by Mark Gilleo
“That’s right,” Richard Porter repeated. “You heard me correctly. I bought the jury. The same jury that let Tyrone Biggs walk.”
“You bought them?”
“Eight of them. We couldn’t reach the jurors on the second floor.”
“Because that’s where the uniformed court officers were posted.”
“Someone did their homework.”
“I try.”
“Yes, the court officers had a post in the main lobby and on the second floor near the staircase. But the eight jurors on the third and fourth floors were reachable.”
“How?”
“The fire escape in the back. The Americana Hotel was an old-school establishment. According to the private detective I hired during the trial, they used to shuttle the occasional call girl up the fire escape. Back when the hotel was in its heyday and visiting politicians needed a place that was a little more under the radar. At the time the jury was sequestered, there was access to the fire escape through a window in a storage room on the third floor.”
“And that is how you reached the jurors.”
“It was common knowledge that Tyrone Biggs was a bad guy with bad intentions. I hired someone to follow the jurors once they had been sequestered. That individual, someone much like yourself, was able to confirm the sequestration. Surveillance indicated the jurors may have been contacted by someone working on the behalf of Tyrone Biggs.
“And then you offered them money. You offered the jury money to ensure that Tyrone would be found guilty.”
“Yes, the jurors were offered money. They were offered money to fulfill their judicial obligation as jurors. Jurors with indisputable evidence that the defendant was guilty.”
Dan thought back to Frank’s words of wisdom. The additional offer of money becomes inconsequential when faced with the option of life or death. “But you were outbid. Tyrone Biggs offered money and he offered the opportunity for each juror to save their own life. To not to be killed. You merely offered money.”
“A lack of forethought on my part. I knew jury tampering was a real possibility. A real possibility. Everyone did. But my offer wasn’t enriching enough.”
“So, you bought eight people on the jury?” Dan confirmed.
“That’s correct. And if a criminal case requires a unanimous decision, then all twelve men and women had to vote for a not-guilty verdict. I know that eight of those people received money. Eight of those jurors took my money and then voted not guilty. Those eight people were anything but innocent. The other four jurors somehow looked at a video of a nightclub shooting and let the man who pulled the trigger walk free. I figured they were also paid off by Tyrone Biggs.”
Dan nodded, “It’s possible.”
Richard Porter continued. “So I started planning. I mean, killing a single person is easy. But if you’re going to kill multiple people, the only way to do it is to have alibis. To make sure there is no connection in the deaths. That, for those who have contemplated it, takes planning. Planning and money.”
“And, in your case, a professional who is willing to train people and clean up the mess.”
“It helps,” Richard Porter said, shrugging his shoulders.
“And in addition to hiring a professional killer, you used a more traditional killer as well… cancer.”
“Yes. Cancer opened my eyes to other possibilities.”
“When were you diagnosed?”
“Five years ago.”
“And it was terminal.”
“Yes.”
“And you survived…”
“I was a rare case. My cancer went into remission after a terminal diagnosis. They gave me six months. I stopped treatment three months later with the cancer in remission.”
“Lucky indeed.”
“It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.”
“And then you stuck around the hospice as a volunteer.”
“Once again, your summations are on point. I offered my time as a volunteer at the hospice.”
“And you used your technical background to gain access to their computer systems.”
“It’s a hospice. The integrity of their computer system was easy to compromise. I was a computer expert. I helped out with various aspects of their computers in the office. Showed some of the employees how to use basic computer applications. In the process, I made sure I had access.”
“And what if your access was denied for some reason as time passed?”
“It happened. The solution was easy. I just contacted the hospice and let them know I was available to volunteer again, which I did. Once I sorted the technical hurdles and regained access, I would stop volunteering.”
“And no one suspected anything?”
“It’s not a bank. The most valuable information that a hospice keeps is medical records of patients with terminal cancer. By definition, the value of the data they store has a limited shelf life.”
“And your access to the system also allowed you access to the volunteer list. Which you astutely kept your name off of.”
“The volunteer list was stored on the server. It seemed prudent to keep my name off it. It is a rather long list. No one would miss one name. Except for you.”
“And with your computer access you were able to monitor the records of incoming patients and cherry pick those who might have been useful to you.”
“Correct. I had ongoing access to the electronic records. Or those that were received via paper and then scanned and stored in the computer. Once digitized, I had access.”
“What made you think that cancer patients would ever agree to your proposal?”
“My experience at the hospice. When you are terminally ill, counseling is a large part of the end-of-life transition. When I was first diagnosed as stage four, I also participated in counseling. Group counseling. And do you know what I quickly realized was a big concern for a lot of people?”
“Money?”
“Right. Money. Specifically, the financial well-being of those they would be leaving behind. For those on the lower end of the wealth spectrum, the concern was even more poignant. Of course, most of the group spoke about religion and family, but money was also a big worry.”
“And you saw an opportunity.”
“I think a reasonable person could see an opportunity to alleviate the financial concerns of the terminally ill.”
Another bout of coughing brought Richard Porter into a seated position. When the spasm ended, Richard rested back on the mattress.
“Who is the man with the cap and glasses?”
“I don’t know his real name.”
“How did you meet him?”
“You’re going to have to figure that out for yourself.”
“How do you contact him?”
“How do you think I contact him, Mr. Lord?”
“You probably use burner cells. Anonymous email accounts. Spoofed IP addresses.”
“That wasn’t very difficult to figure out, now was it?”
“How do you pay him?”
“What does it matter? It’s untraceable. Anything and everything you’re going to think of now is something I had years to consider. You’re playing catch-up.”
“It’s not my first time in that position.”
“Forget about this man. You’ll never find him because I don’t know where he is.”
“Oh, I’ll find him.”
“You say that with confidence. How can you be so sure?”
“Because there’s one juror who is still alive. And a man like you… a man who is as full of piss and vinegar as yourself… a man who is also on his death bed… a man like that is going to finish what he started.”
Chapter 56
Tobias answered the door wearing pajamas. His bare feet protruded from the hem of his pants. Long, knuckled toes wiggled in the mountain air. He motioned for Dan to follow him.
“I have a glass waiting for you,” Tobias said over his shoulder.
“I could use something t
o take the edge off,” Dan replied, following his host through the living room to the edge of the kitchen as he had done on his first visit. Moments later the two men were in the basement, with an array of computer equipment as the backdrop.
Tobias found his chair and motioned for Dan to grab a seat. Dan did as directed and pushed a chair from the far wall in the direction of the computers. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Tobias, Dan looked up at the dual screens illuminated over the desk.
Tobias reached for a small glass and motioned towards the bottle of an eighteen-year-old Macallan just out of reach. Dan obliged, filled his glass, and took a sip. “What did you find on Richard Porter?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe something. In a lot of ways, Old Dick is pretty boring. He started several companies and sold them for quite a bit of money.”
“Doesn’t sound boring.”
“For the last few years he has been living a quiet life.”
“That’s what ninety million can do for you.”
“He’s worth more than that, but does it really matter?”
“What else did you find?”
“I started with his email and phone. He has a wireless router in his home that handles all of the traffic from his residence. His IP address was easy to get. The guy doesn’t send many emails. He does have instances where his computers go offline for extended periods of time and his IP goes inactive. He may be using some type of IP spoofing setup. I can look more into it, if you need me to.”
“Not now. What else do you have?”
“His phone usage falls into a standard pattern. He makes a lot of calls to his attorney and his financial advisor. A group named Westing Financial. He must have a good deal of his money with them.”
“Westing Financial is run by the father of another girl killed at Club H2O. A friend of Richard Porter’s daughter.”
“You know, Dan, it seems that every time you show up, you’re talking about someone else who has died. Have you thought about keeping track of your own death count?”
“Not once. Who else is Dick talking to?”
“He calls his attorney, his financial advisor, a group of doctors, the hospice home care division, and a couple of acquaintances.”
“Any calls made to anything that looks like a burner cell?”
“Nothing. But if he’s spoofing his IP address intermittently, and he’s calling a burner cell, my guess is he would probably call a burner with another burner.”
“Did he make or receive any calls this evening?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“Because another member of the jury was killed this evening and I’m guessing Richard Porter and the killer somehow contacted each other.”
“Richard Porter made exactly one call this evening. He called Potomac Hills Country Club, where he has been a member for several years. This evening, he called the pro shop. He spoke to someone there for a little over three minutes.”
“Is that part of his normal routine?”
“It’s not. Not really. I ran a query for all the numbers he called in the last three months, which is how I got my list of typical calls. Richard Porter called the Potomac Hills Country Club on exactly two other occasions. He called the restaurant in September. The conversation lasted thirty seconds. He also called the pro shop a couple of weeks ago. That conversation was much longer. It lasted fifteen minutes.”
After a moment of consideration, Dan spoke. “What does a bedridden man want with the pro shop at his country club?”
“If that’s your question, then things are about to become even more mysterious. A couple of days after Richard Porter made the fifteen-minute call to the pro shop, he charged twenty-three hundred dollars and change to his credit card for the purchase of a set of clubs and a bag. The data indicates it was an in-store purchase.”
“So, I ask again, what does a stage four terminally ill patient with ninety million dollars in the bank want with a new set of golf clubs?”
“A parting gift for someone?”
“Maybe. Is the pro shop still open?” Dan asked.
“It’s probably closed. Call it and see for yourself,” Tobias said, pointing at the number on the screen.
Dan picked up his cell phone and called the number. The phone rang several times and then went to voicemail. Dan listened to the message and then hung up. He stood from his chair and paced back and forth on the carpet. “What time did he call the country club this evening?”
“Just after six p.m.”
“Right after the shooting in Georgetown.”
“Within a few minutes.”
A sly smirk slowly stretched across Dan’s face. “I guess it’s time to go see the club about becoming a member.”
Chapter 57
The long black Mercedes with a six-figure price tag was run-of-the-mill at the entrance to Potomac Hills Country Club. Angel stopped his car at the guard booth, flashed his driver’s license, and then rolled slowly in the direction of the massive clubhouse in the distance. To his right, green fairways stretched away from the main drive, disappearing into the rolling hills just west of DC. The Potomac River hid beyond a grove of trees to the left.
Angel considered parking options as he approached the clubhouse. His plan was short and simple. Spend as little time as possible without raising any undue suspicion. The grand entrance to the clubhouse grew before him, front and center, and a small sign indicated that the pro shop and bag drop were to the right. Angel turned at the designated sign and a young man approached the car as it crawled to a stop in the bag drop zone.
“My name is Luis Gomez. I’m here to pick up a set of clubs.”
The young man in a red golf shirt and white pants greeted Angel and then spoke into a walkie-talkie he removed from his belt. A second later the walkie-talkie chirped in response.
The young man turned towards the man in the Mercedes. “Mr. Gomez, you will have to sign for the bag in the pro shop. They are expecting you. You can leave your car here, if you want. Just put the hazards on. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
Angel considered the young man’s pimpled face and then lowered his defenses. He parked at the curb, leaving the engine running. He stood from the vehicle, a Titleist cap snug on his head. The lenses on his light-sensitive sunglasses darkened as they were exposed to the sunlight.
*
The assistant golf pro, decked out head-to-toe in Callaway attire, dragged the oversized golf bag from the back room and pulled it around the counter. He pushed the heavy bag into a standing position next to a sweater display, and then patted the top of the set of clubs.
“Mr. Porter picked this set of clubs because a lot of professionals use them on the tour. The latest from Mizuno. Forged blades. Great clubs. Not for beginners, though.”
The assistant golf pro watched as Angel fondled the head cover on the driver in the bag and then asked, “What’s your handicap?”
“I don’t play. My son plays,” Angel responded. “The clubs are for him.”
“Your son?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, it’s none of my business, but if your son walks when he plays, he may need a smaller bag. That bag right there is one of the largest bags they make. Mr. Porter filled it with everything you will need for a round. He packed the bag himself when the clubs arrived. Spent an hour in the clubhouse with that bag, making sure everything was just right. He bought tees, balls, some rainwear, even a pair of shoes.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s a great bag. Top of the line. Just like the clubs. Great setup. But it’s heavy as hell.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“We are at the end of the golf season for the year, everything is on sale. If you’re interested in a smaller bag, I can offer an additional twenty-five percent off.”
“Next time,” Angel said, picking the bag up by the large leather handle.
*
Outside, the young man in the red shirt hustled towards
Angel as he exited the pro shop. “Let me get that for you,” the young man said, reaching for the bag as part of his duties.
Angel pulled back and swung the bag away from the young man’s grasp. Keep your cool, Angel reminded himself. Make yourself unmemorable.
Angel smiled, released his grip, and watched as the employee hefted the large bag into position on his shoulder. Twenty paces later, the young man struggled to get the bag over the lip of the Mercedes’ trunk. With a resounding thud and rattle, the bag and clubs slipped from the young man’s grip and crashed onto the trunk floor.
“Sorry,” the young man exclaimed.
Angel grunted and reached into his pocket for a tip. He handed the boy a twenty, mumbled something unintelligible, and then reached to shut the lid of the trunk. As Angel turned back towards the driver’s door, his eyes met Dan’s, and a look of surprise washed over him.
*
Dan didn’t give Angel an opportunity to protest, quickly latching on to Angel’s throat, jamming his thumb under Angel’s jawline. Angel’s glasses fell from his face and Dan stared into the man’s eyes, finally seeing his facial features without impediment. Angel’s black, soulless eyes were dark enough for Dan to see his own reflection.
Angel winced as Dan increased the pressure of his grip and then instinctively pulled his own hands upward in an attempt to loosen Dan’s grasp. With blood flow to his brain waning, he pawed at Dan’s vise-like compression on his throat. Struggling to breathe, Angel dropped his right hand to his side and slid it into his waistband, reaching for his weapon. Dan responded with a kick to Angel’s left leg. As Angel tried to regain his balance, Dan released the man’s jaw and spun him into a standard law enforcement control position. Standing to Angel’s rear, Dan glimpsed the weapon in the man’s waistband holster as Angel regained his strength and balance.
The possibilities of the next few seconds flashed before Dan’s eyes. He could feel the strength of the man temporarily in his control and understood his adversary was no stranger to physical confrontations. The pistol protruding from the back of the man’s waistband made Dan’s decision an easy one.
“Payback time,” Dan announced. Powered by adrenaline, Dan quickly released his grip on Angel’s arm, grabbed the back of Angel’s head, and drove it into the frame of the car. The force of the collision rocked the vehicle and the body of the man slumped to the pavement.