“I assume time is important on this.”
“Very important.”
“Then I’d better get started.” He began at the start of the timeline and pulled the file for the first missing-person case. He chose a comfortable chair and settled in.
“Thanks for this, Paul.”
“Ann, if you don’t realize it yet, let me put it in words. I trust you. You need me to know this case. That’s a good enough reason for me to do the work.”
“I don’t deserve that blind trust.”
“I think you do.”
She didn’t know how to reply, and he found that fascinating. She’d never had someone willing to stick before? She needed to realize he would. When a business empire covered the territory his dad’s did, legal tangles came up all the time, and often simply because someone carried the Falcon name. Whatever this was about, he knew Ann well enough to know she would have done what she believed to be right. He would figure out what was going on, make a decision about what he thought of her actions, and then probably tug her into going to a movie with him. They still hadn’t worked one in, that first choice of a date, and it had been part of his plans for this weekend.
She started to smile. “If pizza is okay with you, I’ll order in dinner.”
“That works for me.”
Paul pulled two slices of pizza from the box and nodded toward the board. “Tell me the story of it, Ann. The day this killer called and announced he was out there.”
She balanced her plate on her knees and gave Black a piece of jerky. “This is the first case I’ve seen where it opened fully developed and didn’t move much beyond the initial day’s facts.”
She reached for a napkin. “According to the police reports, it began when the killer called a man named Ben Harmon. Ben had thirty years with the Secret Service, was retired, was well known in his hometown. The local paper had done a profile piece on him not a week before the call came in. Not a bad choice for whom to call if your goal was to make news. Ben was driving to meet up with a friend, planning to go fishing for the day, when the call came in. It was an older male voice, no accent. ‘I’ve killed eighteen people, and I’ve chosen you as my confessor.’ Ben pulled over to the side of the road. The guy told him to get a pen and paper, and he proceeded to give GPS locations for eighteen victims. Then Ben heard a gunshot. It sounded to him like the phone hit the floor. The line stayed open for about four minutes before it went to a fast off-hook tone.
“Ben turned around and headed to the police station at Petersburg, Georgia. The number for the call he received traced back to a cabin about twelve miles outside of town. Cops swarmed the place. They found the cabin burned to the ground and still smoldering, a body inside, the man shot in the head, a gun and the phone receiver near his body. No car was at the scene, but there was a metal-bottom fishing boat at the pier. It belonged to a business on the other side of the lake, and the security chain had been cut. There were several gas cans recovered at the scene, but no gas purchases were found that might match. No car was found that might be his. The cabin was owned by a businessman in town whose son used it occasionally when he went fishing, but the son had deployed with the military. No one had been at the cabin in months.
“The man’s remains were never identified. Victims were found at each of the eighteen locations—the missing-person cases from across seven states and over nine years. The cases had been worked hard, as they were people who just abruptly disappeared from the daily routines of their lives. Foul play was suspected in each case. The recovery of the victims’ remains let those cases be closed, but the reasons for why they were taken didn’t appear. With the confession, cops knew the cases were related by a common killer, but there didn’t seem to be links between the victims otherwise.”
“This didn’t make the national news?”
“Local papers reported when the individual missing-person cases were closed, but no reporter put together the larger picture. Part of it was the age of the cases, part of it was the time it took for all eighteen locations to be investigated, part of it was the geography and the number of police departments involved. It was several weeks of work before it was clear the killer would not be identified, for the scope of what he had done and who he had killed to become clear. The case got enormous work from the day of the call until the victims were identified, but giving a serial killer press wasn’t something any of the cops were interested in doing. They wrapped it up and couldn’t identify him and wrote it up as the John Doe Killer.”
“Anything in particular strike you about the case?”
“The victims were one moment leading normal lives, and then they were gone without a trace. All eighteen victims were clean disappearances. Some of the best cops I know worked the missing-person cases when they originally occurred, and worked the task force when the bodies were recovered, trying to figure out who this guy was. But the case didn’t move much from the initial day’s facts.”
Paul studied the board. “Thanks, that helps.”
She nodded and took their plates to the kitchen.
He returned to his reading.
He was finishing the police report concerning the eighteenth and final missing-person case when she interrupted.
“Paul.”
He put his thumb on the page to mark his place and looked up at her.
“It’s almost midnight. I didn’t mean for you to read for hours without a break.”
“I don’t mind—it’s what my day job is often like.” He gestured to the murder board. “You obviously know more about the reason behind this request than I do. How urgent is this?”
“No one’s life is on the line. It’s a closed case. Or cases. But when you know the reason, when you find out why you were asked to know this case inside and out, it’s going to get very urgent.”
“Then I’ll work for a bit longer.” She was deep into a yellow legal pad of notes and had a cold drink sweating on the coaster beside her. She didn’t look sleepy—she looked like she was in the middle of a workday. “Kick me out when you’re ready to call it a night,” he told her.
“I would normally do a couple more hours.”
He finished the initial read-through of the case and the boxes at three a.m. Ann was settled on the couch, her eyes closed. He shifted the legal pad to the table and gently shook her shoulder. “Ann.”
She woke with a start. “Sorry, I drifted off.”
“One moment I looked over and you were awake and briskly writing, the next you were asleep with the pen in your hand.”
“It happens.” She looked at the time and her eyes widened. “Three o’clock. Paul, you should have stopped hours ago.”
He let her reorient herself and get a bit more alert before he nodded to the board. “I’ve done the initial review of the boxes. You have a killer, his confession, his victims. The case files appear to be in order and complete. I didn’t see any sloppy police work in the history I’ve read.”
She relaxed. “That’s my read of the case file as well. The cops did a good job with what was there.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow whenever I happen to wake up. I want to spend some more time going through the files, now that I’ve seen the scope of the case. And I want to read what you’ve written about the victims.”
“Okay.” She dug keys out of her pocket. “Take my car. House keys are on that ring. Let yourself in if for some reason I’m not here.”
Ann was heading out for a walk with Black when he returned the next day. “There’s no need to stay,” he told her. “Enjoy yourself and make it a long walk. I’m just going to be reading.”
“I put coffee on just for you, and there are bagels in the drawer.”
“I’ll be fine. Go enjoy yourself.”
She headed after a still-sleepy Black.
Paul found the bagels, poured his coffee, and settled into the same chair as the day before. He started reading the book she had written about the victims.
An hour later when he heard the
front door, he marked his page and set aside his notes.
Black raced into the living room, diving toward the couch to wrestle an old sock from under the end. He lay down to begin chewing it apart. Ann appeared.
Paul smiled at her. “I saw the dog have energy for a brief instant.”
“Walks wake him up.”
She saw his sketched notes on a legal pad. “You found something?”
Paul handed her the pages. “There’s a progression in the victims, not only in complexity of how they disappeared—larger city, more people around, middle of the day—but in who they were. They get more significant, for want of a better word. It starts with the lady who runs the Red Cross chapter and is married to the bank manager, then it’s a county judge, a lady reporter, a venture capital CEO, an award-winning economist with a visiting teaching position at Harvard. The victims get harder to reach without leaving a trace, more prominent in their community, their jobs. This wasn’t a blue-collar killer. This was someone who could fit into the environment of the victim and take them without someone noticing him.”
“I noted that too. He moved up in influence, up in the level of risk.”
“He chose them. It doesn’t feel random to me. Not with the progression in who he kills. The list looks like his victims were deliberate choices.” He got up to pace and loosen stiff muscles.
“It’s your turn to take a break and get in a walk.”
“In a bit. It’s easier to keep reading now. The saturation helps. Little pieces start to click together when I see pages and pages of information.”
He settled back in the chair and picked up the police report for victim nine. He was beginning to understand this case. At least to see the questions it presented. Why these victims? He could feel the tug of something, and he was trying to put together the idea that was working around in the back of his mind. He read for another two hours, thinking over what he found.
He put his finger on a note in the police report about victim sixteen, flipped open Ann’s book and checked victim four. He closed his eyes and mentally went through what he had read about each of the victims.
“Ann, it’s political.”
She set down her writing pad and gave him her attention.
“Or more to the point—he’s political.”
She rested her forearms against her knees, studying him. “What did you notice?”
“All of his victims have politics in their history. That’s not random, not with eighteen people. A sampling of the general population would never have turned up all eighteen as being active in politics. They are Republican, Democrat, state politics, national politics—the victims aren’t linked to each other, but we know they are linked to the killer. All the people who crossed him to the point he wanted to kill them had politics in their life, and that tells me it is politics that is his world. He’s a pollster, a fund-raiser, a political campaign operative, some job that comes around every two or four years. And given the variety of states, he was probably working at the national level. The victims were chosen because they intersected with his world, and his is a political world.”
He saw her face. “I’m right?”
“I can’t comment on the theory. But you did what I asked. You’ve learned the case and the victims deep enough to see a possible connection. That’s what I desperately needed you to do.”
She held up a finger. She reached over for the phone and placed a secure call. “Good evening, sir. Yes, sir. He knows the case. It’s my recommendation you give him the chapter.”
She glanced at the clock. “Yes, sir.”
She closed the phone. And then she took a deep breath before she looked over at him. “The VP would like us to come over for coffee.”
“A chapter of the VP’s autobiography?”
“Yes.”
“Does the VP know who the John Doe Killer is?”
“Yes.”
“He’s going to name him?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the book she was writing about the victims, the profiles she had taken such care to craft. “The victims will get lost in the press focus of who he will name.”
“Not with my book releasing alongside the VP’s autobiography. It’s why he asked me to write it.”
“You’ve read the chapter; you know who it is?”
“That answer is so far above my pay grade, I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask the question,” she replied. “Would you mind if we wait on dinner until after we speak with him? I’ve got butterflies.”
“I admit to a few myself. I wasn’t planning to meet the VP today.”
She smiled and offered him her keys. “We’ll take my car, as Black is going over with us, but I’d prefer it if you drive. We can stop and pick up your suit jacket if it would make you more comfortable. I’m going as I am. But you look quite dignified in a suit.”
He grinned. “Really?”
“I have lots of flaws, but I’m not blind. Black, you want to go see Jasmine?”
He darted away and came back with a rubber-duck chew toy and then pranced around, as they were not quick enough to follow him to the front door.
Ann laughed, then caught up with him and ruffled his ears. “She’ll like it too, buddy.”
17
The VP’s estate was set on forty acres in the rolling hills near the river. “Pull up to the gate. Security will come down to meet us.”
Paul pulled to a stop.
Ann saw the guard walking down to meet them and lowered her window. “Good evening, George. I have one guest tonight.”
“Good evening, Miss Silver.” The dog tried to lean around the headrest to put his head out the open window. “And to you, Midnight.” The security guard circled the car, checking the underside of the vehicle with a mirror and stopped at the driver’s door. “May I see your identification, sir?” He accepted Paul’s credentials, made a call, and returned the items. “Thank you. Please follow the drive, pull around to the north side of the house, and park next to the silver van.” The gate slowly opened.
Paul proceeded up the winding drive. Six cars were parked in a side lot. He parked. Ann stepped out of the car and let Black out. The dog got a hold on his rubber toy and led the way to the side door. Ann entered a security code and held open the door. Paul stepped inside with her. They were in a spacious kitchen. Black paused to check the counter, where cookies were cooling, then disappeared down a hallway.
A man joined them from the front of the house. “Welcome, Ann.”
“Hi, Reece.” She made introductions. “Paul, this is Jim Gannett’s lead Secret Service Agent Reece Lion. Reece, FBI Special Agent Paul Falcon.”
The two men sized each other up as they shook hands. “It’s good to meet you.”
“And you.”
Reece turned his attention to Ann. He interlaced his fingers with hers as he studied her face. “You look pretty good tonight.”
“I’m doing fine. Black came along. He went searching for Jasmine.”
Reece grinned. “That’s my boy. I was hoping you’d bring him. Head on back. Jim’s in the library. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Ann led the way through the house and knocked lightly on a partially closed door.
“Come in.”
“Ann.” The former vice president rose from his seat by the fireplace and came over. “You made good time.” He greeted her with a hug, studied her face for a moment, and smiled. “I had a private bet with Reece that you would call tonight.”
“It looks like you won. I’m not one for delays.” She turned. “Sir, I’d like to introduce Paul Falcon. Paul, Vice President Jim Gannett.”
The VP offered his hand. “It’s good to put a face with a name. I appreciate you coming on such short notice, Paul, and for putting up with this bit of mystery.”
“I’m inclined to trust Ann.”
“A good answer and one I would endorse. Please, have a seat. May I get you coffee, a drink?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“If you don’t mind,” the VP began, “I will leave the casual conversation I would like to have with you about the lady shooter, about the Chicago bureau, and many other things which interest me, for another time, and simply get to the reason I asked Ann to bring you over.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gannett leaned forward in his chair. “I’m about to ask you to do something that will be both a large favor and a significant imposition on your life. I’d like you to hear me out, talk it over with Ann, think about it overnight, then accept or decline my request. Only five people know this information. It’s been closely held for a reason. Before I begin, I need your word that what I tell you will remain confidential until the final volume of my autobiography is released at the end of the year, regardless of your decision.”
“You have my word.”
“Good. Thank you.” He leaned back in his chair. “Sixteen years ago there was a serial killer in the Midwest who was active for nine years. Ann has shown you his eighteen victims.”
“Yes.”
“The John Doe Killer wrote a diary, or rather he dictated it. Who he chose to kill and why, how he snatched them, where he buried their remains. He began his diary with the words ‘I have killed twenty people, each more famous than the last.’ He had killed just eighteen when he dictated that line.
“I didn’t have a boating accident nine years ago. I was abducted. I was to be victim number nineteen, and he was going to kill himself to become victim twenty. He was going to make himself the most famous serial killer in history, the serial killer who killed a vice president.”
Gannett reached for his mug. “Ponder that for a moment while I get myself some more coffee.”
He walked over to the beverage cart.
Paul suddenly felt overly aware of every sound and motion in the room, including how his chest was feeling as he took his next breath. Surprises went with his job, but this was more than a surprise. The news began to crystallize. The VP had been the near victim of a serial killer, the near victim of a man who had put eighteen people in the ground.
Full Disclosure Page 24