by Randy Singer
Archibald's unrelenting attacker continued the flow of crippling electricity into Archibald's unconscious body for another sixty seconds, causing the lawyer to spasm and jerk like a fish flopping on the deck of a hot fishing boat.
Later, Archibald would be tried, convicted, and sentenced to die by lethal injection. But rather than use the trio of drugs that most states had employed for the past twenty years--sodium thiopental as an anesthetic, pancuronium bromide as a paralyzing agent, and potassium chloride to stop the heart--the Avenger would use only potassium chloride. The Avenger wanted Archibald to be fully conscious and able to squirm when the potassium chloride triggered its fatal heart attack.
32
The phone woke Catherine at 6:30 a.m. She was still on the couch, still dressed in her clothes from the evening before. She shook her head clear and tried to remember where she had left the phone. The insistent ringing drew her to the kitchen table.
"Good morning, Cat." It was Ed Shaftner. Editor Ed Shaftner.
She grunted. She meant to say, "Hi, Ed," but it came out sounding more like a groan.
"Were you sleeping?"
She double-checked the clock. "No, no, I'm awake."
"Good. Have you checked the papers yet?"
"No, Ed. Not yet." He could only be asking for one reason. Cat had been through this drill before--an early morning call. Another paper had scooped them.
"Richmond Times. Front page. The Avenger struck again and sent a note to the editor of the Richmond Times."
The statement hit Cat like a bolt of java, jolting her awake. The Avenger struck again? "What did he do? What's the note say?"
"You can read the whole thing online and give me a call back. We'll need something from your source. We can't let this story get away from us."
Cat was standing now, running her free hand through her hair, starting to pace. She felt like the whole world was off and running a race while she was mired at the starting line, tying her sneakers. Then another thought hit--what had she been doing last night?
"Was it last night, Ed? Did the Avenger strike last night?"
"No. A few nights ago. The Times just got the note yesterday and turned it over to police. They sat on the article until this morning."
A few nights ago. Cat thought about her nightmare a few nights ago, the way she woke up tired. She flashed to the nightmare and asked a question without thinking. "Did the victim die from a head wound?"
Ed paused, and Cat realized how random the question must have sounded. "They haven't recovered the body yet, Cat. Are you sure you're awake?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." A few minutes later, Cat was off the phone and on her computer, digesting every detail of the article. She called Jamarcus and left a message. Another hour passed before he returned the call.
He began by confirming the Times article. Paul Donaldson had disappeared. In a note to the Times, the Avenger claimed credit for Donaldson's apparent death and included a lock of Donaldson's hair. Before telling Cat anything else, Jamarcus extracted a promise of confidentiality and a promise not to run a story without independent verification. Then he dropped the bombshell: "We found a different hair fragment stuck to the seal of the envelope," Jamarcus said. "Donaldson's hair is blond. This piece of hair was dark."
Cat felt a rush of excitement--the killer's first mistake. She knew that the Avenger had been careful, using gloves, leaving no traces of DNA or fingerprints or footprints. But now, a single piece of hair.
"How long before the DNA comes back?" Cat asked.
"Forty-eight hours. We'll check it against our data bank. With any luck, we'll have something by Sunday."
Cat felt like she could take her first full breath in a week. She had never been so swallowed up by a story, had never felt her life being sucked into a nightmare like this as the story progressed. Now she could finally eliminate all shadows of doubt.
"We're trying to figure out how the Carvers play into all this," Jamarcus continued. "Paul Donaldson and Clarence Milburn both beat rape charges, but the Carvers didn't represent either one of them."
"Did the Carvers represent other rapists who beat the rap?"
"They're defense attorneys, Cat. That's what they do."
"Maybe this guy's going after rapists and their attorneys."
"That's our working theory," Jamarcus said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Or at least he's going after the innocent children of defense attorneys." He paused, apparently trying to decide whether he should open a fresh wound. "And our forensic psychiatrists are not at all sure that the Avenger is a man, Cat. The fact that the Avenger is targeting rapists might indicate a female."
The words triggered the usual reaction in Cat--churning stomach, tight chest, self-doubt--the symptoms of serious accusations against her. She remembered that Dr. Rebecca Ernst, the criminal profiler her own paper had featured in earlier articles, had come to the same conclusion about the Avenger's gender based on the methods used in the kidnappings. "What night was Donaldson killed?" Cat asked.
"His girlfriend says he didn't come home on Tuesday night." Jamarcus sounded like he was picking his words carefully. "Just to be sure, I would probably ask potential persons of interest about their alibis all the way through Wednesday."
His message wasn't lost on Cat. For the second time that morning, her mind raced back to Tuesday night. She had been home. By herself. Having nightmares. She distinctly remembered waking up Wednesday morning with the feeling that she needed to wash the blood from her hands and clothes.
Cat took a long breath, trying to calculate how much she could trust her source. In a few days, the police would have the results of the DNA test. Her name would be cleared. The only question was whether they would attach any credibility to her visions. If she wanted to help them later, she would have to establish the groundwork for reliability now.
"They haven't found the body yet--is that right?" Cat asked.
"Yes," said Jamarcus. "Why?"
"Will you do me a favor?" asked Cat. "If they find the body and Donaldson's death involves some kind of head wound, would you call me?"
"More visions?"
She trusted him. But not that much.
"Let's just call it a hunch," Cat said.
* * *
Two hours later, shortly after Cat arrived at her office, Jamarcus called back. This time he insisted on meeting in person. They agreed on the Aqua Bar inside the Crowne Plaza Hotel at Town Center in Virginia Beach. Cat nursed a sweet tea for ten minutes waiting for him.
When he came, he ordered a Coke. "Usual rules apply," he said cryptically.
"Right," said Cat.
"Which are?"
She sighed. "These comments are off-record and not for attribution. I'll take your name to the grave. I won't publish the facts unless you tell me I can or unless I get independent corroboration from another source."
"What about waterboarding? If they send you down to Guantanamo for waterboarding, will you tell them?"
Their little game with imagined tortures had become decidedly less fun since Cat had actually gone to jail protecting Jamarcus. "No exceptions," Cat said wearily. "Not even for waterboarding." She took a drink and gave him a look of impatience.
"Paul Donaldson's former attorney is missing," Jamarcus said. "The guy's wife was out of town last night, so the attorney wasn't missed until he didn't show at the office this morning. If it's related--and nobody's saying for sure whether it is or not yet--that would be two accused rapists and two defense attorneys." Jamarcus paused, allowing Cat to take it in. "The attorney's name is Rex Archibald."
"Whoa." Cat's mind started spinning as she tried to put the pieces together. "Archibald represented Donaldson. But the Carvers didn't represent Milburn."
"That's right," replied Jamarcus with a thin smile. "But I can guarantee you this: when the information about Rex Archibald goes public, the attorney who did represent Milburn will be sweating bullets."
"You almost sound happy about that," said Catherine.
"Oh yea
h," said Jamarcus, trying to strike an appropriate tone of sadness in his voice. "I forgot. Defense lawyers are people too."
* * *
Early Friday afternoon, at the Neiman Marcus cafe, Quinn had a heart-to-heart talk with his sister. She looked exhausted, her dark eyes sunken and lifeless. She had been through so much already--abuse by a father and then a husband, a chaotic night of vengeance, separation from Sierra, a murder trial, and now a decision that no mother should be forced to make.
They talked for more than two hours. After Annie left, Quinn called Carla Duncan.
"She'll take the deal," Quinn said.
"You're doing the right thing," Carla replied. "I'll get back to you with some dates for a hearing."
33
Cat left her Sunday afternoon beach volleyball game early and headed back to her duplex. She was wearing shades, shorts, and a bathing suit top and carrying her sandals so the warm sand could squeeze between her toes. She loved this time of year at the beach--late spring, just before the tourists arrived. Today was unseasonably warm for late May--the high eighties--and it felt good to let the sun's rays bake her exposed skin.
When she got to the boardwalk, she rinsed off the sand at the public spigots and slipped on her sandals. Her duplex was only two blocks south on the other side of Atlantic Avenue. As she walked away from the beach, her mind shifted to the Avenger and the many unanswered questions surrounding the Avenger's death spree. She felt the familiar lead weight in her stomach that came each time she thought about this. Later today, Cat would call Jamarcus and find out about the DNA test results.
From a distance, she noticed a few police vehicles but didn't really comprehend at first that they were centered around her duplex. She walked toward the scene, curious. Cat counted at least four marked cruisers and several other sedans that she didn't recognize from the neighborhood.
As she grew closer, she noticed a news van and a couple of cameramen. Her skin bristled with anxiety as somebody turned in her direction and pointed. Cameras swung toward her, and there was nothing left to do but walk straight toward them, chin high, looking beyond the two cameramen to her duplex.
Jamarcus Webb and two uniformed officers met her on the sidewalk. "Catherine O'Rourke?" he asked.
She glanced from Jamarcus to the other officers--all of them staring at her with no-nonsense expressions, as if she might be Jack the Ripper.
"Yes?"
"You're under arrest for the murder of Paul Donaldson," Jamarcus said. The other officers moved in to handcuff her. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . ."
Stunned, Cat barely heard the rest of Jamarcus's words. This couldn't be happening! Not to her!
As the officers hustled her toward a police cruiser, the reality of events came crashing through. They think I'm a serial killer.
She suddenly became cognizant of the cameras recording every step, the details of her shocked facial expression. She lowered her head, thankful for her oversize sunglasses. She felt naked and exposed.
An officer opened the back door of a cruiser and put a hand on top of Cat's head so she would duck as she climbed into the car. Cat stopped just before crawling into the cruiser and took a fleeting glance at Jamarcus.
He stood there like an unfeeling statue. Disgust lined every wrinkle of his face.
34
Cat proceeded like a zombie through processing and booking for the second time in less than two weeks. This time, she was a murder suspect. She still couldn't wrap her mind around this new reality. She was in shock, too stunned to feel even the tiniest sliver of emotion. She tried to clear her mind and think logically.
They took her into the interview room to meet with Jamarcus and another detective, and Cat just wanted to pour out her heart. This is a huge mistake--can't you see that? How can you think for a second that I would do something like this? Hook me up to a lie detector right now, right here, and I'll show you how ridiculous this all is.
Instead, she calmly asked for her lawyer.
"Okay," said Jamarcus, his voice registering disappointment. "But we can't help you if you don't talk to us."
"I want to talk with my lawyer first," Cat insisted.
Two hours later, Cat found herself sitting in a small cubicle on the opposite side of thick, bulletproof glass from Marc Boland. Just the sight of Bo, with his imposing presence and self-assured manner, began to calm Cat's raging nerves.
"It's gonna be all right" were the first words out of his mouth. He opened his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad and pen. "You okay?" he asked.
Cat shrugged. "Not really. I just can't believe this. . . ." Her lip trembled as she fought to keep the tears at bay.
"Boyd Gates made a huge mistake," Bo said calmly. "He rushed the arrest. Cracked under the media pressure."
The words were like balm to Cat. She knew it had to be a mistake. But to hear her lawyer say almost those precise words . . .
"Assuming nothing changes, we'll demand our right to a speedy trial," Bo continued.
Trial?
"They don't have squat on you. We may waive the preliminary hearing and go straight to trial." Bo labeled the top of his first page. Catherine read his writing upside down. Client conference. Commonwealth v. O'Rourke.
"I've already talked to Gates," Bo explained. "He's determined to see this through despite the weaknesses in his case. Here's the way this works. I start by telling you what I know about the commonwealth's evidence. You think it over for a few minutes and then tell me everything, from the beginning."
Cat nodded. She had regained a razor-thin semblance of control. "Okay."
"Including the name of your source, though I'm pretty sure I already know."
Cat wondered how Bo could possibly know. "Okay," she said tentatively.
"Good. Now, I need to warn you," Bo said, "this might sound pretty devastating. But trust me, it's not going to get you convicted."
Cat tensed, her stomach flipping again. What could they possibly have?
"They did a preliminary mitochondrial DNA analysis on a piece of hair found on the flap of the envelope that the Avenger sent to the Richmond Times."
Bo hesitated and Cat knew what was coming. The thought of it squeezed her head and caused the room to spin.
"The DNA results indicate that your hair was on that envelope. They matched it to DNA from saliva on a water glass you drank from earlier last week. Detective Jamarcus Webb is prepared to testify about the chain of custody for the glass."
Cat gasped. Betrayed by Jamarcus?
"After the arraignment tomorrow, they're going to ask for another swab sample to confirm those tests," Bo continued. "We'll need to come up with an explanation for that DNA evidence. But apart from that, they've got no body and no motive. Just one piece of hair on an envelope, coupled with your visions about the two kidnappings."
DNA evidence. Psychotic visions. To Cat, it felt like the jury had already pronounced her guilt.
35
This time, they placed Cat in a cell with two other women. The cell was part of a pod that housed a total of thirty-four inmates. Cat's older cellmate, a woman probably in her forties, looked like she hadn't bathed or showered in a month. The woman had stringy hair, gingivitis breath, and a spare tire that would put a plumber to shame. She complained loudly when the guards stuck Cat and an extra mattress in the cell, turning her venom toward Cat as soon as the guards disappeared.
"Shut up, woman," said Cat's other cellmate, a young African-American woman with ripped biceps and a hard look that scared Cat. "She didn't ask for this cell."
Cat's defender jumped down from the top bunk and shook Cat's hand, her grip conveying a message that Cat had already deciphered. This woman's in charge.
"I'm Tasha," she said.
"Catherine."
"Don't mind Holly," Tasha said. "She gets this way when she doesn't take her medication."
But it wasn't Holly that unnerved Cat. Th
e mouthy ones, in Cat's opinion, were not the dangerous ones. Tasha, on the other hand, had this eerie calmness and unsettling stare.
"What are you in for?" Tasha asked, sizing Cat up.
"They think I murdered someone," Cat responded, though she still couldn't believe it herself. "Maybe more than one person."
"And you're innocent, right?" Tasha said, her sarcasm obvious.
Cat felt almost embarrassed to admit it. "Yes."
"Imagine that," Tasha responded. "Holly's innocent too. They tried to say she's a druggie."
"I am innocent," Holly protested, eyeing Cat suspiciously.
"What are the odds?" Tasha asked. "I get the only two truly innocent women at the Virginia Beach city jail as my cellmates."
Cat didn't respond.
"You don't look like a serial killer," Tasha said.
"She does to me," said Holly. "Look at the eyes. She's psycho in the eyes."
Tasha leaned a little closer, staring at Cat and freaking her out. Cat looked down, avoiding Tasha's gaze.
"Maybe she's just scared," Tasha said.
* * *
Quinn caught the scene on the late news, bringing his channel surfing to an abrupt halt. An attractive woman in a bathing suit top and cotton shorts, her hands cuffed behind her back, accused of being a serial killer! The sunglasses prevented him from seeing the eyes, the first place Quinn had learned to look for signs of insanity.
From what little he could see, the woman looked scared. Confused. Ashamed. Could a woman this pretty really be a cold-blooded serial killer? Could she be the "Avenger of Blood"?
For some reason, the woman's name rang a bell. Catherine O'Rourke. They identified her as a reporter for the Tidewater Times. That was why the name sounded familiar; she had covered Annie's case. Intrigued, Quinn got on the Internet and Googled a few of the woman's articles. Catherine had given Quinn the benefit of the doubt during Annie's trial. He decided to do the same for her.
