Blindside

by Catherine Coulter

  Sam, who couldn’t speak until he’d swallowed the huge bite he’d taken, gave Savich a big, ketchup-smeared smile.

  Ten minutes later, when Keely and Sam were eating chocolate chip ice cream, focused on each other and the chocolate chips they were carefully picking from the cones, Savich said, his voice pitched low, “Jimmy Maitland called just a while ago. The math teacher killer hit again, and he wants us back on the investigation. They need fresh eyes and he says we’re the freshest eyes he’s got. He sounds more desperate than I’ve heard him in a long while. The media attention had died down after they’d thrashed over the second killing, but now, with the third, they’ll have ‘serial killer’ plastered all over the TV and the newspapers.”

  Sherlock said, “He also wants us to come back for a press conference at headquarters tonight. We have no choice at all in this.”

  “There are lots of good people,” Savich said, “but when you mix three different police departments and the FBI together and try to coordinate who’s going to be top dog, it can get ugly real fast.”

  Katie said, “I heard that after the second math teacher killing, the politicians started getting into the act.”

  “They’ll want to ban every gun in the universe, including the one the shooter’s using,” Sherlock told her. “I can just imagine how difficult it is for the local jurisdictions to deal with this, particularly when the politicians are competing for sound bites.”

  Sherlock sighed, her eyes for a moment on Savich’s plate, where most of his swordfish sandwich was left untouched. “One thing is absolutely true: Everyone is scared. Everyone wants to catch this guy, and the pressure keeps growing.”

  “Maitland said that the principals in the high schools in the killing areas haven’t put up any road blocks if the math teachers want to leave town for a while,” Savich said. “It’s rather like closing the barn door after the horses have run out.”

  “Three people dead,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Maitland scheduled the press conference late enough so we’ll have time to speak to the third victim’s husband beforehand.”

  “So what are you going to say at this press conference?” Katie asked as she sipped her coffee.

  Savich started to say he didn’t have a clue, but instead he suddenly just got up from the table and went outside. They watched him talking on his cell phone.

  “My husband just got a brain flash,” Sherlock said, amused satisfaction in her voice. “The last time it happened, Sean was sprawled on Dillon’s chest. Dillon grabbed him under one arm and took him to MAX. An hour later, the Detroit cops arrested a man who worked behind the counter at Trailways Bus in Detroit for the murder of three runaway teenagers, all of whom had left Detroit on Trailways. He’d followed all of them and killed them.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?” Katie asked.

  “He never really said, just cried so hard his nose was running. Even after six months of nonstop shrinks, I don’t think anyone ever understood what he was all about. He’s locked away now in a state mental hospital.”

  Savich came back into the restaurant, sat down, took a bite of his fish sandwich, and said absolutely nothing.

  Miles said to Savich, “So all of a sudden, your brain just announced—bang!—the killer was a counter clerk at Trailways?”

  Savich looked blank until Sherlock said, “I was telling them about the Detroit case, Dillon.”

  He nodded. “The cops had questioned all the employees at Trailways, but they didn’t spot this guy as a viable suspect. Well, I’d just been giving it a lot of thought, that’s all, and I took a guess. I asked them to follow this guy for three days.”

  “What happened?” Katie asked, spellbound.

  “He picked out our undercover agent, who was really twenty-six years old but looked fifteen, as his next victim. We got him.”

  “Okay, Dillon, what’s the brain flash this time?”

  He smiled at Sherlock, then shook his head at the others. “Too soon for me to say. Now, the big question. It’s Tuesday, what do you want to do, Miles?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I guess I need to stay here for a while longer,” and he looked over at Sam and Keely.

  Savich saw that he was pissed, frustrated, and nearly at the end of his tether. “Both of you,” he said, “keep us informed.”

  Katie became suddenly aware that both Sam and Keely were all ears, down to the last licks on their cones. “Finish your ice cream, kids,” she said, and wiped a bit of chocolate chip off Keely’s mouth.

  26

  At eight o’clock that evening, at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., Savich stood beside FBI Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland, waiting for the police chief of Oxford, Maryland, to turn the mike back over to them. The police chiefs from all three jurisdictions were lined up behind the podium, trying to look confident in front of all the blinding lights and the shouted questions.

  Standing beside the chiefs were the three victims’ husbands: Troy Ward, looking sad and puffy in a bright blue suit; Gifford Fowler, skinny as a post, standing with a big black Stetson in his hands; and Crayton Maddox, a successful attorney, looking as pale as a ghost, still in shock. He’d managed to dress himself in a Saville Row suit that had to have set him back a couple thousand dollars. Looking at the man now, Savich thought back to the meeting he and Sherlock had with him only two hours before, at his home in Lockridge, Virginia.

  He and Sherlock had driven to Lockridge High School in Lockridge, Virginia, an affluent suburb favored by many upper-level government employees. The crime investigators, local and FBI, were still there, and six officers were keeping the media behind a police rope.

  Police Chief Thomas Martinez met them in the principal’s office and said without preamble, “The janitor spotted a small leak late Monday afternoon, in the boiler room. He repaired it, then said he couldn’t sleep for worrying so he came back early this morning, before six o’clock, to see that everything was still holding.” The chief stopped and grimaced. “He smelled something. It was Mrs. Maddox, one of our five math teachers. Evidently she’d stayed late to grade some test papers because she and her family were leaving for the Caribbean in the morning. Her husband said he’d talked her into leaving because of the two killings. In any case, she never made it home. Her husband called us around nine o’clock last evening, scared out of his mind. He’d called her cell, gotten no answer. We searched nonstop for her. The janitor found her. Come this way.”

  It was not a pretty sight. Mrs. Eleanor Maddox, not above thirty-five, two children, and a whiz at teaching geometry, had been shoved in beside the boiler. Because the weather was cool the boiler had fired up, and that was why the janitor had smelled her body. She’d been shot right between the eyes, up very close, just like the other two women.

  Chief Martinez said, “The forensic team finished up about three hours ago. The ME said if he had to guess, it was a .38, just like the other two. He also said that this time, the guy had moved her here after he’d shot her.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “Not a one, so far.”

  “Not even a strange car in the vicinity?”

  He shook his head. “No. I have officers canvassing the entire neighborhood. No one saw a thing. Basketball practice and the student club meetings were over, so there weren’t any other students or teachers around that we know of.”

  Sherlock said, “I guess he didn’t want her found right away. What does the husband have to say, Chief?”

  The husband, Crayton Maddox, was a big legal mover and shaker in Washington, his forte forging limitless access to politicians for lobbying groups willing to pay for the privilege. Exactly what that meant, Mr. Maddox didn’t explain, and Savich, cynical to his toes, didn’t ask. It was nearly six o’clock in the evening, but Mr. Maddox was still wearing his robe. There were coffee stains on the front of it. He was wearing socks, no shoes. He looked like he’d been awake for a week, and none of those waking hours had been pleasant.

  Crayton Maddox sa
id, “I called all her friends, all the teachers she worked with, I even called her mother, and I haven’t spoken to that woman in nearly two years.” He stopped a moment, tears choking him, and stared at Savich. “God, don’t you see? This just isn’t right; it shouldn’t have happened. Ellie never hurt a soul, not even me, and I’m a lawyer. She planned on working until we left for the Caribbean, even though I tried to convince her to stay home, not take any chances. Why did he kill her? Why?”

  Savich had no answer. “I know you’ve already spoken to Chief Martinez, and he’ll give us all the details. We’re here to ask you to join us at a press conference in a couple of hours at FBI Headquarters. I know you’ll want to hear about all that’s being done and it would be helpful to us if you came. I think it’s important that the world see victims’ families, see what devastation this sort of mindless violence can cause. Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler, the first two victims’ husbands, will be there. Will you join us, Mr. Maddox?”

  Crayton Maddox bent his head and, to Savich’s surprise, didn’t ask a single question. Then he said, “Did you know that I called Margie, my assistant? She was here before seven o’clock this morning. She knows everything, that’s what I told Chief Martinez, everything about both me and my wife.” He paused a moment, glanced down at his Rolex, then out the living room window. “Good God, it’s dark outside.” He looked up at them. “I’m usually about ready to come home from my office at six o’clock in the evening. Ellie always got home around four o’clock. She wanted to be here when the kids got home.”

  They heard crying from upstairs, a woman’s soothing voice. The children, Sherlock thought. There’d been no children involved in the first two killings. Why had the killer changed?

  “My mother-in-law,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “Margie called her and she was here in ten minutes. I guess we’ll have to start speaking again.” He stood, all hunched forward, like he hadn’t moved in far too long. “I’ll be at your press conference, Agent.”

  Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland nodded to Savich, then stepped to the podium. He spoke of the cooperation among the three police departments, spoke of the activity by the FBI at the crime scenes, and repeated the hot-line number for any information on the killings. He finished his words to the roomful of reporters with “And this is Special Agent Dillon Savich, chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit of the FBI.”

  Most of the reporters knew who Savich was. Jimmy Maitland barely had time to shut his mouth before several reporters yelled out together, “Agent Savich, why is he killing math teachers?”

  “Since all the victims are women, do you think it’s a man?”

  Savich stepped up to the podium, said nothing at all until the room was quiet, which was very quickly. He knew many of them were jotting down descriptions of him and of the grieving husbands. He said, “Mr. George, you asked why is he killing math teachers, and Mr. Dobbs pointed out that all the victims have been women. Yes, we believe the killer is a man. As to why he’s doing this, we have some ideas, but it’s not appropriate to discuss all the possibilities with you at this stage in the investigation.”

  “Is the guy crazy?”

  Savich stared thoughtfully at Martha Stockton of the Washington Post, who had the reputation of being something of a ditz, but this time she had stripped away the nonessentials really fast. “No, I don’t think he’s crazy in the sense that he’s frothing at the mouth and out of control. He seems to have planned these killings well enough that so far there are no witnesses. Why he’s doing this, we don’t know yet, but I will tell you this: We will find him. We are spending hundreds of man-hours speaking to fellow teachers and former students. We are leaving nothing to chance.

  “Now, I would like to introduce to you some of the family members affected by these tragic killings. These are the widowers of the murdered teachers, Mr. Ward, Mr. Fowler, and Mr. Maddox, whose wife was found just this morning. I believe Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler wish to make a brief statement.”

  Mr. Eli Dobbs of CNN yelled out, “Excuse me, Mr. Maddox, but your wife was just murdered. How do you feel about standing up there with Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler?”

  That show of crassness was par for the course, Savich thought. He raised his hand. “We will take a few questions later. This is a time of grief and shock for these gentlemen. You might consider their circumstances before you ask your questions.”

  Troy Ward stepped forward and grabbed the edges of the podium. “I want to thank all those who have sent me cards and e-mails. The police are doing their best, I know, and I just want to thank everyone for their support and their thoughtfulness to me and my wife’s family at this terrible time.” With that, he stood back from the podium, his eyes on his shoes.

  “You didn’t call this Sunday’s Ravens game, Mr. Ward,” Eli Dobbs said. “What are your plans?”

  Troy answered, but without the microphone in front of him, the reporters had to strain to hear him. “I’m planning to announce the game this Sunday. My wife would have wanted life to go on.”

  Gifford Fowler took his turn at the podium. He said simply, “My wife was the love of my life. I miss her every moment,” and he also thanked the public. He didn’t step back, though, and looked like he wanted questions.

  “Mr. Fowler, we’ve been told you’re going to speak at the Rotary Club this Wednesday.”

  Gifford Fowler said, “They said they wanted to show their support, to share their time with me for an evening. I am very grateful to them for inviting me.”

  Savich cut it off, stepping back to the podium. He wasn’t about to have Mr. Maddox in front of this group. His loss was too new, his control too tenuous. Besides, the world had seen them up close and personal. It was enough.

  “Have your computers been of any help yet, Agent Savich?”

  “Is MAX going to stand up there and announce the killer?”

  There was laughter.

  Savich smiled. “MAX is a tremendous tool. But here’s the truth: Crimes are solved by good old-fashioned police work. And that’s what we’re doing, as fast and as hard as we can. Thank you for coming.”

  When it was all over, Savich gave Sherlock a small salute, then turned to speak to the three widowers. “I thank you for coming. I think it makes a difference. Of course there’ll be more questions. I will be in touch with each of you. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”

  He shook hands with all of the men, then watched them closely as they trailed out, following an agent through the rear door.

  Sherlock took his hand and said in a whisper, “That was quite a performance. Do you think it was worth it?”

  He turned, cupped her face in his hands, and said, “I think so. We’ll see.”

  Later that night, back home in Georgetown, Sean was asleep on his father’s shoulder after helping his parents eat a late dinner of his father’s pesto pasta. Sherlock said while she heated some hot water for tea, “Miles called. Dr. Raines is still seeing Sam. Miles thinks it’s best to keep him with her for a while longer. Also, he can’t imagine separating Sam and Keely just yet.”

  “I can’t imagine it either,” Savich said. “Sam is probably as safe there as at home, and Katie has a couple of deputies around him whenever she or Miles can’t be with them. I’ll bet he’ll get Katie to take him to see the McCamys.”

  Sherlock nodded. “You’re probably right. And right now, I can’t imagine Sam being away from Keely either.”

  “Yeah,” Savich said slowly, as he watched her pour his tea into his favorite Redskins mug, “and I was wondering how Miles would do away from the sheriff.”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Two very strong people slapped together in a mess like this . . .”

  “Yeah, but let’s keep out of it, Sherlock. Neither of us has a clue as to what will happen between them, if anything.”

  “The children are very important to both of them,” she said. The phone rang and she turned to answer it. It was Agent Dane Carver, to catch Savich up on his case in Miami.
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  On Wednesday morning Savich was so stiff and sore, he knew he had to do something. Walking on the treadmill sounded like just what he needed. He’d forgotten all about Valerie Rapper. But evidently she hadn’t forgotten him. She was there at the gym, waiting for him. Did the woman have spies? Her timing was incredible.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning,” he said.

  “I sometimes like to work out in the mornings. I saw you on TV last night, Agent Savich,” she said, looking over at him as she pressed in ten minutes on the treadmill next to him. “Those poor husbands, I guess you really wanted to remind the public how horrific all this is, and that’s why you showed them off.”

  Savich grunted again. His back was sore, but the walking was helping to loosen it up a bit. Sherlock had bandaged him up really well, knowing he wouldn’t do anything too stupid, but since she’d been muttering under her breath at the time, he wasn’t sure.

  “What’s wrong? You’re moving like you’re hurt. What happened?”

  There was real concern in her voice. He looked over at her and said in his mildest, most unthreatening voice, “Nothing’s wrong. Just a pulled muscle.”

  “I thought you were moving a bit stiffly on television last night.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He looked pointedly down at the book he was reading.

  “Would you go for a cup of coffee after you’re finished working out? I’m buying.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Rapper, but I’m married. I don’t go out for coffee with other women even if they’re offering to pay.”

  She laughed. “Sure you can. It’s no big deal. I’m not going to seduce you, Agent Savich, it’s only a cup of coffee, a bit of conversation.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to loosen up a bit, have a bit of fun. I know, I know, what fun can you have over coffee? It’s possible, I swear.”