by Ed Markham
“We’ve been coming at this case head on, and we haven’t had much luck. I thought a sideways approach might open things up a bit.”
She blinked at him. “Okay, so what are we doing here?”
“Relax, Butch. You’ll find out soon.”
Lauren looked from him to his father. “Well your dad looks excited, so I’m guessing this has something to do with American history?”
David just waved her forward.
As the three walked from the shadows of the building’s pillars to its entrance, David recalled his first visit to the library as a boy accompanied by his mother.
When Martin was out of town, Angela Yerxa and her son would take weekend day trips into downtown D.C. to view the museums and monuments and other famous sites.
“How old do you think this building is, David?” Angela had asked him during one of these trips.
The gray stone of the building’s superstructure appeared ancient to David’s young eyes.
“A hundred years old?” he’d guessed.
“Not quite. Construction of this building was finished the year you were born, 1976. That means it’s six years old, just like you.”
His eyes had widened.
“It doesn’t look like a new building, does it?” Angela had asked him. She had added, “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
Now, as the three of them walked through the lobby, David was again struck by how old the place felt. Flakes of dust hung in the air, ensnared by rays of light that angled down from elevated windows.
After passing through several sets of doors and down various hallways, they entered a space buried deep in the building’s belly and away from the tourists. Rows of simple wooden desks squatted beneath a low ceiling cluttered with tubular fluorescent lights and dozens of video cameras. The room was cool and windowless. Gnomish, khaki-clad researchers occupied half of the desks.
A woman in her late seventies greeted David. She wore a cat brooch on her grey blouse, and she asked him for his group’s identification and the purpose of their visit.
“Oh, Agent Yerxa,” she said. “We spoke when you called an hour ago. I’m Pauline. I’ve pulled the materials you requested, along with some others I think you’ll find helpful.”
She eyed Martin’s coffee mug. “I’m afraid I can’t let you hold onto that in here, sir.”
Martin handed over his mug—a little reluctantly, David thought—and Pauline placed it behind her desk. Then she led them to a large table near the back of the room. On it were arranged various books, photocopied pages, and a thick stack of documents—each encased in plastic.
“You asked about a few specific authors,” Pauline said. “I’ve pulled everything we have. I’ve also included the Constitutional Convention Broadside Collection, which details the discussions and activities of the assembled delegates. I’ve pulled the Report of the Committee of Detail, which was essentially a working draft of the Constitution, and some other related works. If I can think of anything else that might be useful, I’ll let you know.”
Lauren regarded the pile of manuscripts like a vegetarian presented with a plate of meat. “So now tell me what we’re doing here.”
David started to answer her, but Martin interrupted him. “The quotes left at our crime scenes . . . we know the original sources, but none of the context.” He gestured toward the piles of centuries-old printed material. “We might find that context in here.”
Lauren frowned at the mass of documents. “Don’t we have interns or FOAs to do this for us?”
David said, “Or you could do it while pop and I get breakfast at Old Ebitt?”
“Empty threat. I can tell your dad wouldn’t leave right now at gun point.”
She’s right, he thought. He knew spending a few hours poring over the old documents was exactly the type of antiquated, rolled-sleeves kind of investigative work Martin found most gratifying—the opposite of the computer-aided, hands-off methods of the modern FBI.
The three sat down, and each started looking over one of the many texts.
As David read, the words of the Founding Fathers floated up at him like ghosts from a forgotten world. But almost an hour passed before a familiar passage emerged from the thicket.
Current for the merchandise of heaven
Here were John Rutledge’s words, just as they appeared on the message left at the murder site of Harmon Hill. David re-read the full statement:
By doing good with his money, a man stamps the image of God upon it, and makes it pass, Current for the merchandise of heaven.
He motioned to his father and Lauren to take a look. They stood and read the passage over his shoulder.
“Can you make sense of this?” David asked, looking at his father.
“Maybe,” Martin said.
His voice was too loud for the quiet space, and the man reading nearest to their table snapped an index finger to his mouth and scolded them with an aggressive “Shhh!”
Martin glared at the small man. Turning his attention back to the document, he said, “I think the idea here—shared by many of the founders—is that money has value only if used for noble purposes.”
David thought for a moment and then turned to Lauren. “You have the media reports Omar put together?”
She nodded and pulled her laptop out of its carrying case. She turned it on and opened the digital file folders containing reports on three of the four victims. “Omar’s still working on the Jacobsen file,” she explained.
He pulled the laptop toward himself and started to read through the file on Harmon Hill. “Let me know if either of you spot one of the other messages.”
Only a few minutes passed before Martin said, “Take a look. ‘A child of the people at large.’ ”
He handed the document across the table to his son, and Lauren moved her chair closer to David’s so that they could read the passage together. Her elbow brushed his, and he was suddenly aware of her scent, which was soapy and fresh.
With effort, he refocused his mind on the statement his father was pointing out. It read:
The Senate does not appear to me to be a Child of the people at Large, and therefore will not be Supported by them longer than there Subsists the most perfect Union between the different Legislative branches.
“This is the one that stumped Shelby,” Martin said. “According to the file card, the author is Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer, a Maryland delegate to the Convention. In this statement, I think he’s talking about his distaste for the idea of a national senate.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “You both know our Senate has a hundred members, two from each state, while the House of Reps breaks down its delegates based on population. California has a lot. Wyoming, not so many. Right?” He pointed farther down the page. “If you keep reading, you’ll see Jenifer believes in popular sovereignty, not equal representation for all states. It’s no surprise his feelings were shared by delegates from the biggest colonies—Pennsylvania, New York, Virginia—while the smaller colonies like Delaware and Rhode Island were for equal representation.”
David felt Lauren nudge him with an elbow, letting him know she was getting a kick out of this lesson.
Martin continued, “The delegates fought like hell over this at the Convention and finally decided Congress should include both a House of Reps and a Senate. Historians like my buddy Shelby call this the great compromise.”
“ ‘A child of the people at large,’ ” Lauren repeated.
“So the message left in Jacobsen’s car has to do with one founder’s objection to the makeup of the Senate,” David summarized.
Martin nodded.
David sat back in his chair and said, “I think I know how our killer’s choosing his victims.”
Chapter 25
DAVID NODDED TOWARD the laptop containing the media files on each of the victims, minus Senator Jacobsen.
“I asked Omar to arrange these in order of their prominence in the local and national press.” He leaned forward and c
licked through to the media file on Harmon Hill. “ ‘Current for the merchandise of heaven,’ ” he quoted. “Pop, you said that message had to do with the proper way a man should spend his money, right?”
“Pretty sure.”
David began reading out loud.
The first set of stories dealt with a lawsuit filed against Harmon Hill’s inherited cotton supply and processing company. The suit alleged the company’s structure violated state monopoly statutes. Eventually, the courts determined the company should be broken into smaller concerns, which Hill sold off.
“Doesn’t match up with our message,” David said. “You both agree?”
Martin and Lauren nodded.
The next report discussed another dispute between Harmon Hill and the State of South Carolina, this one over Hill’s donation of $15 million toward the construction of two new elementary schools in Columbia, the state’s capital. David said, “Hill stipulated that, if the school system wanted his money, they would have to teach theology to students.”
“Bingo,” Martin said.
Lauren looked from father to son. “You’re losing me here, guys.”
“We’ve got four murders in four states, and the victims have nothing in common,” David said. “We also have these messages, quoting founders.” He looked at Lauren and said, “Remember what Gene Lott told us about the interval between the poisoning and time of death?”
“You thought our man wanted time to speak with his victims.”
David nodded. “I think our subject chose these people because they did something he didn’t like. And considering his fixation on the Constitution’s authors . . .” He sat forward. “The Rutledge statement has to do with spending money in noble ways, and that news story shows Hill was trying to use his wealth to inject religion into schools—not something a Constitution obsessive would approve of.”
“Okay, I get it,” Lauren said. “First Amendment, right? Separation of Church and State?”
“Right,” he said. “I think that’s why he chose Hill. Assuming our killer didn’t know all of his victims personally—and I realize that’s a big assumption—he would’ve had to find them somehow.”
“And you’re thinking he found them through news reports?” Lauren asked.
He nodded and pulled up the laptop files on Aronson and Cosgrove. The victims’ constitutional transgressions were almost immediately apparent. Rebecca Aronson had represented several large corporations in libel suits intended to muffle criticism from newspapers in Asheville and Charlotte.
“First Amendment again,” Lauren said. “Freedom of speech and of the press.”
Mitchell Cosgrove, as head of the Milton Water Department, had employed eminent domain to seize possession of riverfront property owned by the descendants of a man named Frank Grayson. Subsequent lawsuits determined the Milton assessor—under pressure from Cosgrove’s office—had grossly undervalued the disputed land. The courts had ruled in favor of Grayson’s descendants, awarding them $14 million in reparations.
“Fourth Amendment,” Martin said, beating Lauren to the punch. “Unlawful seizure.”
David leaned back at the table. “The media file on Jacobsen is going to be a mile thick, which won’t do us much good. But we already know the message our killer left in Jacobsen’s vehicle takes issue with the Senate, so I think we have a link right there.”
He looked from Lauren to his father. “What do you two think?”
Martin had pulled out his notebook and was jotting his thoughts. “I like it,” he said as he wrote.
“Works for me,” Lauren said. “These murders are so bizarre—none of this seems out of step with any of the other weirdness.”
David stared at the collection of documents spread out on the table. Then he called to Pauline the librarian, who was sitting at her desk a few tables away. Although he’d meant to speak softly, his voice filled the quiet room. A half-dozen pairs of eyes leapt up from their research materials. David held up a hand in apology.
Most of the men—they were all men, he realized—returned to their business. But the man nearest David, the one who’d already snapped at Martin, continued to stare and scowl. After a few seconds, he shook his head and resumed his examination of what looked to David like a series of leaflets.
“Don’t mind Mr. Lonnie,” Pauline whispered to David when she reached his desk. “He’s just like that.”
“A regular?”
“Yes, we have a few of those. We try to restrict access to academics and authors with legitimate research purposes, but as long as your name matches your driver’s license, the rest is basically an honor system. We get a lot of history obsessives and people who just like to be around these old documents.”
“SHHHH!” said the little man, Lonnie. He thrust a finger against his lips.
“Get a life,” Lauren said to him, not bothering to lower her voice. Martin smiled at her.
“Yes, all right, Mr. Lonnie,” Pauline said. “We’ll try to be more quiet.” She shook her head and turned back to David. “What can I help you with?”
David had intended to ask the librarian if she could help them find the documents containing the other two statements left at the murder scenes. But now he paused, eyeing Lonnie.
“Agent Yerxa?” Pauline asked again.
“This document,” he said, pointing to the text containing the Rutledge quote. “Is this a popular piece?”
Pauline looked at its description card. “Not especially.”
“Do you keep records of the items each visitor examines?”
“We do our best.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I need a list of everyone who’s asked to see this document in the last two years.”
A look of consternation crossed Pauline’s face. “I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
“This one too.” He indicated the document in which Martin had found the Jenifer quotation. “How long will that take?”
“I’m not sure,” Pauline said. “I have no idea how to run those reports, but I can ask our superintendent of records. Give me a few minutes, please.”
After the librarian had gone, Martin asked, “What are you fishing for?”
David glanced again at the irritable researcher. “You and I tried finding the quotes online, but we didn’t have much luck. Our killer is familiar with them, so I thought he might have been here to see the originals. You know, in the flesh.”
“That’s smart,” Lauren said. Her eyes lingered on David’s.
Pauline approached carrying several pages of computer printouts.
“Well that was much easier than I’d expected. Here you go, Agent Yerxa.” She handed David a list containing dozens of names, as well as the addresses collected from the visitors’ driver's licenses. “I made you a few copies.”
David thanked her. He spent a few seconds looking over the printouts, but then he felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket. The call was from Clarence Perkins.
“David, where are you, man?” Perkins said. “We got a match on the rope print.”
Chapter 26
DEBORAH PEPPER DID not fuss about. No sir.
If there was one thing the fine people of Maple County, New Jersey, knew about the chairwoman of their Board of Commissioners, it was that Deb Pepper was a doer, not a talker.
Of course, there were plenty of talkers among the county’s nine commissioners, ho boy. Deb knew that was certainly true. Discuss, deliberate, and delay. That was the style most of Deb’s colleagues advocated when it came to running New Jersey’s second wealthiest county. (And the twelfth wealthiest county in the nation, thank you very much.)
Why so many civic leaders seemed to enjoy talking an idea to death was beyond Deb Pepper’s powers of understanding. Maybe it’s because they’re all lawyers, and they’re used to getting paid by the hour, she sometimes thought.
But Deb made sure to keep them on the ball. And if she felt strongly about a new ordinance, she wasn’t above dropp
ing a humdinger of a quote to the local press if that would help goose her fellow commissioners into action. That’s how she’d handled the cigarette ordinance, which was set to take effect October 1; no smoking on any public streets or sidewalks or in public parks. No sir. Smoking causes cancer. Everybody knows that, Deb thought. And smokers love to toss their filthy cigarette butts all over the place, as if they weren’t trash! It bothered Deb to no end.
To think, some of Deb’s colleagues had questioned whether the county might be overreaching its authority. Overreaching? she thought. Those wishy-washy sons of guns obviously didn’t give two hoots about the public’s well-being. That was also made clear to her when she pushed through her bicycle helmet regulations.
Some people just don’t know how to take care of themselves, Deb knew. But she would help them help themselves. They may not all like it. But tough stuff. They would get used to it. And when they fell off their bikes and cracked a helmet instead of a noggin, they would think, well, Deb knew best.
As Deb Pepper left the massive new complex that served as headquarters for the county’s board, the treasurer’s office, the transportation department, the clerk’s office, and a handful of other local administrative bodies, she spotted a few of the county’s employees smoking around an outdoor bench. She flashed them a strained smile as she shuffled toward her car.
Enjoy it while you can, she thought.
Deb preferred to eat lunch at home, and so she habitually left the county offices every day at noon. She would drive the 1.7 miles to her tidy house, where she could eat her lunch and complete the morning’s crossword puzzle in peace before the board’s afternoon session convened at 1:15.
As she pulled into her driveway, Deb pressed the button on her garage door opener. She waited as the mechanized door began to rise, and she pressed the button again to lower the door once she’d pulled her car inside. She always entered and left her home in this fashion. She hadn’t used a key to lock or unlock a door in years. Power outages that could knock out the garage door didn’t worry her. After all, she’d championed the initiative to replace the power grid and bury all of the county’s electrical lines.
