by Joe Conlan
“No, they left just after you did.”
“Give them a call and have them come back ASAP. We’ll need them to go over the cabin from top to bottom whether you find him there or not. Call me as soon as you have something. I should be on my way back in a few minutes.”
Agent Frye recruited two other FBI agents and radioed the S.W.A.T. team to meet him at the security office to devise a plan of attack. It was decided the two agents would guard the door outside Jefferson’s cabin, while three members of the S.W.A.T. team entered. Once everyone agreed on the procedure, they climbed the four flights of steps to Deck 9 then made their way to number 476. The two agents posted themselves on either side of the door with guns drawn. On the count of three, Frye unlocked the door, opened it and stepped aside. The S.W.A.T. team member responsible for securing the balcony entered first, gun held in a two-fisted grip out in front of him. He checked quickly to his left where the closet and bathroom were located. Seeing no one, he continued into the bedroom and onto the balcony. The second member entered next followed by the third and final agent. It became obvious rather quickly that the cabin was vacant. To be absolutely sure, one agent checked under the bed while the other inspected the bathroom and shower. If this was Jefferson’s room, he was already gone.
Disappointed, Frye pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called Agent Leland.
“What do you have for me, Chris?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot. There was no one in the cabin. If Damien Drysdale or Isaac Jefferson or whoever the hell he is, is on this ship, he’s somewhere amongst the remaining passengers or crew. I can’t believe we let three quarters of the passengers disembark and we were showing them an out-dated picture of the suspect. I hope to God we didn’t let him off the ship. If we don’t find him, we’re gonna have to locate all the passengers again and show them an updated composite drawing. This fuck’n asshole is causing us all kinds of headaches.”
Leland, who had a different take on the situation responded, “I can’t imagine we let him get away. Even if he put on some weight, every officer conducting interviews had a photograph of Drysdale’s face and was purposefully scrutinizing the features of every male close to his age. I don’t think a trained FBI agent or police officer would fail to recognize him. Daniel didn’t. We’ve already called a police artist who’s on his way to the hospital right now. I’m hoping to have a new rendition within an hour.”
“I hope you’re right about this, Robert. I have to say, I agree with you now that you put it that way.”
“I’d be willing to bet a month’s paycheck he wouldn’t get by our men, and I’m not a gambling man. If he’s on the ship, we’ll find him. So, we better get busy. Let’s double our efforts and get through the rest of the passengers. Then we’ll be able to concentrate exclusively on the crew. In the meantime, will you have Ted Hauser find out who was staying in that cabin?”
“Sure thing, Robert. See you when you get here.”
Agent Frye returned to the security office where Hauser was waiting for him.
“How did it go?” Hauser inquired.
“Fucker wasn’t in the cabin. Would you mind looking up the name of the passenger who was staying there?”
“I already did. It wasn’t occupied.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. No one was staying in that cabin.”
“For the entire week?”
“Exactly.”
“No one made reservations or did the guest not show up?”
“From what I can tell, it was never reserved. It was one of four cabins on the ship that was vacant for this cruise.”
“Holy Shit, I wasn’t expecting that. This is getting stranger by the second. Well, if Damien Drysdale was staying in that cabin, our forensics team will find evidence to prove it. The prick is smart, but he’s been sloppy before. He left something for us at just about every murder site. The ERT should be here any minute. For now, we need to keep plugging away. I was hoping we’d catch the bastard by now. I should have known it wasn’t gonna be that easy.”
Chapter 20
The frenzied activity in the press room at the offices of the Miami Herald was winding down, most reporters and staff having left for the day. Clifton Harris, senior journalist in the crimes division was also considering packing it in for the night. For the past half hour, he had been checking out the AP press releases in hopes that a worthwhile story would come up for his feature column. Good stories were hard to come by for the past couple of weeks and that afternoon wasn’t proving to be any different. Just as he was about to give up and close down his cubicle, his cell phone rang. He looked down at the telephone’s monitor screen to check caller ID and recognized the number of his source from the FBI. He didn’t hesitate to answer. For the next forty minutes, he listened carefully to the information being provided, rapidly taking notes when necessary. By the time the conversation was over, his writing hand was cramping, his wrist pulsating from fatigue. More thrilled by this lead than any other in recent memory, the pain was easy to bear. He picked up the phone with his good hand and dialed his editor’s extension to request a hold for the front page and explained the story he was writing. He would have to type fast. The deadline was quickly approaching.
Harris had been working the crime beat since Daniel Falcone was a rookie special agent at the FBI North Miami field office. From the first time the reporter met Falcone, he didn’t like him. It seemed obvious to Harris that FBI prodigy was one of those obnoxious law enforcement agents who despised the press. When Falcone first made national headlines, Harris had plans to do a feature article about him. He hoped to develop a better relationship with the man who seemed to be growing in stature at the Bureau in leaps and bounds. Despite Harris’ efforts to interview him, Falcone thwarted the journalist at every turn. The drop that spilled the cup was when Harris was embarrassed in front of all his peers and colleagues at a Falcone press conference. Harris asked him a question about how a high profile murder victim’s family had reacted to the news of their daughter’s brutal slaying. Falcone told him to sit down and shut the fuck up. Harris did his best to have Falcone reprimanded for his behavior and even considered suing him. The “Golden Boy” had too many friends in high places and Harris’ efforts went by the wayside. It was even more frustrating when Harris wasn’t able to bring Falcone down with the article accusing the agent of taking gang bribes. Harris almost got himself fired as a result of that one. If it hadn’t been for his source at the FBI, he could have found himself writing stories about polar bears in Alaska.
His most recent run-in with Falcone was just several months ago when the reporter wrote the article revealing there was a serial killer loose in South Florida. Falcone was furious. He showed up at the offices of the Miami Herald insisting that Harris reveal his source. The Special Agent in Charge was normally pretty even-keeled when he ripped Harris a new one, especially since he took over that position. Falcone’s stake in the resolution of this case was much more personal. He was in Harris’ face, making a scene in front of the entire press room. Harris was enjoying every second of the tirade. He knew in the end, he wouldn’t have to give one iota of information to the prick. Harris’ editor joined in the melee then the paper’s in-house lawyers were called down from their offices upstairs to tell Falcone how things were going to do down. Daniel argued that the source was obviously an FBI agent and they weren’t protected under the first amendment. The lawyers set him straight, filing an injunction to prevent Daniel from getting a name and showing up at the Herald again to make such demands in the future. An emergency hearing was held that evening, the judge granting the newspaper’s motion. There was even a cherry for the top of the cake. It made for a great story in the next morning’s paper.
Harris could barely contain his excitement. As his fingers typed furiously across the computer keyboard, he thought about what the world would think about the FBI’s “Golden Boy” now.
By the following afternoon, th
e media frenzy was in full flight. Clifton Harris had broken the story of the month. His article was heavily slanted toward Daniel’s probable involvement in the murder and the rest of the media ran with it. CNN was broadcasting updates from the King Joy of the Seas. CNBC, Fox Network News and MSNBC were giving the story twenty-four hour coverage. Annie could no longer stand watching the reports. She couldn’t imagine what Daniel could possibly be going through seeing his name disparaged all over the air waves. Already, he was suffering from the death of his wife, and his children would be dealing with the loss of their mother and grandparents. Now he was being implicated in the tragic murders. She shut off the TV in her office and threw the remote halfway across the room shattering it into several pieces when it hit the ceramic tile floor.
Clifton Harris’ article revealed information he could only have gotten from an inside source. Already, the networks were referring to Daniel as the “Blood Boat Butcher” as he was described by the Miami Herald senior journalist in his front page article. Annie knew Leland and his team were specifically admonished to refrain from sharing any information about the murders with the press or anyone outside the task force. A similar directive was given to all King employees, especially the security staff. Most of the important elements of the murder were supposed to be held back in order to weed out the multitude of nutcases who would be calling in confessing to the murders. Just about every component of the horrific method in which the Tyler’s and their daughter were slain was included in Harris’ article. It was also reported that Daniel was found shortly before the bodies were discovered draped in blood and in possession of both murder weapons. Annie was even more shocked by the revelation of her and Daniel’s illicit affair. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind someone very close to the investigation was releasing information in violation of the task force gag order and the bastard had it in for Daniel.
Earlier that morning, after Annie read Harris’ article, she immediately phoned Leland on his cell phone to ask if he had read it yet. She wasn’t able to reach him, but left an explicit message hoping some heads would be rolling. There was someone on the task force that had no business being a part of it. She also tried to call Daniel at the hospital to find out what he knew only to be refused the connection. He wasn’t allowed to receive any calls. She was hoping to visit him after work. Whether she would be able to get in didn’t seem to be likely. So far, Leland hadn’t returned any of her phone calls. She was planning to ask him if he would, at least, be able to get her in to see Daniel.
Annie hit more stumbling blocks when she tried to contact anyone who would talk to her at the Miami Field office. Supposedly, no one was available. Even if they had rejected her request for information about Daniel, it would have been nice to get an update on the investigation. By midnight the previous day, all passengers were released from the Joy of the Seas. The FBI was still conducting some interviews of crew members. They were hoping to have that wrapped up by the end of the evening. Leland thanked Annie for her help yesterday then told her she was no longer needed. The last she knew was that Drysdale was still at large. If Leland didn’t return her call sometime soon, she was seriously considering taking a trip to the port to meet with him personally.
As the hours passed, Annie was becoming increasingly less optimistic they would find the murderer. If he slipped off the ship, she couldn’t figure for the life of her how. As far as she knew, it had been sealed as tight as a drum. A tense and worried feeling was beginning to invade her already distraught frame of mind. If they didn’t find Drysdale, it wasn’t going to look good for Daniel. Either way, she couldn’t imagine he would ever be charged with the crimes. With all the forensic work done at the scene, something had to turn up to exonerate him. She was absolutely sure of it.
Before returning to the ship after his meeting with Daniel at the hospital, Leland made a telephone call to one of the few men in the world he held in high regard. Whether Chief Federal prosecutor Norman Dallas’s feelings were mutual was debatable. Either way, he was the only person with whom Leland was willing to share his theory of what happened on the Joy of the Seas.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m glad you took my call.”
“Get on with it Leland, I don’t have all day.”
“Well, sir, I have a legal question.” Leland described the horrific murders on the cruise ship. As soon as he mentioned Daniel Falcone’s involvement, he had Dallas’ full attention. Leland went on to explain his interview with Daniel and some of the details of the investigation of the serial murderer, specifics not included in media reports.
“The problem I have sir, is I’m not so sure Falcone is being totally upfront with us. I haven’t mentioned any of this to anyone, yet. The day we identified Damien Drysdale as the serial murderer...which happened to be the first day of Falcone’s cruise, I sent him a text message with a photo of Drysdale. I still have it here on my phone. Falcone is trying to tell me he had no idea this Isaac Jefferson character was Drysdale. I don’t buy it. I didn’t say a word to him about it at the interview. My question is, do we confront him?”
“No fuck'n way. That was smart on your part. Don’t tell a soul, not even your buddies at the Bureau. He’s got a lot of friends there. Do you have his cell phone?”
“They have it on the ship with the rest of Falcone’s personal belongings.”
“Get that phone right away. Keep it somewhere safe. And call me when you confirm the text was received. Highly suspicious.”
As soon as Leland returned to the ship, he made his way to the security office where all evidence collected was being kept until it was transported to the FBI lab or storage facility. He found Daniel’s tagged bag of personal items next to his bloody clothing on a table set up by the security staff. After taking possession of the cell phone, he sought out an abandoned office where he could be alone, turned it on, checked Daniel’s text messages and saw it was received while the ship was still in port in Ft. Lauderdale. Next, he called Frye to question him about where it was found.
“It was in the safe in the suite with a few other things. We had to get security to open it up for us since we obviously didn’t know the pass code. Why do you ask?”
“That’s not for you to worry about right now. Were you there when they got it open?”
“Yeah. What gives? I am your partner in this investigation. What’s with the fuck’n secrets?”
“Never mind. I can’t share it with you. I better not hear later you were asking around either. I don’t want anybody knowing about this conversation. I’m dead serious. Was the phone on?”
“It was just like it is in the bag now. Off.”
Three weeks after the murders, a small group of highly placed officials with the FBI, including Assistant Director Howard Evans, met with Robert Leland and a few specified members of the task force. Overseeing the gathering was Chief Federal prosecuting attorney, Norman Dallas. Damien Drysdale was never located. All forensic testing for the Joy of the Seas murders was completed and the results had come back. The preliminary DNA analysis for the semen collected at the crime scene identified it as belonging to Daniel Falcone. The cabin supposedly occupied by Isaac Jefferson was thoroughly searched and all fingerprints found were run through AFIS without any useful matches. Not a trace of evidence was found to substantiate Daniel’s claim that Damien Drysdale was on the ship. No crew member or passenger was able to recognize either the employee picture of Damien Drysdale or the sketch prepared after Daniel’s updated description. By the time the meeting was adjourned, it was a unanimous consensus that Special Agent in Charge Daniel Falcone would be officially charged with the triple homicide of Deborah Falcone and Jack and Kate Tyler.
For the first few days after the murders, Daniel was held for observation against his will at Broward General Hospital. When he was ready for discharge, the task force had already given up hope of finding Damien Drysdale. Daniel was kept apprised of the manhunt and that ultimately, not one scintilla of evidence was found to confirm his claim that
Drysdale had stayed on the ship. He was permitted to leave the hospital to attend the funeral of his wife and in-laws. He was stunned, however, when Leland felt the need to instruct him he shouldn’t think about leaving the county until further notice. Daniel was well aware of the attention he was getting from the media. He never once imagined his colleagues would believe he was responsible for the murders.
One week after the funeral, Daniel knew he was more than just a suspect. He was called into the office by Assistant Director Howard Evans who ordered him to turn in his weapons and FBI identification and take an extra couple of weeks off. Daniel’s initial reaction was anger and outrage. He fully intended to take advantage of his sabbatical to throw himself into his own personal investigation of the murders. His determination was short-lived. That evening, he had his mother take the boys and for the remainder of his days as a free man, he barely left his bedroom, sleeping most of his days away, drinking himself into a stupor late into the night. He ignored the phone that rang off the hook until he disconnected it.
He couldn’t find the motivation or energy to hate the man who murdered his wife. Any fire for revenge that may have temporarily burned brightly was drowned out in a flood of self-pity. Why bother when there was the distinct possibility he might have to orchestrate his mission from behind bars? Even his normally unflinching confidence in the American justice system was lost. The truth meant nothing. The day Robert Leland and Christopher Frye showed up at his house to place him under arrest they found him drunk and passed out on the cold tile floor of the upstairs bathroom. When he regained consciousness to find himself in the bunk of his jailhouse cell, he turned over and went back to sleep.
There was no blanket of pristine, shimmering snow covering the flat, dull landscape. The nearest icicle was more than eight hundred miles away. The only sleigh bells anyone would have the pleasure of hearing could only come from the speaker of a stereo playing Yuletide music. Outdoors, the grass was as green as a Saint Patrick’s Day shamrock. The trees and shrubbery maintained most of their leaves while the foliage continued to bloom flowers. It wasn’t the typical picture for a greeting card for the month of December, but it was the holiday season in sunny Miami, Florida. Normally, this was a slow time of year for Chief Federal Prosecutor Norman Dallas. It certainly wasn’t a time to expect his staff to be overly productive, unless, of course, the case of a lifetime had miraculously landed in his lap. Norman Dallas’ idea of celebrating this Christmas was by cracking his whip, requiring his people to work overtime in preparation for the trial he considered his long, overdue opportunity.