by J. L. Brown
“Darling,” Grayson said, grabbing her hand. “You look amazing.”
She glanced down at her beige wool and cashmere coat and back at her husband. He was still handsome, with light brown hair, a slender face, and a straight-edged nose. If she didn’t know how much he loved her, she would worry about him with other women.
“You’re not so bad yourself, although you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”
He shrugged. “There’s a lot going on . . . at work.”
Grayson ordered wine.
“I’m so glad you could get away,” Whitney said.
“Fairchild Industries can survive without its CEO for one day.”
“How’s business?”
“The lab developed a genetically engineered seed we think will do well in the marketplace. We think it’ll be ready next quarter. Revenues for existing products are up. We froze hiring and wages so profits are up, and cash reserves are high. Business is good.”
“So many companies are taking the same approach. Or they’re outsourcing jobs overseas, two of the reasons why the real unemployment rate is not budging. Perhaps you can hire a lot of people once I become president. Help me drive down the unemployment rate.”
The waiter offered them the bottle Grayson had selected. Grayson swirled, sniffed, and tasted the wine. “Excellent.”
The waiter poured and left.
They raised their glasses. “To us!” Always the same toast.
“Darling,” Grayson said, “the private sector’s responsibility isn’t to lower unemployment, but to provide the most value to its shareholders.” He sipped his drink. “For me, that means our family.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Unemployment is a long-term problem with no easy answers. The infrastructure bill I co-wrote would repair decrepit roads and bridges and create thousands of jobs. It could solve so many ills. Instead, it’s languishing in committee. You would think my colleagues would act after the number of collapsed bridges over the last few years.”
“All I know is you’re a fighter. Keep fighting.” He frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Really.” She paused. “It’s Hampton. He’s using the classic Overton Window, and I’m not sure how to fight him.”
“What Window?”
“The Overton Window. A theory postulating a range of ideas considered viable politically and acceptable to the public. By proposing a radical idea, you either expand or move the window until it becomes acceptable public opinion.”
Grayson was trying to catch up. “Okay . . . .”
“For example, a politician may try to expand the window of narrowing a woman’s right to choose by banning abortions except in the cases of rape and incest. Another candidate comes along and advocates no abortions under any circumstances. This position will be dismissed as extreme under current public opinion, but makes a ban on abortions except in cases of rape and incest seem more reasonable and more acceptable. The window has been shifting and expanding for years. To change a political outcome, you must expand your constituents. That’s Senator Hampton’s game plan.”
Grayson had caught up with her. “And, if Ellison is re-elected, he’ll be able to appoint one or two justices to the Court and Roe v. Wade will be overturned.”
“To paraphrase Bill Clinton, ‘Abortions should be safe, legal, and rare.’ If Roe v. Wade is overturned, abortion will be none of those things. The rights of women ebbed away over the last decade. But things won’t change until some women are faced with hard, individual choices, and then realize they don’t have a choice.”
“Darling, this issue is so controversial. Do you think you should focus so much on it? You’re not the only one responsible for solving it. Perhaps you’re taking it too personally.”
“I’m a woman. I must take it personally.”
They remained quiet for a moment.
“So,” Grayson said, “the primaries are down to the two of you. Senator Paul Sampson doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’ll give up, though.”
“And I’m not that kind of woman.”
He raised his glass to her. “This I know.”
“I’ll need you and the children to make some appearances with me. I don’t want them to miss a lot of school, but Ted says it’s important that people see us as a family. See me as a mother.”
“You are a mother. A good one.” He touched her hand. “We’ll work it out.”
A woman came up to them, blushing. “I’m sorry to interrupt. We admire you so much, and my daughter, Bella, here wants to be like you someday. Wants to be president. Can I please take a picture of you with her?”
Whitney leaned toward Grayson and away from the woman. “I did not think I would live to see the day when every child in the United States, regardless of race or gender, could grow up believing she or he could become president. Isn’t it wonderful?”
To the woman, she said, “It would be my pleasure.”
She rose and put her arm around the young girl. Her mother snapped their picture with her smartphone camera. Other diners moved toward their table. Another woman shoved a baby into Whitney’s arms. Whitney never understood why parents would hand their baby over to a stranger, even a stranger running for the Democratic nomination for president of the United States. She pasted on a smile, turned toward the woman who had whipped out her smartphone, and kissed the baby.
Whitney scanned the people now waiting in the impromptu line and exchanged a glance with her husband.
So much for a quiet, romantic dinner alone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Washington, DC
The next morning, she passed Pat’s cubicle on the way to her office.
“It’s in your inbox,” Pat called after her.
Jade hurried to her office.
Jade,
I found these two articles. There were no follow-ups on the investigation or subsequent arrests.
Pat
Jade clicked on the first link.
Popular Columnist Taylor LeBlanc Found Dead
Advocate columnist Taylor LeBlanc was found dead today in his condo in Perkins Rowe. Baton Rouge Police confirmed that the case is being investigated as a suspected homicide.
LeBlanc, 30, who interned with The Advocate while a student at Louisiana State University, worked for the newspaper his entire career.
The date line was two years ago. The next article was dated five years ago.
Pete Paxson Found Dead
Conservative blogger Pete Paxson of Houston had a date last night. He never made it. Paxson, 34, was found dead this morning in the parking garage of his apartment building. The Houston Police Department has ruled his death a homicide.
Paxson was an engineer for the Shell Oil Company by day and wrote his blog at night. Paxson, divorced, is survived by a daughter.
She looked up to find Pat standing in the doorway. Pat handed her a piece of paper. “Names and phone numbers of the lead detective for each case.”
She turned and left.
Jade shook her head, smiling. Pat was a godsend.
Jade called the detectives on the list. No suspects, no arrests. It didn’t appear robbery was the motive in any of the cases. In the Houston case, Paxson’s Rolex watch was still on his wrist and the keys to his late-model BMW in his pocket when he was discovered.
She came across a gruesome discovery that connected all the cases.
All the victims’ tongues had been cut out.
None of the police departments had disclosed this fact to the media. Criminal investigators often kept a salient detail secret to screen out anyone making a false confession or providing deliberate, misleading information. A sensational detail like a missing tongue would have lit up the police tips’ hotline numbers.
Jade skipped lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon building her case. Near the end of the day, she picked up a stack of printouts and headed down the hallway to her boss’s office. Ethan Lawson was talking to Dante. She knocked on his door frame.
<
br /> “I need to talk to you,” Jade said to Lawson.
Lawson looked at Dante. “Give us a minute.”
“I’d like to finish this conversation later,” Dante said.
Lawson nodded.
Dante stood as she crossed to the other guest chair. With his back to Lawson, Dante bestowed on her a bright insincere smile.
“Always the teacher’s pet, I see.”
Jade gave him her winning smile. “Just trying to follow in your footsteps.”
He frowned and hesitated before walking out.
She admired the large FBI emblem on the wall behind Lawson depicting the scales of justice and the words Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. On either side hung his diplomas: a bachelor’s degree from the University of Florida and a Juris Doctor from George Washington University.
“J. Edgar Hoover went to GWU Law School, you know,” Ethan said.
“I know. You tell me every time I come into your office.” She handed him a summary she had written with a few of the articles she had printed out. “The Sells case. I think there are others.”
Lawson began reading. He took his time.
Jade waited.
He finished the last page, leaned back in his chair, and considered her. He twirled the wedding ring around his finger.
“What do you need?”
“Not what,” Jade said. “Who.”
Lawson nodded. He knew whom she meant and picked up the phone.
He stared at Jade while he spoke. “Max, we have something. It’s right up your alley.” He listened. “Agent Harrington’s on her way.”
*
An hour later, Jade drove past the replica of the US Marine Corps War Memorial at the entrance to the FBI training academy at Quantico, Virginia, thirty-six miles south of Washington, DC.
She entered Max Stover’s small, cramped office without knocking. Max was a special agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit 4 of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, which provided behavioral-based support to the FBI and other federal, state, local, and international agencies in the investigation of unusual or repetitive violent crimes against adults. The public would call him a profiler, although the FBI didn’t list an official position by that name.
Max looked up from reading the report Lawson had emailed to him. Pale, slender, with short, fair hair balding on top, Max was newly single after his wife left him six months ago following thirty years of marriage. He had thought they had come to an agreement of civil co-existence. His job came first; she came second. He provided a good home for her with everything she needed. Except him. She decided she wanted more. He had heard that her new boyfriend wasn’t making the same mistake.
Jade moved some papers and files from a chair and sat down across from him. “Thanks for seeing me right away.”
“Of course,” Max said.
“I discovered four cases that may be related,” Jade said.
She described her trip to Pittsburgh, her conversation with Lieutenant John Cooper of the Pittsburgh PD, and the preliminary information she and Pat had found through the Internet and the FBI databases on the murders of the other three conservative media personalities.
“The time between the murders is shortening,” Max said.
“I realized that, too.”
Max pushed up his glasses. “Who would have the motive to kill conservative commentators?”
“A liberal or someone who disagrees with conservative ideology?”
“Perhaps. Or another conservative who may be envious. Or for some larger agenda we may be unaware of. It’s too soon to tell. We need more.”
“The removal of the tongues is significant.”
Max nodded, as if she were a student answering a question in class. He leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “He silences them. Forever. Because of their profession? Did they know something the perp wanted to remain a secret? Or something else?”
Basketball players have those nights when every shot goes in. It’s called being in the zone. Max, too, tended to get into a zone when he analyzed motives. Jade could have walked out the door now, and he wouldn’t have realized it.
“All the tongues were left at the scene. He doesn’t keep them as trophies unlike some serial killers,” Max continued. “If we’re dealing with a serial killer. It’s possible anything associated with the victims would make him angry or uncomfortable.”
“Or be a painful reminder of something,” Jade said. “What about the UNSUB putting the tongue in Sells’s hands like a rosary?”
“He was unconcerned the body would be found and took the time to stage the victim’s presentation. The staging was important to him. He’s trying to communicate a message to someone. The police? The media? The public? The victim’s family? Someone else? All the above?”
“What about the removal of the crucifix?”
“A lot of religious possibilities with both the tongue and the crucifix. The tongue symbolizing a rosary is conjecture. It may mean something entirely different. The stolen crucifix may not have anything to do with the victim’s or the perpetrator’s religion.”
“Or lack of religion,” Jade pointed out.
“Was the necklace valuable?”
“A couple hundred dollars.”
“Conceivably, it was a shiny object that caught his attention. Like impulse shopping. Impulse stealing. But according to your information, the UNSUB didn’t steal anything from the other victims. Why did he deviate from the pattern?”
“You’re raising more questions than answers.”
“That’s my job.” Max smiled, which always appeared more like a grimace to Jade. “The UNSUB is a planner. He studies his victims’ daily patterns and knows when they’ll be alone. He possesses some degree of superior intelligence.” Max snapped out of it. His tone changed. “How are you, by the way?”
“I’m fine.”
“As one of my best students ever at the academy, I doubt you’re just fine.”
“You’re only saying that because I’m your goddaughter.” It wasn’t true. Max was harder on her because he was her godfather. And more like a father to her, since her parents had been killed by a drunk driver when she was in college.
She couldn’t think about them now.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
“My gut tells me these crimes were committed by the same person,” Jade said. When Max didn’t respond, she continued. “And he’s still out there.” Jade waited. “He can’t get away with this.”
“I know,” he said.
“I need to go after him.”
“I know that, too,” he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Washington, DC
Senator Whitney Fairchild arrived at the door of the United States Senate chamber at the same time as Senator Eric Hampton. He paused, and with a quick hand gesture, indicated for her to proceed first.
“How are you this fine morning, Senator Fairchild?”
The man was charming.
“Never better, Senator Hampton.” They walked down the aisle together. Whitney asked, “Are we in agreement?”
Hampton, his hair parted on the side and slicked into place, pushed his glasses up on his nose with his index finger. He clutched a black leather folio in his other arm. “Yes, we are.”
They parted midway, and Whitney squeezed her way through to her assigned desk. She greeted the senators on either side of her as a new legislative day began. After an hour of bill introductions, joint resolutions, and committee reports, she listened as the education bill was called to the floor for consideration and to the opening statement by the chairman of the committee that introduced the bill. Another senator from the same committee offered an amendment.
Pleased that Hampton promised to deliver sufficient votes from his side on her welfare reform bill, Whitney was happy to cast her vote for education reform, which she supported. It was better for her that the bill was proposed by the Republicans; her support demonstrated to the American people he
r willingness to reach across the aisle. Everything was proceeding as they had agreed. As planned.
Senator Hampton rose and addressed the presiding officer, who granted him permission to speak.
“Thank you, Senator. I’m happy to support the education reform bill put forth,” he paused, “and I’d also like to propose an amendment, if I may, entitled The Protection of Rights for All Citizens. Over the last two hundred years, our nation made extraordinary strides in providing equal rights for all citizens. Now, is the time for us to extend this legacy of fairness to a group that cannot speak for itself, but who is crucial to the future of this nation. The unborn.”
The lull of the proceedings had relaxed Whitney, but she jolted to full alert at Hampton’s last statements. His amendment was not unusual; senators introduced nongermane amendments to bills all the time. This was not why she sat up in her seat and stared at him in shock and surprise.
He had lied to her.
He continued to address the presiding officer: “My amendment will extend equal rights to all persons at the moment of conception in every state of the land.”
He went on to explain that his proposed legislation would defund Planned Parenthood and eliminate all its facilities in the United States.
When he finished, Whitney stood. She forced herself to appear calm to everyone else, but she placed her hand on the desk for support to stop it from trembling. Even though Hampton had given his word, she should not have been surprised. She should have known better.
Whitney allowed a brief thought on how the course of her own life would have been different, if she had had access to Planned Parenthood as a teen.
After the presiding officer recognized her, Whitney took a deep breath. “With all due respect to the senator from Virginia, the rights of one group are being ignored by his amendment, the group who makes up the majority in this country. I am speaking of the rights of women and their right to make decisions about what happens to their own bodies.”
