by Brian Haig
Beyond the age of adoption, Jennie was shuttled into the foster home system. Twice, she had to be relocated after accusations of sexual abuse that were never proven, though a medical examination—conducted when she was only thirteen and first entered the child welfare system—revealed that Jennie’s virginity was a long and distant memory. Her cervix was unnaturally enlarged with unusual erosion, indicating extensive and painful sexual activity with adult-sized male organs.
Reading through the thick ream of reports from various Ohio State Child Welfare Agency officials, over the years Jennie displayed none of the classic symptoms of abused childhoods—she remained well behaved, no trouble with the authorities, no truancy, no drugs, no alcohol, and no transparent personality disorders. Jennie Margold, in fact, was regarded as a shining exemplar of the welfare system’s healing vitality and success. She remained a top student, popular, brilliant, talented, and driven.
I wasn’t judging the hardworking welfare officials of that very fine state, nor did I doubt Jennie’s precocious flair for deception. Yet somebody should have had enough sense to know that, contrary to all outward appearances, no child spawned in such a shower of horrors could emerge internally intact. In effect, the more normal she appeared the less normal she probably was.
In an analysis of possible motives regarding the recent murders, some anonymous investigator wrote:
Jennifer Margold would benefit from the administration murders in two very striking ways. She would exploit her knowledge to humiliate and professionally eliminate George Meany and maneuver herself into position as his replacement. She would also end up with a private fortune, estimated at some twelve and a half million dollars.
No kidding. These were the correct rational motives, but reason and logic had nothing to do with why Jennie killed.
Near the back of the report I found an attachment from a profiler named Terry Higgens with this more insightful description:
Serial killers are either internalizers or externalizers. The internalizer likes distance, likes to create separation between him/herself and the victim, and conceivably the crime. Most internalizers are predatory bombers or arsonists. Internalizers are cowardly and normally choose victims who are smaller or weaker, as a fair match is the last thing they want. There are exceptions, however. And when they tackle larger, more powerful victims they unleash a frenzied assault, a blitzkrieg of ferocity in an attempt to overwhelm and neutralize the victim.
It wasn’t hard to see what led Terry Higgens to lump Jennie in this particular pool. In all likelihood, Jennie’s first crime was murder through arson, and her MO in these more recent murders was a variation on the theme, killing anonymously, from a distance, through surrogates. Also, no prey is more powerful than the United States government. Just as Terry Higgens diagnosed, Jennie had unleashed an assault that was fierce, unrelenting, and punishing, a frenzy of killing with such centrifugal impact it squashed our ability to react. Her diagnosis went on to say:
It should be further noted that many sociopathic individuals, particularly psychopathic serial killers, have a perverse fascination with police work. They attempt to get and stay near the police, hanging around cop bars, shooting ranges, places where the police tend to congregate. In fact, some have been known to attempt to become police.
As a final note, we would point out that pyschopaths are lifelong killers. They start with small crimes, they improve through experience, and they evolve higher-level skills. Recurring success breeds a psychosexual need to escalate their violence and achieve satisfaction by committing ever more heinous crimes.
I thought these observations sounded too clinical and detached to put any human face on. Certainly they did not sound like the Jennie I knew. I had never observed her revealing even a twinge of satisfaction or pleasure at the sight of her victims. Like the rest of us, Jennie appeared horrified and appalled, though it was now clear that the Jennie you saw and the Jennie you got were very different species.
But as I thought about it, the ingredients of this foul casserole—an internalizer, a psychopath, a need to escalate the violence—clearly linked the perpetrator to the crime, nor was there the slightest doubt who choreographed this carnival of slaughter. Still, there’s a wide gap between knowing it and proving it beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law.
Likewise, I thought Jennie’s background and Terry Higgens’s prognosis explained why Jennie plucked poor Jason Barnes from the immense and varied pool of government servants undergoing background checks. Essentially, Jennie hunted for herself, at least a reasonable mirror of herself, a psychological doppelganger she could knowingly bring into sharp focus for the rest of us, because, really, Jennie was describing someone she knew intimately: herself.
Ergo, Jennie was self-aware enough to know who she was, and how she got there. I knew that if I talked with psychiatrists they would tell me that for most, self-knowledge is the first step on the road to salvation and self-perfection. Yet for others, I think, it is the direct path to self-resignation. For whatever reasons, Jennie chose not to fight her inner demons; she chose to feed their terrible urges.
Perversely, it was probably this same self-awareness that drew Jennie to the study of psychology—as girls of the sixties used to say, to find herself—just as it gave her the extraordinary acuity to understand other twisted minds. Recalling her words when we discussed Jason, she insisted that he was a victim of his past, that predestination grasped and led him, just as it guides us all. I think, looking back on it, that Jennie wasn’t talking about Jason; she was offering me her Jungian rationalization for her own state of being.
But crazy as she might be, an insanity plea was out of the question. She knew right from wrong, and she knew that what she had done was in every moral sense wrong, because she went to such fierce and imaginative lengths to escape detection.
In fact, Jason was a shadow of her own sad history in almost every way, except one—Jason eluded the conscription of fate. Jennie did not.
But in Larry’s words, the Bureau now had a problem of Holy Shit proportions flopping around its plate. The scale, sophistication, and difficulty of the recent murders suggested a killer with long practice and varied experience. There had to be a long treadmill of escalation in Jennie’s past. The Behavioral Science Unit now had to sift through every case Jennie ever worked—particularly her most notable successes—to determine whether the investigator might also have been the predator. Scary thought. But I had my own big problem.
As though reading my mind, Jennie interrupted my musings and asked, “So are we here to talk about your problems, or about mine?”
“You are my problem.”
“Oh...Poor little Sean got his feelings hurt.”
We were getting nowhere. Which was exactly where Jennie’s taunts were meant to land us. But this was her idea, so somehow I was on her agenda. I thought I knew why and suggested, “You must be wondering how I knew.”
“Why would I wonder? You made lots of blunders and misjudgments. You’ve made another.”
“Have I?”
“Don’t kid yourself. Look, a few months ago, I might have seen Jason Barnes’s file. Maybe I even saw his father’s file. Thousands of files roll across my desk. They certainly never stuck in my mind.”
“You know, Jennie, I wish I could believe you. But you lied about your background, you lied throughout the case, and you’re still lying. It’s too late for the truth to set you free, but it can keep fifty thousand volts from ruining your hairdo.”
She stared at me a moment. “I had a reason for that.”
“For what?”
“Misleading you about my background.”
Apparently this topic was sensitive for her. “Tell me about it.”
“It’s simple. Every time I tell people, I get this look, and they say, ‘Oh, you poor little thing.’ I find pity disgusting.”
“And I thought you were just trying to hide a bad memory.”
“You’re a bad memory. You’re here.”
She was beginning to annoy me, and I decided to annoy her back. “I’m curious, Jennie. Did you stand outside and watch your parents roast? Did you peek inside the window and watch their skin bubble and fry?”
“That’s sick. Stop it.”
“Did you listen to their screams and howls? Did you sniff the air and relish the odor of their burning flesh? Tell me, Jennie. How did it smell?”
A flash of anger showed in Jennie’s eyes. She started to speak, and I said, “Share it with me, Jennie. I want to hear. How did it feel to murder your own parents? This is a new one for me—I am sincerely curious.”
But she knew where I was going with this, and she smiled and said, “The shock and awe’s not working, Sean.” She added, in a tone that was surprisingly nonchalant, “Read the police report. It was an accident. My father smoked. We always warned him it would be bad for his health.”
As she said, this wasn’t working so I changed the topic and informed her, “They’ll get you on conspiracy, at a minimum.”
“Will they? Where’s the proof I called Clyde? Where’s the proof I knew Clyde?”
“As your lawyer will eventually advise you, Jennie, in court not everything has to be proved. All cases have elements of circumstantial construction.”
“Yes, and all winning cases are built on evidence and facts. Not conjecture,” she pointed out.
“Good point. In fact, I thought it might be enlightening for you to learn how much we do know.”
As I expected she might, Jennie liked this suggestion. “It would be very interesting to hear what you think you know. Please proceed.”
After a moment I said, “Well, you’ll recall that I spent a lot of time with MaryLou, and later, a little time with Clyde.”
“Don’t hold that against me. You should recall that you volunteered for that.”
“No, you volunteered me. You told Clyde to pick me.”
“Conjecture again.”
I ignored her and said, “You should know that I informed MaryLou that the Feds knew about Clyde, and that in short order they would know about her.”
Jennie looked a little annoyed by this news. “Didn’t we tell you not to do that? Didn’t we warn you it was dangerous?”
“Very emphatically.” I added, “Jennie, I have to tell you, MaryLou did not take this news well. She became very...agitated. An interesting verb, don’t you think?”
Jennie gave no indication that the word was interesting.
“She never mentioned your name,” I admitted, “but she talked at some length about the scheme, starting with you going to Fort Hood and tracking down Clyde.” This wasn’t the complete truth, but true enough.
“How? How did I find Clyde and meet with him?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then you’re in a difficult position. You can’t prove I met Clyde. Nor will you ever, because I never did.”
After a moment, I said, “But it’s not hard to guess. He was the third suspect you looked into, and the moment you laid your profiler’s eyes on him, you knew. So you shook him up good and then offered him salvation. Kill for you...and he walks, scot-free, with a boatload of money. Otherwise, he and his pals are going into the slammer until their grandkids’ teeth rot.”
“Is that how it’ll be presented in court, Sean? A guess.”
I said, “At first, MaryLou thought it was a bad deal and a worse idea. Right? Until Clyde assured her that their new friend would do more than provide information...their new friend would actually head up the effort to stop them. Wow—what a deal. What could go wrong?”
Jennie said, “Complete nonsense. I always agreed they might have an inside source. But it wasn’t me.”
“But let’s assume for a moment it was you.”
“This is silly.”
No, this was surreal. In every way she seemed to be the same Jennie I knew, yet she wasn’t in any sense the same Jennie. The Jennie I knew was brave, noble, and resourceful. This Jennie was a lying, conniving, murderous bitch. I said, “For this to work, first you had to eliminate the man who took your job. Clyde was an expert marksman in the Army, a lifelong gun nut, and poor John Fisk had not a clue he was being hunted. Boom, boom—Fisk was maggot meat, and Jennifer Margold has his desk and his mantle.”
Her face remained perfectly composed, as though we were talking about some other Jennie. “Ridiculous.”
“Should I go on?”
“You’re very clever, Sean. This is almost comically entertaining. By all means.”
“Only one problem—how to ensure these killings ended up on your desk. There are like...what?...four, five SACs in the D.C. Metro Field Office?”
“Four.”
“Thank you. The problem is, if it’s plain and simple murder, the SAC with homicide on his slate gets the crack at it. So about a month before this thing kicks into gear, you slap up a Web site and put a bounty on the President. You tip the Al Jazeera network to be sure it’s advertised, and we learn about it. As the honcho for national security in D.C., you were in the loop when the bounty was detected. Right?”
“I was informed, yes.”
“Why did you deny that when I asked?”
“It was compartmentalized knowledge, Sean. The government has this crazy idea that sharing state secrets with strange men I’ve just met is taboo. Silly, isn’t it?”
“Oh, please. The cat was already out of the bag. Phyllis informed the whole group.”
“And did that give me authorization to discuss it with you?”
Obviously she had an answer for everything. I said, “Anyway, suddenly it looks like assassinations with national security overtones, and it’s yours.”
She laughed. “You’re concocting a plot so convoluted it will sound outrageous to any jury.”
“You’re right. It’s completely outrageous. Do you mind if I jump ahead to the endgame?”
She rolled her eyes. “Why not?”
“Let’s begin with a little setting. I’m in the townhouse with the bad guys, MaryLou’s scared that she might get caught, and Clyde’s bitching about how his source screwed him. So now I know they’ve got an inside source and I ask myself, Hey, don’t these idiots know I’ve got a transmitter in my intestines? I’m a cop magnet. Haven’t they been warned?”
“Go on.”
“Well, I’ve got a gag over my mouth so I can’t ask.”
“And if you did ask, they would’ve killed you and run.”
“There was that, too.”
“Did you ever think they didn’t know because I wasn’t their source? Let me remind you, I knew about the transmitter.”
“And your lawyer should make exactly that argument to the jury. I would.” I added, “But you knew they’d been compromised. And you knew that if any of those three were captured alive...Well, that’s always the problem with a conspiracy. Someone always turns stoolie.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Cut the crap, Jennie. It’s beneath you.”
“Go on.”
“Ergo it was time to improvise. It’s not complicated. The secret had to go to the grave.”
“And how would I arrange that?”
“You tell me.”
She was shaking her head. “You know what I think, Sean?”
“Jennie, I haven’t got a clue how you think, much less what you think.”
My outburst seemed to amuse her. She chuckled, and after a moment she said, “We’ll get to what I think in a moment. Finish telling me what you think.”
“Well...where was I?”
“You were with Clyde and MaryLou.” She pointed out, “I believe I was about to save your life.”
“You mean spare my life. After all, had I not uncovered Clyde—as you know—the initial plan was to kill me the instant I handed over the money.”
She appeared to be confused and said, “You seem to be implying that I told Clyde to keep you alive.” After a moment of pretending to think this through, she chuckled. “Oh...I suppose you�
��re thinking I wanted you alive to draw us to them.”
“It was...a brilliant betrayal. You advised Clyde that if the cops found them, they would need barter. Just be sure I’m electronically sterile, and in the event of a turn for the worse, I was their way out.”
She thought about that a moment. She said, “More nonsense. They had you as a hostage, yet there was no negotiation.”
“No, but you knew there wouldn’t be. In fact, that’s why you had them murder Joan Townsend. She wasn’t on the original kill list, was she?”
Jennie looked at me curiously. In her worst nightmare, she was probably sure nobody would ever put this together.
“As you surely told Clyde,” I continued, “things were heating up, and all the good targets were too heavily protected. But Joan was soft, unsuspecting, and vulnerable. Poor Clyde was too ignorant to know that wasting the wife of the FBI Director was tantamount to putting a gun to his own head. Feds are still cops and all cops hate cop killers. Cops really hate killers who murder cop families—and to murder the top cop’s wife in such a public, in-your-face fashion was a humiliation on top of an insult. There would be no negotiations, and Clyde and his pals had no chance of surviving a shootout.”
“Sean, listen to yourself. You’re accusing the Bureau of executing those three. I sure hope you don’t intend to repeat that in court.”
She was right, of course. Though it didn’t really matter. I said, “So we’re at the point where the HRT guys are crashing into the room, lusting for blood, you’re right behind them...and you...Well, there sat the final loose end, poor Jason Barnes.”
Jennie shook her head. “I was cleared in Barnes’s death three days after the shooting. It’s public record, Sean. You gave a statement to that effect yourself.” With a look of staged anguish, she said, “All that smoke and confusion...it was...a terrible mistake. I regret it, of course...but we can’t change the past, can we?” She asked me, “Incidentally, aren’t the investigation findings admissible evidence?”
