Triple Homicide_Thrillers

by James Patterson

  “We let it blow.”

  8:19. Seven minutes.

  “Mats and blankets,” Bree said. She now spotted police and news helicopters hovering outside the no-fly zone that covered much of the Mall, and all of the White House grounds to the north.

  “Command, we have a Caucasian male in camo gear on the west Mall,” an officer called.

  Bree swung the binoculars and spotted him. The man was wearing filthy military desert fatigues, dancing in circles and shouting at the sky, on the lawn north of the Ash Woods. Officers ran toward him, shouting at him to get down.

  Bree focused her binoculars on the man. Tall, lanky, bearded, grimy, with matted dark hair and wild eyes, he saw them coming and took off toward the reflecting pool. Before they could catch him he darted through the trees, across a path, and jumped into the pool.

  He waded fast toward the center of the pool, heading almost directly toward the bomb squads and the restrooms. The water was well above his knees when he stopped, reached into his pants pocket, and slipped out a Glock pistol.

  “Gun!” she barked into the radio. “Repeat, suspect in reflecting pool is armed.”

  The police and FBI agents closing on the pool all had their weapons drawn now, shouting at the man to drop his pistol even as the bomb teams approached the restrooms north of the reflecting pool.

  The man ignored the warnings. He sat down in the water, which came up to his chest. Holding the Glock overhead, he released the clip, which fell and disappeared below the surface. He ran the action next and ejected the round from the chamber before expertly stripping the weapon down to its components. Every bit of the gun was in pieces and sunk in under thirty seconds.

  The officers were in the pool with him now, wading toward him, training their weapons on him, when he flopped back and disappeared into the water.

  What the hell is that guy doing? Bree thought. She turned her attention back to the restroom and the first four members of the bomb squad who were close, maybe twelve feet from the second trash can, preparing to lay down the first mat.

  She glanced at her watch. 8:23. Three minutes to spare.

  She exhaled with relief as the bomb experts lifted the mat over the can—and the IED exploded in a brilliant, fiery red and yellow flash.

  CHAPTER 4

  THIRTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD KATE WILLIAMS was curled up in the fetal position in the overstuffed chair opposite me, in the basement office where I’d been seeing patients since being suspended from DC Metro five months before.

  “I’ll end up killing myself, Dr. Cross,” Kate said. “Probably not today or tomorrow. But it’s going to happen. I’ve known that since I was nine years old.”

  Her voice was flat, her expression showing the anger, fear, and despair that her tone didn’t betray. Tears welled and slipped from eyes that would not meet mine.

  I took her threat seriously. From her records, I knew some of the damage she’d done to herself already. Kate’s teeth were stained from drug abuse. Her dirty blond hair was as thin and brittle as straw, and she wore a long-sleeve Electric Daisy Carnival T-shirt to hide evidence of cutting.

  “Is that when it started?” I asked. “When you were nine?”

  Kate wiped at her eyes furiously. “You know, I’m not talking about it anymore. Digging around back there never helps. Just pushes me to pull the plug on sobriety, on everything, sooner.”

  I set my notepad aside, sat forward with my palms up and said, “I’m just trying to understand your history clearly, Kate.”

  She crossed her arms. “And I’m just trying to hang on, Doc. The court ordered me here as a term of my probation, otherwise I gotta tell you, I’d be a no-show.”

  This was our second session together. The first hadn’t gone much better.

  For a few moments I studied her slouched posture and the way she used her thumbnail to dig at the raw cuticles around her fingers, and I knew I was going to have to change the dynamic in the room if I was to get through to her.

  There was another seat beside Kate I usually reserved for couples therapy, but I got up and sat in it so that I was roughly her mirror image, side by side. I let that physical change settle in her. At first she seemed threatened, shifting away from me. I said nothing and waited until she lifted her head to look at me.

  “What do you want?”

  “To help, if I can. To do that I have to see the world the way you see it.”

  “So, what, you sit next to me and expect to see the world the way I do?”

  I ignored the caustic tone, and said, “I sit next to you rather than confront you, and maybe you give me a glimpse of your world.”

  Kate sat back, looked away from me, and said nothing for ten, then fifteen deep, ragged breaths.

  “Yes, nine,” she said at last. “Just before my tenth birthday.”

  “You knew him?”

  “My Uncle Bert, my mom’s sister’s husband,” she said. “I had to go live with them after my mom died.”

  “That’s brutal. I’m sorry to hear that. You must have been terrified, betrayed by someone you trusted.”

  Kate looked at me and spoke bitterly. “It wasn’t a betrayal. It was a robbery, armed robbery. None of that slow ‘grooming’ you hear about. Six months after I got there, my Aunt Meg went to visit friends for the weekend. Uncle Bert got drunk and came into my bedroom carrying a hunting knife and a bottle. He threatened me with the knife, told me he’d cut my throat if I ever said a thing. Then he pinned me facedown and …”

  I could see it in my head and felt sickened. “You tell anyone?”

  “Who would believe me? Uncle Bert just so happened to be the sheriff. Aunt Meg idolized him, the piece of shit.”

  “How long did the abuse go on?”

  “Until I ran away. Sixteen.”

  “Your aunt never suspected?”

  Kate shrugged and finally looked over at me. “When I was a little, little girl, I loved to sing with my mom in the church choir. My aunt was in a choir, too, and until Uncle Bert came into my room, singing with her was the only thing that made me happy. I could forget things, become part of something.”

  She was blinking, staring off now, and I saw the muscles in her neck constrict.

  “And after Uncle Bert?”

  Kate cleared her throat, said in a soft rasp, “I never sang in tune again. Just couldn’t hold a note for the life of me. Aunt Meg could never figure that one out.”

  “She never knew?”

  “She was a good soul in her way. She didn’t deserve to know.”

  “You weren’t at fault, you know,” I said. “You didn’t cause the abuse.”

  Kate looked over at me angrily. “But I could have stopped it, Dr. Cross. I could have done what I wanted to do: snatch that Buck knife off the nightstand when he was done with me and lying there all drowsy drunk. I could have sunk the knife in his chest, but I didn’t. I tried, but I just couldn’t do it.”

  Kate broke down then, and sobbed. “What kind of coward was I?”

  CHAPTER 5

  WHEN KATE WILLIAMS left my office twenty minutes later, I was wondering if my tactics had done any good. She’d opened up, and that was positive. But right after she called herself a coward, she clammed up tight again, said she hated thinking about those times—they made her cravings for the pipe and the bottle more intense.

  “See you at our next appointment?” I asked before she went out the basement door.

  Kate hesitated, but then nodded. “Got no choice, right?”

  “Judge wants it, but I hope you come to want it. This is a safe place, Kate, no judgments. Opinion only if you ask for it.”

  Her eyes roamed to my face, saw I was sincere. “Okay then, next time.”

  I’d no sooner shut the door than my cell phone buzzed in my office. I ran and grabbed it on the fourth buzz, seeing Bree was calling for a second time.

  “You already showered and off to work?” I said.

  “I never made it home,” she said in a strained voice. “You hav
en’t heard?”

  “No. I’ve been in a session the past—”

  “Someone put two bombs on the National Mall, Alex. Michaels put me in command up on the Washington Monument where I could see everything. We got one neutralized before it exploded at 8:26. But I made a decision to send a bomb team to neutralize the second IED versus checking it first with a robot. When they were close, at 8:23, it went off. They’re okay because of the mats and the suits, but it’s a wonder they weren’t killed.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Shaken,” she said. “I haven’t sent men in to get bombed before.”

  I winced. “I can’t imagine, baby. What’s Michaels saying?”

  “He has my back. Denton recommended the attempt. We had seven minutes, so I accepted her recommendation.”

  “How did you know you had seven minutes?”

  “The bomber told me. He called my cell to warn me that an IED was supposed to go off at 8:26 a.m.”

  “Why you?”

  “No idea. But he had my private number.”

  “No suspects?”

  “We have a suspect in custody,” she said, and told me about a man who’d waded into the reflecting pool before dismantling his pistol. “We want you to come in and talk to him ASAP.”

  “Uh, I’m suspended pending trial.”

  “Mahoney’s taken the lead. He wants you there, and Michaels will never know.”

  “Okay,” I said uncertainly. “But I’m stacked with patients until two.”

  There was a pause before Bree said, “Two bombs on the National Mall, Alex?”

  Even though she wasn’t there with me, I held up my free hand in surrender. “You’re right. No argument. Where do you want me and when?”

  “FBI building, ASAP. Bring me a change of clothes?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, grabbing a pen to scribble notes on what she wanted.

  So much for my suspension.

  CHAPTER 6

  I RACED UPSTAIRS, told Nana Mama I wouldn’t be picking up my younger son, Ali, after school, got Bree’s clothes and basic toiletries in an overnight bag, and called a car through Uber that arrived in just a few minutes. The driver said traffic was finally starting to move, as the police opened up the roads. I spent most of the ride calling patients to cancel appointments.

  When I finished, I closed my eyes and shifted my thinking from the call of psychotherapy back to the craft of investigation, a craft that until five months before had consumed most of my adult life in six years with the Bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit, and fourteen on and off with DC Metro’s major cases team.

  When I opened my eyes, it felt like I’d put on an old and familiar set of clothes and picked up tools that I could have used blindfolded. I have to admit, I felt full of renewed purpose when we pulled up in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

  Still in her running gear, Bree was on the sidewalk waiting for me with Special Agent in Charge Ned Mahoney, my old partner at the Bureau. As usual, he wore a dark Brooks Brothers suit, starched white shirt, and repp tie. Both he and Bree looked big-time stressed. I climbed out, thanked the driver, and hugged and kissed Bree before shaking Ned’s hand.

  Bree took the overnight bag, checked it, and smiled at me, then Ned. “There’s somewhere I can shower and change inside?”

  “Women’s locker room,” Ned said. “I’ll get you a pass.”

  “Perfect,” she said, and we started up the steps to the front entrance.

  “What do we know about the guy in the reflecting pool?” I said.

  Ned preferred to wait until we were inside and upstairs in a conference room, close to the interrogation room where they were holding retired Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Timothy Chorey. Ned told us Chorey had done almost three full tours of duty in the Middle East, two in Iraq during the surge and one in Afghanistan during the big pullout. Two months shy of the end of that third tour, Chorey sustained a head injury due to an IED explosion in Helmand Province.

  The bomb killed two of Chorey’s men, rattled his brain, and damaged his inner ears. He spent time in a US military hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany before transferring to Bethesda Naval Hospital, where the neurological effects of the blast eased, but did not entirely disappear.

  Chorey was granted a medical discharge nearly four years before he waded into the reflecting pool. He left Bethesda with bilateral hearing aids, determined to go to school on the GI bill.

  “‘His behavior seems erratic at best’,” I said, reading from a VA doctor’s notes taken on a walk-in visit a year after he left Bethesda. “‘Patient reports he has lost apartment, left school, can’t sleep. Headaches, nausea are common.’”

  “That’s it. Chorey basically vanishes after that appointment,” Mahoney said. “He goes underground for three years and surfaces to put bombs on the National Mall.”

  “If he’s your bomber, Ned.”

  “He’s the guy, Alex. Master gunnery sergeants like Chorey wear a bomb insignia on their left lapel, for Christ’s sake. This guy may not have triggered the explosion, but he was involved, Alex. He ran from police, ignored their repeated orders, and was diverting attention from the bomb squad when that IED went off. And he hasn’t said a word since we’ve had him in custody.”

  “Explosives residue on him?”

  Mahoney grimaced. “No, but he could have worn gloves, and the techs say his dunk in the reflecting pool could have removed whatever traces there might have been.”

  “No lawyer?”

  “Not yet, and he hasn’t asked for one. He hasn’t said anything, in fact.”

  “Mirandized?”

  “Most definitely. Second they pulled him out of the water.”

  “Okay,” I said, shutting the file. “Let me see if he’ll talk to me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  AS SOON AS Bree returned after a shower and a change of clothes, I went into the interrogation room alone. My first task was to build trust, and see what Chorey might tell me of his own volition.

  Wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, Chorey sat in a chair bolted to the floor, gazing intently at his grimy hands folded on the tabletop and the handcuffs that bound his wrists. A heavy leather belt encircled his waist, with steel hoops attached to chains welded to the legs of the chair.

  If he saw me enter, he ignored me. Not a flicker of reaction passed over his face. His entire being seemed focused on his hands and wrists, as if they held some great secret that calmed and fascinated him.

  He was, as Bree had described him, six-foot-three, rail thin, with dull brown dreadlocks, a sparse beard over drawn skin, and dark bags under his eyes, which were still gazing, barely blinking. He stank of body odor and cheap booze.

  “Mr. Chorey?” I said.

  He didn’t react.

  “Gunny?”

  Nothing. His eyes closed.

  I was about to take the seat in front of him, and shake the table so he’d open his eyes and at least acknowledge my presence. But then something dawned on me, and I eased to his side, studying him more closely.

  I went around behind him and clapped my hands softly. Chorey didn’t react. I clapped them loudly and he didn’t startle, but instead slightly cocked his head as if wondering if that sound was real.

  “He’s almost stone deaf,” I said to the mirror. “That’s why he wasn’t responding to officers’ orders. And hate to say it, Ned, but it jeopardizes the Miranda.”

  Chorey opened his eyes and saw me in the mirror. He startled, squinted, and twisted around to look up at me. I held up my hands and smiled. He didn’t smile back.

  I went around the table, took another chair, and got out a legal pad and pen from my bag.

  I wrote, “Master Gunnery Sergeant Chorey, my name is Alex Cross. Can you hear with your hearing aids?”

  Chorey brought his head close over the tablet when I spun it. He blinked, shrugged, squinted at me and in a weird, hollow nasal voice said, “I don’t know.”

  “Did you have them in when y
ou went in the reflecting pool?” I wrote.

  “Been two and a half years since I’ve had them. I think. Time goes by and …”

  He stared off into the middle distance.

  “What happened to them?”

  “I got drunk, heard voices and that damn ringing in my head, and I don’t know, I think I crushed them with a rock.”

  “Get rid of the voices and the ringing?”

  He laughed. “Only if I kept drinking.”

  “Would it help if we got headphones and an amplifier for you?”

  “I don’t know. Why am I here? Is it that big a deal to protest in Washington? I’ve seen films of hundreds of peaceful protesters in that reflecting pool back in the sixties. Hell, they were in it in Forrest Gump, right? Jenny was, anyway.”

  I smiled because he was right. Before I could scribble my response, a knock came at the door. An FBI tech entered with headphones, amplifier, and a microphone.

  The tech put the headphones on Chorey, and turned on the amp. He turned the sound halfway up, and told me to speak. Chorey shook his head at each hello. It wasn’t until the amp was at ninety percent of capacity that he brightened.

  “I heard it. Can it go louder?”

  The tech said, “At a certain point it could further damage your ears.”

  Chorey snorted and said, “I already know what the silence is like.”

  The tech shrugged and turned the volume up again.

  “Can you hear me?” I asked.

  Both eyebrows rose and he said, “Huh, yeah, I heard that in my right ear.”

  I set down my pen and leaned closer to the microphone the tech had set up on the table. “Going in the water, dismantling your weapon, you did that as a protest?”

  “Destroying my weapon as protest. Beating swords into ploughshares, and baptizing myself in the pool of forgiveness. It was supposed to be a new beginning.”

  He said this with earnestness, conviction even.

  “You ran from the police.”

  “I ran from shapes chasing me,” Chorey said. “My eyesight sucks now, except right up close. You can check.”