Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  “I thought Farrington was poor. Where would he get enough cash to buy off a mother whose child was just murdered?”

  “Farrington has wealthy backers, but the obvious source would be his wife. Claire Farrington’s family is rich. The Meadows made money farming in Eastern Oregon. Then they diversified into Japanese car dealerships, and they provided the seed money for some successful high-tech companies. After they got engaged, Dr. Farrington’s family financed Christopher’s first run for state office. If it was necessary to save her husband’s career, Claire could come up with the cash.”

  “Is there any evidence that Farrington was fooling around, anything concrete?”

  “Jeff says no, but he also says that if Farrington was screwing Erickson it wouldn’t be the first time he lusted after tender, young flesh.”

  Brad grimaced. “You’ve been reading too many Harlequin romances.”

  “Farrington may have been acting them out. Jeff says that a year or so before he ran for the state senate Farrington settled a PI case for a seventeen-year-old girl who was injured in a skiing accident. Supposedly, he brought over the settlement check in a chauffeur-driven limo stocked with champagne and who knows what else and celebrated with her in the backseat.”

  “Where did all this come from?”

  “The chauffeur. Jeff says Farrington’s driver was so disgusted that he went to the cops. Supposedly, the girl’s parents wouldn’t let her talk to the police, so no charges were brought. Everyone thinks they were paid off by Chuck Hawkins, Farrington’s hatchet man.”

  Brad took a sip of coffee and mulled over the titillating information Ginny had just provided. The more he thought the more his brow furrowed.

  “So,” he said finally, “your theory is what, that the president of the United States killed his babysitter to shut her up about their affair.”

  “Hawkins could have done it for him. Jeff’s met Hawkins a few times. He says the guy is scary. He was some special ops guy in the military and still wears his hair like a marine. He and Farrington are supposed to be very tight. The word is that there isn’t anything Hawkins won’t do to protect the president and the first lady.”

  “Okay. This just got way out of my league. I’m not going to accuse the president of murder. Not only would Reed, Briggs fire me but I’d never get another job as long as I lived.”

  “Who said you had to accuse the president of murder? Didn’t you pay attention in crim law? When you’re defending someone accused of a crime you don’t have to prove who did it. You just have to show that there’s a reasonable doubt about your client’s guilt. The police will have the job of arresting Erickson’s killer if you convince them that Little didn’t murder her.”

  Brad hadn’t paid very close attention in his criminal law class and he’d forgotten that his responsibility to Clarence Little wouldn’t extend to finding the real killer the way the lawyers did on TV and in legal thrillers.

  “You’re right,” Brad said, relieved. Then he looked serious. “Don’t tell anyone else your theory about Farrington. It could get you in trouble.”

  “I’m not crazy, Brad. And I was just playing devil’s advocate before. I have no idea who killed Laurie Erickson. But I still want to help you find out if there’s anything to Little’s claim of innocence.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, pretty please. The stuff they’ve got me working on is boring. I want a case I can get excited about.”

  Brad frowned. “I need to think.”

  “By all means.”

  “I do appreciate your advice and the information you gave me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Give me a day or so to work this out.”

  “Take all the time you want. But remember one thing. If Little is innocent and you stand by and do nothing about it, you’ll be helping the real killer get away with murder.”

  Part Three.The Ripper

  Washington, D.C.

  Chapter Eleven

  Keith Evans was exhausted. As the agent-in-charge of the D.C. Ripper task force he was expected to set an example by outworking the FBI agents under him. Last night, he’d crawled into bed after midnight. Now it was 5 A.M. and he was up again, groggy, eyes raw, and with no time to shower before heading to the scene of the Ripper’s latest atrocity, a Dumpster in the alley behind a Chinese restaurant in Bethesda, Maryland. The task force office had been notified as soon as the locals realized they had another victim of the Ripper. Evans was sorry that the Bethesda police were so competent; he could have used the extra sleep. At least the bastard had been considerate enough to leave the body only a few miles from Evans’s house.

  After finding a parking spot a block from the crime scene Evans took a swig from his thermos and grimaced. He’d been too rushed to put up a fresh pot, and the day-old coffee he’d reheated in his microwave was barely tolerable. As Evans trudged along the sidewalk the wind blew a page of newsprint toward him. He was so exhausted that the skittering sports page hypnotized him and it took an effort to pull his eyes away from it. Evans shook his head to clear it. The Ripper case was wearing him out. When he looked in the mirror he no longer saw the fresh-faced Omaha detective who’d broken a serial case that had stumped the FBI. The agent-in-charge of the FBI task force had been hunting the killer for three years and he was so impressed by Evans’s spectacular detective work that he’d convinced the young man to apply for a spot in the Bureau.

  When Evans started the course at Quantico he’d been twenty-nine, six two, and a rock hard 190. All of his hair was sandy blond, his skin was tight, and his blue eyes were piercing. Evans was almost forty now and he resembled that younger man only from a distance. There were gray hairs among the blond, and you could see black shadows under his eyes when he removed the glasses he needed for reading. He was carrying an extra ten pounds around his waist and his shoulders were slightly stooped. And the truth was that he’d never duplicated the intuitive leap that had led him to crack the case in Nebraska. There had been victories or he wouldn’t be heading up the Ripper task force, but they’d been accomplished by dogged police work rather than brilliant deduction.

  Along the way, Evans’s long hours had ruined a decent marriage and worn him down; not the best state for dealing with an extremely bright murderer. And there was no denying that the Ripper was smart. He knew police procedure and he was great at covering his tracks and eliminating trace evidence. There were the usual theories about the killer being a cop or a cop wannabe, some disgruntled security guard who had not been able to qualify for the force and was taunting the police to prove they’d made a mistake in rejecting him. But anyone with half a brain could go online and learn all about crime scene investigation. The truth was that the task force had no idea who was behind the killings that were starting to freak out the good citizens of Washington, D.C., and its environs.

  A barrier manned by a Bethesda police officer had been set up across the mouth of the alley to keep out curious civilians who, despite the early hour, were already straining to see the activity around the crime scene. Evans squeezed through them and stopped on the other side of the sawhorse to sign the security log that contained the names of everyone who entered the crime scene and the time they’d signed in and out. The alley was swarming with crime scene technicians, uniformed cops, and agents recognizable by their blue windbreakers with FBI stitched on the back in bright yellow letters. Evans pulled on a pair of latex gloves and donned a set of Tyvek paper booties even though he knew it probably didn’t matter what he deposited at the crime scene now that it had been compromised by the cops, techs, and agents who’d been through the alley in the past few hours, not to mention any civilians who had wandered by since the killer had deposited his grisly package.

  The Dumpster was halfway down the alley, and a body bag holding the victim lay next to it. At the other end of the alley was the van that would transport the corpse to the morgue for the autopsy. Standing next to the body bag was Arthur Standish, the county medical
examiner, who was sipping coffee from a Starbucks cup. Evans trusted Standish, who had done a thorough job autopsying the second Ripper’s victim before the Bureau got involved.

  Evans started toward the body but was intercepted by a stocky officer with a salt-and-pepper crew cut.

  “Ron Guthridge, Bethesda PD,” the man said as he extended his hand. “I was in charge of the scene until your boys took over.”

  “Keith Evans. I’m lead on the FBI task force.”

  “I know,” Guthridge said, grinning. “You’re a TV celebrity.”

  “Thanks for calling so fast,” Evans said, ignoring the dig. He was the public face of the FBI on this one. His fellow agents had been ribbing him about how bad he looked at his press conferences. Now he had to put up with kidding from the locals.

  “Believe me I’m pleased as punch to turn this baby over to you.”

  “Do we have an ID?”

  Guthridge nodded. “The victim is Charlotte Walsh, an AU student. We have an address for her apartment, too.”

  “And you know this because you found Walsh’s ID in the Dumpster under her body.”

  Guthridge’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  “The Ripper always leaves his victim’s ID under the body,” Evans said, regretting that he’d had the urge to show off as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Exhaustion was eroding his IQ. “We haven’t made the fact public,” Evans added quickly.

  “No one will learn it from me,” Guthridge assured him.

  “Has anyone visited her apartment?” Evans asked.

  “No. As soon as we realized we might be dealing with the Ripper I put everything on hold so I wouldn’t step on your toes.”

  “I appreciate the courtesy.”

  “Like I said, this is your baby and you’re welcome to it.”

  “Great way to start the day,” Dr. Standish said to Evans when he and Guthridge arrived at the Dumpster.

  “I love the smell of garbage and dead bodies in the morning.”

  Standish chuckled and Evans flicked his head toward the body bag. “Why do you think we have another Ripper victim?”

  Standish was suddenly serious. “The eyes are missing.”

  The authorities hadn’t told the public that the Ripper removed his victims’ eyes, either. It was always good to hold back certain facts to weed out false confessions.

  “What about the substance we’ve been finding in their mouths?”

  “I won’t be able to tell until I’ve conducted the autopsy and sent a sample to the lab.”

  Minute traces of a substance had been discovered in the mouths of all four of the Ripper’s victims but the FBI lab had not figured out what it was and why it was there.

  “Hillerman, bring over the wallet,” Guthridge yelled at the tall, thin African-American policeman who was in charge of logging in the crime scene evidence.

  Hillerman brought over a plastic evidence bag containing, among other items, a black leather Prada wallet. Evans fished the wallet out of the bag and examined its contents. The driver’s license belonged to Charlotte Walsh and listed an address a few miles from American University.

  Evans squatted down and unzipped the body bag. He knew what to expect but he was still appalled by the horrors one so-called human being could visit on another member of the human race. The Ripper dressed his victims before disposing of their bodies, but Evans could still see the black holes where the poor girl’s eyes should shine and her throat, which looked like a wild animal had gotten at it. There was no question that the pretty girl in the driver’s license photograph and the abused young woman in the body bag were the same person.

  “Did anyone find a car belonging to Walsh nearby?” Evans asked Guthridge.

  “No, but we’ve got an APB out,” the sergeant answered.

  Evans stood up and copied the address on the license into a notebook. Then he replaced the wallet in the evidence bag and handed it back to Hillerman.

  “I really want to catch this son of a bitch,” Evans muttered.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Standish said before taking a sip of coffee.

  Guthridge’s cell phone rang. He stepped away and pressed it to his ear. After a brief conversation, the sergeant returned to the small group.

  “They just found Walsh’s car in a remote part of the lot at the Dulles Towne Center mall. The car won’t start because someone disconnected the battery, and there’s blood on the driver’s seat.”

  “Is there a crowd around the car?” Evans asked.

  “No. A security guard noticed the car sitting by itself before the mall opened and got suspicious. When he saw the blood he called it in.”

  “I’m going to send a forensic team out there. But we’ll tow the car as soon as they give the okay. Play this down.”

  “I’m on it,” Guthridge said.

  Evans talked to one of the members of the forensic team before walking over to the Dumpster. He held his breath when he looked in so he wouldn’t have to smell the odor of rotting food that permeated the area behind the restaurant.

  “Where was she lying?” he asked.

  Hillerman handed Evans a bag with crime scene photos that had been snapped before the body had been removed. The top shot showed Walsh’s corpse splayed across several black garbage bags. He rifled through the other shots, which documented the place where the body had been found and the condition of the Dumpster after the body was removed. All of the other victims had been found in Dumpsters. Evans didn’t have to be an English lit major to figure out the symbolism for which the Ripper was aiming.

  “I can’t do anything more here. You can take the body, Art.”

  Dr. Standish signaled to two men who were waiting to take away the corpse.

  “I’m going to drive over to Walsh’s apartment.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I have any results.”

  “Thanks,” Evans said, feeling twice as tired now as he had when he’d entered the alley.

  Charlotte Walsh lived on the fourth floor of an eight-story building, part of a shiny new complex that combined housing with trendy restaurants, upscale chains, and quaint boutiques. As soon as Evans found the address, he knew Walsh came from money. No starving student could afford to live in this apartment house, which was meant for young professionals earning six-figure salaries.

  During the drive from the crime scene, Evans had called his partner, Maggie Sparks, and told her to meet him at Walsh’s place. A slim, athletic woman in her early thirties dressed in a black pinstripe pants suit and a white, man-tailored shirt was pacing the sidewalk near the entrance to the building. Sparks ’s glossy ebony hair, high cheekbones, and dark complexion suggested Native American DNA. She did have some Cherokee blood but her ancestors had also been Spaniards, Romanians, Danes, and others of unknown origin, so she wasn’t certain where she belonged in the genetic hodgepodge that had produced the human race.

  “Sorry to roust you out of bed,” Evans apologized.

  “No you’re not,” Sparks answered with a smile. “Misery loves company.”

  Evans smiled back. He liked Sparks. She worked as hard as any of the task force members but was able to keep her sense of humor. They’d gone out for drinks a few times after work but he’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her to do more.

  The lobby was marble, dark wood, and polished metal lit by Art Deco wall sconces. Colorful abstract art hung on the yellow pastel walls. Evans flashed his ID at the security guard who sat behind a desk in the lobby. The guard was dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks and looked like he pumped iron. His black hair was slicked back, and he eyed Evans’s credentials suspiciously.

  “We need the apartment number for Charlotte Walsh, please,” Evans said.

  “I’m not certain I can give out that information, sir,” the guard said as he squared up his shoulders and tried his best to look dangerous.

  Evans read the black lettering on the guard’s gold name tag.

  “Miss Walsh was
murdered this morning, Bob. I’m sure you don’t want to impede a homicide investigation.”

  The guard’s eyes grew wide. “Sorry,” he said as he ran down the list of tenants, all traces of his tough guy persona gone. “That’s seven-oh-nine.”

  “Does she live alone?”

  “No, she’s got a roommate, Bethany Kitces. She came in two hours ago.”

  “Thank you. We’re going up. Don’t tell Miss Kitces. Let us break the bad news.”

  “Yeah, of course.” The guard shook his head sadly. “That’s terrible. She was a sweet kid.”

  “You knew her?” Sparks asked.

  “Just to say hello to. She was always friendly.”

  Evans briefed Sparks during the elevator ride to the seventh floor and the walk down a lushly carpeted hall lit by more wall sconces. Evans stopped in front of a black lacquered door with a decorative gold lion’s head knocker and a doorbell. He opted for the doorbell and they waited patiently through three rings before a sleep-drugged voice ordered them to stop their racket. Evans told Maggie Sparks to hold her ID up to the peephole.

  “Miss Kitces,” Sparks said through the closed door, “I’m Special Agent Margaret Sparks. I’m with the FBI and I’d like to talk to you.”

  “About what?” Kitces asked. Evans could hear the suspicion in her tone.

  “It concerns Charlotte Walsh, your roommate.”

  “Has anything happened to her?” Kitces asked, concerned now.

  “I’d prefer to talk to you in your apartment where we’ll have some privacy.”

  Evans heard locks snapping and the door was opened by a barefoot woman who looked to be in her late teens. She was wearing pajama bottoms and an AU T-shirt and could not have been taller than five feet. Bethany Kitces’s round face was framed by long, unkempt, curly blond hair, and she wore no makeup. It was obvious that she’d been roused from bed, but the presence of the FBI agents had acted like a cup of powerful espresso and her large blue eyes were wide open.