“Agent McRyan, Heather Foxx, NBC News. Director Mitchell mentioned a Rena Johnson and being a DNA match to Drake Johnson who the FBI is saying is the killer known as the Reaper. Two questions for you: who is Drake Johnson and what does the death of Rena Johnson have to do with the current investigation?”
“The answer requires a rather long explanation, so please bear with me. By way of background, Drake Johnson is thirty-six years old. He was a police officer, a detective in Ithaca, New York, up until a little over two years ago when he was thought to have died in a one-car automobile accident on a wintery March night. His vehicle veered off the road, down a steep bank and crashed into a large tree, setting off an explosion of the car. By the time the fire was extinguished and the body was removed from the wreckage, it was only identifiable by dental records. The vehicle belonged to Drake Johnson. The dental records for Johnson were supplied by his half-brother, a dentist in Rochester, New York. Johnson’s half-brother has confirmed that he falsified the dental records for his brother. I’ll get to the reason Drake Johnson requested his half-brother falsify the records in a minute.”
Mac took a sip of water and then continued, “As for his investigative record, let’s just say Drake Johnson was a less than stellar officer. Specifically, in his relatively short police career in a town of just over 30,000 residents, several police brutality complaints were made against him, two of which led to formal disciplinary action. Following the last brutality complaint, he was warned he would lose his job were there another.
“Then two weeks before his disappearance, he investigated a domestic assault case. The wife would not press charges. Rather than letting the case go, Johnson engaged the husband at a local bar, and unprovoked, beat him senseless in the back alley. This off-the-job act led to a civil lawsuit against Mr. Johnson, a lawsuit he was almost certain to lose. As a result, not only would he likely lose his job, but also his money, which included nearly a million dollars that he inherited upon the passing of his parents. This was the reason he gave his half-brother for falsifying the dental records. He was seeking to stage his own death, escape with his money and avoid paying the damages that almost certainly would have been awarded in the civil lawsuit. However, as we’ve now learned, his scheme to disappear was clearly about more than asset preservation.
“Shortly before staging the accident and before the altercation and beating at a bar in Ithaca, Johnson, still employed as a detective for the city of Ithaca, investigated a burglary at the home of Rebecca Randall. It was a standard home invasion case. As part of the investigation, we think Drake Johnson stumbled across this photo.” Mac looked backed to an assistant, “Can we get the enlargement placed on the easel? Thank you.”
The assistant placed the photo on the easel.
Mac reached for a laser pointer and moved left to right across the photo.
“The first two people embracing each other are Melissa Goynes, the first victim and the fourth victim, Sandy Faye, who was then known as Helen Williams before she changed her name. The next two are Hannah Donahue, the third victim and Kelly Drew, the woman who has survived but remains in a coma. Next, standing by herself is last night’s victim Danica Brunner. Finally, the last three with their arms around each other are Rena Johnson, the sister of Drake Johnson, Rebecca Randall and Janelle Wyland, the second victim.
“This picture was taken on August 17th seven years ago, the night Rena Johnson was killed.”
“Agent McRyan,” Heather Foxx interrupted, “how was it that Rena Johnson was killed?”
“On the night of August 17th, she attended a rave party south of Auburn, New York. She drank a lot of alcohol, did some weed and Ecstasy and wandered off from the party at an abandoned farmhouse. She found herself walking just past a tight turn on the narrow shoulder of County Highway 5 when a silver vehicle, likely a Dodge or Chrysler minivan or SUV, struck her and projected her some thirty or forty feet until she landed at the bottom of a deep ditch where she was found hours later, dead.”
“Agent McRyan, were the victims of the Reaper involved in Rena Johnson’s death?”
“I think it’s safe to assume Drake Johnson thinks so. However, as best we can tell, all he has is the picture which in and of itself means absolutely nothing.”
“Agent McRyan,” a reporter from FOX News blurted, “did any of the victims have a vehicle matching the description or at least paint of the vehicle that struck Rena Johnson?”
Mac had a theory on this, but not one he was going to share with the media. “No, the FBI has gone deep on the vehicle records for not only the victims but their families as well, and nobody owned that particular kind of vehicle in that window of time, nor did anyone rent one.”
“Were there any witnesses to the accident?” FOX News asked on follow-up.
“No,” Mac replied. “No witnesses that the Auburn police ever found in the investigation. In fact, none of the victims of Drake Johnson were ever questioned as part of the investigation. Their names never came up.”
“So why is Drake Johnson killing them?”
“If I knew I’d tell you,” Mac answered. “If anything the man has done was understandable, I’d explain it. There’s no evidence in any investigative files I’ve seen on the death of Rena Johnson that ties the women Drake Johnson has murdered to that accident in any way, shape or form. Not one shred of evidence.”
“Do you have any theories as to what his motive would be then?”
“Theories? Sure, tons,” Mac answered and realized he was being just a bit flippant. He quickly sobered. His whole view of the case had been a theory all along, confirmed in the last twenty-four hours, but he had less proof of the victims’ involvement in the death of Rena Johnson than Drake Johnson probably had, given what he may have resorted to in interrogating and torturing some of the women. But then again, that was speculation too. Mac answered the question, somberly. “We have some ideas, but I don’t think it is yet time to engage in open speculation, not without more evidence to go on.”
“Agent McRyan,” a Washington Times reporter asked, “what do you think this Reaper symbolizes?”
This was not a question Mac had expected, but it was helpful nonetheless. “He’s a disgrace to good police everywhere. He’s a coward who ran from the consequences of his own actions. I think he symbolizes nothing more than a cold-blooded sociopathic killer with little regard for human life. I think the whole use of biblical verses and the symbolism of the Holy Cross are indicative of a desire for attention, for fifteen minutes of fame. Yet in the end, when this is all over, Drake Johnson will be nothing more than some nut bar the Investigation Discovery Channel dedicates an hour to some day on one of their investigation shows. He’ll be programming filler.”
“Yet,” a reporter from the Washington Sentinel suggested, “you’re on this investigation thanks to White House intervention. Doesn’t that provide a political element to this investigation?”
“I don’t see how,” Mac answered with a bite. “We’re after a killer, nothing more and nothing less. I see nothing political about that.” Mac answered, boring in on the reporter who had a political angle of some kind. “The president and Judge Dixon asked Dara Wire and I to help with the investigation and that’s what we’ve done.”
“Is the White House directing this investigation?” the reporter pressed, “in an effort to protect the reputation of the daughter of William Donahue?”
“No.”
“Seriously, you expect us to believe that, Agent McRyan? You live with the White House deputy director of communications.” Now Mac truly understood the reporter’s political angle, which was partisan politics.
• • • •
“Now I’m a little concerned,” Sally said, sitting up on the couch.
“Me too,” the Judge added.
Come on, Mac, Sally thought, don’t take the bait and blow it.
• • • •
“First, I wasn’t aware I’d been appointed as FBI director, giving me all this power
over the investigation,” Mac replied. “Second, this is all I’ll say about my relationship with Sally Kennedy. It’s like one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, in this town where both people work for the federal government. Under your line of questioning, that makes all of those relationships questionable as well. Is that what you’re suggesting?” Mac didn’t give the reporter a chance to respond. “I am a temporary special agent of the FBI, a consultant if you will, and I report to Director Mitchell.” Mac pointed with his left hand, the cast visible to all. “I have had one mission and one mission only since I became part of this investigation and that is to help the FBI find the killer, nothing more and nothing less. I don’t give a rip about politics, about any of that stuff. All of that may be relevant to Sally Kennedy and the White House, but I don’t give a damn about it. What I care about is finding Drake Johnson and ending this.”
• • • •
“That was a good answer, Mac,” Sally exclaimed, clapping.
“That was the answer of a pro. You’re sure he’s never done this before?” the Judge asked.
Mac was knocking it out of the park.
• • • •
“There are some who don’t think these women are innocent,” another reporter blurted. Mac had seen this woman on a cable channel somewhere. “They have to be guilty of something.”
“Maybe they are,” Mac answered, “but I have to operate on the basis of evidence, not supposition. At this point in time, I have no evidence that supports that view. No evidence, beyond a picture, that these victims were involved in Drake Johnson’s sister’s death. Instead, what I have is a man who has killed every woman in this picture and I’ve yet to find a single evidentiary reason for him to have done so.” Now he was poking Drake Johnson. He didn’t believe what he was saying or was about to say; he wondered whether people in the room would believe it, but they were not his target.
“The only theory that seems to have any credence, the only thing I see them being guilty of, is that they all went to a party with Rena Johnson. They all had a good time, had too much to drink and maybe got into some drugs. As a result, things got a little out of hand and Rena Johnson wandered away, or her friends lost track of her, whatever it was, and a tragedy occurred. Is one person negligently wandering off at a party a reason to kill the other seven people she might have gone to the party with? Is that worth killing six law enforcement officers last night? Let there be no doubt, he murdered six men last night. Whatever he once might have been, Drake Johnson is now an animal, a monster, an unbalanced, irrational murderer of innocent people and we will never rest until he is caught.”
The room went silent for a moment and Mac took an opportunity to take a sip of water.
“Agent McRyan, what else can you tell us about the killer?” another reporter asked.
“Drake Johnson, in addition to being a sociopath and cold-blooded killer, is a large man and is extremely strong physically. You can’t appreciate the degree to which that is true unless you are confronting him; which I have,” Mac held up his cast again. “He is a monster in every sense of the word, an absolute animal who has the added advantage of police training. He’s as dangerous a person, a killer, as you can imagine.”
“Agent McRyan,” the ABC reporter asked, “do you have any leads on Mr. Johnson’s whereabouts?”
“We do,” Mac answered, lying just a bit. “We are pursuing them as we speak. As Director Mitchell noted, the picture of Drake Johnson is everywhere now. We know who he is. If anyone sees him, I am encouraging them to immediately call the FBI at the number people can see on their television screen. Do not, under any circumstances, engage this man on your own.” Mac held up his left hand, “He is far too dangerous.”
Mac had been answering questions for nearly thirty minutes. Director Mitchell stepped forward and whispered, “One more question.”
Mac pointed to a reporter from the Associated Press, “Last question.”
“Last night’s victim lived in Springfield, Virginia. Do you believe the killer is still in the Washington, DC, area?” the Associated Press reporter asked.
“That is possible, yes.”
“Do you believe he has identified his next potential victim?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he has another target?” Mac thought he did, but couldn’t be sure.
“We don’t know.”
“Does that concern you?”
“Yes, because he’s killed six women and tried to kill another. He killed six men last night. I want to find him, arrest him and put him on trial for his crimes. We don’t have a moment to waste in finding this killer. The clock is ticking and we need the public’s help. Thank you.”
Director Mitchell walked off the dais and Mac followed and once through the doors, the director turned around, “Not bad for a guy who claims to never have done a press conference. So do you think he’ll bite?”
“We’ll see.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“We need to lock everyone on the interstate!”
Drake Johnson was just north of Washington, DC, on I-270, approaching the I-495 Capitol Beltway, gripping the steering wheel tight, incensed, as he weaved through traffic. He couldn’t get the press conference out of his mind.
Sociopathic killer.
Unbalanced.
Irrational murderer of innocent people.
“Unbalanced!” he growled, pounding the steering wheel.
Nut bar.
Coward.
He didn’t expect McRyan to be at the press conference, let alone be the centerpiece of it. Yet there he was and he spoke about him, belittled him, diminishing him to the entire country. He trashed Rena!
The Reaper merged his panel van into the traffic, traveling east on I-495, falling in with the thick flow of the midday traffic.
Killer of innocent women.
Monster.
Animal.
He’ll simply end up in the dust bin of history having made no impact whatsoever.
McRyan was wrong.
Rena was innocent. Rebecca Randall, Melissa Goynes, Janelle Wyland, Hannah Donahue, Helen Williams, Kelly Drew and Danica Brunner, they were the cowards, the murderers, the killers of an innocent woman.
He grabbed a new burner phone out of the bag in the passenger seat and dialed the number he now knew from memory.
• • • •
Galloway nodded, grabbed his radio from his hip, “He’s calling. Start the trace.” Then he looked to Mac, “We’re good.”
Mac took a look at his watch, 1:09 P.M., took a breath and answered the phone, “Hello, Drake. How are you today?”
“Nut bar!”
“Don’t forget sociopath and coward,” Mac added, walking away from Galloway and Wire, pacing. Mac’s singular goal at the press conference was to draw Johnson out.
Drake took the bait.
“You should be careful, very careful with what you say,” Johnson growled in a low sinister voice.
Mac could hear the anger in the killer’s voice. It was time to filibuster. “Or what, Drake? I mean, what could you possibly do that’s worse than what you’ve already done? You’ve killed six women and the seventh is hanging on by a thread unlikely to ever regain consciousness. You killed six innocent men last night, police officers; you killed six of your own last night. So what could you do that’s worse than what you’ve already done?”
“There’s a lot, McRyan. You have people you care about, that care for you, love you, that are not out of reach. I’ve proven I can get to people.”
“Making this a bit personal, are we?” Mac replied, instantly thinking of Sally.
“You made it that way with the press conference this morning, talking about Rena like that, making all these women out to be innocent when they’re not. So you’re damn right it’s fucking personal.”
Wire signaled string the call out with her hands —and mouthed: we need a couple of minutes. Mac nodded, looked at his watch, 1:10 pm., and responded: “Wha
t? That I told the entire country that your sister went to a party, got drunk and high? That she was irresponsible? That she was stupid and immature? That she contributed to her own death?”
“Killer of innocent women! You called me a killer of innocent women. They’re the killers, McRyan. They’re the ones who took an innocent life. They’re murderers, not me. I’m administering justice. Justice you wouldn’t dare dispense, that you wouldn’t deign to mete out. Justice those six men last night would never dare administer.”
Mac laughed on purpose and strung it out before turning serious, “Drake, you call this justice? You call this reaping what you sow? Listen, Drake, and I am being completely serious with you here. You can look it up, I’m Irish Catholic. I went to Catholic school. I was an altar boy. I go to mass. I believe in what we don’t answer for in this life, we answer for at the Gates of St. Peter. I believe there is a hell.”
“So?”
“If these women committed a crime, prove it. If you can’t prove it, then they won’t answer in this life, they’ll answer in the next.”
• • • •
“They committed a crime in God’s eyes, McRyan. They did in God’s eyes,” the Reaper raged. “They sinned! They murdered.”
“And so have you!!!” McRyan barked at him. “Eye for an eye doesn’t make it right. You’ve committed the ultimate sin, premeditated murder of twelve people. Twelve! There can be no greater sin.”
“People like you failed, McRyan. The cops in Auburn, they failed. Me? I failed. I failed when I tried it the so-called right and honorable way. It didn’t work, it wouldn’t work. These women could hide behind the law, it would not punish them. There would be no justice, not your way. But my way, justice has been nearly and fully achieved. Those responsible have answered, in this life. I’m not waiting for the next.”
• • • •
“People sin every day, Drake, should they all be killed?’ Mac asked, checking his watch, Wire hovering nearby on her cell. “What about the bible verses about forgiveness? What about atoning for your sins? What about redemption?”
Fatally Bound Page 32
