by John Lutz
The weary certainty of Addleman’s tone chilled Harper. He said nothing.
“You look uneasy, Harper,” Addleman went on. “Like you’re wondering if you oughta get up and walk out of this apartment now.”
“No, I—”
Addleman held tip a hand to stop him. “If you want to leave, go ahead. You don’t have to explain. When we worked together I had an office and a title and a government salary. Now everything’s changed. If you’re thinking I’m some kind of demented alky—well, what I have to tell isn’t gonna change your mind. It’s very weird stuff, Harper. Very dark.”
Harper shook his head. “I don’t hold it against you, what you’ve been through. I don’t have an office or title anymore, either. But—”
He broke off, hesitating.
“Go ahead. Let’s get it all out in the open.” Addleman was trying to stay absolutely still and keep his face impassive. But he was pale and his lips were trembling. Harper realized how vulnerable he was. It had taken a lot of courage for him to face Harper and describe his breakdown. It took courage now to await Harper’s judgment.
Harper chose his words with care. “What I’m uneasy about—it doesn’t have anything to do with your breakdown.”
Addleman looked puzzled. “What is it then?”
“When we were hunting that bomber six years ago, the one we never caught—”
“He committed suicide,” Addleman put in. “I’m sure of it. He’s not walking around anymore.”
“That guy was so twisted, so cold and cruel, that I—I didn’t even recognize him as a human being. But you were able to think yourself right into his head. You could almost become him.”
Addleman had been leaning forward in a tense half crouch. Now he sat back and put his hands on his knees. He was smiling slightly. “I see. So what you’re worried about isn’t that I’m wrong. You’re worried that I may be right.”
“Yes. I guess that’s it.”
Addleman stood up. His smile had grown broader. It was the old, mordant smile Harper remembered all too well.
“Good,” he said. “That’s an appropriate frame of mind for you to be in. Let’s go.”
Harper rose and followed him down a short hall and into a doorway.
Every inch of the apartment’s bedroom had been usurped by file cabinets, shelves of books and software, and card tables bearing papers, CDs, and technical manuals. A door—possibly the original apartment door—was laid over a pair of two-drawer steel file cabinets to create a vast table supporting a computer and its appendages.
It was some computer. It had the biggest monitor Harper had ever seen. It was connected to three-foot-high stereo speakers, a color printer, and a scanner.
“Quite a setup,” said Harper.
Addleman sat down in the desk chair. He looked pleased, almost smug. “I lost my taste for going places and meeting people,” he said. “So I stopped doing it. Now everything comes to me. And I mean everything. The Louvre is online. And the New York Philharmonic. And all the country’s great libraries, of course.”
He pointed to the lens that was built into the casing of the monitor. “With that video camera, my AA sponsor and I can see each other when we talk.”
He swiveled around to face Harper. “More to the point, I can access all the information I need for my work.”
“You can get into the NCIC? Into police files?”
“Haven’t you noticed, Harper? Most of the cop cars you see have computers in them. Case files are routinely entered into online databases. And if it’s on a database, I can usually figure a way to make it show up here.” He tapped the screen of his monitor.
Harper picked his way among the piles of books and papers on the floor to a straight wooden chair. He removed books from its seat and turned it to face Addleman.
“Oh, sorry,” the profiler said. “My social graces are a little rusty.”
Harper sat down. He couldn’t be patient any longer. He said, “You’ve found a previous bombing that was the work of the guy who killed Fahey?”
Addleman nodded. “Two of them.”
“Then you’ve got something the Florida police don’t have.”
Addleman smiled and took out a roll of peppermints. He popped one in his mouth. Probably he didn’t smoke in here because it was bad for the computer.
“How could they have missed this?” Harper went on. “You mean there’ve been other recent bombings in the same area—”
“Not in the same area. And not recent. These go back years.”
“So it’s the same kind of bomb?”
“They’re all pipe bombs.”
“That doesn’t tell you anything. It’s a common type. What else is similar about them?”
“Nothing, as far as I can see.”
Harper frowned, puzzled. “I don’t get it, then. Where’s your thread? Your common factor?”
“The victims,” Addleman said.
“What about them?”
“All celebrities. Our guy kills the rich and famous.”
Harper sat back so quickly that the chair creaked under him. He was thinking maybe he should have left the apartment when Addleman gave him the chance. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer targeting celebrities, and no one’s noticed it but you? Come on! When a famous person dies, it’s a high-profile case. Cops and media are all over it—”
Addleman was nodding. “Yeah. Like what’s happening now in the Buckner case. And all the attention isn’t solving it, is it?”
Harper had no comeback to that. He said, “All right. I’m listening. Tell me about your cases.”
“The first case I’ve definitely linked to this bomber took place five years ago. The victim was Tim Sothern.”
He looked at Harper, who looked blankly back.
“Don’t remember him? He was the Number Ten ranked tennis player in the world. But famous way beyond tennis.”
“I do seem to remember him now. Blond guy, big smile. Advertised some kind of high-energy drink on television.”
“Right. He’d do endorsements and commercials for anything. And he was good-looking and personable, so he was much in demand. You couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing him.”
A vague television image of a blond and laughing Sothern was emerging from Harper’s memory: Sothern and another player were volleying to each other while standing in the backseats of two sports cars, roaring down a desert highway. “He got blown up in some mall, didn’t he?”
“Not just any mall. The Mall of America, up in Minnesota. He was doing a personal appearance in a sporting goods store. He opened a box he was expecting to contain a pair of tennis shoes. But it was a pipe bomb. It blew his right arm off at the shoulder. He died of shock and loss of blood.”
Harper nodded grimly. “Any other casualties?”
“Few cuts and bruises.”
“That’s lucky. I bet the store was packed.”
“Yes. The bomber made some kind of mistake, so the blast wasn’t as powerful as it might have been. You’ll see when you read the report. Next time, he didn’t make that mistake.”
“When was the next time?”
“A little over a year ago. Susan Burton Wylie.”
“This one I remember. The U.S. Congresswoman who was assassinated in Mexico. They thought it was some drug gang.”
“It wasn’t. Remember anything about Wylie herself?”
Harper considered and shook his head.
“She was a freshman member. Her campaign created quite a stir. She ran as a typical working mom who wasn’t going to be just another politician. Very strong populist and feminist.”
“But she was on a junket when she died, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah, well, they all do that. Some lobbyists get together and put up money for a few congresspeople to go to a resort for a winter weekend. The catch is the lobbyists get to go along and talk to them. They usually call it a seminar or symposium, but basically it’s a junket. So they’re in Cozumel, in Representative Wyli
e’s suite, and a bomb goes off. Two lobbyists and a staff person died along with Wylie, and the other eight people in the room were badly injured.”
“I read a story about the investigation,” Harper said.
“Very big deal. The FBI and the Mexican National Police swapping charges about the lack of progress.”
“They still haven’t gotten anywhere.”
“They haven’t made the link to the Sothern case, you mean.”
Addleman nodded.
Harper hesitated, then said, “You know, operating in a foreign country, going after a congressperson who must’ve had pretty fair security—that’s a hell of a lot more difficult than blowing up a tennis player in a mall.”
“Yes,” said Addleman. “And going after Rod Buckner on his own heavily guarded estate was even more difficult. Our guy seeks out challenges. He’s constantly striving to improve.”
Addleman’s voice was soft and mild. He had the faraway look in his eye that Harper remembered from working with him before. A drop of sweat was trickling down Harper’s spine. It felt as cold and heavy as a bowling ball rolling down a gutter.
He straightened up in the uncomfortable chair. “But there’s no connection, Addleman. A tennis star, a left-wing congresswoman, a right-wing novelist. They were famous, sure, but why would your guy choose to go after these three people?”
“What makes you think there has to be a connection?”
“I don’t get you.”
“See, Harper, this is why no one else understands that these three bombings were the work of one man. We’re all dazzled by celebrities. They do such important, exciting things. Their faults and virtues are larger than life. When a famous person gets killed, we figure it’s because of something he did, or it’s something about him personally. But with this bomber, suppose it’s not personal in a personal way?”
“I still don’t follow.”
Addleman’s upper lip tightened with impatience. Harper was being a dull student. “Say you’ve got a serial killer who’s murdering prostitutes. Would you assume it’s because he’s got something personal against each prostitute?”
“No. It’s because he has a problem with sex.”
“Right. So our bomber has a problem with fame.”
“He’s a psycho, you think.”
Addleman nodded. “Smart, patient, methodical, totally crazy.”
“What’s he got against fame?”
“I don’t know yet. Not enough data.”
“Look, Addleman—Harold, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem to me that you have anything here.”
“I don’t have any evidence. I admit that. That’s what I need you for.”
“I don’t see where you’ve even got a reasonable theory.”
Addleman surged out of the chair, his fists clenched. His blue eyes looked hard as glass. “Damn it, Harper! Can’t you see the pattern? He’s done the same thing three times and you can’t see it?”
Harper could only shrug.
The profiler was very agitated. He obviously would have liked to pace, but there was no room. So he sat down again. Glaring at Harper as he spoke, he raised his forefinger to emphasize his point. “One: Sothern. Athlete and product endorser. The bomber gets him in a sports store surrounded by his fans. Tried to get the fans too.”
Addleman raised a second finger. “Two: Wylie. Washington outsider and famous woman of the people. The bomber gets her in a resort hotel surrounded by lobbyists.”
The third finger went up. “Three: Buckner. A writer who claims to know all about high-tech weapons and security. The bomber gets him in his own security center, surrounded by his own guards.”
“You mean he wanted to humiliate the celebrities, in addition to killing them.”
“No, it’s more than that.” Addleman was wagging his head vigorously. “It’s not only celebrities he hates. It’s the people who indulge them, pay court to them, crave being associated with them. He’s not just out to kill celebrities. He wants the people who kiss their asses to die with them.”
Harper was nodding slowly. He didn’t say anything.
After a long moment, Addleman said, “No disrespect meant to your friend. Sorry if I got a little overexcited there.”
Harper hardly heard this. He was turning over in his mind all that Addleman had told him. “If you’re right,” he said, “this guy is only going to get more and more dangerous.”
“Yes,” Addleman replied. “He’s got a pretty broad definition of celebrity ass-kisser. I mean, those people in the mall, they were buying Tim Sothern shirts in hopes it would give them a Tim Sothern backhand. In the bomber’s book, that’s enough to get you a death sentence. Maybe he thinks just buying a ticket is enough, too. Maybe he’ll target a concert by Garth Brooks, or Nelly, or the Three Tenors.”
“He could kill hundreds,” said Harper softly. “Maybe thousands.”
“Of course, we can’t know where he’s going. Or where he came from. But the part of the arc that we can see is definitely trending upward. Each person he kills is more famous than the last. The bomb is more sophisticated and powerful. More people are killed or wounded. And every time, he chooses to go up against tougher security. It’s like he’s practicing. Preparing for the Big One. Whatever it is.”
Another bead of sweat trickled down Harper’s back. Outside, a car went slowly by. Its radio was playing a rap song so loudly the apartment windows vibrated in time with the rumble of the bass. Harper thought about Addleman, a battered and lonely man, scanning his computer screen in his slum apartment. Was it possible he’d picked up on a serial killer the entire vast web of law enforcement had missed?
Addleman caught his eye and guessed at his thoughts. “Well, Harper? Am I right? Or did I dream this up to keep me from thinking about how much I want a drink?”
Harper gave him the only answer he could. “I don’t know. You’ve scared me. No question about that. But I’m not much for theories. I’d have to look at the files, the lab reports—”
Addleman pointed to a stack of printouts resting on the floor. “There they are. You can take ’em with you.”
“Exactly what do you want me to do?”
“Well, like I said, I haven’t got any proof. Nothing the FBI would consider proof, anyway. Analyzlng bomb fragments and crime scenes to find out about the bomber—that was what you were brilliant at. If anybody can come up with physical evidence linking these three crimes, it’s you. Then we’ll go have a talk with my former employers and see if we can convince them.”
Harper took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. I’ll take the files.”
“That’s all I ask.” Addleman gave his quick, sardonic smile. “Well, no, that’s not all. I’m also going to have to ask you not to take too long getting back to me.”
“I’ll get right on it. If this bomber’s for real, if he’s the one who killed Jimmy Fahey, I want him bad.”
“There’s more to it than that.” Addleman straightened up and looked down at his hands. “Remember, while you’re working, the bomber’s working too.”
Harper felt the old tension begin to gnaw at his insides. “Seems to me your bomber leaves a long time between his attacks.”
“So far. But we can’t count on that. What we do know is that he’s a meticulous planner and preparer. He’s working on his next attack right now.”
Harper nodded and went over to the stack of printouts. By the time he rose with the papers under his arm, Addleman was standing in the hall, at a safe distance from his beloved computer, lighting a cigarette. Harper observed the expression of relief on his face with the first deep inhalation. Almost everyone had at least one vice that could be a destructive compulsion: tobacco, booze, food, sex.
Bombs.
6
At the side of a quiet road in western Missouri, not far from Interstate 44, a man was pacing next to his parked car. He was waiting for someone. He paced methodically, six steps out and six back. There was a puddle in his path that he avoided with t
he same side step each time. At the conclusion of each circuit, he glanced at his watch. Evidently he was the sort of man who liked to keep track of how long he was being kept waiting.
He was a tall man in his early forties. The afternoon was dim and damp, and he was wearing the raincoat of a city businessman: knee-length, tan, the front buttons covered by a fly. He had it buttoned up to the collar, but be wasn’t wearing a hat. His lank brown hair had receded, leaving a vast expanse of pale, deeply furrowed forehead. His dense, dark eyebrows, growing together over his nose, seemed to divide his face in half, with his features scrunched together in the lower half. The eyes were deep-set and, in the dim light, seemingly colorless. They could have been blue, hazel, or gray. The nose was short and straight, the mouth wide and thin-lipped. His chin was receding into his neck, the way a middle-aged man’s will.
The place where the man was waiting had been well-chosen—a rectangle of pitted and rutted concrete on which a service station or convenience store must once have stood, though no trace of the building remained. It was only a few yards from the road, but dense thickets screened it from passing traffic. Not that this mattered, for there was hardly any traffic, and dusk was closing in fast. In the other direction, Interstate 44 could be seen in the distance, one band of white lights and another of red, snaking over a hill. The rush and shuffle of speeding cars could be clearly heard over the sound of water dripping from tree limbs.
The quiet was broken by the roar of an approaching car. The man checked his watch one final time and lowered it with a look of cold satisfaction. Putting his hands in his raincoat pockets, he turned to face the road.
An old, rust-pitted Camaro came bucking and swaying over the potholed concrete to stop next to the waiting man’s nondescript sedan. Apparently the door no longer worked, because the driver hoisted himself out through the window.
This man was bad news, and he wanted everybody to know it. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, grimy jeans, and sharp-toed cowboy boots. He had a fat stomach, but his shoulders and arms were thickly muscled, the muscles adorned with tattoos. There were heavy, jagged rings on all four fingers of his left hand. His long black hair hadn’t been washed in a long time. It was parted in the middle, revealing a pale scar running down his forehead to his right check. The lid of the right eye had never healed, and the eye was bloodshot. The man had the habit of blinking frequently.
