Triple Homicide: Thrillers

by James Patterson; Maxine Paetro

  A tall, lanky, bearded guy in filthy Army camo fatigues shuffled slowly toward her, heading west. He pushed a shopping cart filled with plastic bags and God only knew what else. Click.

  As he came closer she saw his skin was smeared with grime. His dark hair was matted, and he had an odd wildness in his eyes, as if he were on drugs.

  Click. Click.

  A cop on Constitution Avenue lit up his siren for one whoop. It startled Kate, but the homeless vet seemed not to notice at all—as if he were one of those fanatics she knew all too well, the ones getting ready to kill or be killed.

  Click. Click. Click.

  There was something about him, something about that grocery cart. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe the bomber didn’t use the bus line. Maybe he was just some homeless, off-the-radar guy, pushing a cart around filled with explosives.

  Kate started to follow him, staying four or five people back. The tourists kept a wide berth as he moved resolutely west, and she understood why. He stunk bad.

  This could be my guy, she thought.

  Her smartphone vibrated in her pocket. Kate dug it out, still trailing the homeless man. She glanced at the screen, seeing a notification from Twitter. She’d set an alert for posts from a local news reporter to make sure she’d see any update on the DC bombings.

  The tweet linked to a Washington Post story, D.C. HIGH SCHOOL UNDER BOMB THREAT. He asked, “The bomber again? Leaving the mall?”

  Kate slowed her stride and clicked on the link, glancing at the homeless man’s progress before reading the breaking story.

  Benjamin Banneker High had been evacuated on a bomb threat twenty minutes earlier, she read. K-9 and bomb squads were on the scene. The bomber’s call had gone to an unidentified student, who had notified school administrators and the police.

  Banneker? Something about that nagged at her. She used Google maps to calculate the distance from her location to the school. Two point six miles, give or take.

  Kate clocked the homeless vet, still shuffling west. The school wasn’t that far, but there was no way that guy was walking two point six miles in twenty minutes, or even an hour or two. And she couldn’t believe he owned a phone, much less used one to call in a threat.

  Kate stopped, feeling doubt in her instincts for the first time, watching until she couldn’t see him anymore. She turned away and headed back toward the Circulator bus stop. She knew the high school was far off the National Monuments bus route.

  Maybe I’m wrong, she thought, the purposeful spirit of the last two days sinking. Maybe I’m the moron.

  CHAPTER 24

  BY THREE THAT afternoon, Benjamin Banneker had been cleared for after-hours activities. Like the threats to the Washington Monument and the Air and Space Museum, it appeared to be a false alarm.

  Jannie described the caller as a guy with a deep, hoarse voice, who told her there was a bomb in the school and hung up. Bree and I debated the likelihood that the incident was linked to the National Mall bombings. Did we have a copycat at play?

  Banneker was not far from the Mall, maybe two and a half miles, but what was the message here? There was symbolism in disrupting access to the national monuments to avenge the wrongs done to veterans. It sent a clear, if misguided, message. How did our daughter’s charter high school fit into that?

  Disturbingly, the caller had Jannie’s phone number, and the Mall bomber had Bree’s. We theorized that someone might have hacked into one or both of their phones, or downloaded their contact info from someone else. But when? And how?

  These questions were still whirling around in my head early that evening when I boarded the DC Circulator Bus near the World War II Memorial. When I looked in and saw the person sitting three rows behind the driver, I smiled.

  I paid the fare and took a seat next to Kate Williams, who stared straight ahead, looking like a poker player who’s been up too long.

  “Thought surveillance wasn’t worth it,” she said.

  “I didn’t say that. People over my pay grade make that decision.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “You still think he rides this bus?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “How long have you been looking for him?”

  Kate shrugged. “I don’t know, forty? Forty-two hours total.”

  I gave her an appraising glance. “In the past four days?”

  “Whatever it takes, Doc.”

  We pulled up to the Washington Monument stop, and I watched Kate studying each person who came on the bus. When they’d all paid their fares and taken their seats, I said, “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Their faces.”

  As we drove on, making a few stops over the next ten or fifteen minutes, Kate explained her innate skill. I’d heard of super-recognizing and its opposite—some people could remember every face they’d ever seen, and others could not remember even familiar faces.

  “Any interesting faces so far?” I asked as we left the US Capitol stop.

  “They’re all interesting.”

  “No duplicates?”

  “A few times, but they’re usually tourists coming on and off, and I’ll remember them from a few hours before.”

  “How about stand-outs? Someone who really hit you between the eyes?”

  “You mean like my spider-sense?”

  “Sure.”

  Kate tilted her head, thinking. “There was one, earlier today. But he wasn’t on the bus. He was this homeless guy in Army fatigues, big crazy beard, pushing this grocery cart piled with his stuff in plastic bags, and he looked so … vacant … so … I don’t know. More than drugs. Like he was unplugged. I mean, a cop lit up his siren maybe fifty feet from him, and the guy didn’t startle, didn’t even flinch. For some reason, seeing that, every alarm in my head started ringing.”

  Every alarm in my head started ringing as well. I asked her to describe the homeless guy in detail. As we pulled into the bus depot at Union Station, the end and beginning of the Circulator line, there was little doubt in my mind she was talking about Tim Chorey, the deaf vet who’d dismantled his Glock and submerged himself in the reflecting pool the day of the first bombing.

  I didn’t tell that to Kate, though. She said, “I’ve had enough for today. Think I’ll catch a cab, head home from here.”

  “I’ll get off here, too,” I said, glancing at my watch. “A walk over the hill will do me some good.”

  Night had fallen during our ride. As we exited, a bus lumbered and sighed into the parking bay beside ours. The digital sign above the windshield blinked from D8—HOSPITAL CENTER LINE SOUTHBOUND to UNION STATION.

  “Good night, Dr. Cross,” Kate said, shaking my hand. “I appreciate you thinking enough of my theory to check it out.”

  “A good idea is a good idea,” I said, and happened to glance over her shoulder at the sign on the other bus, now emptying of riders. The direction had changed.

  D8—HOSPITAL CENTER LINE NORTHBOUND, it blinked. VETERANS AFFAIRS MEDICAL CENTER.

  CHAPTER 25

  I WISHED KATE Williams a good night and watched her walk off. Then I climbed on the empty Hospital Line bus. The driver, who looked to be in his fifties, was drinking coffee from a thermos, an egg-salad sandwich in cellophane in his lap. I noted his name, Gordon Light, posted at the front of the bus.

  I identified myself as a consultant with the FBI, which he met with skepticism. “And how do I know you’re not messing with me?”

  “I can give you the private phone number of the special agent in charge of the bombing investigation,” I said. “His name’s Ned Mahoney.”

  He shifted in his seat. “I gotta be out of here in ten minutes. What do you want?”

  Light turned out to be a nice guy. Asked about the people who rode the Hospital Center Line, Light said that during the day, in addition to the folks who lived along the route, you had sick people.

  “Lots of them. Four big hospitals and a bunch of clinics on the line. That’s why we got the whe
elchair lift.”

  “Veterans?”

  “Lots of them, too. You know, lost their arms and legs. Or their eyes. Or worse, their … you know.”

  I got it. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s in everything about them, man,” Light said quietly. “They look so damn humiliated. Can’t even pick their heads up. I feel so bad for those boys. And for the families, you know?”

  “Lot of family members with them? The patients, I mean.”

  “You know, with all the non-vets stopping at Children’s or Washington Hospital and the National Rehab, half and half maybe? Some relatives are very loyal, and you recognize them. There’s this one couple. He’s in a wheelchair, and there’s his sister right behind him every time they get on.”

  “So you got regulars?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, taking a bite of the sandwich. “But they’ll come and go. Very few stick around forever.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You must hear things driving.”

  Light swallowed before letting out a laugh. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve heard! What people say out loud in public, as if I wasn’t even there. Make my mother blush.”

  “Ever hear any of the vets talking trash about the government? Congress?”

  His laugh this time sounded bitter. “All the damn time.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  He thought about that. “Well, they all do it. One snafu after another for the vets, you know. But there’s this one guy rides once or twice a week. He’s got nothing but piss and venom to say about the whole lot of them at the VA and up on the Hill. How the Capitol should explode.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yup, a week, maybe two ago. You bet.”

  “You got a name for him?”

  Light pursed his lips, shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”

  “But you’d recognize him?”

  “He stands out. Half his face got chewed up by an IED.”

  CHAPTER 26

  AT 8:30 THE next morning, Bree and I were at the front entrance of Veterans Affairs Medical Center. We went straight to the plastic surgery unit, asked for the chief resident, and soon found ourselves in the office of Dr. Richard Stetson.

  We explained who we were looking for. Stetson began to explain the various reasons he couldn’t help us, starting with doctor-patient privilege, not to mention the HIPAA laws.

  “We have reason to believe he may be involved in the Mall bombings,” Bree interrupted. “We have reason to believe that he is doing this because of Congressional gridlock over the veterans’ bill.”

  Stetson frowned. “If it’s the man I’m thinking of, this is surprising. Stunning even. As for the gridlock, I condemn the bomber’s tactics, obviously, but the fact is that most of the programs in this building will shut down if that bill doesn’t cross the President’s desk. He’s not the only one with a grudge.”

  “And if his next bomb kills someone?” I said. “Isn’t that against the Hippocratic oath—first do no harm? We need your help.”

  Bree said, “We’ll find him sooner or later. If we find him sooner, we save lives.”

  The doctor thought for a beat, then said, “You didn’t hear this from me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I think the angry vet you’re talking about is named Juan Nico Vincente.”

  Stetson would not give us Vincente’s address or any of his records without a subpoena, but he did say the veteran had survived a brutal IED explosion in Afghanistan, and suffered from head trauma and post-traumatic stress.

  “He come to see you often?” I asked.

  “Far as my area is concerned, there’s nothing more I can do for him. But he’s in the building a few times a week, sees a whole menu of docs and therapists. Hang out in the lobby long enough, I’m sure he’ll walk by.”

  As we left the hospital, Bree was already running Vincente’s name through a law-enforcement database. He was on full disability from the Army and had several priors for drunk and disorderly, incidents occurring at bars around his government-subsidized apartment in northeast DC. We drove there, to a brick building off Kansas Avenue.

  Mahoney met us out front.

  “You really think this is our guy?” Mahoney said.

  “By all accounts, he’s a very angry dude,” Bree said. “And he’ll probably get hurt big-time if the veterans’ bill doesn’t go through.”

  Vincente lived on the fifth floor at the rear of the building. Most apartment complexes clear out during the day, with people at work and children at school. But with many residents of this building on disability, we heard televisions and radios blaring, and people talking and laughing.

  But not behind Vincente’s front door. Before we could knock, we heard him ranting: “Senator Pussy, you evil, lying, son of a bitch! You never served! I swear I will come up there, get my rotted face in yours, and show you what this is all about! Right before I stick my KA-BAR up your asshole!”

  CHAPTER 27

  WE ALL GLANCED at one another.

  “That works,” Mahoney said, and knocked at the door.

  “Go away,” Vincente yelled. “Whoever the hell you are, go away.”

  “FBI, Mr. Vincente,” Mahoney said. “Open up.”

  Before we heard footsteps inside Vincente’s place, a few doors to our left and right opened, revealing residents peeking out at us. Vincente’s door creaked as if he’d put both hands on it. The light filtering through his peephole darkened.

  Mahoney had his ID and badge up. So did Bree.

  “What’s this all about?” Vincente said.

  “Open or we break the door down, Mr. Vincente.”

  “Jesus,” Vincente slurred.

  Deadbolts threw back. The door opened, and a barefoot, narrow-shouldered man in gray sweatpants and a Washington Nationals jersey peered out at us with bloodshot eyes. It was hard not to look away.

  From scalp to jawline, the entire left side of his head was badly disfigured. The scarring on his face was ridged and webbed, as if the skin of many ducks feet had been sewn over his flesh.

  He seemed amused at our reactions.

  “Can we come in, sir?” Mahoney asked.

  “Sir?” Vincente said, and laughed bitterly, before throwing the door wide. “Sure. Why not? Come in. See how the Phantom of the Opera really lives.”

  We entered a pack rat’s nest of books, magazines, newspapers, and vinyl records. Stuff was almost everywhere. On shelves and tables. On the floor along the bare walls. And stacked below a muted television screen, showing C-SPAN and the live feed from the US Senate floor.

  Streaming across the bottom of the screen it said, DEBATE OVER SENATE BILL 1822, VETERANS’ APPROPRIATIONS.

  I noticed an open bottle of vodka and a glass pitcher of tomato juice on a crowded coffee table. The ashtray next to them reeked of marijuana.

  Vincente threw up his hands. “You’ve basically seen it all. My bedroom’s off limits.”

  Mahoney said, “Nothing’s off limits if I think you have something to do with the bombings on the National Mall, Mr. Vincente.”

  “The what …?” He threw back his head and laughed again, louder and more caustic. “You think I got something to do with that? Oh, that’ll seal it. Just put the dog-shit icing on the crap cake of my life, why don’t you?”

  Bree gestured at the screen. “You’re following this debate pretty close.”

  “Wouldn’t you if your income depended on it?” he said darkly. He reached for a half full Bloody Mary in a highball glass. “I decided to treat the floor debate like it was draft night for fantasy football leaguers. Right? Have a few Bloody M’s. Scream at the screen, Senator Pussy, or whatever. No federal offense in that, is there, Agent Mahoney?”

  I said, “You ride the Hospital Center bus, Mr. Vincente?”

  “All the time.”

  “How about the Circulator? The Monuments bus?”

  He shook his head. “They won’t let someone like me ride th
e Circulator. Upsets the tourists. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you check my bus pass. It’ll show you. I only use the D8.”

  “That would help,” Mahoney said.

  Vincente sighed. “Hope you got time. Gotta find my wallet in this mess.”

  “We got all day,” Bree said.

  He sighed again, and started ambling around, looking wobbly on his feet.

  “We hear you get angry on the bus,” Bree said, putting her hand on her service weapon.

  Vincente took a sip of his Bloody Mary, and raised it to us with his back turned, still searching.

  He squatted down and moved aside some record albums, saying, “From time to time, Chief Stone, I speak my mind forcefully. Last time I looked, that’s still guaranteed under the Constitution I was maimed for.”

  Mahoney also put his hand on his weapon and said, “Even under the First Amendment, the FBI takes seriously any threat to bomb Congress.”

  Vincente chuckled, stood unsteadily, and turned. Both Bree and Mahoney tensed, but he was showing us a wallet in one hand and a Metro bus pass in the other.

  “It was a turn of phrase,” he said, holding out the pass to Mahoney. “I’ve had this for three years. It’ll show I have never once been on the Circulator. And look at my record. I was a camp cook, ran the mess, not the armory in Kandahar. I honestly don’t know the first thing about bombs. Other than they hurt like hell, and they screw you up for life.”

  CHAPTER 28

  IT WAS ABNORMALLY chilly and drizzling when Mickey climbed aboard the Hospital Center bus, taking his favorite seat at the window toward the back. He readjusted his windbreaker and the hoodie and vest beneath it so that he could breathe easier.

  He wanted to explode. All day, the Senators talked and talked, and did jack shit. That one over-educated idiot from Texas talked for hours and said nothing.

  How can that be? That’s gotta change. It’s gonna change. And I’m gonna be the one to change it. They’re gonna talk all night, right? I got all night, don’t I?

  Mickey had watched the floor debate from the first gavel, growing increasingly angry. As his bus left Union Station and headed north, he felt woozy and suddenly exhausted. Being angry for hours and days on end was draining. Knowing he’d need his energy, he closed his eyes and drifted off.