’ll find out. I mean, how better to mollify Bill Donahue than to put two people like that on his daughter’s murder investigation. What more could the president possibly do?”

  The Reaper turned off the television. Interesting, he thought. The president is watching developments of the case. He pulled his laptop over and typed Mac McRyan and Dara Wire into Google Search.

  • • • •

  “Mac will be thrilled,” Sally said, sitting on the couch in the Judge’s office.

  “It was inevitable,” Judge Dixon stated, running a fresh cigar under his noise. “Their faces are too recognizable. I thought it would come out after their little incident in Harrisburg.”

  “How do you want to handle it?”

  “Handle what?”

  “The White House’s role in putting Mac and Wire into the investigation. We, meaning the White House, are going to get asked about it. I mean now that Scarborough and his crew have figured this out, it won’t take long for the other networks to get in on the act.”

  The Judge was nonplussed, “For now, Director Mitchell will have to handle that. It’s his show.”

  Sally smirked, “We’re going to get asked. The White House is going to get asked. The dots have just been connected.”

  “And if we do, we do. Look, if this were a political investigation of something we did wrong or the government did wrong, some law was violated and we maneuvered those two into the investigation, then we’d need to cover our tracks and be very careful about how we responded. This is a serial killer case and one of our good friend’s daughter was killed. We offered all assistance, including asking two first-class investigators to help. If someone wants to make a political issue out of that …” the Judge looked to her skeptically.

  “Bring it on,” Sally finished, understanding the Judge’s point.

  “Exactly,” the Judge answered. “Of course, perhaps you
should mention that to Mac when you call him here in a minute.”

  “I’m calling him?”

  “Yes you are, and when you do, tell him to avoid the media on this and let those in a higher pay grade handle it.”

  “I won’t have to tell him that twice.”

  • • • •

  “Understood,” Mac answered Sally as he followed Baltimore detectives to Faye’s condo in downtown Baltimore on the Inner Harbor. He had her on speaker so he could sip his Starbucks. He’d been planning on ten plus hours of sleep. He might have gotten four.

  “So where are you going?” Sally asked.

  “Gesch and Delmonico are going to the autopsy. Others are questioning the staff at the television station. Wire and I are going to check out Sandy Faye’s condo.”

  “Hmpf,” Sally snorted.

  “What?”

  “They’re giving you two the B or even C duty?”

  Mac smiled, “To the contrary, my lady, Wire and I wanted this. We have a theory.”

  “Do you now?” Sally asked, interested.

  “Yes we do.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Ahh, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need to have my theory appearing in the media thirty minutes later, Ms. Deputy Director of White House Communications. Especially now that the media is aware of our involvement and quite rightly speculating the White House got us involved. Time to build a Chinese Wall.”

  “I’m hurt, Mac,” Sally replied lightly and he could imagine her smiling. “I’m hurt, just so hurt, that you think I’d do that.”

  “Whatever,” Mac answered, rolling his eyes. “Look, if our theory pans out we’ll let you know.” With that he hung up.

  “And what exactly is our theory?” Wire asked curiously, sipping her coffee.

  “I don’t know that it’s a theory as much as my gut, but we’re only going to find what connects these women by knowing them inside and out. There is something that connects them, there has to be, we just haven’t found it yet, or maybe we found it and we just don’t realize it.”

  “What if there isn’t, Mac? What if there isn’t a connection between them? What if our killer is just a nut job gone wild?”

  “I just don’t think that’s the case. He’s not your standard serial killer. This is something different.”

  “Why?” Dara asked seriously. “I mean, why can’t the guy just be crazy?”

  “Something is clearly amiss with his brain chemistry, Dara,” he answered. “That part’s for sure, and what he’s doing is bat shit crazy. But the way he’s going about doing it is not. He’s methodically selecting and hunting these women. There is nothing random about them. They’re all in the same age range, generally attractive, good citizens and successful for the most part. And, with the exception of Sandy Faye this morning, he’s interrogated them. Why? What’s he after?”

  Wire shrugged, “I don’t know.”

  “Dara, it’s because there is something they have in common or that our killer thinks they have in common and once we find that, then maybe we get a little insight into our killer and how to find him. That’s my story, that’s my theory anyway, and I’m sticking to it.”

  Working the anchor desk must have made Sandy Faye good money. You needed it to live where she was, in a condo right on the southeast side of Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. For all the problems Baltimore had, and the city had many, one thing they got absolutely right was the development of the downtown Inner Harbor area. There were new condos, restaurants, office towers, not to mention Oriole Park at Camden Yards for the Orioles and M & T Bank Stadium for the Ravens. For an attractive successful twenty-eight-year-old professional, this was the place to be.

  The Baltimore detective let them into the condo. Mac and Wire once again slid on rubber gloves. Faye’s condo was a two-bedroom unit. As they walked in, the kitchen was to the left and then led into an eating area that looked out to the patio area that overlooked the blue waters of the harbor. Straight ahead was a family room area with a couch, two chairs arranged in a horseshoe to view her large flat screen and to the right was the hallway to the two bedrooms and bath. Faye had converted the spare bedroom into an office.

  As had become their pattern, Mac took the office and Wire the bedroom.

  In the bedroom, Wire started with Faye’s closet which consisted of her large wardrobe of business suits and outfits for her anchor work, along with high-end casual attire for her nights out. While she undoubtedly wore comfortable shoes, probably flats at work when she wasn’t on camera, she wasn’t afraid of stiletto heels and had three rows of them on shoes racks in her closet. There were three boxes stacked in a corner. She pulled them out and opened them quickly. Inside one box were photo albums, framed photos and other assorted photos. One was from a high school track team, another of Faye and others outside a television station in Albany, an earlier television job, and another of a group of men and women at a summer camp in upstate New York. One thing she learned was Sandy Faye changed her name. Her given name was Helen Williams. Sandy Faye probably sounded like a better, and probably hotter, media name. The second box contained what looked to be papers from college. The last box contained knickknacks, a few old sports trophies and other miscellaneous items.

  Next she moved to her bed and the nightstand. In the drawer on the clock radio side were the usual items, notepad, pens, remote control for the television, old cell phone, hand lotions and some medications. In the nightstand on the other side, Faye exposed her kinkier side, with fuzzy handcuffs and other various toys to enhance the sexual experience. Wire smiled; she had some of these items stored away somewhere, and if Martin Gonzalez came up from Florida, she might have to find the moving box they were stored in.

  In the master bathroom she found the usual items for a woman of Faye’s age, makeup, lipsticks, curling iron, various medications, her birth control pills as well as a bottle with the morning after pill, which was interesting but didn’t really tell her anything.

  Wire completed her review and walked across the hall to find Mac looking through Faye’s desk. He was staring off into space, a thick wad of papers in his hand. “Find something?”

  Mac shook his head, “I’m going through some old papers and I’ve seen something that looks familiar but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Which item?”

  “Sandy was a smarty. She has a lot of scholastic awards. Something in them is familiar, that I’ve seen before.”

  “On the case?”

  “Maybe. Can’t put my finger on it,” he answered as he put the papers into an evidence box.

  Mac continued working through Faye’s desk, pulling at the drawers while Wire worked another part of the desk, going through her old-fashioned Rolodex. She flipped through the names and business cards. “Typical reporter, she must have a couple hundred contacts in here.”

  “Reporter on the rise,” Mac answered, working his way through a filing drawer. “From what Gesch told me, Baltimore would not have been her final destination.” He stopped, snorted and shook his head with a rueful laugh.

  Wire saw it, “What?”

  “Faye reminds of my first big case that I had back in St. Paul. This smokin’ hot reporter back in the Twin Cities, I found her strangled in her own bedroom. Claire Daniels. She was on her way, beautiful, smart, really driven and the investigation revealed her to be, shall we say, rather sexually active and adventurous.”

  Wire laughed, “Well, maybe it’s something about media work because Sandy Faye had a nice little sex toy collection in one of her nightstands and the Plan B pill in her bathroom. What happened with that case back in St. Paul?”

  “We originally thought she was killed by Senator Mason Johnson.”

  “Oh, I remember this case. Turns out he didn’t do it, right?”

  “That’s right. He was set up, killed to hide it, but we eventually figured it out as part of a larger case. That case,” he smiled again, “that was when Sally and I
met. She was the county attorney assigned to our investigation.”

  “Love at first sight?”

  “Attraction for sure. The rest didn’t take long.” His phone rang, it was Gesch. The autopsy was in progress. “But you two should get down to the television station. One of her coworkers thinks she recognizes our guy.”

  Twenty minutes later Mac and Wire pulled up to the WBLT station building. The chaos of earlier in the morning had now dissipated somewhat, although all of the local television stations were retaining a presence just outside the crime scene barrier. Mac and Wire walked inside and were immediately greeted by a large, rotund Baltimore detective named Landsman. After quick introductions were made, Wire asked, “What do you have?”

  Landsman waved them back into the building and walked them into the television studio. The Baltimore detective called to a tall, thin, redheaded woman in a headset. “Agents McRyan and Wire, this is Brenda Bell, a producer here at the station. She was a friend and coworker of Sandy Faye. Please tell Agents McRyan and Wire what you told me.”

  “The detective showed me a picture of this man,” Bell pointed to the sketch of the Reaper in Landsman’s hand.

  “You recognize him?” Mac asked.

  “Maybe. Sandy and I would go running Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings down along the Inner Harbor, around the water, just a little three-to-four-mile run from her condo, around the Harbor to the end of the pier by the Marriott and then back. And a few days here recently, there was a guy who looked kind of like this man in this picture that was, I don’t know, maybe watching us.”

  “Watching you?” Mac asked, quizzically. “Watching you how?”

  “It’s hard to describe other than, he seemed to be looking for us, you know?”

  “Like he expected you? Was waiting for you?” Wire asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Mac asked, “So what made you notice him?”

  “He was a big guy, leaned with his elbows on the iron fence, hands clasped, in the same spot like three straight days when we were running, where we would turn at Pier 3 towards the National Aquarium. Then on Monday he was at the end of the bridge on Harbor Bridge Walk and Pier 6, just past the Pier 6 Concert Pavilion.