by Ed Markham
Reilly’s eyes returned to his computer monitor. After a few seconds he pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as though something had come into sharper focus for him. He turned his attention back to David and said, “Your ability to work collaboratively—you certainly didn’t get that from your father, did you?”
This time David didn’t nod respectfully.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Reilly added. “Marty Yerxa is an American hero. The work he did concerning the Ferrety Collective . . . I doubt I’d be sitting behind this desk today if not for your father’s humility in refusing the many promotions the Bureau offered him.”
Humility? David thought. Again, he had to suppress the urge to frown.
Following his father’s success investigating the Ferrety Collective, David knew there had been a brief stretch when FBI leadership—not to mention David’s mother—had urged Martin to accept an administrative role, which would have meant a more predictable work schedule and more time at home with family. But Martin had refused. He told the FBI and his wife that he was an investigator, and that he belonged in the field. Some might have called it humility. But David knew his father was too intelligent and self-aware to cage himself behind a desk.
“Despite his accomplishments,” Reilly continued, “your father hasn’t always displayed your composure when it comes to inter-agency cooperation,”
David considered this. “Martin doesn’t hesitate to call it like he sees it, and he has no issue backing up what he says.”
Reilly’s expression darkened, and he continued as though David hadn’t spoken. “I’ll be frank, Agent Yerxa. Your father never liked to play by the rules, and he wouldn’t make it very far if he started as a young man in today’s FBI. He was effective for his time, but he was also lucky his antics never bit him in the ass.” Reilly paused. “I know he’s matured as he’s aged, and you’re more willing to play nice then he ever was, but you’ve also displayed a touch of his rogue nature.”
David didn’t reply to this, and Reilly glanced again at his computer monitor. “Tell me about J.J. Nowicki,” he said.
“Nowicki was a serial rapist and murderer who targeted pregnant women.”
David’s mind flashed back to the summer of 2010 when a thirty-year-old named Jeffrey Julian Nowicki had operated in and around Detroit and parts of northern Ohio. Nowicki had liked to play house—to pretend to be the doting husband of the visibly pregnant women he abducted, held captive, and sexually assaulted. But after a few days he’d tire of his make-believe spouses, at which point he’d strangle them. He murdered four women and their unborn children and was on the verge of killing a fifth when David arrived at Nowicki’s suburban home.
“Tell me about his arrest,” Reilly said.
As he answered, David’s tone remained even and his eyes never left the deputy director’s. “Due to time constraints, I was forced to enter Nowicki’s home without tactical support. I discovered the subject in the process of sexually assaulting and choking a woman named Margaret Wright, and I intervened. I forcefully subdued Nowicki until my support units arrived.”
“Why didn’t you use your weapon?”
“It was close quarters, and I was afraid I might injure the victim.”
Reilly again glanced at his computer. “It’s clear from your firearms proficiency record that you’re not the most able agent with a weapon. But I would hope any man we place in the field could hit a human target at a range of eight feet.”
David was quiet for a moment as he considered what he knew about Deputy Director Jonathan Reilly. He thought of the photographs on the walls—the macho military action shots and the family portrait sitting on a cabinet behind the deputy director’s desk. He thought Reilly would appreciate a half-truth.
“Are you familiar with the term petechiae, sir?” he asked him. “When a person’s strangled, the blood capillaries in her face and eyes rupture from the strain, causing red spots or discolorations.” He paused. “I had to look into four sets of red, blood-flooded eyes and tell four expectant fathers that their wives and unborn children had been murdered in the most brutal manner I can think of.” He looked at Reilly for a moment, and then added, “J.J. Nowicki didn’t deserve an easy death.”
The whole truth was that David was uncomfortable with guns and an unreliable shot—at any range. When he held his firearm, black memories fouled his concentration and corrupted his ability. He could overcome his discomfort during training exercises, at least enough to pass muster. But firing a gun at another human being—even one as detestable as J.J. Nowicki—was for David a fraught and uncertain undertaking. Confronting the rapist and murderer, he’d trusted his fists more than his firearm.
Reilly tented his fingers and regarded him thoughtfully. “I look through your record, and I see several instances where time constraints, as you call them, required you to handle things personally. But handling things personally is not something we do here. Handling things personally gets agents and civilians killed.”
David said nothing, and after a silence Reilly said, “Section Chief Wainbridge let me know you might bring your father in to assist on this investigation?”
“He’s joining me tomorrow.”
Reilly nodded. “It’s an unusual arrangement—having you two operating together.” The deputy director crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, I don’t think there’s been anything like it in the history of the FBI. But again, I’m relying on Carl Wainbridge’s judgment on this. He says your partnership works, and I take his word for it.” Reilly leaned forward, his eyes sharpening. “In this case, I hope it not only works, but it works quickly. I know I’ve made my point and I don’t need to belabor this, but I’m going to expect immediate results from you and your team.”
Now David detected something almost desperate in the deputy director’s tone. He understood where it came from; Reilly was in charge of overseeing all of the Bureau’s criminal investigation activities, and so would ultimately be held accountable if David and his team failed. It was a vulnerable position to be in, and one in which Reilly had little ability to manage the course of an investigation.
David realized their meeting—their entire conversation—was Reilly’s attempt to feel involved in something over which he had little to no direct control. This realization worried David.
“Deputy Director, sir,” he said. “I can assure you every person on my team will handle this investigation with the appropriate level of urgency.”
Reilly stared at him for several seconds, and then nodded. “Glad to hear that, Agent Yerxa. You’re dismissed.”
Chapter 9
MARTIN GRUNTED AS he lifted the bags of soil out of his trunk.
He carried them up the few steps to the front door of his home and then through his small living room and kitchen to the back door. Outside again, he dropped the bags next to the vegetable and herb garden that took up the last four feet of his square cement patio. To his left and right were similar patios backing up similar walk-up brick homes, which together formed a courtyard area invisible from the surrounding streets—one of a hundred courtyards tucked away like secrets in the neighborhoods of South Philadelphia.
“Score?” he called out, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Three to one, Brewers,” Burt Vitiglio shouted from two patios over.
Burt was sitting in the same folding chair he’d had out on the front sidewalk earlier in the day. Next to him sat a second folding chair and a small table holding a chess board, a radio, and a can of Diet Sprite. “Why the hell are you gardening this late in the afternoon?” he asked. “You’re going to sweat your nuts off.”
“I’m going down to D.C. tomorrow morning. Need to get this done before I go.”
“Helping David?”
Martin nodded.
“Does this have to do with that Senator who got chucked off the bridge?”
Martin said nothing, and Burt shook his head. “I’ve been listening to the reports all day. It’s a sick world we live in.
” He stood up from his chair and craned his neck in Martin’s direction, his eyes perusing the bounty of his neighbor’s garden. “Don’t over-water Angela’s peppers,” he said before retaking his seat.
“Mind your own fucking business.”
Martin ripped open the first bag of soil and spilled it into the depleted far-right quadrant of the wood-walled garden. He added the second bag and kneeled down to dig out two inch-deep channels in the loose soil. When he’d finished, he stood and retrieved a cup of water from his kitchen, which contained the seeds. He sprinkled them into the trough in clusters of three or four and then smoothed the soil back into place before uncoiling the hose attached to the back of the house.
“Green beans?” Burt asked from his patio.
“Beets.”
“Still too hot out.”
“Ange always grew beets at the end of summer.”
“Ange was smart enough to wait until the weather cooled off.”
Martin watered the newly planted beets and then re-wound the hose. He kneeled in front of the opposite side of the garden and picked two handfuls of basil. He held it to his nose and inhaled a deep, aromatic breath, and then he brought the basil inside. He returned to the back patio a second later and stood with his hands on his waist, dirtying his T-shirt at his hips.
“Since when are you the big gardener?” Burt called to him.
“I’m not. Get the board ready.”
“Now we’re talking.” Burt sat forward and began to reset the chess pieces to their starting positions.
“Only one game,” Martin said. “Then I’ve got to read the files David sent over.”
He stood for a moment and looked at his wife’s tomato and bell pepper and bean plants, her basil and her creeping rosemary. He felt a strong urge to touch each of their leaves and stalks, but instead he walked inside and washed his hands. He splashed cold water on his face and neck, and then rejoined Burt Vitiglio outside.
Chapter 10
“YERXA,” THE BARTENDER said.
David nodded to him as he pulled off his jacket and took a seat at the bar.
Steve, a lean fifty-year-old with a shaved head and salt-and-pepper beard, pulled a beer from the low bar-back fridge, twisted off the cap, and set it down on the napkin in front of David. Cold air whisped out of the bottle’s mouth.
“Missed you the last few nights,” Steve said.
“I’ve been busy.”
The bartender pointed at David’s beer. “Too busy for your constitutional? Must be something pretty awful.”
As he took a drink of his beer, David looked around the bar. The décor in Gilroy’s was unexceptional; dark wood, red leather booths, and forest green walls, along with a few televisions hanging on the wall behind the bar. Nothing special. But the place was quiet and seldom crowded, and just a five-minute walk from David’s house in the Old Town section of Alexandria, Virginia.
What David liked most about Gilroy’s, and what brought him in almost every week night, was the fact that the people he saw were nearly always at peace. You could see it on their faces and in the way they sipped their drinks and moved their hands. At least for an hour or two, they were free of all the burdens life and society placed on them. There are very few places in the world you can go apart from a quiet bar on a weekday night and see that kind of serenity, David had learned. And he enjoyed drinking in that atmosphere—drinking in that feeling of peace—as much as he enjoyed his beer.
Tonight a handful of people sat alongside him at the rail—mostly men in dark suits discussing cases and consulting fees over half-full glasses of gold liquids. There were also two younger women David could tell were attorneys by their clothing and the way they held their glasses of white wine. The one facing his end of the bar had looked at him boldly as he sat down, and now he could sense her watching him and whispering to her friend.
He ignored her and glanced up at one of the television screens behind the bar. A lean, earnest face stared back at him, and he could just make out what the television host was saying—something about upholding “the laws set forth by the founders of our great nation.” He watched as Philip Goodman held up what looked like a small book.
“Nationals not playing tonight?” he asked the bartender. He knew Steve’s passion for right-wing rhetoric was trumped only by his love for baseball.
“Lost another to the Braves this afternoon. That puts us eight back.”
“What about the wildcards?”
“No chance. No chance,” Steve said, scowling. “Did you come in here just to bring me down? Listen to our friend here and you might learn something.” He gestured up at the television screen.
Now Goodman was talking about the current administration’s “assault” on handguns and a person’s right to bear arms, and the “traitorous” actions of centrist House Republicans, whom Goodman called “weak and “complicit” in the Democrats’ attempts to countermand the Constitution.
David took a sip of his beer and ran his fingers along the condensation on the side of his bottle.
After returning to Quantico from his meeting with Reilly, he and Lauren, along with several of their team’s analysts, had spent the afternoon and much of the evening poring over license plate records from the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Authority, as well as toll road data from the areas around the other murder sites. They’d also examined cell phone and credit card records from all three murder locations. They’d turned up nothing, and the fugu lead was looking similarly unpromising.
“Apparently you can find whole puffer fish in almost any city in the U.S. if you know the right restaurant supplier,” Lauren had informed him. “We’re asking around, but I’m not optimistic.”
But there had been some good news, too. Forensics had uncovered a partial fingerprint from the rope tied to the bridge railing.
“We lucked out, man,” Clarence Perkins had told David over the phone.
Perkins worked on the forensic team that supported David and the other field agents. He had continued, “The rope’s made from a waterproof synthetic fiber blend, so the oil residue from our unsub’s fingertip stood out instead of soaking in. We’re running the print, but that could take a while.”
As the bar’s ceiling fans spun in lazy circles, David thought about his meeting with Deputy Director Reilly. He recalled the way Reilly’s tone had grown appropriately reverential when talking about the case that made Martin Yerxa a legend.
“The Ferrety Collective,” David said to himself.
“Scary business,” Steve said.
David looked up. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud.
“But could’ve been a lot worse,” Steve added.
David nodded. “My father was involved with that.” After a pause he added, “More than involved. He led the investigation.”
In 1986, Martin Yerxa had almost single-handedly thwarted what would have been, at that time, the most devastating domestic terrorist attack in the history of the United States. Early that year, police had discovered the bodies of four young Caucasian women in four separate towns near the border of Wisconsin and Minnesota. All of the murders had taken place on consecutive Sunday nights in late February and early March. In each case, police found the victim hanging upside down, her throat sliced open so that she bled out like a slaughtered animal. Peyote was found in each of the victims’ stomachs, and chunks of flesh were missing from the women’s backs and thighs. A crude image of a gaunt white creature with fangs, black eyes, and long limbs had been drawn on a wall at each of the murder sites.
State investigators recognized the drawings as references to the Algonquin myth of the Wendigo—an evil, supernatural creature said to feed on the flesh of human beings. And so they’d focused their investigation on the area’s Native American population.
Martin, rejecting this theory and defying local law enforcement, eventually uncovered the four victims’ involvement in a semi-religious, drug-fueled cult run by a man named Arnold Ferrety, a professor of Native American S
tudies at the University of Minnesota.
“For every complex problem, there’s an answer that’s clear, simple, and wrong,” Martin liked to say whenever he talked about his work on the Ferrety Collective. “H.L. Mencken said that. He was wrong about a lot of shit. But he sure got that right.”
Ferrety and his acolytes, many of whom were his brainwashed students, believed that America—like the cannibalistic Wendigo—had feasted on the land and livelihood of its native inhabitants. It was eventually discovered that the four dead women, at Ferrety’s urging, had volunteered themselves as symbolic sacrifices.
In an act that had taken on the gilded sheen of legend within the halls of Quantico, Martin had interrupted a small, peyote-fueled assembly of Ferrety’s adherents. He dragged a young woman he suspected of involvement in the murders down to the Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s office in Minneapolis and forced her to spend several hours locked in a room with the mutilated bodies of her four dead “sisters.” The woman had nearly lost her mind before telling Martin and his team everything she knew about the Collective’s activities.
The following morning, Ferrety and his followers had planned to detonate explosives in six train stations—including Union Station in Chicago and Grand Central Station in New York—as payback for wronged Native American peoples. After Martin uncovered this plot, tactical units prevented five of the six attacks, though members of the Collective managed to partially detonate a device in New York’s Penn Station, killing nine people. Analysts estimated David’s father saved 2,000 lives.
“You remember much of that?” Steve asked. “Your dad working the case?”
“I was eight years old,” David said. “I remember him being gone for weeks at a time, and my mom worrying about him. But that could have been any case.”
At the mention of Angela Yerxa, Steve’s expression became respectfully somber. He was called away by another customer.
David took a sip of his beer. He noticed the men sitting next to him shaking their heads and thumbing up at the television behind the bar. Following their gestures, he saw Steve had changed the channel to the late local news.