"What's his PAC--I'm sure I don't know."
"Tybaum's was named GULP. It was set up to collect campaign contributions and build a war chest for his election."
"Seriously? You can't make this stuff up," I said. My last year or two the cases I was assigned all seem to have a little crazy in them in some form or another. "Why are we called out? Don't the Fibbies have this one?"
"FBI hasn't declined or accepted yet. So we're as official as they are. Course, their CSI, is working it up, not the District's."
"They've got the better crime lab like night and day."
"We've got a bunch of clowns with baggies and Polaroids in the District."
"True that."
We rode on in silence the rest of the way. The case seemed to have the potential for something more interesting than a love triangle or drug soldiers turfing it out. The thought of a large sum of money missing from a political committee was very welcome in my repertoire of unusual cases, of which there was, that night, maybe one, maybe not one, depending on whether the FBI accepted the case or declined the case and left it for us city cops.
We arrived at the scene and studied the FBI CSI's evidence flags spread through the area where spent shells and other detritus of the crime had been found. We examined the footprints in the snow (photographed), GoPro camera (tagged and bagged), most of a cigarette with a very slightly burned business end, and minutiae that would amount to nothing related. Then we talked with FBI Special Agents Jack Ames and Marty Longstreet. Ames then disappeared to take a statement. We next spoke with Assistant U.S. Attorney Antonia Xiang and got the wide-angle view of the case. She was dressed in a motorcycle insulated coverall, gloves, and hoodie beneath. While I spoke with her, Andrea fiddled with the evidence cart, and I noticed her removing the GoPro camera from its bag which wasn't yet sealed, though I couldn't say why not, maybe so someone other than the CSI could study the images on the camera. Then she called me, "Ronnie, come see this."
"I joined her at the evidence cart. She held up the camera. "Watch this." She played the video on the camera for me. It was roughly the running match between the killer and Tybaum as they made their way up the Mall and ended at the Reflecting Pool. There is some heavy breathing and some shouting, then six distinct explosions as the gun ends the chase. We then see Gerry pitch face-first into the pool, watch the view sweep around in a 180, and then see the concrete apron rushing up to meet the camera as it evidently falls to the ground and is abandoned, probably because it's dark and hard to locate, coupled with the excitement of the moment and the need to flee. Then Andrea plays it again. This time, I notice an anomaly. There are several seconds of a view of a large yellow tabby cat lying in the sun on a kitchen table. You know it's a kitchen table because there are silver salt and pepper shakers and a napkin holder.
"Okay," I said to Andrea. "I see the cat, but so what?"
"The cat belongs to the shooter. The kitchen table is in the shooter's kitchen."
I reached and took the GoPro in my own hands. I assessed its weight at maybe eight ounces. I looked at its back side. Metadata but nothing else, no initials, no serial, nothing there.
"Okay. I've looked it over," I said. "Nothing says cat and shooter to me; nothing says kitchen table."
Andrea grinned, which she rarely does, as Andrea, on the job, is all business and not much given to smiles and niceties.
"I know, I get it. But here's the logic of what happened. The shooter was trying out his new GoPro at his kitchen table. He has a cat that fights him for custody of the table top. The shooter pressed the right button, and a brief video was shot featuring Felix the Cat."
"How sure are you about this?"
"Maybe fifty-five percent."
"I thought so. But let's start with the notion the cat and table do belong to the shooter. Where does that leave us?
"She thought for a minute. Then, "We need to canvass the local stores that sell this GoPro. We need to take it in and see whether they can trace its serial number to a name. That name will be our shooter. Then we go by the shooter's residence and try to confirm the table-cat binary clue. With me so far?"
"Wow, you're good, Andy."
"You're just saying that, but it's nice, Ronnie. So, where do we start? Which photography outlet?"
"Back to my house. We'll grab my laptop and run some searches. Then we can be ready first thing in the morning."
Andy drove us back to my house. Mamie was still up, but the kids were in bed, and that was very welcome. Andy and I adjourned to my home office inside the laundry room, just enough room to fit a desk and two folding chairs. I then fired up my laptop. Several searches were run. I learned some about GoPro: that it is hugely popular and enjoys being sold from hundreds of outlets in the greater Washington locale. We selected three major stores from Google and decided we'd go to Best Buy first thing tomorrow morning.
We then joined Mamie in the family room. She muted the TV and turned around to face us. "Don't be shy, Andy. There are leftovers in the refrigerator and ice cream in the freezer."
"Is there any coffee?"
"No, but I can have a pot ready in two minutes," I said.
So I hopped on it.
We talked for a good hour, then, mostly about family and kids, but also about yellow tabby cats and sunny kitchen table tops.
Mamie and I had the same exact setup in our kitchen. Except we had no cat, so that cleared me of the crime.
That, and the fact I hadn't buried six Hydra-Shoks in anyone's back.
Not in years.
16
Antonia said solemnly, "Michael, can I ask you for a huge favor?"
"Sure," I said. "You need to borrow fifty-thousand? No problemo."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd call Rusty and talk to him about coming on board as your in-house investigator. He needs a job, and a call from me might work wonders with him.
"That works for me. I need my own in-house because Tybaum isn't the only case I have. As you know."
She blinked hard. "I'm sorry for the fast case-load. We needed an experienced prosecutor, and in you, we have lots of confidence. Not only did you get a lot of cases you also got a lot of hard cases. You do need someone like Rusty, so I don't even feel guilty."
"Agreed," I said. "All warm bodies welcome."
So, that night I called Rusty, and we agreed to meet. He would come to the Hyatt, and we'd have a sandwich, just the two of us.
The thing is, Rusty Xiang is my son by impregnation of his mother during one wild night while her boyfriend was in the hospital. Henry was my college roommate, and Mai Yung had been his girlfriend. One night when Henry was hospitalized, Mai and I slept together. I've dumped this fact in the confessional at Our Lady of the Constant Sorrows many, many times. Next slide, please. Here's one of our baby boy, Russell Xiang. The boy who was lied to about his father until six months ago in Moscow when it came out during his jury trial that I was his dad. We hadn't talked since, because I'd promised his mother I would leave things alone. But now that it looked like my son was having troubles, I just couldn't stand by without trying to help him. Especially not since Antonia had asked me to help.
The Article One Lounge was the hotel's bar and grille, a place where you could grab a beer and a sandwich and not have a big deal on your hands. I thought it would work best because, unlike a real restaurant, it didn't require an hour-long commitment while several courses came by. The Article One was sandwiches and appetizers, which gave either of us the opportunity just to get up and leave if it got uncomfortable. Rusty must've known why I was choosing it; he didn't hesitate in agreeing to come.
He came in at seven-fifteen wearing blue jeans, desert boots, and a GU sweat-shirt.
"You attended GU?" I said when he climbed on the stool next to me.
"Yeah. Ph.D. Computer Science."
"I don't know why but I thought you told me in Russia that it was software engineering. Someone told me that."
He ordered a glass of draught beer.
"Well, someone was wrong. Software engineering was what I did at the Company."
"Are you allowed to tell me that?" I asked. "Isn't that a national security thing?"
"Not with my own father, it's not. Screw them."
"Still hot about the CIA disavowing you in Russia?"
"Wouldn't you be?"
He took a swallow of beer.
"Yes," I said, "I would be. Mad as hell at them. But that's politics. The government was trying to embarrass the Russians into nuclear disarmament talks. It couldn't afford to be embarrassed by your spying."
"So be it," he said with the wave of a hand. "I told them adios, so I'm way down the road on that one."
"Good for you."
"So what's up? Is this how we start the father-son bromance?"
That jolted me. I hadn't expected that kind of sarcasm. Or maybe I had. Whatever; it jolted me back on my heels.
"Look," I said, trying to recover, "this can go however you want, Rusty. As for me, I'm open to being your friend. I also want to talk about a job opening for you. That is if you're interested."
"Friends is okay. Let's leave it at that."
Another swallow of beer.
"What about the job thing?" he added.
"I'm in the U.S. Attorney's Office here in D.C. now."
"Yeah, I think Antonia mentioned that."
"I'm going to need an investigator, and so I thought about you."
"How much does it pay?"
"I'd say a hundred to start."
"That's more than I was making at the CIA."
"I've got a feeling you'll be worth every penny."
"Well, Anty's been on me to get a job."
"Antonia's right. It doesn't help anyone to avoid life."
"Who said anything about avoiding life? I've been applying to law school. But to tell the truth, that's not a good fit for me. I think I like the undercover stuff much better."
"It seems to fit you, Rusty," I said, alluding to his time at the CIA.
"It did," he sniffed. "But that was then, and this is now. When do I start?"
"Monday? That too soon?"
"Nope. I'll get a license and be ready to go."
"No need for a license. You'll be a sworn officer."
"Whatever; I'm available, Michael."
"Michael it is. Works for me."
"Sure, me too."
We had our sandwiches, beat up the Wizards and complained about the Redskins, and said good night right after. We were both relieved to call it a night. It had gone quite well, however. I now had a grown son in my life.
Something I had wanted ever since he was born. But something I had left alone.
Full circle, coming up.
17
Annie wasn't alone in her vision, her uncanny ability to profile people. She had profiled me and shocked me by what she saw. But, I was also thinking about her and what I knew about her. My reason for doing this was simple and somewhat selfish: I wanted to break through and talk to her, back and forth, dialogue, share our thoughts and feelings. Why? For one thing, I already loved her sweet spirit. But there was an even deeper reason: I wanted to see what was inside of her. I wanted to know how she worked; I wanted to speak to the source of her genius. She was, when it was all said and done, my enigma machine. I'd never before felt so drawn to another person. But drawn in a good way—I only wanted good things for the child, and, to determine those things, I needed Annie to talk to me.
Like I said, I was also thinking about her while she had profiled me.
How to make contact with the low-verbal Annie? Logic wasn't enough. Visceral feelings and smells and sounds wouldn't do it—no need to bake her birthday cake; it would pass by unnoticed. Same with music: she didn't seem even to hear it, explained her brother when he and Mona and mental health practitioners had tried music therapy. Didn't even move one facial muscle. So that left me with what?
For one thing, I was anything but knowledgeable about what I wanted to do—to make contact and carry on a conversation with Annie. I had no special degrees, and I'd never been confronted with the situation before. However, there's a certain willingness in being a rank amateur like I was: nothing had been tried, so there were no defeats.
I thought about her and thought about her some more. Then I remembered something Mona had told me. Something about the memorization and recital of all cat breeds. Cats? Was that random or were cats something she thought about? Maybe even something she wanted to touch, to feel, to hear.
So the word jumped out at me over and over: cats.
Annie had a special connection to cats, I reasoned. They were the one thing that Mona seemed to guess maybe brought her great joy, maybe even completed her, if that was even possible, I didn't know.
I couldn't call her up on the phone and invite her to an event that might change her. I couldn't call her because I knew she wouldn't talk to me on the phone; I had to go to her house in person to have any chance of getting through to her.
I called Jarrod and made a date to see her. I showed up exactly on time, and Jarrod ushered me inside.
She was home, he said. First, I drew him aside and explained what I had in mind.
"I would love to call Annie my friend. Which means I want her to talk to me."
"Why is that?"
"Because she is a unique, beautiful person and I would like to show her my world."
"Wow. That resonates."
"Good. I'm glad it does."
"So what can I do to help?" Jarrod asked.
"Let me take her to a public place I have in mind. You can come too, Jarrod, to keep your eye on her."
"That makes sense. Yes, I'll come, too."
"Let's meet in my car. I'll go outside and start warming it up."
Five minutes later, they emerged from the house, Jarrod and Annie, the girl rushing ahead, dancing out to my car and its interior warmth. I helped Jarrod and put his wheelchair in the trunk of my car.
Our destination was the Greater Washington Animal Rescue and Adoption Center. We arrived thirty minutes after we left Annie's house, traffic being quite heavy even though noon hour was just past. We arrived without a word having been spoken the entire way. I parked, turned off the engine, and turned in the seat to face Annie, who was riding shotgun.
"Annie, we're going inside to see some animals. Would you like that?"
At some point on the drive over, she had lapsed into a behavior I'd seen before, the rocking up and back, up and back, arms wrapped around herself, making low moans in her throat. When I spoke to her, she said nothing back, and she made no other response. So, my attempt reinvigorated with the impossibility of the task, I went around and helped her out of the car. Then I pulled Jarrod's wheelchair from the trunk, and the three of us went inside.
Up to the young woman behind a chest-high counter. She was reviewing pink papers spread before her but looked up and gave us a warm smile as we approached.
"Hi, I'm Nellie. Dropping off or picking up today?"
"We're here to see the cats," I said. Do you happen to have any today?
She gave me a look like I had a hole in my head. "We always have cats, sir. Let me page someone. Cynthia, to the front desk. Cynthia!"
Minutes later, a high school age girl not much older than Annie came in through the back door. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, over which she was dressed in a rubberized apron that covered her front from waist to chin. It said, "Got Cats?" across the front in teal letters. Our person, I could see.
"They want to view the cats, Cyn," said the young woman behind the counter. "Are you free?"
"I am," said Cynthia. "What are your names?"
"I'm Michael, and this is Annie. Annie is very quiet today and probably won't have much to say."
"I'm Jarrod. I'm a bystander."
"Okay, good, well, follow me."
We did. We followed her back through the rear door, then another, then along a fifty-foot bank of cages on either side that was populated with dogs of all descriptions,
colors, and breeds. The racket—barking, howling, and crying—was deafening. We hurried inside, but Jarrod paused at the entrance. Jarrod opted out of following us into the dog area when he saw the wood plank walkway facing him. "I'll be in the main office," he said, then disappeared.
Cynthia, Annie, and I hurried through the dogs and exited at the far end. Cynthia shut the door behind us."
Then she turned to me. "What kind of cat are you looking for?"
I motioned toward Annie. "Why don't we walk through and view them," I said. "We can see whether Annie reacts."
"Sure, I'll go slow."
She began a slow saunter between the cages teeming with cats on both sides of the narrow walkway. Cynthia was in the lead, then Annie and then me. We hadn't gone three steps before Annie suddenly dropped into a squat and thrust her fingers inside a cage. We could see she was trying to touch a big yellow tabby cat. She looked up at Cynthia then at me. "What's his name?"
I was stunned. Annie had spoken!
"Whatever you want to call him is fine," Cynthia said. "What names do you like?"
"Frankly."
Cynthia looked at me. I looked at Annie. "Do you want to take this cat home with you?"
"What for?"
"To take care of. To play with. To love."
She ignored me, instead moving over while Cynthia bent to the task of collecting the cat out of its cage. She helped it out and then placed it in Annie's arms. Annie's face lit up. I'd never seen any expression there before. And I mean none.
But there you had it: she was smiling and petting her cat with two fingers. Then the whole hand was involved.
"Frankly," she said to the cat. "Come with me right now."
"Shall we take Frankly home?"
Annie, petting the cat's back, nodded. "I want to take him home."
"Do you like him?" I asked, trying to elicit some feeling from her.
"He's a good cat," she answered.
Then she turned to me. "Do I get to keep him, Michael?"
There; it was done: she had called me by my name. I was in.
"Yes, Jarrod told me you could have a cat. I agree, so here we are. Let's take Frankly up front and see about getting him checked out and paid for."
Annie's Verdict Page 9
