First, Hill had also accidentally killed the escort who had been sitting in the car next to the abortion doctor. That victim was ill-advised in his choice of professions at the particular moment. But he did not deserve to die. Second, Hill had not waited until the doctor was actually poised to kill an unborn child. In that exact instant, deadly force was justified to defend the child against an attacker, just as if a murderer had burst into a home trying to stab to death a one-day-old baby. What man would not kill the murderous attacker of a child if it meant saving a baby’s life?
He knew, however, that no court of law would see it his way. Therefore, he had been more careful in this operation. Death row wasn’t for him. He had more work to do.
He walked out of the bathroom and to the hall closet to retrieve a bed sheet. The television in the den was tuned to a news station. He stopped as an update appeared on the screen. “A prime suspect has been identified in the murder of New Orleans doctor Tyson Lamberth, according to an FBI spokesperson,” the woman newscaster intoned. “Police are searching for Brent Garrison, an employee at the Lamberth Clinic who was last seen at the clinic early this morning before the doctor was murdered.” A grainy photo taken from Garrison’s ID photo flashed on the screen. Dark eyes, black hair, brooding mouth. His “Brent Garrison” identity had worked exactly as he planned.
The news said nothing about the baby he had saved. He wondered what became of it. The killer listened to the TV news for a moment longer then returned to the bathroom.
He spread the bed sheet on the floor under the sink. Out of the cabinet he took scissors, electric hair clippers, a comb and a bottle of bleach. He set them on the narrow glass shelf above the sink. He took the scissors in his left hand and stood up to face himself in the mirror.
Pulling a long strand of black away from his head, he clipped it an inch away from his skull. He dropped the lock of hair on the floor.
He smiled. Coming back to normal. This would be better. Much better.
Chapter 5
Saturday, noon.
The Lamberth home probably wasn’t the biggest in the Garden District. Forte guessed that it was in the running.
He stood in the kitchen drinking coffee with a city cop. Catered deli meats, cheeses, and pastries filled the counters on all sides of them. It could have been preparations for a party except for the stricken faces of the servants and the police cars lining the winding driveway outside the kitchen window. A maid came into the kitchen with a silver coffee pot. Forte waved her off but the cop held up his heavy porcelain cup for a refill. “Gracias, Maria.” The maid nodded and walked into the next room.
The cop faced the window as he drank. “Guess his kind of work brought in the big bucks,” he said. His voice was flat with a thin edge of disgust.
“You know what kind of work he did?” Forte said.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Not my job to like it or not like it.”
“Yeah. But you’ve got your opinions.”
The cop looked at him. “Yup. I got opinions. Lots of ‘em.” He set his cup on the counter top. “But my opinions, they ain’t about to come out and dance around here today.” He gave an almost imperceptible jerk of his head toward the dining room. The mayor, a councilwoman, and the district attorney grazed at a gargantuan food-laden table as they waited to pay their respects.
The three at the table looked up expectantly as a man in a butler’s outfit scurried past them and came into the kitchen. He addressed Forte. “Mrs. Lamberth will see you now.” Forte followed the butler through a maze of hallways that finally ended in a small parlor overlooking a garden. The curved bank of windows in the room ran from the floor to the ceiling. Outside, a bumblebee darted up to the center window and hovered there, then sped off among the sunlit splashes of flowers in the garden.
A woman stood at the window, her arms crossed over her chest with her back to the room. A barrel-chested man wearing a scowl was sitting on a loveseat against the wall. The butler backed out of the room, closing the French doors behind him.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Forte. Please have a seat,” the woman said without turning around. Her voice was deep. Any other day, it might have been called sultry. Today it came out with a hoarseness bordering on tears. She lowered her head and her properly tangled hair looked copper as it caught the sunlight in the window. Slowly she turned and walked to a chair next to the loveseat, looking as if an abrupt movement might shatter her. “I’m Freida Lamberth, Mr. Forte.” She brushed a lock of hair away from emerald eyes now rimmed in red. “And this is Mr. Tolan. He is helping with some of the…with some of the details today.” She gestured with a slim, firm arm that seemed to operate on its own, as if she were guessing what a normal movement would look like. She dropped her hand back into her lap. The scowling man made eye contact with Forte and nodded once.
She looked at neither of the men as she spoke, her eyes focused at a spot somewhere out in the garden beyond the windows. “Mr. Forte, you know about the murder of my husband.” Her eyes brimmed full.
“Yes. I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nodded, tilted her head up, then lowered it again. She blinked twice slowly. A long moment of silence filled the room. “Thank you,” the woman said.
Forte waited. When death visited a home, time itself became malleable – shrinking then stretching, sometimes within the same few moments of a conversation or in the middle of some simple task. He had seen it before. He had lived through it before.
She coughed once and her voice was clearer now. “I want you to protect my daughter. Until they catch whoever…” Her shoulders rose as she inhaled deeply. “…whoever did this. I know you specialize in cases such as these. I remember the incident with the Christenberry boy.”
“Yes, we were fortunate to recover him so quickly,” said Forte. The case had gained national attention a couple of years past and had established Forte Security’s reputation in child kidnapping cases. Two men in Italy had paid with their lives for the mistake of calling his bluff in a stand-off.
Freida turned to look at him directly. He could see tiny freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, which were shiny with tears now. “Can you keep Hallee safe, Mr. Forte?”
He had heard the tone in her voice dozens of times. More than pleading, it was the terrified grasping for any solid emotional handhold on a tear-slick cliff of grief. Most of the time, his answer proved to be true in the long run. A few times the answer didn’t turn out to be true. But at this moment, when the question was first asked, there was only one response. He always answered it the same way.
“Yes. We will,” he said.
She searched his eyes for a moment, then gave the smallest of nods. “Thank you.” She stood up and both men rose to their feet. “Mr. Tolan will talk with you about the details, if you don’t mind. I must receive the mayor now.” She held out her hand and Forte shook it. Her fingers felt strong but her grip was without conviction.
When she had left, the scowling man remained standing but waved Forte to be seated.
“Mr. Forte, I will be direct with you. We don’t think you are the best one for this job. Mrs. Lamberth insisted, however, so we will cooperate with you fully.”
Forte had seen men like him before, too. Probably competent but overconfident. Accustomed to commanding attention with a stern or forceful word or two. Bullies. It had been a major challenge to his military career at times when he had to deal with these types. Now it was merely a challenge to his patience. And sometimes a nuisance.
Forte smiled. “I appreciate that. Just exactly who is ‘we’?”
“Pardon me?”
“You said ‘We will cooperate.’ Who is ‘we’?”
“I’m a security consultant for the national office of the NCLU.”
“Ah. The National Civil Liberties Union. And you knew Dr. Lamberth.”
“Yes, he was a supporter. A big supporter.”
“And you think you could have
done this job better?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And why is that?”
Tolan breathed deeply then exhaled. He looked at Forte then sat on the love seat again. “For one thing, we do not believe your heart will be in it.”
“Why do you think that?
“May I be blunt?”
“Why change your style now?”
Tolan’s face colored with anger but his voice stayed even. “We know that you grew up Catholic, even if you are not a practicing churchgoer right now. We believe you do not support the kind of work that Dr. Lamberth was doing.”
“And that’s it?”
Tolan paused only briefly. “Well, there’s the matter of your, umm, shall we say, your period of instability.”
Forte cocked his head and looked contemplative. “My ‘period of instability.’ I like that.”
The other man frowned. “Your use of drugs. Your cocaine addiction. We know you were never arrested for it. We know you completed a drug treatment program three years ago.” Tolan leaned forward and made a tent of his fingers in front of him. “Nothing personal, but we think it’s a reflection of your ability, in our opinion.” He paused. “Ultimately, we think it is a weakness and a flaw that could mean failure … in this case.”
Forte sighed. He didn’t blame the man. There was a time when he would have thought exactly the same way. “You’ve done your homework fast. And you shared all of this insight with Mrs. Lamberth.”
“Yes, we did.”
“And she chose to ignore your advice?”
Tolan broke eye contact and turned a bitter face toward the garden. “Yes.”
“I wonder why she made that choice?”
The other man breathed deeply, then spoke through his teeth. “Because of your background as a Navy SEAL. Because of your reputation for protecting children.”
“Mr. Tolan, tell me. Exactly what is your role here?”
“Mrs. Lamberth asked me to show you the layout of the house and explain the security system to you.”
“And beyond that, do you have any official part to play in the ongoing security of Hallee Lamberth?”
Tolan’s eyes had now taken on the furious look of a pitbull on a stout chain. “None. She said her attorney would sign your contract on Monday.”
Forte studied the man. He had seen plenty like him: men who lived by a prescribed plan and if they were forced to deviate from that plan somehow, they became angry. Or defiant. Or both. He had been in that place himself. “Before we begin our tour of the security system, Mr. Tolan, let me say something.
“First, my job here is to keep a child safe. That’s it. Any views I might have on abortion do not affect that job.
“Second, it is true I have screwed up my life in the past. I’m a recovering addict. I can choose to spend my days apologizing for that weakness. No excuse for that. I can’t force you or anyone else to accept me or believe me or trust me. That’s beyond my control, so I try not worry about it. I try to spend my time on things I can do something about. Or I can choose to use whatever abilities I have to do my job the best I can.
“And third.” He looked over at the window again. The bee was back. From the other side of the glass it seemed to be watching him. “The third thing is just a comment. I’m a wee bit surprised that a group like the NCLU, an organization with such a well known reputation for helping the down-trodden, would be so, what’s the word I want… how about… judgmental, about any person’s so-called weakness.” The bee zigzagged away abruptly.
A flush crept up Tolan’s face from beneath his collar. His broad face kept the scowl but he held his tongue.
Forte smiled again. “That’s okay.” A cloud had blocked the sun for a moment. A shadow covered the flowers beyond the glass.
“Everybody makes a mistake now and then.”
Chapter 6
Saturday, 1 p.m.
Police barricades and yellow “Crime Scene” tape still surrounded the Lamberth Clinic. The media vans had departed, but not before mutilating the front lawn of the clinic. Tire ruts crisscrossed the St. Augustine grass. Some plastic cups and a few torn posters littered the sidewalk that bordered the lawn. As Forte eased his motorcycle to a stop on the sidewalk, a van with Gidot Lawnscapers on the side and a trailer full of sod in tow pulled up to the curb. Two men got out of the cab and hurriedly began unloading rakes, shovels, and a large roller.
The tour of the security system at the Lamberth house had been performed efficiently by Tolan. Freida Lamberth had continued receiving condolences from a Who’s Who sampling of Louisiana’s leaders. Hallee, the Lamberths' 11-year-old daughter, had kept the door to her room closed but not tight enough to contain the muffled sobs coming from inside. Forte had made plans to return late in the evening for the first overnight shift. Federal marshals and city cops would keep the house safe until then. As Forte had pulled his bike away from the curb, he looked back to catch the curtains fluttering shut in the girl’s second story window.
At the clinic, the New Orleans police had been relegated to securing the perimeter of the property while the FBI handled the actual investigation. A cop who looked like he could play Schwartzenegger’s body double was blocking the front entrance of the clinic. As Forte approached with his helmet under one arm, the cop eyed him from behind aviator shades.
“Police investigation, sir. The clinic is closed for the day,” the cop said.
“Check the list,” Forte said. “Al Forte”
The cop peered at the clipboard then at Forte. “Identification?” the cop asked.
Forte flipped open his wallet to his driver’s license and investigator’s license. The cop waved him through the front door and the empty reception area of the clinic.
Much of the staff and the clinic’s patients had been interviewed and released. Two separate FBI forensic teams were still at work. One of the teams bustled through an intersection in the hallway wearing plastic gloves and shoe-coverings held to their ankles with elastic. The clear plastic on their shoes whisked across the white-tiled floor as they disappeared around the corner. The whisking sound was not quite in tempo with the Enya tune that drifted from the speakers in the drop ceiling of the hallway.
Straight ahead a tall woman in a dark blue suit was pointing to a diagram on a clipboard lying on a countertop. A man a few inches shorter than the woman looked at the diagram and nodded. Both of them looked up as Forte approached. Their faces were professionally neutral. The woman handed the clipboard to the other man.
“Take this to the team in the garage.” The man hurried away. The woman turned to face Forte.
“You must have an angel high up in Justice looking out for you,” she said. “We aren’t even letting the city cops in here. Yet, here you are.”
“I guess the Lamberths have some pull,” Forte said.
“I guess,” she said. “Follow me.” From the countertop, she picked up a leather-covered notebook with the FBI logo and the name “Rosalind Dent” stamped in silver on the cover. She motioned for Forte to follow her to a vacant office down the hall.
The FBI agent sat at the chair behind the desk and took a notebook out of her jacket pocket. She moved a stack of medical insurance forms from the center of the desktop to one side and placed the notebook in front of her. Without looking up, she said, “Al, I know you can be trusted most of the time. But we both know you are a cowboy. You can’t color outside the lines in a case like this. I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this is. This is strictly FBI and everyone in the bureau all the way up to the Attorney General will be getting daily updates.”
On a fabric bulletin board behind the desk were two children’s drawings, a photo of a mom and a dad and two kids, a NOW button and a dozen or so sticky notes. One of the kid’s drawings was a stick-figure with a sword fighting an unrecognizable creature. In the other drawing, a figure that looked like an angel was sitting in a tree next to a blue house.
Forte set his motorcycle helmet on the corner of desktop
. “You know, Rosie, that suit really does compliment your complexion. And by the way, nice to see you.”
The woman looked at him hard for a moment then let her face relax. “I’m being a tough case, huh?” She pushed away from the desk, leaned back and rocked her head from side to side to stretch her neck muscles. “Lot of pressure these days. First the promotion, now this.”
Forte nodded. “It will be fine. They wouldn’t have made you Special Agent in Charge if you couldn’t handle it. And you don’t have to worry about me. I will try so hard to behave. The only reason I’m here is that Lamberth’s murder might have a bearing on my current assignment.”
“Protecting the Lamberth girl,” she said.
“Yes. They’ve had threats for years. Now this. The mother is scared.”
“Who wouldn’t be.” She waved a hand vaguely at the doorway. “The guy who did this had his act together.” She flipped a page in the notebook. “Here’s the scoop, as we know it so far.
“The killer was in the room with Dr. Lamberth, assisting him. The patient said she couldn’t see his face because of the surgical mask. She described him as tall; she thought he had dark hair but it was covered by a surgical cap. Right before the final stage of the abortion, the assistant stabbed the doctor in the back of the neck at the base of his skull. Death was virtually instantaneous.
“The killer then delivered the child, cut the umbilical cord, put the baby on the mother’s chest, then left the procedure room. The woman screamed but no one came to investigate. The doctors and nurses said an occasional scream was not unusual. No one inside the clinic noticed anything for nearly 20 minutes. Another assistant came to check the room and found the doctor dead on the floor with the scalpel stuck in his neck. The woman was out of her head.
“A couple of nurses saw the assistant walking down the hallway around the time of the murder but they didn’t pay any attention to him. The guard in the parking garage saw a light blue Ford Pinto leave the garage at approximately 8:45 a.m.
“Some scrubs with blood on them were recovered from a garbage can in the garage just outside the elevators. Fingerprints from the procedure room have been lifted but we won’t know if they tell us anything different for a few hours. Probably won’t tell us anything. All employees undergo a pretty thorough security check before being hired.
Miscue Page 3
