by J. L. Brown
Whitney muted the volume and returned to her desk. She pressed a button on her phone. “Landon, I need a copy of the TSK manifesto.”
“What manifesto?”
“Turn on the news.” She hung up.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Westchester County, New York
The woman was late for work. At fifty years old, she believed she was too old to have just picked up her child from an elementary school and taken her home. Hence, why she was late for work. She brushed back her hair as she yelled out the window at her ten-year-old.
“Daddy will be home soon. You can watch TV after you’ve done your homework. Listen to Isabella. I love you!” She blew her daughter a kiss as their au pair, Isabella, opened the door, allowing the woman’s daughter to pass under her arm. Isabella waved. The woman waved back and put the car into drive.
The woman was Liz Holder. A former lawyer, she was now the most powerful woman in conservative politics. Born and raised in New York City, Elizabeth Holder, née Dolan, grew up in a Democratic household. She embarked on the typical liberal route, attending Brown University for undergrad and the University of Pennsylvania for law school. During her college years, she fell in love with the cheery optimism of Ronald Reagan and became a Reagan Democrat. She felt chills when Reagan told Gorbachev to “tear down that wall.” Now, the lone Republican in her extended Democratic family, she was hardly tolerated by them. She didn’t care.
After law school, she clerked for a forgettable federal judge in New York City, and then went to Washington for many years to work as a legal aide for a senator from New York. During the presidency of George W. Bush, she wrote a book defending his decision to invade Iraq. The book was a surprising best seller for a first-time author. She quit her day job, moved back to Westchester County, New York, and became an author full time. She began to receive numerous offers for guest appearances on all the cable-news networks. The networks loved her because she was smart, attractive, and controversial. When Liz Dolan spoke, ratings went up. After years of guest appearances, Patriot News created a show for her. They allowed her to broadcast from a satellite studio not far from her home.
She was hated by Democrats and liberals across the country, and even some conservative politicians distanced themselves from her. Nevertheless, people read her books and tuned in to her show. She was second only to Cole Brennan in influencing conservative thought and ideals.
Still single into her late thirties and needing to quiet the budding lesbian rumors, she married Adam Holder, a partner with a New York City law firm. Theirs was a marriage of mutual respect and companionship, not love. Thus, while she was at the age she should have been traveling or enjoying her grandchildren, she was instead dropping off her young daughter at home after elementary school.
She pushed the speed dial on her Jeep’s phone.
Without preamble, she said, “I’m running late, but I should be there before the show starts.”
“Hurry,” her producer, Aaron, said. “By the way, we lost another advertiser.”
“Who?”
“GE.”
“I wonder why.”
“You know why.”
“I’m not going to apologize for saying what I think. I’m not going to be politically correct. I never claimed to be impartial, fair, and balanced. I only claimed to be right.”
“Well,” Aaron said, “some of their customers complained about your comment last week that if the Nazis had exterminated six million liberals instead of Jews, the world would be a better place. The comment about putting a numbered tattoo on liberals’ arms in the event we wanted to round them up later didn’t help. Oh . . . and what you said about white liberals being only slightly better than minority liberals put them over the top.”
“I’ve not kept it a secret I hate liberals. They’re Godless and moral-less. They won’t be happy until the queers and minorities take over this country, which will be sooner than you think. Whites in the Sixties made up ninety percent of the population. By the year 2050, we will be the minority. Am I supposed to sit around and let them extinguish our race as we did to the Indians?”
Aaron ignored her rhetorical question. “Remember, President Ellison will be on the show tonight. Please try to control yourself. And get here.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to endorse Whitney? Wouldn’t that be a hoot? That would shake up Ellison’s pseudo-conservative ass. I still think I should have convinced Cole Brennan or another true conservative to run against him in the Republican primary. Aaron, hold on a minute.”
She pressed a button and her window lowered.
“Welcome to Starbucks. What can I get started for you?” came the tinny voice from the drive-thru microphone.
“I’ll take a venti low-fat caramel macchiato.”
“Will that be all for you today?”
“Yes.”
“Please drive around. I’ll have your total for you at the window.”
An uncharacteristic foreboding preceded the shadow reflecting off the Starbucks menu.
Before she had time to press the button to slide up the Jeep’s window, a flash of black—a coat sleeve?—and a glint from an object slipped through.
An excruciating pain began at the base of her throat. She reached up and touched her neck. She pulled her hand away. It was bright red. She thought of her daughter. She tried to turn her head to face the person who had done this to her, but her head fell forward and landed on the horn of her steering wheel.
In the passenger seat next to her, Aaron’s voice was yelling from the cellphone she had dropped. “Liz, what’s going on? What’s happening?” Pause. “Are you all right? Liz!”
Through the drive-thru microphone, the Starbucks employee said, “Ma’am, would you like to order anything else? If not, please proceed to the window.”
After that, she didn’t hear anything at all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Washington, DC
“Welcome back. I’ve saved the worst for last. Now, we’re going to talk about this so-called Manifesto for America written by the Talk Show Killer, aka TSK, which he sent to MSNBC. Yes, the executive folks over at MSNBC, after two minutes of intense deliberations, decided to post the document on its website. You can now find it on mine as well at www.theconservativevoiceonline.com.
“I read all one hundred pages of this liberal, Socialist crap and I can tell you all I want to do now is throw up. The killer doesn’t even need to try to kill me. Just make me read this sh— stuff again and again and I’ll kill myself. Folks, if you want to understand why our country is going to hell, read this thing. Why do these Commiecrats write these manifestos anyway? Who cares? Who does this guy think he is? The Unabomber?
“All right. Let’s get to it. He starts off by writing about regulation and how we need big government to protect us from the greed of big, bad businesses. Have you been to a DMV lately, TSK? Who is it protecting you from? Getting a license? Keeping you off the road for a few hours?
“He writes about our efforts to abolish abortion in this country. The only lives we care about are the unborn. What about the women who bear them? What about a woman’s freedom of choice of what to do with her own body? All that Seventies feminist crap. He states a fetus isn’t a human life, yet, so it shouldn’t be granted separate and individual rights. Wrong! Life begins at conception, folks, and abortion is murder.
“He complains the federal government slashed programs that helped lower-income young mothers care for their children. So, we force these women to bear children, who then die of malnutrition. Well, I can turn this argument around, Mr. TSK. Why do all of you liberals support children’s health, nutrition, and education programs, but support the abortion of these future children? He doesn’t understand why our party is pro-life and pro-death penalty. ‘Is that not a contradiction in terms?’ Yes, folks, that’s how he writes. Probably went to an Ivy League school. He ends this section by arguing the abortion debate would be different if men instead of women were th
e ones who got pregnant. I don’t even know how to respond to that.
“He opposes the death penalty, calling it unjust, inhumane, and cruel and unusual punishment. With every execution, the government takes a chance of killing an innocent person. The United States is one of the top five countries in executions along with China, Iran, North Korea, and Yemen. Okay, not good company, but executing a murderer for taking an innocent life is still okay in my book.
“I’ll skip the part about the Fairness Doctrine and income inequality, since we’ve discussed them ad nauseam on this show. The killer condemns capitalism. Calls it evil. How did he type this manifesto? I would guess with a computer. How was the computer created? By the computer fairy? These Socialists complain about capitalism, but they don’t mind using the products of capitalism.
“He yawns on about increasing the safety net for the poor and the elderly. Where is the money going to come from, big guy? One solution, of course, is to increase taxes on oil companies and the rich. On the one hand, we encourage entrepreneurship in this country. On the other hand, as soon as you become successful, we want to tax and regulate the hell out of you.
“Next, illegal immigrants should be granted amnesty and bestowed the same rights as American citizens. They should be given driver’s licenses and their kids should be allowed to go to college at in-state tuition rates. I disagree. I think they should be paying out-of-country rates. He believes in the Dream Act, allowing illegals to attain permanent residency if they demonstrate good character—according to whom?—and get a college degree or serve two years in the military. The Dream Act is a nightmare, folks. We are a nation of laws and should only accept legal immigration. Let’s secure our borders, President Ellison, by building that fence!
“Mr. TSK believes America needs to stop being so nationalistic and take a more global view. We are citizens of the world and through tolerance, diplomacy, and disarmament, we can achieve global peace in our lifetime. He wants to re-establish foreign aid to previous levels to help educate citizens in other countries on the virtues of democracy. If citizens of other countries understood democracy and became less hostile, they will be less likely to attack us.
“What friggin’ planet does this guy live on? Does he want us all to gather around a global campfire and sing Kumbaya?”
Cole dropped the hundred-page manifesto on the table.
“Folks, that’s about all I can stomach for today. There is a lot more in here—affirmative action, global warming, gay marriage, welfare—it’s all in here. If you’re suffering from constipation, grab this manifesto, and head to the toilet. I guarantee you’ll feel better fast.”
Cole signed off.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Washington, DC
Jade turned the final page of TSK’s Manifesto for America. She leaned back in her office chair and rubbed her eyes. She had read the document all the way through three times. The killer’s writings didn’t seem crazy to her. This was not the work of a raving lunatic. The writing style was coherent, methodical, and logical. What kind of person were they dealing with? What was driving him to kill? How did he continue to elude them? Who was he going to strike next? How can I get there first?
She must have gone into a trance, because her phone was ringing. Normally, she picked up on the first ring.
“Harrington.”
“Hey you. It’s your best friend, Zoe. Remember me?”
“What’s up?”
“Do you need me to swing by and take care of Card?”
“Yes, thank you. I don’t think I’ll make it home tonight.”
“Anything else? I can bring dinner.”
“No, I’ll pick something up.” She paused. She could tell Zoe, couldn’t she? “By the way, I’ve been sort of hanging out with your friend, Landon Phillips.”
“Sort of hanging out . . .”
“Yeah. During my meeting with Senator Fairchild, she sort of set us up.”
“Huh,” Zoe said. “And?”
“We had dinner. Played a little ball.”
“How romantic.”
“You didn’t tell me he was so handsome.”
“I didn’t? Hmph. I mean, he’s okay . . . for a guy.”
“Listen, I gotta go. My other line is ringing.”
Jade punched the lighted button on her phone. “Harrington.”
A pause. “Jade, this is Landon.”
“Landon.” She was caught off guard. He must be telepathic. “Hi.”
“I’m calling to apologize.”
She stayed silent.
“For the kiss. I’m not sure what came over me. Well, I know what came over me. You did. But, still, it was out of line.”
“I kissed you back.”
“Yeah, there’s that.”
After a few moments of silence, he asked, “I’m also calling for the Senator. Any update? On the case?”
She hesitated. “Did you read the manifesto?”
“Sure. No real surprises. No new solutions. Solid liberal positions. As a Democrat, I can’t disagree with a lot of them, although in practice I’m more of a progressive than a liberal.”
“What’s your distinction?”
“Some say there isn’t one. Some liberals call themselves progressives, because Republicans have painted ‘liberal’ as a dirty word. If I had to distinguish between the two, I’d say a liberal is someone who uses taxpayer money to help society—improving health care and giving subsidies to help people—whereas a progressive uses the power of the government to make large institutions and individuals play by the rules. Both believe in using the government for social change, such as improving food safety, instituting minimum wage and labor laws, and creating financial rules to make sure corporations don’t hurt workers or consumers in their pursuit of profit.”
He waited. When she didn’t say anything, he went on.
“Progressives created the FBI. During the Progressive Era in the early twentieth century, Attorney General Charles Bonaparte formed the FBI from a force of special agents under Teddy Roosevelt’s administration. Bonaparte believed government intervention was necessary to provide justice in an industrial society. The FBI also had a major role in integration and giving African-Americans the right to vote. Its investigation into the murder of three voter registration workers in Philadelphia, Mississippi was a key turning point in the civil rights movement.”
“Thanks for the history lesson.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, his tone embarrassed. “I guess you know all that, working for them and all.”
“Listen, Landon, I need to go. ‘And miles to go before I sleep.’”
“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep.’ Frost is one of my favorites. Maybe we can get together . . .”
“Landon, I need to go.”
During her conversation with Landon, she had been turning the pages of the manifesto. Midway through the document, the killer had drawn a caricature of congressmen and congresswomen standing on the Capitol Hill steps. She traced the drawing with her finger. It spoke to her. And seemed familiar. Had she seen it before?
She opened up her web browser and entered “Congress standing on Capitol Hill steps” into the search bar to find the image online. She came up empty. She typed variations of the phrase. Still nothing.
She rolled her shoulders and moved her neck to loosen them up. She clicked on the television and turned to MSNBC. A four-person panel discussed the manifesto, all the panelists young, attractive, and dressed in the latest style. The most stylish was the handsome Blake Haynes. He was smooth. She loved to hear him talk; she could listen to him all day.
She remembered telling Landon she had checked out liberal bloggers as he suggested. She might as well do that now, in case he asked her again. Maybe she would find one that had the same writing style as TSK. With reluctance, Jade turned her attention from the TV screen to her computer and typed “liberal bloggers” into the search bar.
She began to read.
After two hours of reading liberal blogs, Jade was no closer to finding a writing style that matched the manifesto’s. She pushed back her chair and bent over, her head in her hands. She breathed in and out slowly for a few minutes before lifting her head, her heart rate steady. She needed to work out before she hurt someone. Something blinked red out of the corner of her eye. She gazed at the television, her stomach dropping at the sight of the now-familiar TSK logo and the breaking-news bulletin. What now? She turned up the sound.
A pretty Asian-American stared into the camera. “That’s right, Joe. An anonymous source within the Seattle Police Department confirmed that radio host Shane Tallent’s tongue had been severed.”
“Was the tongue found?” asked Joe, the show’s host.
“Yes. The tongue was found a short distance away from the scene of the crime in an alley behind a restaurant in downtown Seattle. The source didn’t divulge the name of the restaurant. But Joe . . . there’s more. Another source told me this isn’t the first time. All the victims had their tongue removed.”
The host thanked the on-the-scene reporter and the panelists in the studio began giving their thoughtful, compelling analysis of the significance of this new evidence. Their chatter, though, had an underlying tinge of nervousness.
Jade turned off the television and started to pace. Shit! The leak of the severed tongues was going to cause a media frenzy. She needed to brief Ethan.
She headed toward his office, dialing McClaine’s number on the way to find out what the hell was going on in his police department. She realized, though, she had a leak at her end as well. McClaine didn’t know about the other victims’ tongues.
When she entered, Ethan hung up the phone.
“You saved me a call.”
“What?”
Ethan only looked at her.
Her shoulders dropped. “Again?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Westchester County, New York
Christian, Max, and Jade drove in silence from the airport. The Starbucks was easy to spot long before they saw its sign. Yellow Police Line Do Not Cross tape encircled the parking lot entrance, the drive-thru lane exit, and the perimeter of the store. Christian parked the car, and they exited the vehicle. A huge man left the others he was speaking to and walked over.
