by Ed Markham
When he’d finished dressing, his cell phone buzzed on his dresser. The text was from Lauren: Running late, be there 815. He tossed the phone onto his bed.
David had spoken with her on the phone several times during the first week of his suspension. He’d asked her to keep him up to speed on the investigation, and she’d called earlier in the week to inform him the killing had started again on Tuesday.
The victim was a Connecticut district attorney. “She cut his throat sometime very early this morning while he was asleep in bed next to his wife,” Lauren had said. “Jared Campbell told me the wife didn’t realize anything was wrong until she walked into the bathroom hours later and looked in a mirror. Her nightgown was soaked in blood.” She paused. “That’s two long weekends in a row she’s decided to take off. Our people found her usual signature—the snake and message. But nothing else. No prints. No hair samples.”
She. Her. It still sounded strange to David, even though he’d spent most of the weekend thinking about the pale woman in the gas station video, and wondering what he might have missed that could have led them to her. She forced her way into his head like a cold draft.
Lauren had followed up with another call on Wednesday. The news was the same: Another victim, another message.
“The seventeenth is Sunday,” she’d said, as if David had lost track. “Four days to go.”
The evening updates were difficult for him to bear, though they were better than the alternative, which was not knowing what was going on with the investigation.
Throughout his suspension, David had spent hours every day hiking in the Great Falls or Seneca Creek Parks—places he’d visited many times as a boy with his mother while Martin was out of town. The quiet nature preserves were a source of comfort, and he’d hoped the exercise would help him fall asleep at night. But that plan had yet to pay off. The moment he climbed into bed, his head would flood with thoughts of the investigation. His pillow would grow hot, and the face of the pale woman would float up to haunt him. He’d count off the days to September 17, and eventually he’d walk down to his office where he kept copies of his case files. He spent most of the dark hours looking through the media reports Omar had assembled—the old, but also the new, which Omar sent him from his personal email account despite the risk of censure.
“From what my fellow CITU nerds tell me, Campbell isn’t paying much attention to them,” Omar had told David in his email. “Let me know if you find anything worth mentioning to him, and I’ll pass it on to his people in my unit.”
David would invariably find a connection to some Constitutional precept, which he’d email to Omar. He also spent hours highlighting and cataloguing key words and phrases in printouts of each story—searching for some detail or connection that could help him predict the killer’s next target. So far, his efforts had not borne fruit. Too many states, and too many possible victims.
Martin had returned to Philadelphia the same evening Deputy Director Jonathan Reilly had removed them from the investigation. David and his father had not spoken since then, but there was no lingering animosity between them. Each had spoken his piece, and all that was left was the slow but certain healing that takes place between a father and son.
Now David stuffed his keys and wallet into his pockets. He grabbed his cell phone from the bed, where it had landed next to the day’s newspaper. At the top of page one appeared the headline: COLONY KILLER STILL UNKNOWN. Below this were pictures of Deke Jacobsen, Rebecca Aronson, and Jason Torowitz, as well as the Connecticut DA. A smaller headline below the fold read: MURDERS FOCUS NATION ON CONSTITUTION AS DOCUMENT’S ANNIVERSARY LOOMS.
David paused to look at the newspaper, which he’d already read several times. Then he turned and glanced at his television. One of the cable news anchors was talking with Spencer Farnsworth, the Speaker of the House.
The voice in the deputy director’s ear, David thought.
“A lot of people feel,” the anchor was saying, “that our country hasn’t been this polarized since the Civil War, and they point to the actions of the Colony Killer as proof of how bad things are becoming. Others say this is just politics as usual, and that it’s always been divisive. What do you think, Mr. Speaker?”
Farnsworth had started shaking his head even before the interviewer finished his question, his expression intense. “I think this is certainly one of the most divisive periods we’ve encountered in American politics in quite some time. And I think it’s the severe inter-party conflict that’s most troubling—especially in my own party. Right now there’s a small but very vocal segment of my Republican colleagues that’s dragging every issue and every politician away from the type of bipartisan compromise that makes our system run. And as a result, any forward motion is nearly impossible. Now, I know I’ll anger a lot of my fellow Republicans by saying this—they’ll call me a Rino, or a Republican in name only—but attempts to subvert or capsize the system when you don’t get exactly what you want are counterproductive and, in my opinion, really juvenile.”
“Do you see things growing worse or better in the coming months,” the interviewer asked.
Farnsworth’s gray-blue eyes shifted from side to side as he considered this. “I can’t say. But I do know that the majority of Americans are level-headed and fairly down-the-middle, and can be counted on to recoil from real political extremism. Unfortunately, and I don’t want to sound alarmist here, but oftentimes something fairly despicable has to happen to trigger that recoil reflex. The inquisition of suspected communists during the Red Scare of the McCarthy era is one example. A worse one—one that, as a nation, we’ve collectively decided to forget about—is the enthusiasm for eugenics and racial purity that flared up here in America in the decade before World War II. Fortunately, in both cases things got to a point where people took a step back and said, whoa, this is getting out of hand. But I worry that one of these days that revelation may come too late to save our country from real catastrophe.”
David watched for another minute before lifting the remote and switching off the TV. He walked downstairs and out of his front door into the warm evening air.
Chapter 3
MARTIN STOOD IN front of the bathroom sink and cupped cold water onto his face. Without looking at his reflection, he dried himself with paper towel and returned to his booth in the back of the bar just as the waitress brought around his George Dickel on the rocks.
“Here you go, handsome,” she said as she set it down in front of him. She looked at him and coughed emphysemically into her fist. “Where’s Burt?” she asked him. “I’m not used to seeing you in here alone.”
“He couldn’t make it tonight,” Martin said, forcing a smile. He liked the waitress, but hearing her cough reminded him of Angela.
“Just a lone wolf out on the prowl?” she asked. The banter was only in jest. They’d had similar exchanges on at least fifty different occasions.
She offered him a lopsided smirk, and Martin, playing his part, smiled back and said, “Yep, all alone. If only I had a little company . . . ”
She let out a sharp one-note laugh and said, “Dream on, pal.” She dismissed him with a wave and returned to her post behind the bar.
Martin chuckled, though his mood was somber. He took an economical sip of his drink, knowing it would be the only one he would have this night. He hadn’t been sleeping well since returning to Philadelphia, and he had an idea the three or four whiskies he had each night weren’t helping. He knew his quarrel with David had a little something to do with it too.
When his food came, he watched CNN on the television behind the bar as he ate. He scowled when the words “COLONY KILLER” appeared on the bottom of the screen. Watching the update in silence, he considered all the information the public still didn’t have. They knew of only five of the eight victims, and the FBI had yet to release the video of the woman taken at the gas station.
It’s goddamn ludicrous, he thought to himself. He knew the killer might be in custody now if Rei
lly had allowed them to make her image public.
Even after his dismissal from the case—and despite David’s objection—Martin had made a few calls, trying through his many connections at the Bureau to exert some pressure on the deputy director. But from what he could tell watching the news, his efforts had been futile.
He watched as images of the victims flashed on the screen, and each photograph deepened his scowl. He’d never been pulled off a case before, and he didn’t like the view from the sidelines. He knew his son was feeling it even more severely. He’d thought every day about calling David, but had decided to give him some space, as much as it pained him to do so.
Two days, he said to himself, shaking his head. Two days until the seventeenth.
When he’d finished eating and the waitress had cleared away his dishes, Martin sat twisting his quarter-full cocktail glass on its napkin. He thought again of David, and also of his lost wife, but he pushed away any sense of melancholy.
Another rough patch, he told himself. There’ve been plenty of those in your life and there’ll be plenty more. They’ve always passed, and so will this one. Take your licks and stay on your feet.
When the waitress brought the check, Martin handed her a few bills and told her to keep the change.
Outside the bar, the evening air was humid and still, and the smoke from his cigarette floated straight up in a languid stream as though he were smoking indoors. He could hear the music playing inside; it was The Drifters’ “Under the Boardwalk”—one of Angela’s all-time favorites. He smiled and hummed along to the tune as he smoked, not reading into the coincidence but simply enjoying the memories and a brief respite from thoughts of the investigation.
He snuffed his cigarette out in the ashtray by the door and began his short walk home.
“I miss you, girl,” he said out loud.
Chapter 4
IT WAS JUST after eight when David entered Gilroy’s and headed for a booth.
Steve, standing at one end of his track behind the bar, raised his hands in a gesture of surprise when David bypassed his usual stool.
“What’s the matter?” Steve said, sweeping his hands along the surface of the bar. “You too good to pray at my altar?”
It was a Friday night, and Gilroy’s was more crowded than usual. There was only one unoccupied seat at the rail.
“I’m meeting someone,” David called to him.
Steve’s face took on an exaggerated look of surprise. “That’s a first.”
When a waitress came to take David’s order, he told her he’d wait. He looked around the bar at the assorted attorneys and businessmen, their ties at half-mast to commemorate the passing of another work week. Many of them were gesturing toward the televisions behind the bar, where Philip Goodman, the cable news host, stood on an outdoor stage in front of a building David recognized immediately: Independence Hall in Philadelphia.
He watched as Goodman, tall and lanky, approached an immense digital television screen positioned near his stage desk. It showed a map of the East Coast that marked the show’s progress on its Founders’ Tour. Goodman started to gesture toward the map, but David was distracted when Steve walked past the screen. His eyes followed the bartender toward the entrance, where Lauren stood searching the room.
Seeing her sent an unexpected rush of heat through David’s chest and stomach. He’d spent much of his suspension thinking about Lauren and about his past. He’d also considered his mother’s words to him shortly before her death. All those things mixed with his lack of sleep and thoughts of the investigation to create a strange cocktail in his head. He recognized his brain was addled by the past week’s events, but there was little he could do about it.
He watched as Steve, standing a little straighter than usual, said to Lauren in his most rakish Virginia croon, “And what can I do for you, beautiful lady?”
Lauren hardly looked at him as she scanned the faces in the bar. “I’m meeting someone,” she said. When she spotted David her expression brightened.
Steve watched her move into the bar. When he realized whose booth she was headed to, he scowled theatrically at David.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she slid into the seat across from him. “I snuck in a workout at the academy. Needed to sweat a little and put the case out of my head for an hour."
She had changed out of her work clothes and was wearing a pair of slim dark jeans, flat-heeled shoes, and a lavender shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. David could see her hair was still a little damp from her shower, and that she was wearing a small amount of makeup around her eyes. It was a subtle touch, but it made the green of her irises stand out like wet leaves in sunlight.
“You look weird,” she said to him. “I’ve never seen you in anything but your Steve Jobs getup.”
“I was just thinking the same about you.”
A waitress stopped by to take their order, and Lauren ordered a vodka. “Don’t judge me,” she said. “It’s been a long week watching these assholes ignore most of the evidence we pulled together.”
“I get it,” he said. He ordered his usual beer.
As the waitress left them, Lauren said, “A fucking beer?” Her face contorted with disapproval. “I’m practically drinking alone. Who’s the one on suspension here, anyway?”
He smiled to cover up a wince. “Tell me the latest.”
Her expression fell. “There’s been another murder, this one outside of Concord, Mass. Campbell and Carl haven’t released details to the media. God knows they’ve got enough heat on their backs, and talking about this would pour fuel—” She stopped herself and for a moment looked pale.
The waitress returned and put the drinks down on their table. Lauren immediately took a sip of her vodka, and a little of the color returned to her cheeks.
“The victim was a girl,” she said. “Well, no, not really a girl. A woman. Nineteen years old. Her name was Taryn Witherspoon. Our sub used fugu to immobilize her, and then dragged her out into a field and bound four horses to her arms and legs. She soaked her in gasoline and lit her on fire. The horses tore her body apart.”
David looked away from her and patted the top of the table with one palm. For a moment, he was grateful he was off the case and hadn’t had to visit that scene.
“This was the ninth,” she said. “By my count, the public only knows about five, and from what I’ve heard Reilly plans to keep it that way—at least for now. Not that it’s taking the spotlight off the Bureau. Every day I hear cracks from Omar about how hash-tag-Colony-Killer is trending on Twitter. You realize there are only four states left on her list?”
“Georgia, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Rhode Island,” he said without hesitating. “But only two days until the seventeenth.”
“I know. I don’t get it either.”
“Campbell’s people haven’t figured out who she is?”
“Nope.” She frowned and swirled her glass, shifting the ice cubes among one another in the clear liquid. “I’m not sure how hard they’re chasing that angle. Reilly’s still skeptical, and you know what a company man Campbell is.”
She looked at him with concern in her eyes and said, “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Butch.”
“You’re fine?” She made a face. “You don’t look fine. You look like you haven’t slept in about a week.”
“Thanks a lot.” He thought about how he’d spent the previous seven days, and added, “The suspension was probably a blessing. I don’t think I would have done well in the office if I couldn’t work this investigation.”
“You’re right about that. It’s fucking excruciating.” She took a sip of her drink. “In fact, can we switch subjects for a while?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t care. Anything. I just need to spend ten minutes not thinking about the fucking Colony Killer.” She paused, and then leaned forward with her elbows on the tabletop between them. “Okay. I want to know how you ended
up following Martin to the Bureau. I mean, you really don’t see legacies in our office.”
“No you don’t. The sons of most FBI agents probably aren’t on speaking terms with their dads. This job’s not conducive to family life.”
She laughed. “You mean any life? Tonight’s the closest thing I’ve had to a date in months.”
He noticed a small hitch in her smile and watched as she took a quick swallow of her drink.
“So how did Martin make it work?” she asked.
“He didn’t. My mom did.” He paused, wondering how much of that he wanted to get into with her. He decided he felt like talking about it. “My mom—her name was Angela—was a very unselfish woman.” He thought about her as he took a drink of his beer. “Pop being gone all the time was tough on her. But she understood Martin, and she supported him.”
“You talk about her in the past tense,” Lauren said.
“She died four months ago. Lung cancer.”
He started to take another drink of his beer, but before he could he felt Lauren grasp the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She looked at him with real sympathy, and he was surprised how much comfort the gesture gave him. She let go after a second and said, “So joining the Bureau—you wanted to follow in your dad’s footsteps?”
David’s eyes floated around the bar, his mind turning over her question. “When I was young, he was my hero. My friends had fathers who were lawyers or stockbrokers, or other things kids don’t really understand. But my dad was an FBI Agent. That was the coolest thing in the world to me. I wanted to be just like him for a long time, and I was sure I’d end up at the FBI.”
“And you did.”
“I did, but it wasn’t that simple. Sometime in high school—I think I was fifteen or sixteen—I realized he and I weren’t much alike. And that was a pretty devastating thing for me. It shook me up for a while. He’d always said—and he meant it as a compliment, though I didn’t take it that way—that I was like my mother. When I realized he was right, I think I started looking for things not to like about him. I found plenty, and that pushed us apart for a long time.”
