by Lis Wiehl
“How did you sleep?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Probably about as well as you did. I heard her crying for her mother in the middle of the night.”
They both looked at Estella, who now seemed to have forgotten the terrors of the night. Children, Allison guessed, lived in the here and now.
She was just pouring Estella a cup of milk when the phone rang. Marshall answered it. Whatever he heard made his forehead wrinkle. Without thinking, Allison gripped Estella’s shoulder, only becoming aware of it when the girl gave a frightened little squeak.
“It’s a caseworker from Child Protective Services.” He handed her the phone.
She swallowed, and then said, “This is Allison Pierce.”
“Hi, Allison. This is Joyce Bernstein. I’m sorry our staff wasn’t able to help you last night. It was pretty crazy. Now that things are calming down, we’re starting to get up to speed over here. We’ll be sending someone by to pick your girl up in about twenty minutes. Thanks for being flexible.”
“No problem.” Allison kept her voice steady. It was illogical, but it hurt to think about giving Estella back. “So you found her parents?”
“Not yet. But she’s not the only child who got separated from her family. It’s been a mess. Not only did we end up with a half-dozen other kids who were totally on their own, but three day care centers downtown got evacuated. And with the phones basically being down, no one could get in touch with anyone else. We’re only just now getting things straightened out.”
It seemed important to have Estella fed and presentable before the caseworker showed up. Sensing that her world was about to change, she clung to Allison, refusing to sit on the telephone book that had served as a makeshift booster seat the night before. Allison ended up feeding her on her lap. Then she wiped Estella’s face and hands with a damp paper towel and tried to gingerly brush the snarls from her hair. Only then did she think about her own appearance. She quickly changed out of her pajamas.
All too soon, there was a knock on the door. Marshall answered it, while Allison hung back. She told herself it was hormones that were making this so difficult. Giving Estella to the authorities would be the quickest way to unite this girl and her family.
At the sight of the middle-aged stranger wearing a red sweater and a wide smile, Estella started to cry. She buried her head against Allison’s chest, her little hands clinging tightly to her blouse. Allison kissed the top of her head, inhaled her sweet aroma, and then gently began to pry her fingers loose. “They’re going to find your mami, Estella. Mami.”
Her dark eyes were full of confusion and pain. Even if Allison had spoken Spanish, she had a feeling that Estella was too young to understand why her world was changing yet again. As she got one small hand loose, Allison braced herself. Would Estella scream and flail? But instead, when Allison held the girl out to the social worker, Estella gave her a look of dull despair. It was as if she was resigned to always losing the people she needed.
Allison managed to hold it together until the caseworker had Estella settled in a car seat and was pulling out of the driveway.
Once she was inside the door, she let the tears come.
CHAPTER 15
Riverside Condominiums
Six hours after she had washed down two Somulex with a glass of wine, Cassidy woke with a jolt. It was daylight. She was freezing, shaking so hard from the cold that she could hear her teeth knocking together. Where was she? She was surrounded by low-burning candles, lying naked in a cold bath from which the bubbles had long ago dissipated.
Blearily, she looked at her watch. She had been lying in deep, cold water, basically passed out, for most of the night. What if she had slipped under the surface? Cassidy jumped up, blew out the candles, and grabbed a towel, vowing never again to do anything so stupid.
In the kitchen, she drank one, two, three cups of coffee, trying to shake off the grogginess that made her eyelids droop. Her body ached from sleeping half sitting up in cold water. She turned on the radio. It was tuned to KNWS, but to her surprise what she heard wasn’t a national feed.
The person on the air was Victoria Hanawa. Jim’s cohost. Cassidy thought about what Jim had told her about Victoria. How much of it had been true? How much of it had been designed to make Cassidy do what he wanted? Jim wasn’t above shading the truth and even ignoring facts that didn’t fit his theories.
Cassidy had a theory about people who spent their working lives entertaining the public. Actors. Comics. People in TV and radio. Secretly they were all just a tad insecure. No matter how many listeners or viewers they had, it was never enough. Like the philosopher who wondered if a tree falling in a forest made any noise if no one was there to hear it, people who made their living as entertainers—and Cassidy counted herself among them—wondered if their lives had meaning once the cameras or microphones were turned off.
Which is why it made perfect sense that Victoria was processing the horror she had just witnessed by talking about it to an eager audience.
“Hello, Kim in Portland,” she said. “You’re on the air with Victoria Hanawa, and of course we are talking about the tragic, tragic death yesterday of Jim Fate, who I had the honor of working with right up until the end. Kim, what memory would you like to share of Jim?”
“I just can’t believe he’s gone!” A woman’s voice, rough with emotion, edged toward hysteria.
“It’s almost impossible to believe, isn’t it?” Victoria’s own voice broke. “Only twenty-four hours ago we were talking about our weekend plans. And now he’s gone.” She heaved a shaky sigh. “Is there a story about Jim you would like to share, Kim?”
“It’s just—just everything. He spoke up for us, you know? The little guy. He wasn’t afraid to say what was wrong with this world. Who will do that now?”
“Jim certainly leaves big shoes to fill,” Victoria agreed. “Whatever happens, it won’t be the same.”
“You were there, right, Victoria? You were there when it happened?”
“The authorities have asked me not to say anything about how Jim died. They are concentrating on bringing his killer to justice. They don’t want me to reveal any clues they already have. But let me just say this: whoever it was didn’t have the courage to look Jim in the eye. Whoever killed Jim was the lowest kind of coward.” Victoria’s voice strengthened. “But if he or she thought that by killing Jim, they would silence his voice or his thoughts, they were wrong. We will pick up his banner and carry it forward. He cannot be silenced that easily. Jim lives on in each of us.”
One by one, listeners called in to agree with Victoria or to build on what she said.
“Jim didn’t sound like anybody else, and it was because he was on fire,” said Maribel in San Francisco. “He was passionate. He truly believed everything he said.”
Zach in Spokane said, “I ran for city council because of Jim Fate. He inspired me to quit complaining about government and go out and do something about it.”
“I’m sure Jim would be proud to hear that,” Victoria said. “That is the kind of legacy that he leaves behind, and that we can all carry forward. And now we’re going out to Phil in Tigard. Phil, what’s your reaction to Jim’s murder?”
“I didn’t tell the guy who answered the phone this, but I’m not sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m not sorry he’s dead. That Fate guy was a blowhard. He just lapped up attention, and he did anything he could to get it. If he were alive now, he would be loving this. He would be eating it up. That was his goal, to get everybody talking about Jim Fate. Well, you know what? In six months no one will even remember his name. He was just—just flavor of the month. Only it was more like flavor of the day. Just some loudmouthed jerk who liked to rile everybody up.”
“You certainly don’t think he deserved to die, do you?” When there was no answer, Victoria’s voice sharpened. “Do you?”
“Someone finally took care of him. It’s about time.”
Cassidy stared a
t the radio in disbelief. Jim was always talking about people who hated him. But she had thought of it like hating taxes or someone who cut you off in traffic. You didn’t really mean it. Oh, sure, you complained to your friends, swore under your breath, or even sent a nasty e-mail that got you the Nut of the Day award, but you didn’t go any further than that. You didn’t get confused and decide it was something that someone deserved to die for.
She was sure the authorities would get in touch with Phil in Tigard, or whoever it really was. But in her gut, Cassidy knew that this guy would turn out to be no one, nothing. Just someone guilty of the same thing he was accusing Jim Fate of: riling everyone up.
Cassidy carried the radio into the bathroom with her as she tried to make herself look less like a zombie. One by one listeners poured out their horror at Jim’s death, their disbelief that he had been murdered, their memories of past shows, and their theories about who was behind it all. Lots of theories. Cassidy paid particular attention to these, because she was developing her own theories. Some muttered darkly about the government, rival talk show hosts, a rather generic “them,” and even space aliens.
One man said he thought that Congressman Glover, who had been a nonstop target of Fate’s for the past few weeks, must have hired an assassin to “take him out.” Another pointed to the family of Brooke Gardner. The young mother had killed herself the summer before after Fate aggressively questioned her about the whereabouts of her missing baby. Cassidy knew a lot about the case because she had covered it too. The thought gave her pause. If Jim had been targeted for his coverage of that story, could she be the next target?
Cassidy thought about it and then shook her head. She was letting paranoia get the best of her. Still, if anyone knew whether she should be worried, it would be Nicole and Allison. Whether it was terrorism or not, they were sure to be in the thick of this. She sent them a quick text message, suggesting that they look more closely at Glover and the Gardners.
But there was yet one more theory that Cassidy heard, a theory that seemed to leave Victoria at a loss.
“I think it was you,” Cynthia from Vancouver told Victoria. “You finally took care of him. You squashed him like the vermin he was.”
“Me?” Victoria’s voice cracked.
“We’ve all heard you guys fight on air. We heard how he treated you. He never let you get a word in edgewise. Well, good for you for finally standing up to him.”
CHAPTER 16
Portland Field Office, FBI
Nic spent the early part of the morning at Jim Fate’s autopsy. The observation suite was crowded with representatives from an alphabet soup of local, state, and national law enforcement as well as public health agencies.
Even though the air in Jim’s studio had tested negative for sarin, the examiners took no chances. The forensic pathologist and his assistant wore yellow Tyvek suits and white helmets with their own air supply hoses snaking up their backs. The helmets made them look like spacemen. They also wore rubber aprons, shoe covers, and heavy gloves. Even with all these layers, they worked as quickly as possible, because the CDC had warned them that sarin could penetrate rubber and be absorbed through skin. To minimize the risk, they had begun by washing Jim Fate’s corpse—which looked pale and vulnerable and sadly human—with a 5 percent hypochlorite solution.
Of course, washing the body meant there was also a chance that they would wash away hairs, fibers, chemicals, and other trace evidence. But the FBI still had the package the poison had been mailed in. In balancing risk versus reward, safety won out.
As soon as the autopsy was done, Nic drove back to the FBI Portland field office to head up the first meeting of the hastily assembled task force. The conference room was jammed. As a sign of how seriously they were taking this attack, top brass at the FBI had flown out specialized personnel from Quantico and headquarters to assist and evaluate. Senior officials from Homeland Security were also on hand. For now, the outsiders were taking a watch-and-wait approach. If it wasn’t sarin, they would turn back around and fly back to Washington. If it was, then they would already be in place to swing into action.
Most members of the Portland FBI’s evidence recovery team were also at the table, including Leif, who was the ERT’s leader. There were also representatives from local and regional law enforcement, the Oregon Health Department, the post office, and more. Nic was thrilled to see Allison there, which meant she had been assigned as the lead prosecutor, and the two of them would work the case together. Catching Nic’s eye, Allison gave her a smile so subtle that to an observer it might have looked like a simple widening of the eyes. For both of them, this was a case that could be the high—or low—point of their careers.
One question was on everyone’s mind. Was this an act of terrorism? Or were they looking at a simple homicide?
Nic started off by explaining the findings from the autopsy to the circle of alert faces. “Unfortunately, the immediate autopsy results were inconclusive. Some evidence points to sarin, but some doesn’t. For instance, the first responders reported that Fate’s face was dry. Sarin pretty much switches all your systems to a permanent on, so his eyes and nose should have been running like faucets, and he should have been drooling. But there was no evidence of that.”
“Have you thought that maybe Fate died so fast that his tear ducts didn’t have time to kick in?” Special Agent Heath Robinson asked.
It was a fair question, but one with a more pointed history behind it. Heath had asked Nic out a dozen times, and even tried to kiss her at a party last New Year’s Eve. At the time Nic had told him, truthfully, that she didn’t date. Since then she had caught wind of a few whispers about her being a lesbian or a man-hater or both. She was pretty sure that Heath was the source.
“That is, of course, a possibility,” Nic said evenly. “It’s just one piece of the evidence. Another is that Tony—that’s Tony Sardella, the medical examiner,” she explained for the benefit of the outsiders— “Tony says the corpse had miosis, meaning the pupils were like pinpricks. That is consistent with sarin. Unfortunately it’s also consistent with a lot of other poisons. And the lungs were congested, but again that could point to sarin or a dozen other things. The one thing that made Tony wonder was that there was no”—Nic consulted her notes—“no intense postmortem lividity.” Lividity was the purplish skin stains seen on the underside of a corpse, where blood settled.
“He says that if it was sarin, the lividity should have been much more pink, but the stains were the typical purple color. Again, not conclusive. We’re waiting on the results of the initial tox screens, and we should get those sometime soon. There wasn’t enough time for anything to get into his urine, so they’re only running tests on his blood.”
Nic was beginning to think that the cause of death was going to be solved not with scalpels and saws on the autopsy table, but with microscopes in a lab.
“One thing we do know is that the air in the studio tested negative for sarin. But that test was conducted over an hour after the body was removed. It’s conceivable that Fate inhaled most of the dose, and the rest was dispersed when the first responders got there and opened the door to the studio.”
“How about his coworker?” Allison asked. “Victoria—” She consulted her notes. “Victoria Hanawa. I saw her outside the studio, being hosed down by the hazmat team.”
“The hospital kept her for a few hours as a precaution, but all tests were negative,” Nic said. She looked at the end of the table. “What about the package and its contents, Karl? Any sign of sarin?”
He shook his head. “Initial tests were negative, but we’re running a more sophisticated battery.”
“What was the delivery device?” Nic asked.
“A modified smoke grenade.” Karl held up a printout. It showed a photograph of a black cylinder with a wire trigger loop. “It was in one of those envelopes with a red string you pull to open. The end of that string was tied to the trigger of the smoke canister. So when Fate pulled the string
and opened the package, the contents of the smoke canister sprayed directly into his face.”
Nic thought they were finally catching a break. “Okay, who uses those—military, law enforcement? Can we trace it?”
Karl had a drooping, lined face that made him look like a hound dog. Exhaustion and frustration only heightened the resemblance. His mouth turned down.
“That’s what I thought too. But it turns out that smoke grenades are also used by serious paintballers. They’re available all over the Internet. Some sellers only deal with professional personnel who have been vetted in advance. But for every one of those, there are a dozen sites who just want a purchaser to click on a box that says they’re eighteen or older.”
“What about markings on the canister? Lot numbers, manufacturer’s name, anything like that?” asked Dwayne Flannery, a Portland police officer.
Karl said, “There are some numbers on the canister, and we’re trying to trace them, but it looks like a lot of this stuff is sold as surplus that changes hands dozens of times. And/or it’s sold in big lots that are broken down again and sold individually. I’ve talked to a couple of sellers. Their record keeping seems deliberately vague, like if they don’t keep track of what they sell, then they can’t get in trouble for what someone does with it.” Karl measured a space with his hands. “The canister itself was fairly small, about the same length as a paperback book. That’s one reason they packed them together, so that anyone who handled the package wouldn’t get suspicious.”
“And then there’s the book itself,”said Owen Simmons, a Multnomah County sheriff. “Remember that movie Talk Radio? It was based on a real case, and later they put out a book. The same book they sent Fate. Alan Berg was a Denver talk show host who was gunned down in his driveway in the early 1980s by neo-Nazis. Maybe it’s a sign that we’re looking at some kind of extreme right-wing group like The Order?”