by David Klass
“Unless he gets careless or we get lucky?”
“Eventually something will go wrong for Green Man, or he’ll slip up and make a tiny mistake. But it could take years for either of those to happen. He may just decide to stop, or die a natural death, or retire and move to Florida to play golf, in which case you’ll never catch him.”
There was a silence in the sedan, and they heard a jackhammer blasting away rat-tat-tat from nearby construction work. “If memory serves,” Brennan said, speaking succinctly and projecting over the street noise, “your father retired to Florida to play golf.”
“I wasn’t referencing my dad.”
“Of course you were. You were ascribing a profile to our villain, and you chose two characteristics that exactly fit your father’s situation.”
Tom looked back at him and admitted softly, “Well, maybe you’re right. Somehow I grew up in Virginia and Florida not liking golf much.”
Brennan nodded. “I get that. But since we’re now indirectly talking about your father, on that call I didn’t have with him, he didn’t tell me about your background. Computer science at Stanford. Grad work at Caltech. We don’t usually see that profile around here, Tom. They head to Silicon Valley, and Google or Microsoft pays them five times what Uncle Sam could. What the hell are you doing here? Slumming?”
“The family business is catching bad guys.”
Brennan smiled appreciatively and glanced at his watch. “Okay, Tom Smith, you’ve been pretty blunt about what we’re doing wrong. I assume you’ve put some thought into what you would do differently to catch this particular bad guy?”
“A little, sir. But I know you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have. I don’t want to shoot my mouth off again. It didn’t work so well for me the first time around.”
“The target range is now wide-open, and I’m ordering you to fire away. You have less than four minutes. These chances don’t come around very often, so if I were you, I’d take my best shot.”
Tom saw that the sedan was rolling up Capitol Hill. He knew the Rayburn House Office Building was close. Because of the sudden time pressure, he uncharacteristically had trouble framing his thoughts, and his first few words came out almost painfully slow: “As I mentioned, he’s done a remarkable job of keeping one step ahead of you and not tipping his hand. You can use his understanding of your methods as his own weakness.”
“Speak up, Tom. That’s a strength of his, not a weakness.”
“You can turn it to your advantage. It’s clear he understands exactly how you’re hunting him, and he’s taking specific steps to avoid you. But by taking those steps, he’s making himself vulnerable because he’s establishing new and predictable data patterns.” Tom felt himself relax, and he began speaking more quickly. “If he normally has a presence online but he stops during missions, if he customarily uses his cell phone but goes silent before strikes, if he stops using his credit cards, if he regularly favors highways but suddenly there’s no record of his car because he’s using back roads, we can search for that. The intentional avoidance of creating useful data is itself data. If you’re searching for someone who doesn’t leave fingerprints, then stop looking for fingerprints and look for someone wearing gloves.”
“Easier said than done,” Brennan grunted, but he was listening more closely now.
“Look, I know the kinds of broad-spectrum data searches I’m suggesting might come close to accessing private information that’s protected by personal freedoms. The CIA or Homeland Security might be able to run those searches to catch an international terrorist, but crime fighters can’t do it to catch domestic criminals.”
“I don’t make those laws,” Brennan reminded him. “You’ve got one more minute. Anything else? Fire away. Tom, I can see you editing. What are you afraid to tell me?”
Tom took a breath and let it out: “Your profile sucks.”
Brennan didn’t like that. “Profiles are always easy to criticize, but we’ve got fifty years’ experience creating them with great success. The best foreign law enforcement agencies come to study with our profilers.”
“That half century shows, sir. It’s mostly recycled tropes about sociopathic serial killers and solo mass murderers who are alone, twisted, and angry. The motives you impute to Green Man are the same tired old ones of revenge and empowerment. Your profile doesn’t consider any of the factors that make this case so unique. It dismisses Green Man as a cold-blooded loner sociopathic kook.”
“He’s killed forty-three people. Would you mind telling me how he cannot be a cold-blooded loner sociopath kook?”
“Because this case is different from the other cases in your file. An argument can be made that what he’s doing is justifiable and even necessary. In his letters, he’s doing a pretty good job of making that argument. Not just hundreds or thousands but millions of people believe in his goals, if not his methods. Which may mean he’s able to keep doing what he does because he’s not alone. That could be how he’s posting letters from different cities so close to when he’s striking a target.”
“We’ve considered the possibility that he has a collaborator or partner. It’s called a dyad. But there are also several ways he could be doing it all by himself.”
“I know what a dyad is, and I’m not talking about just one collaborator. He could operate with a small but sophisticated support structure that helps him do research and cover his movements. That might explain why he’s so hard to track.”
Brennan shook his head. “More than two people would be untenable. It would contradict virtually everything we’ve learned from past cases like this.”
“What I’m trying to tell you is that there are no past cases like this. If he has a few people helping him, they could completely throw you off. And it would also obliterate all your assumptions about him being a loner kook sociopath.”
“You really think he might be sane and capable of inspiring that kind of loyalty?”
“Absolutely,” Tom said. “He could be sensitive, thoughtful, empathic, and well-adjusted. A devoted family man, respected in his community. Possibly a successful academic whose students adore him. You’re going to have to open yourself up to the possibility that he could be doing what he’s doing not out of anger or a need for empowerment or some twisted, frustrated sexuality but out of a sincere love for mankind and the highest altruism. He has a cause he believes justifies his extreme actions. That’s what his letters say, and maybe we should take him at his word.”
Brennan sat there drinking it down, but he clearly didn’t like the taste. “So what would you do to catch this paragon of virtue?”
“Well, for one thing, when it comes to profiling his background, you’re going to have to get less politically correct and be a little more elitist.”
“Go as elitist as you want, Stanford man. You have twenty more seconds.”
Tom spoke in a burst, watching government buildings flash by. “You said yourself an engineer couldn’t have hit the Boon Dam at a better spot. The sabotage of the pipeline, the Mayfield Chemical bombing, the attack on the nuclear energy facility, the destruction of the nanotechnology lab, and the sinking of the ex–Secretary of the Interior’s yacht all show an almost professional knowledge of structural engineering, chemical engineering, and computer engineering.”
“The possibility that he’s a trained engineer is in our profile.”
“Not just an engineer but a brilliant engineer who can work across disciplines, presumably with an elite educational background. He probably studied at one of our best universities. Don’t forget that the Unabomber went to Harvard.”
“And Ted Bundy, who had a genius IQ, went to the University of Puget Sound. Not sure I’m buying this. I went to Penn State, by the way. Not too much Ivy out there in Happy Valley, and I’ve done okay.”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. My point was—”
�
�You’re projecting your own accomplishments as biases. That’s a well-known profiling trap. Don, the side entrance.” The sedan turned off Independence Avenue onto South Capitol Street.
“Ted Bundy never showed any technical ability,” Tom pointed out. “He had charm and street smarts, but what Green Man has done would take highly sophisticated training. I’m betting he’s also sane, well-adjusted, and high-functioning, but he believes—for good reasons—that without his violent intervention, we’re going to destroy our planet. He’s trying to save Earth in the only way he knows how.”
The limo rolled to a soft stop outside the marble office building. Brennan gave Tom a curious, probing look. “Sometimes you sound like a member of his fan club.”
“No, sir. I want to catch the murderous bastard just as much as you do.”
“I doubt that,” Brennan said, “but I’ll think about what you’ve said. Your job now is to apologize to Hannah and eat a little crow.”
“Meekly and humbly. Thanks for opening the firing range up for me.” Tom hesitated and then said, “I wish my father hadn’t called you, but I also know most data analysts just starting out don’t get a chance to shoot their mouths off in the back of your sedan.”
Brennan pulled on his suit jacket. “Don will drop you off anywhere you want to go.”
“I can take the Metro.”
“When you’re offered a ride in a warm car on a cold day, son, take the ride.”
The driver opened the door, and Brennan started to squeeze out. The big man had one leg outside when his phone beeped again. He glanced at the screen, read it closely, slowly sucked in a breath, and then climbed back into the sedan and closed the door. He looked at Tom, and his gravel voice was suddenly so low it was almost a whisper: “Tom, I’m really very sorry.”
Tom looked back at him. “What do you mean, sir?”
Brennan reached out and placed a big hand on Tom’s shoulder. “He was a tough man, but I liked him, and on some level I’m sure you did also.”
FIVE
The police car flashed its lights at Green Man a little after ten in the morning as a two-lane road twisted outside a small town in Nebraska. He had been driving for eleven hours straight as he listened to news of the dam collapse. He avoided interstates because they sometimes had cameras that took photos of license plates, but local roads had their own hazards. He was positive he hadn’t rolled through a stop sign or run a red. Even after a long night at the wheel, he didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.
He switched off the radio and pulled over to the side and peered into his rearview mirror. It was a young cop driving solo, and he was already out of his police car and walking over, which was a very good thing. If he had paused to run the plate, or had a partner doing it, Green Man would have been forced to act. He felt the weight of the loaded pistol in his right jacket pocket as he leaned over slightly to operate the control to roll down his window. He knew what he would almost certainly have to do, but he desperately didn’t want to do it.
The young cop ambled over to the black van. He was still in his twenties—a polite local boy with a buzz cut. Green Man guessed from his haircut and his walk that he had recently gotten out of the service. He smiled up from under his shiny police cap. “Morning.”
“Good morning, Officer.”
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“Sorry, but I don’t.”
“Your right brake light’s out.”
Green Man had a second to appreciate the irony of it. He had meticulously planned this mission for months, built a sophisticated drone and a bomb that not one engineer in a hundred could have constructed, covertly and with some help researched the dam without tipping anyone off, taken incredible precautions to mask his identity during the thousand-mile trip, struck quickly and with surgical precision, and it had all gone flawlessly. But a tiny bulb had unpredictably burned out or become disconnected and now threatened it all.
A non-working taillight was a ticketable offense. If it came to that, he would have no choice. They were alone on a remote stretch of road. His gun and bullets were untraceable. A single shot, in the center of the forehead, and he might have an hour or two to get away before the dead cop was found.
“Very sorry to hear that,” he said. “It must have just burned out. Or it could be a loose wire. I hit a bump back in Wyoming.” His throat was dry, but he somehow managed a chuckle. “Felt like I rolled over a Grand Teton.”
“Yup, it happens.” The cop nodded. “Tell you what. I won’t write you up. Get it fixed right away.”
“For sure,” Green Man said. “Next garage I see. And thanks. I appreciate it.” Now, let me go, he prayed silently. Save your life and live another fifty years. Marry some girl in town, have kids, have grandkids, and die in bed at eighty. Just let me go.
But the young cop was still smiling. “So I saw the Michigan plate. Never made it that far east.”
“Come on out and see the Great Lakes sometime,” Green Man told him.
“I might just. What brings you through Destry?”
“Just passing through.”
“Most people take the interstate.”
“I like to see a place when I drive through it.”
“Is that right?” the young cop said. “Not much to see on Route 55. What exactly are you looking at around here?”
“I paint a little. I love the color of the hills.”
“Never noticed.”
“Yeah, well, I never pay much attention to the Great Lakes,” Green Man said with another chuckle, but this one caught in his throat and sounded dry and forced. Now, let me go. Please, God, don’t push this any further.
But the young cop stepped forward and studied Green Man’s face under the visor of his black cap. “So where’re you headed this morning?”
“I was just doing some fishing, and now I’m headed home.”
“All the way to Michigan?”
“Yeah, I got a long ride ahead of me.”
“Don’t they have fish in the Great Lakes?”
“Some big ones and I’ve caught my share of them. But nothing beats a cutthroat trout.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have the patience for fishing. Can I please see your license and registration?”
Green Man looked back at him. “Sure. My registration is in my glove compartment. Mind if I reach down to get it?”
“Go ahead and get it out,” the young cop said. “And then you’ll be on your way home. We got an APB that we should check everyone we stop, on account of that dam. Can’t be too careful.”
“No, you can’t,” Green Man agreed as he reached down, and his right hand coiled around the pistol grip. He would have to shoot either the cop or himself. If he pressed the pistol to his own forehead, he would be firing at his own family, too. His kids would be damaged for years, and maybe irreparably. And despite all their precautions, Sharon—one of the only two women he had ever loved—would have a very hard time proving she wasn’t complicit. He would get the easy way out, but she would take the fall. And everything he had tried to do for the world, everything he had set in motion, all the wonderful momentum that was building, would come grinding to a stop. So there was just one thing to do, even if it was abhorrent to him. His right index finger touched the trigger, and he started to raise the pistol.
But then came a burst of country music. It was the chorus to an inane song about love and loss. It took Green Man a half second to realize it was the young policeman’s ringtone. He raised his cell to his ear. “Yeah, Nancy, what’s up?”
Green Man waited, holding his breath.
The young cop frowned. “Tell Mabel not to try to get it down. Even if she reaches it, she’ll just get scratched. Let her know I’m on my way and I’ll be there in ten.”
The young cop put his cell away and grinned at Green Man. “Damn cat goes up that same peca
n tree once a week.”
“I’m a dog man,” Green Man said with an answering smile, his index finger resting gently on the trigger. “Sounds like maybe you’d better get over there quick.”
“Yeah, I gotta hustle,” the young cop said, turning toward his car. “Get that brake light fixed pronto.”
“Right away,” Green Man promised. “Hey, good luck with the cat.”
SIX
Ellen woke to the news about the Boon Dam explosion, and she immediately tucked it away, carefully compartmentalizing it as she went about her Tuesday morning routine. She dropped Julie off at the Carlyle Academy, taught her morning seminar at Columbia on clean energy sources, met with two thesis students, and then changed in her office into sweats and set off on her morning jog to the Center. It was only when she was running on the steep and winding trails of Morningside Park that she allowed herself to be secretly elated.
It was a cool day, and there were few people on the sidewalks of Harlem. She took Malcolm X Boulevard all the way up and tried to do the three miles in a half hour, pumping her arms and lifting her knees to keep a fast pace. Jogging was part of her daily regimen, and Ellen knew that clinging to a routine would help her strike the difficult balance needed to keep her real feelings in check.
He had hit another big target—daringly, magnificently, brilliantly—and he’d gotten away with it. So far, what the TV anchors called an “unparalleled national manhunt” had apparently not yielded any breakthrough clues. She knew the most dangerous time for Green Man had now passed, and every minute that ticked by made him yet safer.
Ellen could let herself seem excited because everyone in her little green activist world was buzzing, but she had to be excited in the same impersonal way they all were—their shared mysterious hero, their nameless, faceless, but beloved crusader, had struck another brave blow for the salvation of the species.