by Ben Miller
The crowd of reporters swelled, noisily throwing cameras on shoulders and bringing microphones to mouths. Randall would emerge from the building soon.
Mario clasped the pistol tightly in his pocket and marched forward toward the crowd.
67
Heath Reilly knocked on the apartment door. After several seconds, a young woman with short-cropped bleach-blond hair answered.
“Are you Tina Langenbahn?” Reilly inquired.
“Yep. And you’re that Fed who called.” She turned and walked into her apartment, leaving the door ajar for Reilly.
Reilly stepped in and closed the door behind him. “Special Agent Heath Reilly, with CASMIRC from DC.”
Tina had gone around the corner at the end of the short corridor into the living room. “Yeah, I know. Your partners were here last week.”
Reilly followed her into the cramped room. “Right.”
Tina fell back into her favorite armchair without inviting Reilly to sit anywhere. “And you’ve come knockin’ around here, wantin’ to ask me some stuff, but you haven’t found my baby yet.”
Reilly remained standing. “That’s correct, unfortunately. But we continue to search, and try to follow up any lead. Which is what has brought me back here.”
“Shoot,” Tina said as she tucked a leg underneath her.
Reilly took a small notebook of out his inner jacket pocket. He had nothing to reference in the notebook, and he didn’t intend to write anything down. He just liked the dramatic pause it created. He had found it allowed the interviewee a few needed seconds to answer his questions. He flipped it open to a blank page.
“I wanted to ask you about the assailant’s voice. He said something to you before he attacked you, correct?”
“Who, the Piper?”
“Well,” Reilly stammered. “We don’t use that term publicly, but, yes.”
“Yeah. I told everybody this before. He said ‘Hey’ a couple of times before he Tased me. He was behind me. I never really got a good look at him.”
“Yes. Can you tell me anything about his voice?”
Already appearing annoyed with this line of questioning, she shook her head. “No. Like I told them.”
“I know you said that you didn’t recognize it. But I was wondering if there was anything else you could say about it. Any unusual qualities to it? Any accent? Anything that might set that voice apart?” Reilly wanted to ask her if it sounded “tinny,” like Sara Gardner had said, but he knew this was a leading question. He needed Tina to use the descriptor herself before he could say it.
“No,” Tina replied dismissively.
Reilly licked his lips and took a deep breath, trying to muster some patience. She scolded him when he came in about his supposed incompetence in locating her missing daughter, yet she showed no interest in helping him. He thought he would try to connect with her a little more personally, foster some investment into the conversation. “Listen, Tina—can I call you Tina?”
“Can I call you Ryan?” she replied.
“Well, you can…but my name’s Heath.”
“Oh. I know,” she covered, smiling playfully at him.
Reilly didn’t like the feeling of engaging in flirtation with a victim’s mother, but he concluded that he would let it pass because he might be making some headway with her. “I suppose this may seem trivial, Tina. But small details like this—like the sound of your attacker’s voice—might just be what we need to break this case open and bring Portia back to you.”
She scowled at him and shot him a piercing stare. “Do you honestly think she’s still alive?”
“I do,” he lied without pausing a beat. “Can you tell me anything about his voice?”
She stared at the corner of the room and ran her hand back through her hair, which spiked right back up behind it. “It may have been…weird. Like fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy?”
She sighed. “No, not fuzzy, I guess. But not crisp. Not muffled, either. Just, I dunno, weird.”
“Any other words you can think of to describe it?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
“And you definitely didn’t recognize it?”
“No,” she said with a hint of uncertainty. “It’s like—I feel like I should recognize it, but I didn’t. Like it was familiar but unrecognizable.”
Reilly nodded in concession. He thought this might be all the farther he could get her to go with this. “OK. I just have one more question.” He licked his finger and flipped from one blank page to the next in his notebook, again hoping the break in conversation could signal a change in subject and a renewed ability for her to remember something. “One of the other victims, who we think is also linked to the same perpetrator, mentioned that, at one time, she considered not having her baby. Did you ever think about that?”
“Like abortion?” She seemed startled.
Reilly nodded.
“No. I never thought about that.”
“It never crossed your mind?”
“No. I don’t believe in that shit.”
“OK,” Reilly said as he closed his notebook prop and put it back in his jacket.
“I did—just briefly—think about giving her up, though,” Tina admitted.
“Giving her up? For adoption?”
“Yep. Even went so far as to fill out information at an agency and everything.”
Reilly pulled his notebook back out. This he actually wanted to write down.
68
Randall could lift his shackled hands just barely high enough from the chain around his waist to yank down on his sport coat, straightening it out. He smoothed the bottom of his tie. Given the headline-inducing action in the courtroom this morning, he expected a raucous reception when the back doors opened and he walked to his transport back to prison. Despite appearances never holding much meaning for him, he still wanted to look his best for the paparazzi.
One of his police guard escorts looked outside through a nearby window. “Christ on a cracker,” he said to himself. He approached Randall. “You seem even more popular today.”
Randall shrugged smugly. He had prepared a short speech for the occasion today. It was more of a general outline, with a few specific phrases he had constructed and would find a way to work in. He didn’t want it to feel rehearsed.
“Wait,” a voice said behind him. Randall began to turn around, but the two guards on either side of him tightened their grasps on his elbows when he tried to swivel.
“All right,” the voice said again and Victor Upshall appeared around Randall’s right flank. “I’m going out there with you.”
Randall tried to dissuade him. “No, no. That’s not really necessary.”
“Maybe not for you,” retorted Upshall. He walked a few steps to a nearby glass case, housing several antique trinkets from the previous courthouse destroyed by fire over a century earlier. Upshall grabbed the knot in his tie and straightened it while squinting at his faint reflection in the glass. “But I’m going out there with you, and I’m going to say a few words to the media.”
Randall raised his chin, making it easier for him to look down on Upshall. “No offense, Victor, but I have dissolved our relationship. I am no longer in need of your services, my erstwhile lawyer.”
Upshall calmly approached Randall until his nose settled mere centimeters away from Randall’s. Randall could feel the guards pulling back on his elbows to create some space between the two men, but Randall resisted and stood his ground.
“Listen, Freak.” Upshall remained composed despite the intensity of his words. “You’ve tried to ruin me. You and that ginger bitch from the paper. I’m not sure why, what you have against me. But I’m not going to let you. You are going to fry. Mostly because you deserve it, but, more importantly, because you’ll never find a lawyer better at getting you off than me. But I’m not going down with you.
“Now, we’re going to walk out there, you, me, and these lovely gentlemen here,” he pointed at the guards on e
ither side of him, “and I’m going to say a few words to the media. And then I never have to see you again. Have I made myself clear to you?”
Randall stared at him. He wanted to raise his hands and squeeze the life out of Upshall’s throat. Not because of the personal insults, or even his distasteful comment about Corinne, but because Upshall was right. He would emerge from this unscathed. Nothing ever seemed to stick to slimy scum like him. However, since his hands were in restraints, he decided instead to just fuck with him one last time. “No. Can you go over that again please?”
Ostensibly unfazed, Upshall backed away, reflexively adjusted his tie again, and looked at his watch. “Are we ready?” he asked the guards.
The one guard not holding Randall’s arms looked out the window again. “Yep. The bus is here. Let’s go.” He opened the door, and the pandemonium began outside.
Upshall followed the first guard outside. Randall was pushed out the door and onto the sidewalk behind the two of them. The lead guard cleared a path through the media. Before the walkway began its gentle slope down to the driveway where Randall’s chariot awaited, Upshall stopped, forcing Randall and his escorts to halt also.
Upshall put his hands in the air to signal the commencement of his important announcement. The crowd nearly silenced immediately. “As you may have heard, I will no longer be representing Dr. Franklin. I assure you that these allegations against me are both unfounded and unjust. I repeat: unfounded and unjust. I will clear my good name in short time and continue to serve my clients in a truthful and supportive way, with unsurpassed legal acumen and litigation skills, just as I always have.”
After a few serene seconds, the hush of those gathered quickly erupted into a shouting cacophony of questions. Randall could discern a multitude of names—“Mr. Upshall” overlapping with “Victor” blending with “Dr. Franklin” mixing with “Randall”—but, after that, he barely understood anything due to the overlay of syllables from various sources. He tried to find one reporter on whom to focus. He scanned the crowd to find the person who intrigued him the most. Meanwhile, Upshall answered a question here and there, lapping up the limelight.
One older reporter to Randall’s left sported a fedora, like an old-time newsy from the 40s. He piqued Randall’s interest. Randall gazed at him expectantly, but the reporter busily jotted down notes from Upshall’s blathering. Randall moved on, scanning the crowd further. In the back stood a man who looked familiar. The man slowly inched his way forward with an intensity in his face unmatched by anyone else in the vicinity.
Randall could recognize that look. He himself had held that look on his face on several occasions.
That guy is going to kill somebody, Randall thought.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the predator, who slowly advanced on the crowd. The man noticed Randall looking at him and quickly bowed his head.
Randall recognized him in that moment. He had seen his pictures in the paper and his infuriated interview on TV. That was a lifetime ago, back when his Work had just begun. He was the stepfather of Stephanie McBurney, Randall’s first victim.
Randall looked at Upshall, still spewing his bullshit to the media, and then back to Stephanie’s stepfather. As the man neared the front row of reporters, he looked up to meet Randall’s eyes once more.
Randall’s chest swelled in a combination of excitement and fear—but mostly excitement—as he made a final realization.
That guy isn’t going to kill somebody. That guy is going to kill me.
69
Mario Cugino pushed his shoulder forward to nudge his way to the front of the semi-circle of reporters. He dug his hands into his jacket pockets so forcefully he feared he might rip a hole through them. He noticed that the palm of his right hand had become sweaty. He tested his grip on the pistol, and it felt a little slippery. He wanted to extract his hand to swipe it on his slacks so that he could get a freshly dried handle on the gun, but he worried about what might go wrong if he pulled his hand out: someone could see the exposed butt of the gun; it might actually slip out of his pocket; he could accidentally trip it and shoot himself by accident, a la Plaxico Burress. He stood frozen for a moment before deciding to just focus on grabbing the gun as tightly as he could and hoping for the best.
When Mario got fully exposed in the crescent, Victor Upshall had garnered the attention of all of the media types with his diatribe on some sort of injustice in the legal hierarchy. Mario looked at Randall Franklin, who returned his stare. Franklin recognized him. Mario was sure of it; he could tell by the twinkle of awareness in his eyes.
Mario held no microphone. He had no cameraman accompanying him. Surely Randall knew what he was doing here. Yet he didn’t call out, or turn around, or even whisper something to one of the guards standing right beside him. Randall just kept looking at Mario, as if Randall were on safari watching a hunting lion sneak up on a lone antelope. And Randall didn’t seem to care that he was the antelope. Mario got the sense that, though it might turn others’ stomachs, Randall couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.
Mario began to think about an escape plan, a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind before. He had assumed he would be apprehended immediately, but he now wondered if he might be able to get away somehow. The guards surrounding Randall hadn’t even noticed Mario. One of them rolled his eyes at Upshall’s politicking. Mario briefly considered the relatively open space of this side of the building, and the countless potential witnesses within a twenty-foot radius. He had no chance of getting out of here after he shot Randall. Once again, as he had before, he decided that he didn’t care.
Mario burrowed his palm against the rough surface of the pistol’s handle, assuring the best possible grip. He took a deep breath in, held it, and slowly exhaled. The time had come.
Suddenly Victor Upshall let out a groan and an uncharacteristic stutter before he abruptly stopped talking. He had spun a half-turn back to his left, an oddly contorted look on his face. He reached his right hand up to the front of his left shoulder and collapsed on one knee. Mario couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. The one free guard who was not holding Randall crouched down beside Upshall, but the other two guards did not move. The group of reporters collectively gasped before falling silent.
Mario, confused, looked at Randall, who returned an equally discombobulated gaze. They stared at each other only for a few nanoseconds, but it would later feel to Mario like an eternity. Mario heard a popping sound behind him, from the direction of the municipal parking garage in the distance over his left shoulder. Instantaneously the left side of Randall’s neck ripped open, showering blood upon a half-dozen reporters nearby. The guard behind Randall shrieked and fell to the ground as the bullet that had passed through Randall’s carotid artery settled in his Kevlar vest. Randall stammered two shuffled steps forward. His hands went to his neck, trying to pull the shredded tissue back together. He opened his mouth, gurgled blood that spilled over his bottom lip, and fell to his knees. He teetered there for a moment before slumping to the sidewalk on his side, staring up at Mario. Blood continued to spurt between his fingers.
Several members of the media screamed in horror. One young man to Mario’s left vomited on both his and Mario’s shoes. Victor Upshall, either oblivious to or apathetic toward Randall’s more critical injury, cried out in agonizing pain. More than a handful of camera operators didn’t flinch, however; they continued filming through the whole thing.
Mario knew he had to get out of there fast. He never fired a shot, but surely it didn’t look too good to be standing at a murder scene with a loaded pistol in his pocket. However, he couldn’t turn away. He slowly took a step backwards, his eyes fixated on Randall’s. Those glassy globes stared straight back at him, a dazed look cemented on his face.
70
Reilly hung up his phone, but he didn’t get out of his car. He needed a few minutes to process everything before proceeding. Sara Gardner had just confirmed to him that she too had filled out pape
rwork at an adoption agency early in her pregnancy, but she later withdrew it. She had reconsidered and wanted to keep the baby. She provided the name of the same adoption agency as Tina Langenbahn had: Family Connections, the agency owned and operated by Dana Dellahunt.
When he finally thought he had a good grasp of the order of events, and he had developed a starter-kit of questions to ask, Reilly got out of the car. He had contemplated calling in to Jeff, Camilla, and the others to pass on this new batch of information, but he had decided against it. It was too incomplete. He needed to find these loose edges, fill in the remaining gaps, and pull it all together first. He felt sure he had found the common thread that weaved all of the Piper’s victims together. He just needed to find out how.
He thought about calling Dana ahead of time, but he decided he would rather take a chance that she was around and just show up. He approached the front door of her house-slash-office and knocked. Dana opened the door within seconds.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” she asked, seeming excited to see him.
“Hey,” Reilly said, feigning nonchalance. “I came to talk to you.”
“Cool. C’mon in. I was just tidying up some stuff on my computer.”
Reilly followed her inside. He looked at this brightly lit room in front differently from how he had during the last visit. Rather than concentrating on trying to remember how it looked during his childhood, he could now consider it for its current merit. He could imagine Dana sitting in one of the armchairs to his right, either working with prospective adoptive parents sitting on the loveseat together as they studied the pages of prospective donating mothers, or dealing with the mothers themselves as they sat in the other chair, leafing through the binders filled with childless couples. A simple but genius design, Reilly concluded. Much like the logo for her business itself.
“What’s up?” Dana queried as she sat down at the computer. She placed her hands on the keyboard and mouse, ostensibly continuing the work she had left when she went to open the door.
