“What are we looking at?” he asked Fial.
“The parking ramp to the Union Plaza Building. At 2:28 p.m. last Sunday, less than five minutes after the assassination.”
“Where’d you get the footage?”
“It’s from the Avery Insurance Building, twenty-five stories up,” Wedge said, as the woman neared the top of the ramp. “The camera covers the Eighteenth and Broadway intersection. It’s a new experimental security camera operated by the city. We just received the disc this morning.”
Patton looked back at the screen. He watched as the woman pushed her stroller to the top of the ramp. She appeared only in the bottom quarter of the field of view. Suddenly, a man moved across the picture and came running up to the woman, halting her in her tracks. The man wore a dark uniform and cap and looked to be questioning the woman. The images were too small and grainy for Patton to make out the faces, but the exchange seemed uncannily familiar.
And then it struck him. The woman with the baby!
The one he thought he saw coming up the exit ramp. He had questioned her about it, but she had said something about how the wheel of her stroller got caught in a rut and she had turned it to get it out. He tried to picture her: blonde, vibrant blue eyes, a little pudgy but quite attractive, New England accent. He remembered the sucking sounds the baby had made, the way she had leaned over the stroller and reassuringly cooed to the child. Then he remembered Wedge radioing him about the two maintenance workers coming out the building. That was when he had let her go.
Now he knew his eyes had not fooled him. She did walk up the ramp!
“I wonder who that guy is talking to her?” Hamilton said aloud. “He looks law enforcement to me.”
Patton stared at himself on the screen. As discretely as possible, he said, “Why don’t we look this over in private,” and then he had everyone but Hamilton, Fial, and Wedge leave.
When they were gone, Hamilton looked at him curiously. “We’re all ears, Special Agent.”
“Okay, motherfuckers, it’s me,” he admitted. “I’m the guy talking to her.”
“You?” Wedge said. “But that would mean that…”
“I fucked up big-time,” Patton finished for him. “I had her right in my mitts, but let her slip away, goddamnit.”
Hamilton rubbed his hands together. “Do we know for certain that woman is Jane Doe?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Fial said. “Let’s take a look at some pixels.”
“While he’s doing that why don’t you tell us what happened,” Hamilton said, seemingly amused.
Patton described the encounter as Fial did his thing. The spook’s hands were in constant motion, pointing and clicking the mouse, punching the keyboard, all in an effort to fine-tune the image. When he finished, what the thousands of pixels showed was a clear picture of the woman’s face.
“Damn,” exclaimed Wedge. “If that’s not Jane Doe, then I’m Alfred E. Neuman.”
“I think we should get independent confirmation,” Patton said, and he had Schmidt and Hogen brought back in the room. They quickly confirmed the match and were sent off again.
Fial said, “So Jane Doe goes in on Friday as a UPS deliveryman and comes out on Sunday— less than five minutes after violently murdering three people—as Super Mom with a newborn. She’s not just an assassin—she’s a goddamned ice woman.”
“I think the baby was fake,” Patton said. “I heard it making sounds, but we didn’t find any baby articles at Jane Doe’s apartment. It must have been some kind of robotic doll or something.”
“A professional female assassin? Gives me the willies just looking at her,” confessed Wedge.
I should’ve slapped the cuffs on her when I had the chance. Henry’s going to go ballistic.
With a detached academic air, Hamilton said, “I think she’s rather extraordinary, actually. This woman isn’t just disguising herself or acting out the roles, she’s living them.”
“So how are we going to catch her?” Fial asked. “She’s a chameleon.”
“I wish I knew,” said Patton. “I wish I goddamn knew.”
CHAPTER 112
HE PICKED UP the phone to dial Chuck Pinkerton. He had no luck reaching him, so he decided to roll on with the case and call back every few minutes. He was awash with worry over Jennifer, but he forced himself to put her out of his mind temporarily while he sorted through the case. He needed to get everybody moving in the right direction.
He had two key goals now: first, to find out Jane Doe’s true identity and history; and second, to find out who had hired her. Schmidt and Hogen could help with the first question, so he had them tell Dr. Hamilton everything they knew about the subject. Patton had briefed Hamilton over the phone from L.A., but he hoped the two witnesses could give more detailed accounts before they flew back to the West Coast later tonight.
When the separate interviews were finished, Patton and Hamilton retired to the profiler’s office on the seventeenth floor.
“This woman puzzles me,” Hamilton began the conversation, settling into the chair behind his cluttered desk. “She appears to combine multiple personality disorders.”
“So clue me in on them, Dr. Freud.”
“First of all, she’s impulsive. Here she is a professional killer, a loner by design and necessity, and yet she goes to a nightclub, brings a man home to her lair, fucks his brains out, and steals strands of his hair in an orgasmic overture. Why? She could have obtained suitable hair by many means. Why this way?”
“Maybe she didn’t know she was getting hair from a convicted criminal. Maybe she thought she was dealing with some average Joe who lived far away in Oakland and would never remember the incident. If she could get her hands on blond male hair, it would deflect suspicion from her, because her natural hair color is dark brown. The plan would have worked too if Schmidt hadn’t done time.”
“But why take such a big risk? Why is she on the one hand methodical, careful, and clever, and on the other hand so impulsive. It smacks of borderline to me.”
“Criminology 101 was a long time ago, Doc. Refresh my memory.“
“Borderline personality disorder. Displays a crisis in identity and unpredictably impulsive behavior regarding sex, drugs, or alcohol.”
“Sounds like me in college.”
“And yours truly as well. There’s also the issue of the bondage. She was clearly trying to exercise power over Schmidt by handcuffing him to the bed. But it went beyond that: she was trying to hurt him.”
Patton pulled out his iPad and thought back to what Jane Doe had said to Schmidt: I’m going to hurt you, but you will like it.
“That’s one of the characteristics of the sadistic personality disorder. These are people motivated by power. They use cruelty to establish dominance and enjoy inflicting physical and psychological pain on others. They tend to discipline people under their control with excessive force or punishment. Oftentimes, their actions are a re-enactment of the way they were treated themselves. That’s what I think Jane Doe was doing with Schmidt.”
“So it’s unlikely he was the first man she seduced to her apartment, handcuffed to the bed, and rode like a pinto.”
“He was probably the only one she took hair from, but I suspect she had taken part in this ritual many times before Schmidt. And maybe since.”
Patton nodded thoughtfully. Sounds plausible.
Hamilton’s hazel eyes lingered on him a moment. “I see schizotypal elements here too. Such people have no close friends or confidants other than family and an amazing ability to change appearances and personalities. In the videotapes, her role changes are deeper than acting alone. The way she moved as the UPS deliveryman...the gestures were exactly what you would expect from a man. Based on the clothes you found in her apartment, I would venture that she not only dresses up and plays like a man regularly, but that she actually takes on a male personality. In any case, someone had to have severely mistreated her to make her want to dominate men the w
ay she did Schmidt. I should think the seed was planted early, but there may have been later events that exacerbated her condition.”
“So what we’ve got here is one crazy lady. How does that help us find her?”
“That’s your job, Dudley Do-Right.”
“Okay, how about this then, Doc? What would you say if I told you that I don’t think our mystery woman’s American? In fact, I think she comes from Southern Europe, probably Spain.”
“She does speak fluent Spanish and her physical appearance is consistent with someone of Spanish, or at least Mediterranean, heritage.”
“There’s also her apartment. Everything I saw—the furniture, photographs, clothing, books—tells me we’re dealing with an educated, worldly person. Then there’s the multiple accents. They’re all over the map. New England, Southern California, and of course the fluent Spanish. But you’ve got to consider it all together—Schmidt and Hogen’s physical descriptions, the cosmopolitan feel of her apartment, her mastery of Spanish and English, the multiple accents, and the fact that most of the female terrorists these days are trained in Europe. It doesn’t matter what country you go to, you have a huge number of women being trained to do bad things. But there’s one other important thing. I think it’s the clincher.”
Hamilton leaned forward. “I’m all ears.”
“Ever heard of Diego Gomez?”
“The Basque assassin?”
“He’s actually supposed to be Spanish, though he’s been linked to the Basque separatist group Euskara. He’s mostly an independent contractor. Been on the international watch lists for years, but no one knows what he looks like. The one photograph from French intelligence is pretty shaky. And the two artist’s sketches look nothing alike.”
“Are you suggesting Gomez is actually Jane Doe?”
“It definitely fits. Gomez has seven kills to his credit in the last decade, mostly high-ranking political and business figures. All of his sanctions involved distances believed to be in excess of five hundred yards and all involved heavy-caliber rifles. On two occasions .50-caliber incendiary cartridges were used. And all of his reported hits have been in Europe, the U.S., Canada, and South America.”
“Do either of the artist’s sketches look like Jane Doe or John Doe?”
“There are vague resemblances, but nothing more. The fact that the photo and two drawings are so different leads me to believe Gomez is being protected.”
“By whom? A foreign intelligence service? A dirty government?”
“Or an individual. Whoever or whatever it is, it would have to have the power to manufacture evidence, buy off witnesses, produce false suspect descriptions, that sort of thing. All in an effort to protect the true identity of the assassin.”
The doctor scratched his chin, thoughtfully. “Gomez as Jane Doe. I have to admit I like the sound of it. It would explain why Interpol and every other outfit have had such poor luck tracking Gomez down. Gender and gender-specific activities invariably blind security, police, and military authorities. Men see women as nurturers, not killers. With the exception of Islamic female suicide bombers, an attack by a woman is so unexpected, so diametrically opposed to traditional cultural norms, the tactical advantages are limitless.”
“Case in point: just look at how badly this woman has kicked our ass.”
“If you’re right about this, this is huge,” Hamilton said excitedly.
“You’re damn right it is.” He looked at his watch. “Oh, shit. Jennifer.” He jumped up from his seat. “Sorry, Doc, I have to make a phone call.”
Hamilton looked at him with astonishment. “Who’s...who’s Jennifer?”
“The woman I aim to marry. But first I have to bail her out of jail.”
CHAPTER 113
“MY DEEPEST CONDOLENCES to you and your family, Benjamin. This has been a terrible tragedy.”
Locke was sitting at his desk in his home office, hunched over his speakerphone. He wasn’t sure how to respond. On the other end wasn’t just another grieving well-wisher paying her respects over Susan’s death, but President-elect Fowler, the traitor who had betrayed him and his dream to resurrect America, the woman who tomorrow would die in front of twenty thousand unsuspecting spectators.
“I appreciate your taking time out from your campaign to call, Mrs. President-elect,” Locke said with faked sincerity. “Words cannot describe the loss my family has suffered. Your call means a lot to us.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Locke stared off at his spectacular drawings of bronco-busting cowboys by Remington and Russell, but found nothing inspiring in the pictures today. “No, I don’t think so. It’s in God’s hands now.”
Thanks to the Net, the entire world already knew about the tragedy at the clinic. Locke had taken over a dozen calls from Susan’s teachers, relatives, co-workers, and conservative leaders from around the country. He had revisited her death with so many different people, the faces and voices were becoming blurred.
“I know you had high hopes for Susan, Benjamin. There is perhaps nothing more unfair to a parent than losing a child. My heart goes out to you and your family.”
“Susan shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” Locke said wistfully, but his face betrayed his inner pain. The knowledge that he could have done more to prevent his daughter’s death crushed him. Never again would he see Susan’s happy face as she showed him her sterling report card, as she sang the hymns with him in church, as she triumphed on the soccer field. She was dead at seventeen because of him and there was nothing he could do to turn back the clock. Ultimately, there was no one to blame but himself; the Apostle hadn’t known Susan would be at the clinic or even what she looked like. And even Skull Eyes and the colonel would never have allowed the attack to take place had they known his daughter would be there.
“I know this has to be awfully hard on Mary. How is she holding up?”
Locke had no choice but to lie. “She’s doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.” It made him angry that he had to invent falsehoods about her whereabouts to everyone paying their respects.
There was a strained silence. Locke sensed Fowler had something important to say, but was hesitant. “Benjamin, I know you and I have had our differences of late. But I want you to know I view Susan’s passing as a loss for us all. I only pray that the police can track down the culprit responsible. I understand they’re going to release the woman they’re holding.”
Locke felt as though ice water had just been poured down his back. “W-What did you just say?”
“They’re releasing the woman. Her name is Jennifer...”
“Odden! Jennifer Odden!”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Good heavens, are you certain they’re releasing her?”
“It’s all over the news. You mean you haven’t heard?”
“No, I’ve been busy taking calls.”
“I don’t know the details, but apparently there are eyewitnesses who said she didn’t do it. They’re saying the killer was a policeman, or a man dressed like a policeman.”
The muscles twitched at Locke’s jaw. “Has the man been identified?”
“No. Unfortunately, no one seems to have gotten a good look at him or the car he escaped in.”
Locke felt the breath catch in his throat at this disturbing turn of events. I need to call Bill Hanson. “I appreciate your call, but I’m afraid I must return to personal matters.”
“I understand. But before you do, there’s something else I’d like to say. I know you’d like to give up on me, but please don’t do that. I’m still hoping we may resolve our differences in the coming weeks. There is a middle ground here, and I believe you and I just need to work together to find it.”
You imbecile! I didn’t make you the next president so you could cozy up to the very social engineers who have ruined this great nation in the first place! America is in peril right now and you must step down—involuntarily—and give Senator Dubois his r
ightful throne!
“Benjamin, are you still there?”
“Uh, yes...I was just thinking.”
“I want to try and resolve our differences. You have given me tremendous support in the past and during this election, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it. Will you give it another chance?”
“Yes, yes, that is the prudent course of action. But right now I must make this call.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? Anything to help you and Mary through this difficult time?”
He thought for a moment and realized there was something he did want from Fowler. In his anger and outrage at being thwarted, he wanted to be there tomorrow when the fatal bullet struck. Like a Roman mob, he wanted a ringside seat to the bloody, triumphant spectacle.
“I’d like to attend your speech tomorrow, if I may,” Locke said. “After everything that’s happened this past week, it would mean a lot to me.”
“Consider it done. I shall have a seat for you up on the platform with Senator Dubois.”
Locke’s jaw dropped. “The senator’s going to be there?”
“Of course—I’ll be announcing him as my vice-president-elect.”
“What?”
“The party leaders have convened an emergency session and are recommending that I select Senator Dubois for my Veep. I have no objections with the selection. I thought Governor Jamison would have made a fine choice too, but given Senator Dubois’ experience and outstanding devotion to this country, I agree that he is the better choice. And besides, I think Joe McFarland will step in quite nicely as head of the Senate Judiciary Committee.”
She was up to something—Locke could feel it in his bones. You little sorceress!
“I’m so pleased, Benjamin, that you and Senator Dubois will both be there for my speech. It will be a historic occasion.”
The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense Page 38