Tyler said, “I need you working with local PD, obtaining the statements, conducting the interviews. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
His attention left her again, and she asked, “Sir?”
He turned back. “We’ll get to the rest of it, Agent Ames. I know what you’re thinking. Right now, I want those statements while people are fresh.”
“Yes, sir.”
It took most of the day. Using every agent and officer available, the FBI and NYPD recalled 298 people from the previous evening’s activities. Most were happy to report on what they’d seen and heard and felt. Some were angry – hungover, perhaps – to have to relive the harrowing event. Several cried as they remembered. The few who knew Monica Forbes personally were flagged. Many were already working on reportage of the evening, preparing articles and evening news stories. And some invitees hadn’t attended the event.
At 3 p.m., the dusty window high in the cramped NYPD interview room blazed with light. An air-conditioning unit made lots of noise, but put out little coolness. Shannon took a break, checked her phone, scrolled through Twitter. News of the event was everywhere, but links went to a “content no longer available” page. Tyler had gotten the video taken down. She was glad that a victim’s terrible suffering wasn’t on display for the world to see, that a terrorist – of sorts – wouldn’t get that gratification. Like Caldoza had suggested, it was a trophy from his criminal act. But she also wondered about the public’s right to know.
It was a sticky subject.
Her phone buzzed. “I was just thinking about you,” she said to Caldoza, then winced. The heck are you saying?
The smile came through in his voice. “Oh yeah?”
“Thinking about this video getting taken down. What that might mean to our unknown subject.”
He seemed to sober. “Ah. Yeah.” Caldoza paused. “I mean, you gotta think he would’ve expected it. Seems like a smart guy.”
“Are you back in Brooklyn?” she asked.
“Been here all day. Just drowning in paperwork. Thought I’d check in on you. You’re taking statements? Where do they got you?”
“A precinct on the West Side. But what I want is to be looking at that video.”
“Your supervisor – Tyler – he’s sent around a call for a meeting at your resident agency tonight at six. You going to be there?”
She hadn’t been notified. “I think so.” Tyler has sidelined me for some reason. She could’ve said it to Caldoza, gotten a sympathetic ear, but she’d be undermining her boss. A boss was a boss. What she said was, “I’ve been thinking about the first victim. Diaz.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s just … everything they taught me in school was how an offender’s first crime tends to be the most revealing. You focus on that first crime, because that’s where he makes the mistakes he later learns from. That’s where he does what’s easiest and most comfortable. The crime is close to his home or his job. And he’s rough, underdeveloped.”
“So what does the Diaz murder tell you?”
“Well, it could tell us a lot if this was a typical series of crimes. If this was the same MO, if this was the same type of victim. But the victimology here is that these people all work in the same field. So that’s a different direction. And his methods are changing. Strangulation, IED, then a box cutter? That’s not perfecting technique as he goes through victims.”
“He’s sort of just getting the job done,” Caldoza theorized with her. “Doing whatever it takes. Being practical.”
“Right, but also, everything he does seems to have purpose. I mean, to do Diaz like that, then two weeks later, to abduct and strangle Forbes in the same way? That was deliberate and precise. That was to present the illusion of a typical killer, an expected type of killer – one obsessed with attractive reporters. Then dumping Forbes where he did served to get Baldacci where he wanted her. But the abduction of Forbes also served him in this other way – it gave him the ability to make this video of her.”
“And now his motive is made known.”
There was a knock on the door. Shannon rose and opened up. A uniformed cop stood with another guest from the awards dinner. The woman looked tired and sad and wore yoga pants and a light hoodie. “Come on in,” Shannon said. To Caldoza, “I gotta go. See you tonight.”
“Hang in there.”
She ended the call with him and smiled at the woman. They went through the night, where she was sitting, what she saw and heard. Anything suspicious? Anyone you noticed go up to the control room? Anyone at work seem to harbor resentment against the profession? And so on, and so on. Shannon did her job, but as sure as she was that the killer had been at the awards dinner last night, she was equally sure that they weren’t going to find him. He was going to blend in.
He was any one of them.
Still, the police got a picture of things: an NYPD beat cop named Jablonski took the statement of a newspaper photographer named Gordon Gay. Gay had heard the victim scream. He’d seen Spencer clutching his neck, and a second later, had seen the first spurt of blood jettisoned by the pulse.
Gay wrote on the statement: Then he sort of dropped to one knee. He went down. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone else. I mean, there were people around, everyone was running, but it was dark …
Tamika Monroe-Wells, a journalist with The Forward, was the first person to try to assist Spencer as he went from on one knee to falling onto his side.
I reached for him, Monroe-Wells wrote in her statement. I tried to help him back to his feet because I was thinking about the bomb. We had to get out. He was in shock, and then so was I. And when I couldn’t lift him, I just left. I’m so sorry and ashamed to admit it, but I left him there …
Each guest wrote out their statement like this, and they also met with an officer – whether Shannon or another agent or someone from NYPD – and sat for a recorded interview. Monroe-Wells broke down crying on camera during her interview. The interviewing detective brought her some water.
Everyone was shaken up. “I thought that was for real,” Andy Rothstein, another journalist, said. “I thought I was going to die. I was at the back of the room – I mean, we were the furthest table from the exit. And people were just piled up. Stampede, man. I thought, There’s no way I’m getting out of here in sixty seconds …”
“What did you think of the video?” Shannon asked.
“What did I think of it? Sick. Depraved. Horrible what they did to her. She looked like … Hannibal Lecter or something.”
“What they did to her?”
“I mean, this is …” He cocked his head, frowning. “This has got to be a group, right? I mean, one guy doing all this?”
“You don’t think one person could do this? Why?”
Rothstein backtracked. “Well, there was no bomb, though. Right?”
“It took three hours, but the entire place was swept clean.”
“So, yeah. Scare tactics, then. To get people all riled up. Get them panicking. Then, in the pandemonium and darkness, you get Todd Spencer. Cut his throat.”
Shannon had watched Rothstein closely. The journalist studied his hands. She asked, “What did you think about Todd Spencer?”
Rothstein’s head came up quick. “A chauvinist. A narcissist. One of the most obnoxious people in the business.” Rothstein hooked her gaze and held it for a moment.
“Thank you,” she’d said to him.
18
Sunday evening
The dread formed a nauseous churning in Josie’s stomach. The longer she watched the TV coverage of this bomb-scare thing, the worse it got.
Todd Spencer. His name went through her head over and over again. When they showed his face, when they said he’d been murdered, his throat slashed open, her veins turned to ice.
But there was no one to turn to. No one to tell. She was home alone, and she couldn’t drag herself away from the TV. She was riveted to it – the flashing lights from all those emergency vehicles, that
crazy building with its gargoyle-looking things on the windows. All the people in the street, watching. And when the one man, with light eyes contrasting his brown skin, Caldoza or something, when he gave a statement, they put that number at the bottom of the screen again. If you have any information …
She did.
She had information.
The line rang, and she waited, bouncing her leg, chewing her nails. Her house felt stuffy and oppressive in the late-day heat, the lowering sun blazing around the edges of the drawn blinds. This was a nightmare that just kept getting worse.
“New York Police Department tip hotline,” a female voice said. “Can I have your name, please?”
“Josie. Ah, Josephine Tenor.” She was nervous, her voice light and scratchy.
“All right, Josephine, and your location?”
“Astoria Heights.”
“What can I do for you today, Josephine?”
She almost hung up. It was hard to even speak. “I’m … I’m gonna … I’m gonna be killed. I know it. I’m gonna – he’s gonna come for me. Because of Charlotte.”
“Wait – sorry? Are you talking about the suspect in the–”
“Yes,” she said suddenly, forcibly. “All of it. The guy doing all of it. He’s going to come for me. He’s going to come for me and he’s going to kill me just like all these other people he’s going to–”
“Ma’am? Josephine? I’m gonna need you to calm down. Josephine – how old are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
A silence. Voices in the background, chattering. Probably other police taking calls like this. Cops who were on probation, or got in trouble for something, they were the ones who had to field these calls.
“Sixteen,” Josephine said at last.
“Okay.” The cop cleared her throat. “I’m going to put you through to talk to an investigator, okay, Josephine? We’re overloaded with calls, so it might take a minute. Stay on the line.”
Josie sighed. “Okay.”
There was a click, and then some bad music, a distant, distorted version of some old-timey crooner guy, like Ray Charles or someone. Josie held the phone, her family’s landline, and watched the TV. A helicopter shot swept over Midtown, showing the cluster of emergency vehicles and flashing lights, dozens, if not hundreds, of people in the street, kept back by barricades and police. It was showing what happened yesterday, but when it cut back to the news anchor, he was saying how this had become a joint investigation between NYPD and FBI. Even the Department of Homeland Security had gotten involved.
“The city is holding its breath,” the anchorman said, “as this ‘Media Killer’ investigation has taken a turn towards terrorism.”
Terrorism, she thought. That was huge. New York didn’t lie down for terrorism. The taste of blood on its tongue like that, the FBI and all the rest of the cops would never stop. They’d look at everything. People would be getting stopped in airports.
The bad music kept jangling away in Josie’s ear. Frustrated, she hung up the phone. And instantly regretted it. She hadn’t even given her phone number to the woman. “Well, they got your name and the town you live in,” she said aloud to herself. “They can find it.”
She thought of calling back. She chewed her nail. She dialed the same number and waited for what seemed like forever, and a man answered, “New York Police Department tip hotline.” He sounded even less enthused.
She was ready this time. “My name is Josephine Tenor.” She gave her phone number and her house address, just in case. “I know who he is,” she said. It felt like her heart was going to beat out of her chest.
“Who who is?”
“The Media Killer.”
“Okay. Let me put you through to an – oh. I see you here on the screen, Miss Tenor. Yes, we have your call, it’s on file, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.”
“He’s not going to stop,” she blurted. “He’s going to get everyone.”
After a moment, the male cop said, “Okay, miss. Ah, just stay calm. Is this, ah – where did you say you were calling from? Astoria?”
“Astoria Heights. The man who is doing–”
“Okay, listen, they got a guy they like for this, okay? Nowhere near where you are. I’m not really supposed to tell you that, but just to comfort you.”
“They … got someone?”
“Looks that way. They’re getting real close to someone. Okay? So you should try to relax.”
He hung up.
Josie held the phone a moment before putting it back down. The news changed to a TV commercial, an advertisement for arthritis medication that was blaringly loud. She left the living room, feeling stiff in her own joints, and walked down the hall, to the window by the front door, and looked out at the street. Pretty, the sun slowly sliding away for the day. The middle of summer. High, hot summer. She should be enjoying it.
Maybe she was wrong. Because how the heck would she know what was really going on out there? Just because she recognized some faces, some names – these were journalists, TV people. Their names and faces were everywhere. They were plastered on the sides of buses, for God’s sake.
She stood looking out at the street, the familiar houses, the narrow path between two buildings that cut through to the next street over, and she thought about Charlotte.
Guilt, she realized. That’s what this whole thing is about. You’ve been driving yourself crazy because of all the guilt.
It had been a good five years or so since she’d done a confession. She’d made her First Communion, and confession was a required part of that. She’d skipped it ever since. Her parents didn’t seem to mind. Her mother was gone half the time anyway. Today was Sunday, and where was she?
Off in la-la land with her new boyfriend.
Leaving Josie home alone, feeling guilty, being paranoid.
“You’re not gonna die,” she said.
When her cell phone buzzed in her back pocket, she jumped and let out a little yell. But then she realized what it was, pulled it out and saw the message from Aaliyah: u still being a whiny beotch? It made Josie laugh with relief, and the smile felt good on her face.
19
“Everybody checks out,” Shannon said to Caldoza on the phone. “I don’t understand it. All the waitstaff and hospitality, the security team, and every guest seen so far has been cleared. Or close to it.”
The city flashed and pounded outside the cab window. Midtown was typically choked with traffic. It was marginally better south of Penn Station. The cab kept them headed for the field office downtown.
Caldoza asked, “Did your people have a look at my guy? Tanzer?”
“I’m told we’re looking into it.”
Shannon was glad to talk to Caldoza, but her mind was wandering, buzzing. Ben Forbes had called her office twice. She’d accessed the messages from her cell – he’d sounded terrible. Desperate.
“Luis, I’ve got to make a call.”
“No worries,” he said. “Talk to you.”
She got a little air when the cab sailed over a road boil, reminding her of her gluteal aches and pains. Her body swung right with the momentum as the driver whipped around a bike messenger with dreadlocks and fingerless gloves. Shannon braced herself and keyed a contact in her phone. “Mr. Forbes?”
“Agent Ames.” He sounded calm. A good start. “Thanks for calling me back.”
“No problem, Mr. Forbes. So. How are y–”
“I understand you were there last night. I’ve heard all about it. Monica was reading something. Something this guy made her read. That she was tied to a chair or something …”
“No one is supposed to be talking about that, Mr. Forbes. I’m sorry that you–”
“No one is supposed to be …” he started to repeat, and then broke up laughing. A humorless sound. Not menacing – overwhelmed. “Right, well. The point of being a journalist is to talk. To promulgate. To disseminate …”
“Mr. Forbes, how are you? Is there an
ything I can do for you? Anyone I can call?”
“Anyone you can call? You can call Monica’s parents. Because I don’t know what else to say to them. I don’t know what else to say. Their daughter was at their house in Connecticut last weekend. Last weekend we were there, and then we drove over to the camps and saw the kids. And now she’s in some video, tied up, giving speeches against her profession.”
She waited, letting him vent.
His voice was barely audible. “I still haven’t told the kids. They don’t watch TV up there at camp. They’re not allowed internet. So they’re safe.”
She thought she understood his meaning – Monica’s children weren’t in danger of finding out about their mother’s death before their father had a chance to break the news. But something in the way he’d said it, the tone of his voice, gave her the unnerving idea of a killer who killed through screens, like a contagion, affecting those who watched or read.
She could hear Ben Forbes softly crying. It was half a minute until he spoke again – the cab was cruising past Union Square, catching a rare run of green lights. “Did you check into the thing with the land deal? About the councilman in Pelham Bay?”
“I did. I am.”
“Yeah …” His voice grew stronger. “And? Isn’t this just like those kinds of people would do? This fucking Russian mobster and his fucking father and a goddamn city councilman on their payroll?” He paused, just ragged breathing coming over the connection. “I’m sorry.”
“Listen to me, Ben. I want to make sure you’re okay. Would you like someone to come by, just … talk? See if they can help you? We have grief counselors. We have people who–”
“I’m fine. No, I am. I know it must seem like … but I’m okay. I’m gonna miss her, but … but I …”
He broke down crying, his final words lost.
Whatever generic suspicion remained against Ben Forbes – for being close with a victim, for lacking an alibi – drained away with the sound of his weeping. As the cab jockeyed around downtown traffic, Shannon wiped her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. The cabbie glanced at her in the mirror.
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