Don't Speak

by J. L. Brown

  An estimated one million people witnessed President-Elect Whitney Fairchild’s election speech in person. The place was electric. Spectators in the crowd interviewed by on-the-scene reporters provided a consistent response; they were blessed to be given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to witness history.

  The network was broadcasting her speech again.

  The camera angle descended from the Gateway Arch to a close-up of Whitney’s face. Her shoulder-length, light brown hair, with a tint of auburn, stirred in the wind. She gave her speech without notes or a teleprompter. Although she had a speechwriter, it was public knowledge that she wrote the major revisions herself.

  Whitney scanned the crowd. “I am standing here, in my home state of Missouri, the geographic center and heart of the United States. Missouri is called the ‘Show Me’ state for a reason. Our residents are hardworking, independent, stubborn, conservative, and prudent. Like me . . . well, except for the conservative part.” She smiled, as the audience laughed.

  I did not.

  “America was once a great country,” the president-elect continued. “A place where you could raise a family, get a good job, enjoy your civil liberties, and retire after many years of service. A country you could be proud of, respected around the world for its leadership, diplomacy, innovation, and economic might.”

  President-Elect Whitney Fairchild fell silent.

  “I promise you. We will make America great once again.”

  The crowd went wild. After a few seconds, Fairchild held up her hand for silence.

  “America will once again be a place where individuals of all faiths, all races, and all walks of life can live together, work together, and use our differences to make us stronger rather than to divide us. We need to stop the discrimination against our Muslim-American brothers and sisters. We should not judge them by the acts of a few terrorists, as all Christians would not want to be judged by the acts of Timothy McVeigh.

  “We must find a balance between safety and liberty. A liberty that allows fairness and unity. A former president once said, ‘Tyranny is no match for liberty.’ For those who want to cause harm to the United States, please listen and understand. We will continue to fight and defeat terrorism wherever we may find it. I warn you not to mistake our diplomacy for weakness.

  “The United States, however, is not united now. We are a house divided. Our Pledge of Allegiance asserts we are ‘One nation, under God, indivisible.’” She scanned the crowd. “Indivisible.” She repeated.

  “Today our country is like a large family with a big inheritance and our politicians are its children fighting between themselves to squander our money, our prosperity, and our liberty. So, what can we do about it?” She paused and pointed to the crowd. “We write the politicians out of the will!” She waited for the shouts of agreement to subside. “We need politicians who will work together, not at odds with each other. After this Congress and I take our oaths of office, we must put partisan politics aside and do what is best for this nation. Compromise is not a dirty word, but a necessity to govern.” She paused for a few moments to gather herself for her concluding remarks. She scanned the crowd again and smiled.

  I loved that smile.

  Our next president did not mention me. With less opposition in the media—thanks to me—the divide should close and the country will become great once again.

  Whitney continued. “During a campaign, politicians talk about everything they are going to do on ‘day one.’ But there are not enough hours in one day to resolve all the problems in this country. Our problems were not created in a day, and they will not be solved in a day. The solutions will take time, and they will not be easy. I remember hearing the stories from my parents about the race riots in the Sixties, and how they chose to be involved and fight for what is right and what is fair, even though their lives would have been much easier if they had stayed silent and lived a peaceful middle-class existence in the suburbs. Like my parents, I refuse to stay silent.

  “I stand before you humbled and honored by your faith in me to lead this nation. Yes, we have a lot of work to do, but on this night, let us take a moment to celebrate and rejoice. I believe in this country. I believe in you. We can do this together. God bless you and God bless the United States of America!”

  The crowd erupted again. Fireworks went off, lighting up the midnight sky. Everyone was so happy. Some people had tears streaming down their faces. It was as if Jesus Christ himself had been elected our Lord and Savior. I hugged the near-empty glass of vodka to my heart.

  Whitney Fairchild summoned her husband and their two handsome grown children next to her behind the transparent, two-inch thick, bulletproof glass. They had their arms around each other’s waists and bore huge smiles as they waved to the audience.

  Using the remote, I froze the picture.

  I walked around the ottoman and stood in front of the television, holding my glass. I traced each of their faces from their foreheads to their noses to their chins. I touched their cheeks. It was not lost on me that I had traced the sign of the cross over each of them.

  I started to return to my chair and stopped. I finished my drink.

  And I threw the glass at the television screen as hard as I could.

  Nothing happened at first. And then a tiny crack formed. The crack made a slow, formal march downward.

  I unpaused the screen. Whitney’s family continued to wave and smile, now with a jagged line dividing them. How fitting.

  Why is no one listening to me? Why am I not being taken seriously? Do they not realize who I am? Why am I not receiving the credit I deserve?

  She ignored me. Congress ignored my demands. I must not be doing enough to get their attention. To get her attention.

  After the long wave session, the network commentators began analyzing the president-elect’s speech. This blather would take hours. The program cut to a commercial. Cole Brennan filled my screen holding his latest book.

  That was the last straw.

  I turned off the television, poured myself another drink, and walked over to the desk. I settled in the chair and took a sip of my drink, setting the replacement glass next to my laptop as I tapped the space bar. Good thing the hotel provided four glasses.

  I leaned back, hands in my lap, closed my eyes, and exhaled a cleansing breath.

  I opened my eyes and sat up, staring at the monitor. “Cole Brennan” was already typed into the browser’s search bar.

  I pushed Enter.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Washington, DC

  Since the Shane Tallent killing in Seattle, the CONFAB task force had moved to a major-case room at FBI HQ to signify the importance of the case and to accommodate the team’s growing number of members. The space resembled a war room, with photographs, maps, sketches, and notations plastering the walls.

  Jade faced the team from the front of the room, pictures of each of the known victims of TSK, in life and in death, on the large flat-panel screens behind her. Liz Holder’s publicity photo was the latest addition. The agents sat in chairs spread out before her. Ethan stood by the door.

  She gave him a slight nod. He nodded in return. His faith in her unwavering. Still.

  She held up her hands. “Let’s get started.”

  The room quieted. Jade outlined the security measures taken at Cole Brennan’s home and office. Agents posed as employees at his employer, Patriot News.

  “What do you have for me?”

  Christian waved his hand.

  “Using the facial composite, we were able to trace the UNSUB’s flight to Seattle. It originated in DC. He flew under the name Michael Brown.”

  Jade looked at Max, surprised. “This couldn’t have anything to do with Ferguson could it?”

  Max shrugged. “Who knows at this point? Maybe.”

  Jade turned back to Christian. “Connecting flight?”

  Christian shook his head. “Not as far as we know.”

  Did the killer live here?

&nbs
p; Other agents had minor information to report.

  “I have something else,” Jade said, nodding to an agent at the back of the room. The lights dimmed. “CNN sent us this iReport.” Jade pressed a button on the remote and an image filled the large projection screen beside her. The picture was moving from side to side, as if the person holding the camera had Parkinson’s disease or was striving for The Blair Witch Project effect. The camera’s holder approached a parked car beside a drive-thru menu with a microphone in front of it. The camera turned. Inside the car, a woman with long, blonde hair was facing straight ahead, talking animatedly. As she turned toward the camera, something black filled the screen. A glint of metal flashed in the sunlight. The woman’s head fell forward onto the steering wheel. The picture faded.

  Jade glanced toward the back and waved her finger for the agent to turn on the lights.

  Most of the agents’ mouths were open.

  “Man, that’s sick!” Austin said, shaking his head back and forth.

  “Was there audio? Did he send a note?” This from Christian.

  “No,” Jade said. She let the silence linger for a few moments. “Max?”

  Max pushed up his glasses. “The murders are not only accelerating, but he is becoming bolder with each one.”

  “Do you think Brennan’s next?” Austin asked.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind Cole Brennan is his next potential victim,” Max said. “Every victim is more famous than the last.” He paused. “But I want you to understand something. This guy won’t go out in a blaze of glory, wanting the police to kill him after a standoff. No. He will kill Brennan and expect to get away with it. He believes he is doing the world a favor by eliminating their damaging rhetoric from our political discourse. Once Brennan is dead, his job is done. He wins. Liberals win. The country wins. He’ll ride off into the sunset, finally attaining the respect he deserves.”

  Christian leaned forward to look at him. “So, what you’re saying is he may knock off Brennan, go back to his life or leave the country, and we’ll never find him.”

  Max nodded. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Jade glanced around the room.

  “Everyone hang here for a few minutes while I give you your assignments. You may want to go home tonight and give your families a quick kiss, because you may not see them for a while.”

  *

  The next day, Jade reviewed interview reports from the Holder killing in her office at the Bureau. A witness reported he had been filling up his gas tank across the street from the Starbucks when he saw a man walking away from the scene with what he had described as a knife dripping with blood. She grabbed a photo showing a wide-angle shot of the crime scene and shook her head. Given the distance, a defense attorney would argue the witness wouldn’t have been able to tell if the substance was blood or some other liquid—or whether he was holding a knife, for that matter.

  Since the knife-wielding man seemed to be headed for the gas station, the witness got into his car and drove away, but not before seeing the man hop into what appeared to be a Ford Focus parked at the Wendy’s. He was too far away to see the license plate number. After seeing the iReport of the killing on the news, the witness decided to perform his civic duty and report what he saw despite, he said, his feelings about the victim.

  The Focus was traced to a Dollar Rent-A-Car located at the Westchester County airport. The car was rented by Eddie Cullen, who flew from DC on a direct flight from National Airport. Jade had sent a team of agents to interview the ticket agents and flight attendants for Cullen’s flight and contacted the FBI New York Division to cover the rental car agency.

  She presumed the name used for the Seattle flight, Michael Brown, and the name Eddie Cullen, were aliases. What was their significance? Jade racked her brain, but came up empty.

  She set the reports aside and brought up some liberal blog sites. She had narrowed down the group of bloggers to ten. Some of them worked at MSNBC. Emulating the talking heads on television or online was easy enough. We’ve become a society of talking points.

  A few hours later, Jade journeyed to the break room to refill her coffee. The sludge at the bottom of the pot looked uninviting and undrinkable. She poured the liquid to the brim of her cup and took a sip. Nasty.

  She returned to her office, full cup in hand, and surveyed the organized stacks of paper on her desk. She kept TSK’s manifesto on the corner of it, always within arm’s reach. As she sat down, the document fell from the desk. Jade reacted without thinking and caught it without spilling her coffee. She smiled at her athleticism.

  I’ve still got it.

  She set the cup down and opened the manifesto to where her thumb held it. It was at the page of the drawing she had noticed before. Like before, she traced the caricature of congressmen and congresswomen standing on the Capitol Hill steps.

  Her finger stopped.

  Her pulse quickened. She had seen this drawing style before.

  She called the main number for Chattenham College. After several transfers, someone answered, “WCCO.”

  “This is Special Agent Jade Harrington with the FBI. I visited your radio station five months ago and there was a mural on the station wall. Do you know who drew it?”

  “No.”

  Jade waited for the person to continue. When he didn’t, she snapped, “Can you find out?”

  “Yeah. Hold on.”

  The student on the other end dropped the receiver without bothering to put her on hold. Jade monitored her breathing to give her something to do while she waited. In, out. In, out. After several excruciating minutes, the receiver was picked up.

  “Ma’am?”

  Jade exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. When did I become a ma’am? “Yes, I’m here.”

  “His name was Hewitt. Caleb Hewitt.”

  “Thanks.” Jade hung up.

  Caleb Hewitt. The “C” in Kyle Williams’s journal?

  *

  Jade didn’t think she would ever visit Chattenham, Pennsylvania again in her lifetime.

  Six hours had passed since she’d heard the name Caleb Hewitt for the first time, and now she and Max perched on a 1960s sofa covered in plastic in Hewitt’s parents’ living room. She wondered if Mrs. Hewitt knew this sofa was in style again. The Hewitts sat across from them on a matching sofa. Christian stood, arms crossed, near the window behind Jade.

  Caleb no longer lived here.

  After pleasantries and making the Hewitts feel at ease the FBI was in their home, Jade started the interview.

  “When was the last time you saw your son?”

  Mrs. Hewitt clasped her hands in her lap. She opened her mouth to answer, but closed it.

  Mr. Hewitt had his arm around his wife, but not in a protective or comforting way. More as if he were playing a role in a performance.

  “He left home about ten years ago,” the father said. “After he graduated from college. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  Jade tried to hide her surprise. “Why?”

  The mother examined her hands.

  The father shrugged. “We don’t know.”

  “What do you do, Mrs. Hewitt?”

  “I’m the dean of the college.”

  Jade knew this. She had researched the Hewitts before she left DC. She turned to Mr. Hewitt.

  “I’m a professor at the college,” he said.

  “He spends most of his time at the lab,” Mrs. Hewitt added.

  Mr. Hewitt glanced at his wife. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. You didn’t need to spend much time with this couple to realize that his time in the lab was a constant source of irritation in their marriage.

  “I’m a scientist,” Mr. Hewitt explained to Jade.

  “Let’s talk about Caleb.”

  The couple exchanged glances, but said nothing.

  “What did he major in?”

  “Philosophy.” This from the husband.

  “Did he participate in any extracurricul
ar activities? Sports? Clubs?”

  “The college radio station.”

  “Go on. What did he do there?”

  “He was a disc jockey or commentator, whatever you call them. He had a weekly show in which he talked about politics.”

  “I saw a picture of the students who worked at the radio station. Your son wasn’t in the photograph.”

  Mr. Hewitt glanced at his wife again. “That’s because he . . . quit. After Hurricane Katrina and the federal government’s reaction to the crisis, he sort of . . . lost it . . . on the air.”

  Caleb’s mother looked up from her hands. “He was asked to leave the station.”

  No one spoke. The house was quiet, eerie. Jade wondered why Dante hadn’t discovered all this during his investigation of the college yearbook. She knew the answer to her own question. He hadn’t conducted an investigation. Did he purposefully set her up for failure?

  Max spoke for the first time in his quiet way. “Mrs. Hewitt, do you know where your son is now?”

  The woman’s back straightened for the first time. “No, I don’t.”

  *

  Jade stood and headed for the fireplace toward her left instead of the archway leading to the foyer on her right. Numerous pictures of a smiling, blond boy with a Beatles haircut dotted the mantle and a side table.

  She picked one up and turned to Mrs. Hewitt. “Caleb seemed to be a happy boy.”

  For a brief, fleeting second, Mrs. Hewitt’s eyes lit up. The Hewitts shared another look. Mrs. Hewitt wrung her hands. She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out.

  Mr. Hewitt hesitated, and said, “That’s not Caleb.”