by Glenn Cooper
Wright was a tall lean African-American in his fifties with a pencil mustache, close-cropped hair, and professorial wire-rimmed glasses. He stood and smoothed the creases from his double-breasted suit jacket. He was at ease in front of cameras and spoke crisply into the bank of microphones. "As the mayor said, the FBI is working in concert with city and state law enforcement officials to solve this case. This is far and away the largest criminal investigation of a serial killing in the history of the Bureau. While we do not have a suspect in custody, we continue to work tirelessly and I want to make this very clear-we will find the killer. We are not resource-constrained. We are throwing everything we've got at this case. It's not a matter of manpower, it's a matter of time. I'll take your questions now."
The press swarmed like a disturbed hive of bees, anticipating that nothing new was forthcoming. The network and cable reporters were civil enough, leaving it to their lower-paid ink-stained brethren from the papers to throw the bricks. Q. Was there any more information on Lucius Robertson's toxicology tests? A. No. Some tissue testing would take a few more weeks. Q. Did they test him for ricin and anthrax? A. Yes. Both were negative. Q. If everything was negative, what killed Lucius Robertson? A. They didn't know yet. Q. Wasn't this lack of clarity bound to trouble the public at large? A. When we know the cause of death we will make it known. Q. Were the Las Vegas police cooperating? A. Yes. Q. Were all the fingerprints on the postcards accounted for? A. Mostly. They were still tracking down some post office letter handlers. Q. Did they have any leads on the hooded man at the Swisher crime scene? A. None. Q. Did the bullets from the two gunshot victims match any other crimes on file? A. No. Q. How did they know this wasn't an Al-Qaeda plot? A. There was no indication of terrorism. Q. A psychic from San Francisco had complained the FBI wasn't interested in speaking with her despite her insistence that a long-haired man named Jackson was involved. A. The FBI was interested in all credible leads. Q. Were they aware that the public was frustrated in their lack of progress? A. They shared the public's frustration but remained confident in the ultimate success of the investigation. Q. Did he think there would be more murders? A. He hoped not but there was no way of knowing. Q. Did the FBI have a profile on the Doomsday Killer? A. Not yet. They were working on it. Q. Why was it taking so long? A. Because of the complexities of the case.
Will leaned over and whispered into Nancy's ear, "Colossal waste of time." Q. Did they have their best people assigned to the case? A. Yes. Q. Could the media talk to the Special Agent in charge of the investigation? A. I can answer all your questions.
"Now it's getting interesting," Will added. Q. Why couldn't they meet the agent? A. They would try to make him available at the next press conference. Q. Is he in the room now? A.-
Wright looked at Sue Sanchez, who was seated in the first row, his eyes pleading for her to control her guy. She looked around and spotted Will standing off to the side; the only thing she could do was fix him with a death stare.
She thinks I'm a loose canon, Will thought. Well, it's time to start the iron rolling. I'm the Special Agent in charge. I didn't want the case but it's mine now. If they want me, here I am. "Right here!" He raised his hand. He'd faced the press dozens of times during his career and this kind of stuff was old hat-he was anything but camera-shy.
Nancy saw the horrified look on Sanchez's face, and as a reflex almost grabbed him by the sleeve. Almost. He bounded toward the podium with a wicked bounce to his step as the TV cameras swung to stage left.
Benjamin Wright could do nothing except: "Okay, Special Agent Will Piper will answer a limited number of questions. Go ahead, Will." As the two men crossed, Wright whispered, "Keep it short and watch your step."
Will smoothed his hair with his hand and stepped up to the podium. The alcohol and its by-products were fully out of his system and he was feeling good, even feisty. Let's mix it up, he thought. He was photogenic, a big sandy-haired man with broad shoulders, a dimpled chin, and superbly blue eyes. Somewhere a TV director in a control room was saying, "Get in close on that guy!"
The first question was-how do you spell your name?
"Like the Pied Piper, P-I-P-E-R."
The reporters edged forward on their chairs. Did they have a live one? A few of the older ones whispered to each other, "I remember this guy. He's famous."
How long have you been with the FBI?
"Eighteen years, two months, and three days."
Why do you keep track so precisely?
"I'm detail oriented."
What's your experience with serial killings?
"I've spent my entire career working these cases. I've been agent-in-charge of eight of them, the Asheville Rapist, the White River Killer in Indianapolis, six others. We caught all of them, we'll catch this one too."
Why don't you have a profile of the killer yet?
"Believe, me, we've been trying, but he's not profilable in a conventional way. No two murders are alike. There's no pattern. If it weren't for the warning postcards, you wouldn't know the cases were connected."
What's your theory?
"I think we're dealing with a very twisted and very intelligent man. I have no idea what's motivating him. He wants attention, that's a certainty, and thanks to you he's getting it."
You think we shouldn't be covering this?
"You don't have a choice. I'm just stating a fact."
How are you going to catch him?
"He's not perfect. He's left clues, which I'm not going to go into for obvious reasons. We'll get him."
What's your bet? Is he going to strike again?
"Let me answer that this way. My bet is that he's watching this on TV right now, so I'm saying this to you." Will stared straight into the cameras. Those blue eyes. "I will catch you and I will put you down. It's only a matter of time."
Wright, who was hovering, practically hip-checked Will away from the mikes. "Okay, I think that's it for today. We'll let you know the time and location of our next briefing."
The press rose to their feet and one voice, a female reporter from the Post, rose above the others and screamed out, "Promise us you'll bring the Pied Piper back!"
Number 941 Park Ave was a solid cube, a thirteen-story brick prewar, its two lower floors clad in fine white granite, the lobby done up tastefully in marble and chintz. Will had been there before, retracing David Swisher's last steps from the lobby to the precise spot on 82nd Street where the blood had drained from his body. He had walked the walk in the same predawn darkness, and lowering himself on his haunches, right on the spot-still discolored despite a good scrubbing from the sanitation department-had tried to visualize the last thing the victim might have seen before his brain went off-line. A section of mottled sidewalk? A black iron window grate? The rim on a parked car? A thin oak rising out of a square of compacted dirt?
The tree, hopefully.
As expected, Helen Swisher rubbed Will the wrong way. She had played too hard to get these past weeks with her telephone tag, her scheduling problems, her out-of-town travel. "She was a victim's wife, for Christ's sake," he had vented to Nancy, "not a goddamned suspect! Show some fucking cooperation, why don't you?" Then, while he was in the middle of being blessed out by Sue Sanchez over his Al Haig, "I'm in charge here" performance at the press conference, wifey rang his mobile just to let him know he needed to be punctual as her time was extremely limited. And the topper-she greeted them at Apartment 9B with a faraway look of condescension, like they were carpet cleaners there to roll up one of the Persians.
"I don't know what I can tell you that I haven't already told the police," Helen Swisher said as she led them through a palladium arch into the living room, a formidable expanse overlooking Park Avenue. Will stiffened at the decor and furnishings-all this fineness, a lifetime's salary shoveled into one room, decorators-gone-wild heirloom furniture, chandeliers and rugs, each the price of a good car.
"Nice place," Will said, his eyebrows arched.
"Thank you," she replied coolly. "
David liked to read the Sunday paper in here. I've just put it on the market."
They sat and she immediately began fiddling with the band of her wristwatch, a signal they were on the clock. Will sized her up quickly, a miniprofile. She was attractive in a horsey kind of way, her looks enhanced by perfect hair and a designer suit. Swisher was Jewish, she wasn't, probably a Wasp from old money, a banker and a lawyer who met, not through social circles, but on a deal. This gal wasn't a cold fish, she was frozen. Her lack of visible grief didn't mean she wasn't attached to her husband-she probably liked him fine-it was simply a reflection of her ice-in-the-veins nature. If he ever had to sue someone, someone he really hated, this was the woman he'd want.
She made eye contact exclusively with him. Nancy might as well have been invisible. Subordinates, such as the law associates at Helen's white-shoe firm, were implements, background features. It was only when Nancy opened her notebook that Helen acknowledged her presence with a dimpling scowl.
Will thought it was pointless to start with manufactured sympathy. He wasn't selling and she wasn't buying. Right out of the box he asked, "Do you know any Hispanic men who drive a blue car?"
"Goodness!" she replied. "Has your investigation become that narrowed?"
He ignored the question. "Do you?"
"The only Hispanic gentleman I know is our former dog walker, Ricardo. I have no idea if he owns a car."
"Why former?"
"I gave David's dog away. Funnily enough, one of the EMTs that morning from Lenox Hill Hospital took a shine to him."
"Can I get Ricardo's contact information?" Nancy asked.
"Of course," she sniffed.
Will asked, "If you had a dog walker, why was your husband walking it the morning he was killed?"
"Ricardo only came in the afternoon, while we were at work. David walked him otherwise."
"Same time every morning?"
"Yes. About five A.M."
"Who knew his routine?"
"The night doorman, I suppose."
"Did your husband have any enemies? The kind who might want him dead?"
"Absolutely not! I mean, anyone in the banking business has adversaries, that's normal, but David was involved in standard, generally amiable transactions. He was a mild person," she said, as if mildness was not a virtue.
"Did you receive the e-mail of the updated victims' list?"
"Yes, I looked at it."
"And?"
Her face contorted. "Well, of course neither David or I knew anyone on that list!"
There he had it, an explanation for her lack of cooperation. Apart from the inconvenience of losing a reliable spouse, she loathed the association with the Doomsday case. It was high-profile but low-rent. Most of the victims were anonymously underclass. David's murder was bad for her image, bad for her career, her Waspy partners whispering about her while they peed in their urinals and putted on their greens. On some level she was probably angry at David for getting his neck slashed.
"Las Vegas," he said suddenly.
"Las Vegas," she countered suspiciously.
"Who did David know from Las Vegas?"
"He asked the same question when he saw the postmark, the night before he was killed. He couldn't recall anyone offhand and neither can I."
"We've been trying to get his client list from his bank without success," Nancy said.
She addressed Will. "With whom have you been dealing?"
"The general council's office," he said.
"I know Steve Gartner very well. I'll call him if you like."
"That would be helpful."
Will's phone started to play its inappropriate tune and he unapologetically answered it, listened for a few seconds then rose for privacy and moved toward a cluster of chairs and sofas in a far corner, leaving the two women uncomfortably alone.
Nancy self-consciously flipped through her notebook, trying to look importantly occupied, but it was clear she felt like a warthog next to this lioness. Helen simply stared at the face of her watch as if doing so would magically make these people disappear.
Will clicked off and strode back. "Thank you. We've got to go."
That was it. Quick handshakes and out. Cold stares and no love lost.
In the elevator, Will said, "She's a sweetheart."
Nancy agreed. "She's a bitch."
"We're going to City Island."
"Why?"
"Victim number nine."
She almost pulled a muscle snapping her neck to look up at him.
The door opened at the lobby.
"The game's changed, partner. It doesn't look like there's going to be a victim number ten. The police are holding a suspect, Luis Camacho, a thirty-two-year-old Hispanic male, five-foot-eight, 160 pounds."
"Really!"
"Apparently he's a flight attendant. Guess what route he flies?"
"Las Vegas?"
"Las Vegas."
6 JULIUS 777
VECTIS, BRITANNIA
C onfluence.
The word had been rattling around his mind, and when he was alone it would occasionally roll off his lips and make him tremble.
He had been preoccupied by the confluence, as had his brethren, but he was convinced he was more affected than the others, a wholly imagined position since one did not openly discuss such matters.
Of course, there had long been an awareness that this seventh day would come, but the feelings of portent had dramatically escalated when in the month of Maius a comet appeared, and now, two months later, its fiery tail persisted in the night sky.
Prior Josephus was awake before the bell rang for Lauds. He threw off his rough coverlet, stood and relieved himself in his chamber pot, then splashed his face with a handful of cool water from a basin. One chair, one table, and a cot with a straw pallet on a hard earthen floor. This was his windowless cell; his white tunic of undyed wool and his leather sandals were his only earthly possessions.
And he was happy.
In his forty-fourth year he was already balding and a little fat, owing to his affection for the strong ale that poured from the barrels of the abbey brewery. The baldness on his dome made it easier to maintain his tonsure, and Ignatius, the barber surgeon, made fast work of him every month, sending him on his way with a pat to his raw pate and a brotherly wink.
He had entered the monastery at age fifteen, and as an oblate was restricted to the remotest parts of the monastery until his initiation was complete and he advanced to full membership. Once inside, he knew he would live here forever and die within its walls. His feelings of love for God and his brotherly bond with the members of his community-his famulus Christi-were so strong he often wept with joy, tempered only by the guilt of knowing how fortunate he was compared to the many wretched souls on the isle.
He knelt by his bed and, following the tradition that St. Benedict himself had begun, began his spiritual day with the Lord's Prayer in order that, as Benedict had written, "the thorns of scandal that are wont to arise" would be cleansed from the community. Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum; adveniat Regnum Tuum; fiat voluntas Tua…
He finished, crossed himself, and at that moment the abbey bell chimed. Suspended in the tower by a heavy rope, the bell had been fashioned almost two decades earlier by Matthias, the community blacksmith and a dear friend of Josephus, long dead from the pox. The melodious clang of the clapper between the beaten iron plates always reminded Josephus of the hearty laugh of the ruddy-cheeked blacksmith. He wanted to dwell for a moment on his friend's memory but the word confluence invaded his thoughts instead.
There were chores to be done before Lauds, and as the prior of the community he was charged with overseeing the work of novices and young ministers. Outside the dormitory it was pleasantly cool, inky dark, and when he breathed the moist air through his nose it tasted of the sea. In the stables, the cows were laden with milk, and he was pleased the young men were already attending to their udders by the time he arrived.
"Peace be with you, brother," he quietly said to each man, touching them on the shoulder as he passed. Then he froze, realizing there were seven cows and seven men.
Seven.
God's mysterious number.
The Book of Genesis alone was ripe with sevens: the seven heavens, the seven thrones, the seven seals, the seven churches. The walls of Jericho crumbled on the seventh day of the siege. In Revelations, seven spirits of God were sent forth into the earth. There were exactly seven generations from David to the birth of Christ, the Lord.
And now they were on the verge of the seventh day of the seventh month of Anno Domini 777, confluent with the advent of the comet that Paulinus, the abbey astronomer, had warily named Cometes Luctus, the Comet of Lamentation.
And then there was the matter of Santesa, wife of Ubertus the stonecutter, nearing the end of her worrisome term.
How could everyone appear so placid?
What, in the Lord's name, would tomorrow bring?
The church at Vectis Abbey was a grand work in progress, a source of immense pride. The original timber and thatch church, built nearly a century earlier, was a sturdy structure that had held up well to the harsh coastal winds and the lashings of sea storms. The history of the church and the abbey were well known, as some of the older ministers had personally served with some of the founding brothers. Indeed, in his youth one of their number, the ancient Alric, now too infirm to even leave his cell for mass, had met Birinus, the exalted Bishop of Dorchester.
Birinus, a Frank, came to Wessex in the year 634, having been made a bishop by Pope Honorius with a commission to convert the heathen West Saxons. He soon found himself an arbiter of a civil war in this godforsaken land and endeavored to forge an alliance between the loutish West Saxon king, Cynegils, and Oswald, King of Northumbria, an entirely more agreeable sort, a Christian. But Oswald would not ally himself with a nonbeliever, and Birinus, sensing a glorious opportunity, persuaded Cynegils to convert to Christianity, personally pouring baptismal water over his filthy hair in the name of Christ.
