by Ed Markham
“This was filmed in Baltimore on September fifth,” Omar said. “She also appears in the audience three days later in New York. We looked for her this week, but couldn’t find her.”
“Was she with anyone?” Martin asked.
“Not that we could find,” Omar said. “First we looked at the people sitting next to her or nearby, then we looked for repeat attendees anywhere in the audience. No dice. But we did find something else when we reviewed these tapes.”
“What’s that?” Martin asked.
Omar leaned forward. “In November of last year, Goodman called out our South Carolina victim—Harmon Hill—for his attempts to use his wealth to inject religion into schools. Goodman was also tearing Senator Jacobson apart over his salt-and-sugar bill in the weeks leading up to his death. So far we’ve found references on Goodman’s program to at least four of the victims.”
“Shit,” Lauren said.
“Yeah. More evidence we’re chasing an obsessed fan.”
David sat back in his chair and stared at the frozen image of Edith Vereen. “What about the UVA video cameras?” he asked. “Any progress there?”
Omar shook his head. “Our guys are still working on it, but so far we haven’t been able to track down that video—or any other camera systems that may have video of the library.”
“Our batting average isn’t so hot this morning,” Martin said.
“Let’s look for cell phone videos as well,” David told Omar. “Maybe something on the social network sites, or YouTube.”
“You got it.”
“What else have we learned about Philip Goodman?” Martin asked him.
Omar stood up and handed out file folders to Martin, David, and Lauren. Then he brought up the file on the room’s projection screen and read, “Born 1966, Goodman grew up in Marietta, Georgia—an affluent suburb north of Atlanta. His father was chief engineer at a company that designed meteorological equipment. Mrs. Goodman was a stay at home mom. No brothers or sisters.”
Omar scrolled down to the second page of his report. “Not much of note until he started high school. He won a few area science competitions and was invited to attend a national fair on industrial and technological design here in Washington. Also a standout on the debate team. No discipline issues. Over-achieved as a student and, like Vereen, scored extremely high on aptitude and intelligence tests. Attended the University of Georgia on partial academic scholarship. Started out studying engineering, but ended up double majoring in history and journalism. Student editor of college paper The Red and the Black. After graduation he started writing for a conservative newspaper here in the District.”
David read on. After working in the newspaper business for ten years, Goodman published his first book, Defending Our Fathers, and became a frequent guest and conservative pundit on the cable news networks. After a few years of that, he signed on as co-host of an afternoon political talk show and was eventually offered his own program, which he’d been hosting since 2005.
David flipped through the rest of the profile. “We don’t have much on Philip Goodman the adult.”
Omar leaned back in his chair. “What can I say? Goodman’s pretty clean. Never a problem with the law. Audited in 2006, 2007, and 2013, but he pays his taxes. Never married. No kids. Seems to live a pretty solitary life outside of work.”
“So that all we’ve got?” Martin asked.
“Not quite. There’s something strange.” Omar leaned back in his chair. “Childhood records for Goodman start at age nine. Before that we have nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” Lauren asked.
“I mean, we don’t even have a birth certificate for him. It’s like Philip Goodman materialized out of thin air.”
Chapter 30
THE AREA AROUND the base of the Washington Monument was alive with activity.
Along the side of the obelisk facing the Lincoln Memorial, crews worked to prepare audio-visual and lighting equipment on and around the temporary stage. Two enormous projection screens hung at either end of the host’s speaking platform for the benefit of those unlucky thousands at the far reaches of the celebration. Speakers the size of small cars were stacked alongside the projection screens.
Mixed in with the A/V workers were various police and FBI officials—all searching for signs of trouble. Bomb-sniffing dogs, capable of discerning threatening odors in amounts as microscopic as one part per million, nosed around the stage.
David, Martin, and Lauren had departed Quantico shortly after reviewing the case updates with Omar and their team. David had asked Omar to keep them apprised of any new information—especially anything their people turned up at UVA.
Before leaving for D.C., he’d also delivered a briefing to Carl Wainbridge and several of the other Bureau executives at Quantico, letting them know what measures were being taken to safeguard Philip Goodman and Speaker Farnsworth. During that briefing, Martin and Lauren had conducted a conference call with their partner agencies to make sure all were on high alert.
Now, as Lauren spoke to the head of onsite security for the Special Events Management Unit, David looked out at the gathering clusters of Philip Goodman acolytes. Most were draped in red, white, and blue, and many waved miniature American flags. A few were even dressed in period attire—tri-cornered hats and Minutemen garb.
He could see the temporary barricades SEMU had erected around the perimeter of the mall, and he knew every attendee had been screened. Still, he thought it would be impossible to know who or what might have slipped in with the masses. Their defenses were porous.
Lauren rejoined him and said, “It’s 10:30. Ninety minutes to show time.”
He nodded, and she followed his eyes to the gathering crowd. “What do you think?” she asked him.
“I’m worried.”
“A hundred thousand variables,” she observed. “Heard anything new from Omar?”
“No.”
“I checked in with DHS. They said things have been calm so far today with the militia groups.”
He nodded, but said nothing.
“Where did Martin wander off to?”
David gestured toward the monument. “On the other side of the stage, doing his best Colombo impression.”
He looked up at the overcast sky and felt drops of sweat slide down his neck. There wasn’t any rain in the forecast, but light-gray clouds held in the morning humidity. He wiped the sweat away from his forehead and thought again of the name Harney.
“What are you working on?” Lauren asked him. “You’re zoning out pretty hard.”
Not answering her question, he said, “What’s the procedure for Goodman’s arrival?”
“SEMU says his ETA is five minutes before noon. Just enough time to get him miked up and ready to go on stage. We don’t want him here any longer than he has to be.”
“And he’s coming in one of our vehicles?”
Lauren nodded. “With a police escort.”
“What are they doing about his personnel and the stage crew?”
“Everything short of full cavity searches. They’re all over it.”
As she spoke, David felt his cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. He looked at it and saw the word “Martin” flashing on the screen.
“I couldn’t spot you in the gathering throng,” Martin said when David answered. “I’m on the west side of the monument, behind the stage. Better come take a look.”
Chapter 31
LAUREN AND DAVID found Martin squatting near the rear of the stage, talking to a man wearing a black polo shirt with a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.
“Look at this,” Martin said to them. He pointed to four large metal boxes packed side-by-side at the back of the stage near the base of the monument. “These are gas-powered Briggs and Stratton backup generators for the stage equipment. From what this guy tells me, each holds sixty gallons of fuel.”
David looked at the stagehand. “Are these standard for an outdoor show like this?”
/> “You bet,” the man said. “Can’t afford to lose juice mid-rodeo. We stock enough backup fuel in these gennies to keep things rolling even if we lost power in the first minute.”
“So the tanks are full?”
“Yes, sir.”
David thought of the warning they’d received from the National Park Service about the monument’s compromised foundation. “Any way we could get these moved away from here between now and show time?”
“You joking?”
David looked at him, and the man shook his head. “No way. I mean, if we had a full day, then maybe. But we’re all locked and loaded here.”
“Poor choice of words,” Lauren said.
Speaking to the stagehand, David pointed at the generators and said, “Do me a favor and give these a good once over. Let our people know if you see anything unusual.”
Lauren said, “I’ll get some bomb techs and a canine unit to come check this again—just to be sure nothing’s off.”
After stepping away from the back of the stage, David asked his father, “See anything else interesting?”
“It’s all pretty interesting,” Martin said, passing his eyes over the gathering crowd. “But no, nothing that rings any alarm bells.”
David could tell he was wrestling with something. “What’s on your mind?”
Martin looked at him and then at the spectators. “In a lot of places, it’s become a goddamn joke—a sign of being naive or foolish—to say you love your country. But not to these people.” He shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I realize this is a political event—not a celebration, or whatever the hell Goodman calls it. But I appreciate the fact that these people care. Let’s make sure nothing bad happens to them.”
He turned back to his son, but David’s eyes were searching the ground.
“What is it?” Martin asked.
David shook his head slowly. “Harney,” he said.
Lauren and Martin exchanged looks.
“What about Harney?” Lauren asked David.
“Levi Harney,” he said, not looking at her. He turned abruptly and began to jog away from the stage.
Chapter 32
DAVID PULLED OPEN the passenger’s-side door of his car. Hot air flooded out in a rush. He let the door hang open so the heat could escape as he rummaged through the compartment below the center armrest. He could feel the leather seats starting to burn his legs and lower back through his clothes.
He found the folded printouts and opened them. He scanned the pages for a name he wasn’t quite sure he would find. But then he saw it, typed in the archaic dot-matrix font of the James Madison Memorial Building’s printer:
Leviticus Harney
513 A Street SE
Washington, D.C.
As David stepped out of his car holding the printout, Martin and Lauren were just catching up to him.
“What is it?” Martin asked, a little out of breath.
David wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Remember I thought the name Harney sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it?”
“Sure,” Lauren said.
He handed her the printout. “The name Levi Harney is on the visitor list from the Madison Library here in D.C.—the people who looked at documents that included quotes left at the murder scenes.”
He looked at his father and said, “You told me someone had checked those out?”
Martin nodded. “Omar and some people from Research looked into them, but their search was cursory—checking names against addresses and looking for criminal records. Too many names to do anything in-depth”
David pulled out his phone and called Omar. “I found the name Harney,” he said, explaining the situation as quickly as he could.
“Holy shit,” Omar said. “How did I miss that? I’m sorry, David. I didn’t personally check out each of those—”
“Forget it,” David said, interrupting him. “I need you to look into this address.” He read the information and waited on the line. The phone felt hot against his face, and he held it an inch away from his skin.
After a few minutes, Omar came back on the line. “Okay, there is a Leviticus Harney living at 513 A Street, but I can’t find anything on the guy. I mean nada. The house is a rental property, and the leasing company says Harney paid for a full year upfront in cash, so they never ran a credit check on the driver’s license or social security number he gave them. I checked out the social he used when he filled out the lease paperwork, and it’s bogus.”
David checked the time on his phone. It was eleven. “Any way you can conjure a warrant for us in the next fifteen minutes?”
“Considering the phony social? Probably. I’ll get on the phone with Legal and call you as soon as I have it.”
David hung up and pocketed his phone. He looked from his father to Lauren. “Butch, I think one of us should stay here to keep an eye on things.”
“Fine,” she said. “But you may miss the show.”
“We have a little less than an hour until Goodman goes on stage, and this address is just on the other side of the Capitol. There should be time if we hustle.” He turned to his father. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 33
THE MAN EASED his hands through the vest’s armholes, mindful not to disturb the twin wires that hung from the compartment in its right breast. The wires were held together by a small bolus of putty, which dangled at the man’s midsection.
He Veclro'd the vest closed and then pulled on over it a white shirt and a jacket. Delicately, he worked the putty ball and wires through a small hole he’d cut in the shirt and tucked it into the interior chest pocket of his coat.
When he’d finished dressing, the man stood for a few seconds regarding his reflection in a full-length mirror.
It shouldn’t have come to this, he thought.
His eyes suddenly filled with tears, and for a moment he was overcome by the gravity of his actions. He slumped to one knee, and raised a fist to his forehead as though in supplication.
A few minutes later, he stood and wiped at his face until the reflection in the mirror had composed itself. He took a last long look at himself and held his chin up high. “For your country,” he said out loud.
His face stiffened with resolve, and he left the bedroom.
Chapter 34
DAVID AND MARTIN walked together through the low wrought-iron gate that separated the A Street sidewalk from 513’s front walkway and steps. David carried a small battering ram in his hands, and he wore a navy windbreaker bearing the letters “FBI” to dissuade any observers from calling the police.
The house was a narrow redbrick walkup connected to a row of similar two-story homes. An American flag hung motionless from a dowel rod above 513’s front door, which was painted a gleaming black. A few blocks to the west, David could see the white dome of the Capitol Building rising against the cloudy sky.
He watched his father, hand on his sidearm, knock twice on the front door. No one answered.
David checked the time; it was a little after 11:20 A.M., less than forty minutes to show time. On the drive over, he’d received the call from Omar informing him he had his warrant.
“Be careful in there,” Omar had said.
Now Martin knocked again. When there was no answer, he said, “Open Sesame,” and gestured toward the door-buster in David’s hands.
David braced one foot against the bottom of the house’s threshold and wiped the palms of his hands on his pants. He took a wide stance and settled the face of the ram against the door. He brought it back once, twice . . . and then he stopped.
Martin stared at him. “What’s the matter? Break her down.”
David said nothing. He only looked at the door, his head tilted slightly to one side.
“David,” Martin said, louder now.
David motioned for him to be silent.
All around them, the calm sounds of a late-summer afternoon filled the air. Birds chirped and cars passed one another in the distance. Electrical line
s hummed faintly. A dog barked somewhere a few blocks away.
And there was something else, David recognized. Something very faint that didn’t belong.
He bent his head closer to the door and listened. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
Martin looked at the door, and then at his son. He crouched down near David and, after a few seconds, said, “I don’t hear anything.”
David pressed his ear to the door. He could hear the faint beeping a little more clearly now, and he felt a hollowness in his stomach.
He stood up quickly. “We’ll go around back.”
Martin looked frustrated. “We don’t have time—”
“We’ll go around back,” David said again. That ended the discussion. Martin sighed and nodded, and they moved quickly back down the walkway.
A narrow passageway ran between two houses a little ways down the block from 513, and the two men had to turn their bodies sideways to avoid brushing their shoulders against the brick as they shuffled down it. When they reached the back of the property, they found themselves on a small cement patio surrounded by a wooden fence. On either side of the fence were the patios of the adjoining houses.
“Can you get over this?” David asked, gesturing at the fence.
Martin snorted. “Give me a hand to stand on.”
David set down the door-buster and laced his fingers together. He hoisted Martin up and over, and then handed him the battering ram. He reached for the top of the fence and pulled himself over it, joining his father in the adjacent courtyard.
When David landed next to him, Martin pointed at the back entrance of the house, which was open except for a screen door. They could hear children yelling at each other inside. They crossed the small patio quickly, and David again helped his father over the fence.
