Was that how he saw himself, in some deluded way? As the Grinch? I tapped on the notebook and realized something. I hadn’t heard the two women, had I? Maybe one there, right at the outset, before Fowler started shooting. But from that point onward, no women’s voices at all. Were they dead?
No. He would have made a reference to shooting them. So they were there, but not talking. Why? So they didn’t disturb—
“Alex,” McGoey said.
I looked up. The detective handed me a computer tablet, said, “Guys downtown just sent over the file on Henry Fowler.”
Nu got off the phone with the congressman. The three of us used separate tablets to scan through the police reports, psychological evaluations, and clippings that Henry Fowler had generated on his way to a hostage standoff. I skipped his rap sheet for the moment, wanting to understand who he had been before all this. In some ways, it was like taking a walk with the Ghost of Christmas Past.
CHAPTER
9
FOWLER’S EARLY DAYS OVERFLOWED WITH PROMISE. BORN INTO A MIDDLE-CLASS family of teachers, he’d attended New Trier High, apparently a good public school in the Chicago suburbs, then gone to Georgetown for his undergraduate degree, and Georgetown Law after that. The MPD had even managed to dig up Fowler’s college yearbook photo. He had graduated third in his class, and it sure didn’t hurt that he looked like he could be Tom Brady’s brother.
After law school, Fowler landed at Fulton Holt, one of the best white-shoe law firms in the nation’s capital. Fowler quickly became well known. He had the perfect combination of traits for a civil defense lawyer: unrelenting stamina, classical eloquence, and a killer attitude.
There were fawning pieces on him in the Post and the Times. Reading them, I realized that I had heard of the man. Years ago, nine hundred women had joined a class-action suit against a national retail chain, charging the chain with noncompetitive wages and workplace harassment.
Bree and I had talked about the case on one of our first dates. Hardly romantic, I know, but my yet-to-be wife had followed the case almost obsessively because she’d worked at the company before entering the police academy. She believed the women had been unfairly treated because she herself had been unfairly treated at that job.
Fowler had represented the retail chain in the suit, however. And Fowler had won. But the articles all noted that Fowler’s forte was not workplace law; he specialized in wrongful-death pharmaceutical cases.
Prior to the workplace lawsuit, he’d represented a California biotech company being sued by relatives of people who’d participated in a trial of a new Huntington’s disease drug and died shortly after treatment. Fowler had argued convincingly that the patients in question had been terminal at the time of the study, that they’d been hoping for miracles, and that his client could not be held liable for not delivering miracles.
Fowler went back to pharmaceutical litigation after the big workplace decision. He was hired to defend a member of Big Pharma against charges that its new hepatitis A vaccine caused neurological damage in 10 percent of patients.
Fowler won again. The drug stayed on the market.
“He must have made a fortune from that,” I said.
McGoey nodded. “Paid a million in taxes that year. Do the math.”
“He’s flush at that point,” agreed Nu, who was looking at his own screen. “But then a few years ago, something happens. It all starts to unravel.”
CHAPTER
10
“WHERE ARE YOU SEEING THAT?” I ASKED NU. “DIVORCE RECORDS?”
“That’s sealed,” the SWAT lieutenant said. “But have you looked at the rap sheet yet, Alex? This guy doesn’t hit the skids slow. He walks right off a cliff.”
I went back, found the sheet, opened it, and quickly saw what Nu was talking about. About a year before his wife filed for divorce, Fowler was arrested on a drunk-driving charge. Prior to that, he’d never been in trouble with the law. That changed in a big way over the course of the next six months.
During that time he was charged with two more DUIs and lost his license. That didn’t stop him. He was spotted buying drugs in Anacostia at one point; stopped and arrested with meth and black-tar heroin in his possession at another. A month after that, he was arrested on charges of beating a hooker; he’d done it while wasted, blaming her for who he’d become.
At least seven times, Metro police were called to the Fowler residence by neighbors complaining of domestic disturbances. Nine months into his radical new behavior, Fowler lost his job, voted out by his partners. Two months after that, Fowler’s wife changed the locks on the house, got a restraining order barring him from contact with her or her children, and filed for divorce.
That action had only driven Fowler further away from his former self. Not a month went by without something interesting to report about the counselor. Charges of attempting to intimidate a witness in his divorce trial. Charges of child abuse by his wife. Illegal possession of firearms.
The night his divorce became final, Fowler broke into a former friend’s house and stole whatever he could lay his hands on. He was arrested and spent ninety days in jail, his first real stretch, but not his last.
His ex-wife announced her intention to wed Dr. Barry Nicholson, an old friend of the family, and a week later, Fowler showed up at the optometrist’s office high on a handful of substances and carrying a knife. He threatened Nicholson and terrorized the staff at the doctor’s office for almost an hour before being arrested and subdued.
Nicholson had refused to press charges, stating that he believed Fowler was mentally ill and that his radical change in behavior was the result of something organic rather than environmental. The court ordered Fowler held for a psychiatric review, but nothing conclusive was found and he was ultimately released.
Next, Fowler tried to disrupt his ex-wife’s wedding. Guards caught him and escorted him out, but he could be heard shouting that Barry Nicholson was doomed and that his ex-wife was doomed. Since then, Fowler’s life had turned even more squalid and desperate.
To support his habit, Fowler tried to become a drug dealer. He was not successful and lived on the street for a while, the usual elegant lodgings—dumpsters, abandoned houses, public restrooms. Then a third-rate hooker who called herself Patty Paradise took him in. Patty was a pathetic druggie herself, afflicted with the shakes, rotted teeth, HIV, the whole catalog of problems that accompany meth addiction.
Fowler had recently spent four months in jail in Montgomery County, Maryland, on burglary charges.
“He got out the day after Thanksgiving,” McGoey observed. “Which gave him a solid twenty-eight days to get ready for this.”
“Unless he was preparing before that,” I said, rubbing my temple. “As an old boss of mine used to say, ‘There’s no rest for the wicked and no snooze button on the human time bomb.’”
CHAPTER
11
IN THE HOUR THAT FOLLOWED, FOWLER NEVER ONCE PICKED UP THE PHONE. BUT members of Adam Nu’s team got hold of snow camouflage and crept close to the house with listening devices. They returned around ten minutes to eleven, and I recommended that Tom McGoey call a quick meeting of the minds.
We gathered outside the two vans in that makeshift shelter, which was surprisingly warm and dry, given the weather around it.
“He’s into hour four holding the hostages by himself,” I began. “This is not a good thing. With a partner, Fowler can sleep. Without a partner, each minute gets more difficult for him. He’s got to monitor the people he’s holding. He’s got to be suspicious of every creak in the floorboards.”
One of the SWAT guys who was wearing the snow camouflage, a small, tough-looking officer named Jacobson, said, “He’s whacked on something.”
“You had visual on him?” McGoey asked.
“For a second, when we tried to place a listening device. Fowler moved through our line of sight carrying his works.”
“What’s he shooting?” I asked.
“H
e’s moving fast, jittery,” Jacobson said. “My bet’s meth.”
It made sense. In jail these days, meth was passed around like hors d’oeuvres at a party. In the past few years it had become just as popular on the streets of DC. And Fowler was a known user.
“Okay, so depending on how long he’s been on this particular tweaking binge, he could go rhino on us at any moment,” Nu said.
A meth addict on a binge is chaos walking and talking. In the first day or two, his emotion swings. Gregarious one moment. Paranoid the next. Euphoric, and then drowning in the depths of depression. At a certain point, however, usually after he’s spent many days awake, the drug triggers a bout of wild rage, and the tweaker goes rhino trying to destroy anyone and anything around him.
“Any sense of how close we are to that?” I asked Jacobson.
The SWAT officer shook his head. “Not from what we saw.”
“Do we have the listening device planted?” McGoey asked.
Jacobson shook his head again. “Too much snow and ice. We were nervous that if he heard us try to clean the outer window, he might open fire on the hostages.”
“Smart,” I said.
Nu informed us that his men had been able to get permission to enter the homes adjoining the Nicholson residence and were already moving into position.
“I’m putting two snipers to a house, and assault teams in range of every door—front, back, patio, kitchen, garage. If we can distract Fowler at the front door—where these kinds of guys tend to concentrate their attention—we may be able to go in through the back.”
“Alarm system?” I asked.
“Good point,” Nu said. “I’ll have it shut down.”
The discussion had turned to going after Fowler. It frustrated me, but if the man wasn’t going to talk to us, what else could we do?
“Let’s talk about timing,” McGoey said. “I think the longer we wait…”
I noticed something that made me stop listening to him in the middle of his sentence. I saw, over Nu’s shoulder and out through a slit in the tarps, a bundled-up woman tromping through the four inches of snow that now coated the city. She was walking right toward us. I caught a glimpse of her face in a flashlight beam.
It was Bree.
What was wrong? Why was my wife here?
CHAPTER
12
“EXCUSE ME, GENTLEMEN. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK,” I SAID AS I BROKE AWAY FROM the group, and Bree entered the shelter.
“Hey,” I said, going to her. “What’s wrong?”
She drew back her hood.
“Wrong?” Bree asked in a whisper. “When I left the house, Nana was crying her eyes out, sure that you were going to die on Christmas Eve.”
My stomach churned. “Look, I’m fine. You can see for yourself. I’ll call her.”
“She’s gone to bed.”
“Which is where you should also be.”
“Do you think I could possibly sleep, Alex?”
I sighed. “Bree, you of all people know how this works.”
“I know how it works for you,” she said. “I can say no to the job but you can’t, Alex. That’s not good for you or your family. Especially at Christmas.”
“Sometimes you can’t say no, even if it is Christmas,” I said. “Sometimes you have a lunatic meth head who decides that the holiday is a perfect time for him to take his ex-wife, their three kids, and her new husband hostage.”
Bree hugged herself, looked away, and said, “You have a family who all feel like other families in a crisis come first for you.”
“That’s not fair, Bree.”
“Maybe not,” she said, looking back at me. “But I thought it was important that you know that your children think that.”
My head felt heavy. So did my chest. I said, “I am sad beyond words to hear that, Bree. And there is nothing I want more at this moment than to go home right now and then get up in the morning tomorrow and unwrap presents. But I honestly don’t know how I’d live with myself if I did that and then heard that this guy murdered his entire family when I might have been able to prevent it.”
Bree gazed at me; she reached up and touched my cheek with her chilled fingers. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I just want you to remember that there are consequences to everything.”
I nodded, wondering if our relationship was starting to suffer the consequences of me being me. “I love you,” I said. “And I have to go back to work so I have a chance of being with my family on Christmas morning.”
My wife’s eyes were filled with a mixture of understanding and resignation. She touched my cheek again. Then she turned away and left the shelter. I went out into the storm and called after her, “Be careful driving.”
She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll pray for you, Alex. It’s all I can do.”
CHAPTER
13
BREE KEPT WALKING AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE POLICE BARRIER INTO THE storm. I stood there, staring after her, my mind whirling with thoughts of my family.
What was I doing? Ramiro and Nu and McGoey were all first-rate at their jobs. The deputy chief had called me in part, I guessed, as a way to calm down the congressman. But did I really have to be present? Couldn’t I leave this situation in their capable hands and follow Bree home?
“Alex!” McGoey called.
I turned, squinted into the wind and the snow, and saw him standing at the flaps of the tent.
“It’s Fowler,” he said. “He picked up. He wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” I replied, already moving toward him, already compartmentalizing.
“He didn’t ask for you exactly,” McGoey said. “Just anyone but Ramiro.”
I walked through the shelter, brushing the snow off my hat and jacket, and climbed into the van, trying to fully move on from my conversation with Bree. I had to completely divorce myself from the sadness and anxiety she’d stirred in me. If I didn’t, I’d be in no condition to negotiate with a madman.
Ramiro handed me his phone.
“Henry Fowler?” I said.
He coughed. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Alex Cross,” I said.
There was a long pause before he said, “I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’ve heard of you,” I said. “You’re an impressive man, Mr. Fowler.”
He laughed acidly at that. “I’m a fucking loser, Cross. Let’s call it what it is, because I am, in no way, the man I was.”
“If you say so,” I replied, then paused. “So what are we doing here?”
“We?” Fowler said. “There’s no we here. There’s just you, Cross, and all your well-armed friends out there, the members of the jury, looking to spoil my fun.”
Fun. I shut my eyes. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. It meant that he planned to toy with his hostages and us. He would enjoy that, so he would try to draw out the experience. This was looking like it was going to be a long Christmas Eve night.
“Is that what this is, a game?” I asked. “Or a trial?”
“Both,” he said in a reasonable tone. “That’s what a trial is, isn’t it? A game played with deadly intent?”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose. Before we move on, Cross, a word of advice.”
“Yes?”
Fowler began screaming: “Don’t fuck with me! Don’t lie to me! And don’t try to game me. If you try to game me in my courtroom, you will lose!”
I kept my voice steady. “I hear your concerns, Mr. Fowler. And I will not lie to you or try to game you. But here’s a word of advice back at you. You can talk. And I promise I’ll listen. I’ll really listen. But now…here’s the important part…I’ll listen up to a point.”
“When do we get to that point?” he asked, calmer now.
“When I say so,” I said, taking a chance with my answer. It was actually not my call when negotiations would be broken off and an assault authorized. But I wanted Fowler to believe that I had that power. I wanted him to belie
ve that he was talking directly to the man in charge.
A silence, and then Fowler spoke again.
“Okay, Alex Cross. We’ve got the start of a deal,” Fowler said. “You’re going to be my jury foreman.”
CHAPTER
14
BEFORE I COULD REPLY TO THAT, FOWLER APPARENTLY PULLED THE PHONE AWAY from his mouth because he sounded farther off as he began to scream, “I swear, this snot-nosed kid better shut up, Diana. Shut her up! Now!”
I could hear Chloe crying hysterically. I could also hear Diana Fowler Nicholson saying, “Henry, for God’s sake, she’s scared, she’s tired, she’s hungry.”
Without missing a beat, and with cold sarcasm in his voice, Fowler said, “If she’s hungry, tell her to eat the sandwich I brought.” Then he let go with a sickening snicker. “PB and J, little Trey’s favorite. Don’t worry, I’ll save him one.”
Diana again. “Henry—”
“Shut the hell up, Diana!” Fowler screamed. “I have no reason and, frankly, no desire to talk to you!” Then two gunshots.
In his calm voice, Fowler said, “There goes your precious Ming vase and your cute little Swarovski crystal cigarette box, Diana. I just want you to fully understand the reality now: this room, your life, they are nothing but a great big shooting gallery to—”
Dr. Nicholson’s voice cut him off. “What’s wrong with you, Fowler? You’re nothing but—”
Another gunshot. Sweat was pouring off my brow. Children crying, but no other sounds. Then Fowler returned to his crazy screaming voice. “Listen, you pathetic quack! You’re the one I most want to put in the grave. Do you understand that? You’re the one I want to kill. Do you understand that?”
There was no answer from the doctor.
Then Fowler screamed, “Do you understand that, Barry?”
Merry Christmas, Alex Cross Page 3
