by Julie Cave
"I knew somebody had to see that stupid bus," said Dinah. "There must be others."
"Anyway, her brief description fits the cap we found here in this Dumpster," continued Dawes.
"You and your guys have done a great job," said Ferguson. "Thanks for the hard work you've done."
Dawes shrugged. "Glad to do it. Nobody comes here, kills my folks, and takes out a church without me being all over it. I kind of take it personally."
Ferguson smiled. "We'll take the clothes down to our lab and we'll let you know, okay? We'll also send some lab people up here to search the Dumpster. Could you tape it off so that there's no contamination in the meantime?"
"Sure thing. I'd appreciate that," said Dawes. "When you catch him, I'd like to take a few minutes with him. Let him know about my displeasure."
"I think we all would," said Ferguson. "Thanks again, sir."
As the three investigators approached their car, Dinah asked, "What's next, boss?"
"Time to pay a visit to a certain man who was kicked out of this church," said Ferguson, sliding behind the wheel. "Let's see what he has to say for himself."
* * * *
Sussex 1 State Prison
Waverly, Virginia
Prisoner Number: 10734
Death Row
Dinah is always on time. I like that. I've always valued punctuality.
Even the freedom of punctuality has been taken away from me. I have lost the ability to decide when I'll do anything. I eat when they say I should, sleep when they say I should, and exercise when they let me out of my cage.
Even when I greet my visitors, I am dependent on guards to ensure I'm on time. You think the guards care about my love of punctuality? They do not.
Slowly, I am memorizing every detail of Dinah Harris: the sweep of her black hair, the crinkle of warmth at her eyes, the precise way she has of speaking, and the crackling luminescence of her mind.
Today, she asks about the second bombing.
"Why did you decide to use a school bus?" she wants to know.
I shake my head regretfully. "It was a tactical error," I admit. "It seemed like a smart idea when I stole it, but I didn't think about how obvious I would be driving around on a Sunday morning. I realized too late that people had noticed me."
"Was the bomb you built similar to the first one?"
"Exactly the same," I say. "I didn't want to deviate from my comfort zone too much."
"You know that one person died in that bombing," says Dinah. "Two more were hurt badly and will suffer their injuries for the rest of their lives. Did you think about those people when you detonated the bomb?"
I can only be honest: I did not think of this. Will she ever understand that my pain is so great, so encompassing that I cannot see other's suffering? It is strangling me, like a great python; consuming me, like a flesh-eating disease; suffocating me, like a dark, airless room where even tiny pieces of light cannot penetrate.
I say nothing and the silence stretches.
"Why did you choose the United Methodist Church?" Dinah asks finally.
"It was really more about the style of building than the people in it," I insist. "I didn't care what denomination it was."
"Why didn't you choose a Jewish synagogue or Muslim mosque?" Dinah presses. "Is it the Christian faith you hate?"
To be honest, it didn't occur to me to choose a synagogue or mosque, I think to myself.
"I have experience with the Christian faith," I say carefully. "I suppose that's why I chose Christian churches. I've never stepped foot into a synagogue or mosque."
"What was your experience with the Christian faith?" Dinah continues.
I don't really want to talk about that just yet, but I owe her some kind of explanation. "Well, it's simple really," I say. "I hate it."
"Why is that?"
"It is hypocritical and judgmental."
"Of you, specifically?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to talk about why?"
"Maybe. Not yet."
"Do you subscribe to any faith now?" Dinah changes the angle of the subject.
I shrug. "I guess I believe that we all determine our own fate. I've heard that some people think God is a giant puppet master, that we have no control of our own destiny."
"Is that what you believe?"
"I don't believe in the supernatural," I say. "I believe what I can see, hear, touch, and taste."
"If you're the master of your own destiny," says Dinah carefully, "you must have intended to end up on death row."
"Subconsciously, I must have," I concede. "I chose to engage in an activity with severe consequences."
"Is this how you envisaged your life?"
Oh, how laughable. Does anyone envisage that they'll live in a cage awaiting execution like a condemned turkey at Thanksgiving? Yet I could never imagine normal life, of a wife and kids and white picket fence. It was as if I knew that such simple pleasures would be denied, and that I would live on the outside, watching those on the inside enjoy what I could not have.
"No," I say.
"Did you think you could continue to bomb the churches and never receive punishment for it then?"
I consider this. Had I planned to continue bombing churches for the rest of my life? Probably not. That sounds exhausting.
"I don't think so," I admit.
"Then, if you don't mind me saying," says Dinah, her stare forthright and disconcerting, "if you are in control of your own destiny, yet you end up living your days in a way that you didn't intend, you're not doing a great job, are you?"
Stupid logic. "No," I agree.
"So we're back to my original question," says Dinah. "Why?"
I think I know why, but I'm not telling just yet. It's painful. It takes time to gather up the courage to talk about that.
So, Dinah Harris with your clear eyes and logical mind, you'll just have to wait.
Chapter 8
ONE YEAR EARLIER
Andrew Cochrane, the man who'd been refused membership at the Manassas United Methodist Church for his indiscretions, now lived in a loft in Adams Morgan, a suburb of D.C. that had become more gentrified by day but was still a little scary at night. It was late afternoon when the three investigators arrived at his address, and it appeared that he'd just gotten home from work.
He opened the door with a beer in his hand and a scowl on his face. "What?" he said rudely.
"Special Agents Ferguson and Sinclair, FBI," said the boss brusquely. "Special consultant Harris. Got a minute to talk?"
Cochrane was in his late thirties, with sandy, tufty hair, blue eyes that were aggressive and bloodshot, and a big attitude problem. He glared at them. "What about?"
"We'll tell you, if you'll let us in," said Ferguson.
Cochrane sighed loudly. "Fine, come in."
His loft was a typical bachelor pad — sparsely furnished with only the necessities. He took an armchair, which left only one other chair free. He relaxed in the chair and took a long pull on the bottle of beer.
Ferguson, Sinclair, and Dinah all chose to continue standing. Perhaps they could intimidate some respect into the man, thought Dinah.
"We want to talk to you about a bombing," said Sinclair. "The bombing of the First United Methodist Church of Manassas."
Cochrane stared at them. "What? I hadn't heard about that."
"The bomb was set on Sunday morning, during their services," continued Sinclair. He started to pace around the room, turning to look at Cochrane occasionally. "One person died. Two people were critically injured. Do you know anything about that?"
"No," said Cochrane. "I don't." He stared at Sinclair belligerently.
"Really? Are you upset to learn of the casualties? Does it bother you to know that one of the church walls was destroyed?"
"Well, it's not my church, so not really," said Cochrane.
Dinah raised her eyebrows at Ferguson.
"Didn't you try to make it your church?"
Cochrane
drank some beer and shrugged. "Don't know what you're talking about."
"Apparently, you tried to join the church and they refused membership to you," said Sinclair patiently. "Remember?"
Cochrane narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah. My misguided attempt to find religion."
"Why were you refused membership?"
"They were uptight," said Cochrane dismissively.
"Because you tried to seduce a married woman? Or because you were abusive to the children in the church?"
Cochrane snorted. "Whatever. They were just uptight. I was glad to leave."
"So you feel a bit of anger toward the church, since they were so uptight?"
"I don't feel anything," said Cochrane. "They don't rate a mention in my thoughts."
"Really? The rejection didn't get to you?"
"It wasn't rejection," snarled Cochrane. "I didn't want to join that stupid church."
"Did you visit any other churches during this period of time?" asked Sinclair. "Any other denominations, for example?"
"Nope. I only tried one."
"Don't suppose you've got any fertilizer lying around?" Sinclair threw a new angle in.
"Fertilizer? Obviously you've seen my enormous back yard," said Cochrane sarcastically.
"What about the Internet history?" pressed Sinclair. "Would we find instructions about how to build a bomb?"
"No," said Cochrane. "You wouldn't. Go ahead. Have a look." He shook his head and drank some beer.
Dinah was starting to get the feeling that Cochrane wasn't who they were looking for. Despite his other social problems, she doubted that he was smart enough to plan and execute the attacks. In any case, there was no credible reason that Cochrane would also bomb a Catholic church.
"What's with the attitude?" Ferguson demanded.
Dinah knew. She could see the humiliation in the man's eyes — he'd gone to an organization that preached inclusivity and love, and had been rejected. She guessed that Cochrane had been rejected many times before. It had made him angry and isolated, like an injured bear waiting to lash out.
She walked over and crouched down near Cochrane as he finished his beer.
"I get it," she said quietly. "That church had it coming, didn't it? It deserved what it got. You don't care what happens to the people, because they didn't care about you. Am I right?"
"You're right about one thing — I don't care about that church or its people," agreed Cochrane. "But I sure didn't blow it up."
Sinclair began drifting around the room, glancing through the meager bookshelf and papers on the cheap desk before moving onto the desktop computer. Surprisingly, Cochrane didn't object. Perhaps it was the glassy-eyed effect of the beer calming him down.
In any case, Dinah didn't think he was the bomber. He might have held a grudge against the United Methodist Church, but there was no connection to the Catholic church, and he showed no anxiety at having the FBI crowded into his loft.
They waited in silence as Sinclair cast a cursory eye over the computer. Finally, he straightened up and shook his head. "Thank you for your cooperation," said Sinclair, pulling his business card from a sleek steel holder in his pocket. "If you can think of anything that might be useful to our investigation, please contact us."
Cochrane barely glanced at the business card as it was handed over, and he tossed it onto the coffee table. "Sure," he said carelessly.
Outside, Dinah asked: "What did you find on his computer?"
"A few disturbing websites that single, lonely men sometimes visit," said Sinclair. "There was nothing at all to do with a bomb. Another dead end, I'm afraid."
The three lapsed into silence as they considered their next avenue of investigation. "Go home and get some sleep," said Ferguson at length. "We'll reconvene tomorrow and see what we've got."
* * * *
Senator David Winters almost leaped from his own skin when he arrived the next morning at his office, expecting silence and solitude, only to find someone standing at the window gazing thoughtfully at the view below. "What are you doing here?" Winters demanded.
The person turned around, and Winters saw that he was only a young kid, tall and gawky in what was probably his first suit, anxiously clutching a briefcase.
"I'm Connor Eastleigh?" he said, his nervousness making everything he said a question. "Your new intern?"
Winters frowned. "Was I supposed to get a new intern?"
"I think so?"
Winters sighed and pinched his nose. He vaguely remembered conducting interviews, which seemed like an age ago. He'd been so caught up in his extracurricular activities that he'd forgotten about the more mundane things, like staffing.
"Well, Caleb," he said. "I...."
"Connor, sir."
"What?"
"My name is Connor. Not Caleb?"
Winters paused, let the kid squirm for a few moments. "Right. Well, Connor, welcome to my office. I suppose you are doing some sort of degree in political science?"
"Yes, sir," said Connor eagerly. "And forensic accounting."
This young man would be about as interesting to have around the office as a can of paint, thought Winters. However, on the other hand, it would be handy to have an office lackey whose sole focus was pleasing the boss.
"Are you interested in a career in politics, son?" Winters asked.
"Oh, yes," said Connor. "I hope to be a United States senator myself someday."
"Not the president?" asked Winters with a wry smile.
"Perhaps," said Connor. "One goal at a time, I guess."
"Take a seat," said Winters. "I guess I should tell you about the issues on the table at the moment. How are you at researching case law?"
"I can do anything you ask, sir," said Connor with a slight frown. "But I thought law clerks usually worked with case law."
"First rule of this office," said Winters. "There is no black and white. Everything is gray. So if I need case law researched, then that's what you'll do. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Great. I want you to dig out every constitutional challenge with regard to separation of church and state," said Winters. "I want to know every precedent, every opinion, and every argument."
"Yes, sir," said Connor. "Which side of the argument is your preference?"
Winters looked at the young man shrewdly. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, after all. It had been a long time since he'd molded a person into his likeness, influenced his behavior, and crafted him to become just like himself. Sadly, his last protégé had become expendable and Winters had had to arrange for his assassination. Now, perhaps it was time for a challenge again. "Well, Connor," he said, "I happen to be championing a legal challenge to require greater separation of church and state. You know, our great nation was founded on that very principle. You know why?"
Connor wisely shook his head.
"Because when the church and state are linked, religious freedom is compromised, including the freedom to have no religion," said Winters, warming up to his subject. "Why should people who don't believe what the Church teaches be forced to live by their rules? Why should Christian-driven legislation be enacted that infringes on people's freedoms if they choose not to believe in Christianity? I believe in a society that is free from religious dogma, where I don't have to hear about religion at all unless I choose to walk into a church."
"Okay," said Connor. "I see."
"Federal courts are our last line of defense to protect our constitutional rights," continued Winters. "That's why I want you to research case law. I am championing a legal challenge at the moment, and I want to know the background of every case before it."
"Is that the government funding religious charities case?" Connor asked. "I saw it on the news."
"Right," said Winters. "I want you to research this topic thoroughly. I want to know what Congress has said about the issue, what judges have said, what presidents have said. I want to know who is with us and who is against us."
Connor nodded, obviously ple
ased to have an important task to do. Meanwhile, Winters would be free of his young charge.
After Connor had left, Winters rang his secular humanist friend, Cartwright. "How is the media attention for the case going?" Winters wanted to know, without preamble.
"I'm happy to report we now have the support of the two big humanist organizations in America," said Cartwright. "Both the American Humanist Co-operation and the Secular Humanists of America have agreed to support and fund the court case."
Winters heart warmed when he heard the word "fund." "What does their support entail?"
"Both groups have a significant online presence," explained Cartwright. "We can expect them to generate a lot of Internet traffic with regard to the issue. They publish blogs, magazines, and articles relating to the issue all over the web, in addition to the usual Facebook and Twitter pages. They also have a YouTube channel on which they post videos pertaining to humanist issues."
Winters didn't fully understand the power of the Internet, but he was glad the humanist organizations did. "What else?"
"Both have extensive contacts in the traditional media," continued Cartwright. "Press releases will be sent out regularly, and there are many experts and speakers who can be called upon to argue the case on radio or television. They have a very professional, savvy public relations department that has been very successful in saturating the media with the humanist agenda."
"Great," said Winters, actually starting to feel impressed. The professional power of these groups was making his previous association with a eugenics group look like a roomful of preschoolers.
"Finally, they have a network of activists and lobbyists who campaign heavily on Capitol Hill," said Cartwright. "You should look out for them. They have also been successful in educating Congress and the Senate on the humanist viewpoint and strive to ensure they are represented."
"What do you want me to do?" Winters asked.
"Sit tight for the moment," advised Cartwright. "Soon our campaign will be rolled out on a national level, with a coordinated effort between the online world, traditional media, and lobbyists. Elena Kasprowitz will be the face of the campaign, but she'll have the backing of these two powerful humanist groups. Our fight is to win the hearts and minds of Main Street, and there is one message in particular that will do that."