Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  Finally, an officer spoke up. “Reluctantly, yes. God knows it would have been easy if Coulter had been the man, but he’s clearly not. He’s just not physically capable of doing what this killer has done.”

  “Could he have done these murders, using an accomplice?” Kate asked.

  “Possibly,” the man replied, “but I have to consider it very unlikely. Certainly, Coulter has the expertise to tell somebody how to build the bomb and use the poison, and lots of people are good shots, but we can’t find anyone in Coulter’s background who would be a candidate. We’ve gone through all of his periodic personnel reviews and polygraph tests. We’ve looked at all his known associates and at his personal politics, which are pretty much nonexistent. The man’s not even registered to vote. Before his stroke, he and his wife had no interests more boisterous than bingo at their church and a regular bridge game. They’re dull as dishwater.”

  “Certainly, his employee evaluations back that up,” Kate said, fingering his file. “I’ve never read anything duller. When he was still on active duty, the man actually recorded the daily soap operas, so he could watch them at weekends.”

  “There’s no intellect at work there,” somebody said.

  “Is everyone satisfied that there’s no current or former employee of the Agency who comes even close to fitting the profile for this killer?”

  There was a murmur of assent from the group.

  “All right, then: I can tell the president that the man is not from our ranks.” She stood up. “Thanks, everybody.”

  Back at her desk, Kate called Will. He came on the line immediately.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just wanted you to know that our people here have reviewed the Coulter file and every other possible suspect employed by the Agency, both now and in the past, and that none of our people fit the FBI profile of the right-wing killer.”

  “You feel certain of that?”

  “As certain as we can be. We’ve given it our best shot, and there’s just nobody. Apart from Coulter, we don’t even have anyone to interview.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Will said. “I’ll see you this evening. You going to be on time for dinner?”

  “I should be, if nothing comes up.”

  “See you then.” The president hung up, and the first lady went back to work.

  24

  Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun wrapped up his Sunday morning sermon as he often did, casting aspersions on the patriotism of the president of the United States and the Democrats in Congress, and in his wrap-up prayer he gave thanks for the guardians of the American faith on the right wing of his own party. The service was carried on one hundred and twenty-one television cable and satellite systems around the country.

  As the choir intoned a protracted amen, Calhoun stepped down from his pulpit and walked quickly up the aisle toward the rear of his huge church, his eyes downcast as if in walking prayer, so as to greet his congregation one by one as they left the church—or, at least, those members of the congregation who wished to delay their Sunday dinners for an hour or so in order to have their flesh pressed by the reverend.

  Calhoun took up his station at the end of a funnel created by a series of brass stands and velvet ropes, and volunteers helped herd the crowd into the increasingly small space. A volunteer stood on each side of the reverend, the better to assist individuals in not stopping to chat, since their spiritual leader’s time was more valuable than theirs.

  The first handshakers were those who occupied the rearmost pews in the great tabernacle, and most noticeable among them to the reverend was a creature who nearly turned his stomach. He was of medium height, but of great girth, wearing a loud necktie with matching suspenders and no coat. He sported a waxed mustache, the ends of which pointed heavenward, and the worst toupee the reverend had ever encountered—a reddish brown that contrasted sharply with the gray, nearly white fringe of the man’s own hair, which flopped over huge ears. He had protruding front teeth and wore heavy, black eyeglasses with extremely thick lenses.

  He reached for the reverend’s hand with both of his, grabbing it in a viselike grip that made the preacher’s eyes water.

  “Yes, yes, Reverend,” the man said, “you preached the truth!”

  And then he was gone, whisked down the front steps by volunteers, leaving the reverend to nurse his crunched hand. The man walked with a pronounced waddle, as befitted someone of his girth.

  The reverend looked down at his hand, and to his astonishment, found that it was bleeding from a tiny wound. He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at it, then faced the coming throng. So many more hands to shake, and his hand had been nearly disabled. “The miserable son of a bitch!” the reverend muttered under his breath, startling the little old lady who was next in line.

  Ted waddled through the huge parking lot and, near its outermost fringe, boarded the RV, where he stripped off his clothes, the padding, the teeth, the mustache, the ears, glasses, and two wigs. Shortly, he was on his way north on Peachtree Road, toward the highway around the perimeter of Atlanta and the interstate north.

  Kinney was sleeping soundly in his own bed, with Nancy Kimble’s naked body intertwined with his own, when the phone rang. He reached for it automatically. “Kinney,” he mumbled.

  “It’s Kerry Smith, Mr. Kinney,” the younger man said. “I’ve got the duty this morning, and we’ve had a call from the trauma center at Piedmont Hospital, in Atlanta. They’ve got a patient presenting with similar symptoms to those of Timothy Brennan’s, last week.”

  “Who is it?” Kinney asked, knowing it wasn’t going to be anyone anonymous.

  “Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, the television evangelist. He had just gotten home from his Sunday morning service when he became ill, and his wife called an ambulance. The hospital wants to know if there’s any treatment for what killed Brennan.”

  “Give me the name of the doctor in charge and his phone number.”

  Smith dictated the information.

  “I’ll call you back,” Kinney said. He disentangled himself from Nancy, swung his feet onto the floor, opened a bedside drawer and reached for a thick address book. He dialed a very long telephone number and waited while it rang.

  “Carpenter,” a woman’s voice said.

  “It’s Bob Kinney at the FBI, in Washington,” he said. “We met when you were over with your boss a few months ago.”

  “Of course. How are you, Bob?”

  “Terrible. You remember, some years back, you had an incident in London where a Bulgarian dissident was poisoned by somebody from that country’s intelligence service, stabbed with a sharp umbrella tip?”

  “Yes, I remember that incident.”

  “I seem to recall that your people were working on some sort of antidote to whatever the Bulgarians used.”

  “Yes, we had a medical team on that for several months.”

  “Were they successful?”

  “They think so, but we’ve never had another case on which to try it.”

  “I may have one for you now. Do you have a pencil and paper handy?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the number of the physician in charge of the case, at Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta. Please contact the relevant person on your end and have him or her communicate directly with the doctor.” He read out the name and number, plus his own number. “Will you let me know how this comes out?”

  “I’ll make some calls and get back to you as quickly as I can,” Carpenter said, then hung up.

  Kinney hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, shivering in the air-conditioning. He called Smith back. “We may have some medical help from the British intelligence services,” he said. “They’ll call me back. Now tell me everything you know.”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Dr. Calhoun complained of a bone-crushing handshake from one of his congregation, standing on the front steps of his church after the service, and he found himself with a small, bleeding wound on his hand.”


  “Have you been in touch with the agent in charge of the Atlanta office?”

  “I’ve paged him, and I’m waiting for his call now.”

  “Get him and his people on this, and find me some witnesses to this event. There must have been a lot of people around. Isn’t this preacher on television?”

  “Yes, the service was televised nationally.”

  “Find out if he was still on television when this guy shook his hand. We may have a shot at a picture of the guy, or at least a description from a witness. There had to be a bunch of witnesses around.”

  “I’m on it,” Smith said, and hung up.

  Kinney crawled back into bed and gathered up Nancy in his arms.

  “You’re freezing,” she said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “You heard?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Looks like we’ve got another murder on our hands, or at least an attempt.” He sat up. “Excuse me a minute.” He grabbed a robe, went to his computer, and logged onto the Internet, then to the ACT NOW website.

  Sure enough, a big X had been drawn through the photograph of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Kinney.”

  “It’s Carpenter. I got hold of our lead medical man on the golf course. He’s calling your doctor in Atlanta. Apparently, they came up with a possible antidote, and he’s going to have somebody fax it to the Atlanta doctor. It can be formulated in the hospital pharmacy. It’s the fastest way to get the man treated, and, apparently, time is of the essence.”

  “Thank you, Carpenter,” Kinney said. “I’ll let you know if this works.” He hung up and dialed the White House, but the president was unavailable. “Tell him Robert Kinney called, and there’s been another attempted murder. The victim is Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He’s being treated at an Atlanta hospital. This is my number, if he needs to reach me.”

  Will put down the phone at Camp David and turned to Kate. “Now I feel terrible,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “You remember that I sort of wished that Dr. Calhoun would be the next victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is.”

  25

  Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun looked at his wife through swollen eyes. “Where is that fucking doctor?” he demanded.

  “Donald, watch your mouth,” his wife replied primly.

  “Where is he?”

  “He had to take a phone call from somebody who might be able to help,” she said.

  The reverend looked at the clock on the wall. “That was an hour and a half ago.”

  “The prayer circle is outside,” she said. “I want to bring them in here and get them praying for you.”

  “Tell them to pray out there,” the reverend replied testily. “Tell them the Lord can hear them, wherever they’re praying from.”

  “You’re clearly not yourself,” she said. “It must be the fever. I’m going to bring them in here now, so you compose yourself.”

  The reverend tried to object, but she was already out the door. He felt another wave of fever and thrashed in the bed, but his wrists had been restrained. “Goddammit!” he screamed. “Get that doctor in here!” He looked toward the door to find a group of men and women, shocked looks on their faces, filing into the room.

  “Reverend, we’re here to pray for you,” a woman said.

  “Get the hell out of here!” the reverend shouted, and they fled.

  His wife marched back into the room and slapped him sharply across the face. “You get ahold of yourself!” she screamed at him.

  Taken aback, the reverend shut up, just in time for the doctor’s arrival.

  “We’ve had some help from Britain,” the doctor said, holding up a syringe. “Are you willing to try it?”

  “I’m not going to be a guinea pig for anybody!” the reverend shouted.

  “He’s delirious,” his wife said. “Give it to him. I’ll sign the consent form.”

  A nurse supplied the form, and Mrs. Calhoun signed it.

  “I won’t take it!” the reverend yelled.

  “Oh shut up!” his wife said. “Doctor, give it to him.”

  The reverend tried to writhe away as the doctor stepped forward, but the man simply jabbed the syringe into his IV and stepped back.

  “How long will it take to work?” Mrs. Calhoun asked.

  “I don’t know,” the doctor said. “I don’t know if it will work at all. Apparently, Dr. Calhoun is the only human being ever to receive it.”

  “I’m a goddamned guinea pig!” Dr. Don screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Kinney sat at his kitchen table eating a chicken Caesar salad that Nancy had prepared. Both were wearing only terrycloth robes, which Kinney had purchased for the occasion.

  “Let’s go back to bed,” Kinney said.

  “You are awful,” she replied. “Eat your lunch.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Where are you getting all this sexual energy?”

  “I’ve been saving it up for about four years,” he said.

  She stroked his cheek. “Poor baby.”

  He pushed back his chair, swept her into his arms, and marched back into the bedroom.

  “We’ll starve,” she said, kissing him.

  “It’s worth it.” He ripped off both their robes and took her. They were both in climax when the phone began to ring. Kinney answered on the tenth ring. “Yeah?” he panted.

  “It’s Smith,” Kerry said. “Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

  “I just got in from jogging. What’s up?”

  “Calhoun is responding to the treatment the Brits sent,” Smith said. “His temperature is down nearly to normal, and he’s taking solid food.”

  “Good news. What did we get from the TV cameras, anything?”

  “No, the handshaking on the front steps is not televised. However, there was a security camera working. The tape is on its way here.”

  “You get out to Peachtree DeKalb Airport and charter an airplane. I want to look at it with you.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be in Washington just as soon as I can.”

  “Call me when you know your ETA, and I’ll meet you in my office.”

  “Will do.” Smith hung up.

  Kinney collapsed into Nancy’s arms. “We may have caught a break,” he said.

  “Oh, good,” she replied. “Are you ready to fuck me again?”

  “Mercy,” he cried. “Mercy!”

  She dissolved in laughter. “Well, I’m glad to know you can be worn out.”

  “Give me a few minutes,” he replied. “Oh, God.”

  KINNEY watched as a TV and a VCR on a stand were rolled into his office and plugged in. “Have you seen this?” he asked Smith.

  “No, sir. I left for the airport the minute the tape was in my hands.” He switched on the TV and shoved the cassette into the machine. An image, in black and white, appeared, sharp and clear. A series of poles and velvet ropes were being set up on the church steps. The shot was from above, at a nice angle.

  “Thank God Calhoun’s people are using high-resolution equipment,” Kinney said. “I was afraid we’d get something like a convenience-store image.”

  “Here comes Calhoun,” Smith said, “and here comes the crowd.”

  “Where are the marshals?”

  “Calhoun declined federal help, said he’d provide his own security. A lot of good it did him.”

  The man was sixth or seventh in line, waiting patiently to move forward.

  “Jesus, what kind of clown is that?” Kinney asked.

  “A clown in a clown suit,” Smith replied. “He can’t be for real.”

  “Get our video people on this and see if they can get an image of him without all the disguise.” Kinney watched as the man stepped up to Dr. Don and grabbed his hand. Calhoun’s face reflected shock and pain, and the man was hustled away by attendants. “Well, at least we have a clear image of a man wearing a disguise,” Kinney said. “Did o
ur Atlanta people interview any witnesses?”

  “Yes. The people behind the guy in line saw him, but from behind. We’ve managed to get one person who saw him in the parking lot.”

  “Anybody see him get into a vehicle?”

  “No, but there was an RV in the line of cars waiting to get out of the lot. There are always RVs there on a Sunday,” Smith said. “People come from all over to hear the reverend preach.”