by Ed Markham
“And all of this data collection—finding out the things people search for on their private computers—this is all legal?”
Omar looked perplexed for a moment. “Well the laws we’re employing here weren’t written specifically with the Internet in mind, but so far the courts haven’t decided we’re out of line, so we’ve kind of lucked out there.”
“And you don’t see anything wrong with that kind of wide-ranging gathering of personal information?”
“Um, I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Maybe you should sometime,” Martin said, his frown deepening. “This is the kind of government overreach that’s driving people fucking bonkers and breeding lunatics like the one we’re chasing. I almost empathize with him!”
He glared at Omar, but could tell by the anxiety on the young man’s face that he wasn’t getting it. “All right,” he said. “Start breathing, Omar. I’m done shouting at you. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Omar blinked at him a few times before returning his eyes to his computer. “The only machine we’ve tied to all four victims is located on the campus of the University of Virginia. The computer requires users to login, and the searches were performed by four different people—four separate usernames and passwords. Now, it’s possible that an employee of the university might have access to student login information, and could be using a different ID each time in order to cover his tracks. It’s also possible that whoever’s doing this is just keeping an eye on this computer and jumping on whenever someone forgets to log out.”
Omar paused to make sure Martin was following him, then he went on, “It’s also possible that someone with knowledge of computer networks is simply hacking into UVA’s system and making it look like the searches are originating from campus. Or it’s possible four people just happened to look up our victims on the same computer for reasons unrelated to these murders.”
“That’s too many it’s possibles for me,” Martin said. “What are we doing about it?”
“We’re checking the print recovered from the Jacobson site with anything we have on UVA students, administrators, or employees. We’ve also sent people down to speak with members of the library staff to ask about suspicious persons or anything that may have raised concerns.”
Martin nodded. He could tell Omar was still shaken up, and he patted the young man hard on the back. “Good work.”
A little of the color returned to Omar’s cheeks.
Excusing himself, Martin stepped out of the conference room and made his way down to the rear of the building, which looked out onto the woods that concealed the FBI’s training course. He pulled his cigarettes and brushed-metal lighter from the pocket of his windbreaker.
As he lit his day’s lone cigarette, he thought about what Omar had told him about the computer data collection. He also thought about his son and how he may have pushed David into hasty action on the Carmichael lead.
You’re getting old and you’re getting stupid, he said to himself again.
Chapter 29
JAY ANTHONY CARMICHAEL had pissed himself.
On the floor of his eighth-story office, with six assault rifles pointed at his head, Carmichael’s bladder had let go in a warm rush. He hadn’t realized it until the SWAT agents had hoisted him off the carpet and perp-walked him past his coworkers, who looked on in stunned silence as the man some of them had known for ten years was escorted from the office with a dark patch on his trousers.
Now, sitting on a bench in the belly of some kind of transport van, Carmichael asked the men driving the vehicle what he had done wrong. They didn’t answer.
Carmichael could feel the cold metal of the handcuffs around his wrists. They were linked to ankle cuffs, which were in turn secured to a system of restraints in the back of the vehicle that was taking him God knew where. Because of his piss-soaked pants, Carmichael was shivering.
His mind raced, searching for some explanation for what was happening to him. He found none.
What the fuck is going on? he thought. Then, overwhelmed with frustration, he shouted it: “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”
One of the men in the front of the van spoke calmly through a small window covered by a perforated piece of Plexiglas. He said, “Do not yell, or we will gag you.”
Carmichael spent the rest of the ride sitting in petrified silence, thinking of his wife and children.
Chapter 30
THE MAN STOOD from his desk, holding the letter he’d just finished typewriting. He read his words slowly, imagining how they would sound to her.
Edith, My Love,
I’m so proud of you. I never doubted your commitment to our vision, nor did I question your ability to complete the task we spent so many days and nights planning side by side. But to see you following through is overwhelming. All eyes are on you now, and you have not faltered.
I knew the day we met that you were special. As I’ve told you before, I believe a higher power offers some of us the opportunity to be great, and that those who change history are strong enough to embrace their greatness through great deeds. And so I’m certain providence played a role in bringing us together--just as our forefathers were brought together to form this nation we hold dear.
We knew when we began that it would be difficult, as are all noble endeavors. But my faith in the necessity of our task is exceeded only by my faith in you. I only hope that, when the time comes for my part in this, I will show the same strength and courage you have shown thus far.
While I can’t be with you in body, know that I am with you in spirit. My thoughts and my love for you will always occupy that space around your soul that once felt so empty. If you don’t believe me, close your eyes and feel how I am there by your side. You will never be alone again.
I love you, Edith.
Levi
The man folded the letter carefully before tucking it into a cream-colored envelope. He left it where they’d agreed he would—in the medicine cabinet of the guest bath.
As he returned to the kitchen of the beachfront house, he pulled off the latex gloves he’d worn as he wrote the letter.
He was headed for the front deck, but he paused to glance at the television mounted in the adjacent sitting room. When he read the words at the bottom of the screen, his heart leapt into his throat. The caption read, “BREAKING: ARREST IN EAST COAST KILLINGS.” With a hand to his mouth, he walked slowly into the room.
The news footage showed the exterior of a drab-looking office building. A female correspondent spoke over the images: “According to his coworkers, Jay Anthony Carmichael was apprehended just two hours ago by an FBI SWAT unit. Federal authorities suspect Carmichael of involvement in the killing of Senator Dennis Jacobsen, as well as the two additional victims we revealed to you yesterday—Harmon Hill and Rebecca Aronson.”
When the man heard Carmichael’s name, he let out a long breath and dropped into one of the nearby chairs, his heart pounding. After a few moments, when he’d recovered from his shock, he smiled with relief and ran a hand through his hair.
How perfect, he thought.
Chapter 31
THE EVIDENCE POINTING to Jay Anthony Carmichael began to crumble almost immediately following his arrest.
“Carmichael’s co-workers say he was in the office every day, acting normally, this week and last week,” Lauren told David, relating the details of her conversation with the agents who’d handled the follow-up at Carmichael’s office.
Carmichael’s wife told interrogators her husband had been home with his family when he wasn’t at work. Two neighbors and a handful of friends verified her account of her husband’s whereabouts at various points throughout the previous week, including a few times that would have made his participation in the North Carolina and Delaware murders impossible.
When David got the call about Deb Pepper, he didn’t hesitate to order Carmichael’s release. He also apologized to Carmichael in person, though it was a violation of Bureau protocol and he knew it woul
dn’t do any good. Understandably, Carmichael had cut him off. The aggrieved man erupted in a sobbing torrent of obscenities, which David had absorbed without comment.
As he and Lauren made their way back to the FBI’s chopper, he called his father to deliver the latest.
There was no self-righteousness in Martin’s voice, only resolve. “Don’t let this get you down. People are dying, and you couldn’t hold back on a lead. You did what you had to do.” After a sigh, he added, “Forget what I said before, David. It’s easy to voice doubt when you’re not making the call. If I were primary, I would have done the same thing you did.”
Four hours after landing in Towson, David found himself sitting across from Lauren in the same Bell helicopter, bound for central New Jersey and another murder scene.
Chapter 32
WHEN MARTIN RECEIVED the news about Jay Anthony Carmichael and Deb Pepper, he wished he’d saved his lone cigarette for the evening.
After speaking on the phone with David, he delivered the update to the rest of his son’s people. “Don’t hang your heads, and don’t let this shake you up. Just get back to work,” he said, his eyes sharp and hard—daring someone to disobey his instructions.
Fifteen minutes later, as he discussed with Omar the criminal background checks they were running on the Madison Building list, word started circulating that Assistant Director Timothy Thompson and his team were on their way down from Washington to address the afternoon’s false arrest. Thompson was Carl Wainbridge’s boss. He was also directly accountable to Deputy Director Jonathan Reilly for any issues within the Bureau’s Critical Incident Response Group, which included David’s team.
“I’ll handle Thompson,” Martin called out angrily, silencing any chatter within his earshot.
When ADIC Thompson arrived, Martin watched as the assistant director in charge and the two associate director lapdogs he’d brought with him visited first with Carl and then with the print unit responsible for the false ID. Afterward, they made their way toward the conference rooms where Martin and the rest of David’s team were working, but Martin headed them off.
“Tim,” he said from twenty yards away, loud enough for half the building to hear him. He flashed a wide smile. “I know you hate leaving the District. You must be pretty goddamn pissed at us to drive all the way down here with your posse.”
Thompson was long and lean, with a thick head of gray-blonde hair and the kind of oval face and thin fingers that made him seem taller than he was. “Marty,” he replied, not smiling but not frowning either as he extended one of his hands. The two shook. “I’d like to have a word with you and your people.”
“They’re my son’s people,” Martin said. “But have a word with me alone first. You mind?”
Thompson hesitated, but Martin put a hand on his back and patted him toward a nearby office. Thompson acquiesced.
Martin closed the door to the office before the ADIC’s entourage could scoot in behind them.
“What the hell happened today?” Thompson said. He leaned against the room’s lone table and folded his arms over his chest.
Martin ran a hand over his mouth. He didn’t speak right away. “We’ll get to that, Tim. First tell me how Sue and the girls are doing.”
“They’re well,” Thompson said tersely. “But I really don’t have time for—”
“I know you’re busy and important,” Martin cut in, smiling and crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring Thompson’s pose. “But I haven’t seen you in a few years. Reminisce with me for a minute before you rip me a new one.”
Thompson opened his mouth to speak, but then he let out a deep breath. He smiled. “It has been a while. How’s Angela doing?”
The wrinkles at the corners of Martin’s eyes grew smooth, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. “Lost her earlier this year, Tim. Lung cancer.”
Thompson pursed his lips and his chin dropped to his chest. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Marty.”
“Me too, Tim. Me too,” Martin said, starting to pace. “But death’s a big part of life. We both know enough about that, don’t we?”
Thompson nodded, and both men were silent for a few seconds. Then Martin’s expression lightened and he said, “You remember that DEA case we assisted on down in Jacksonville—the one where those clowns running the rental car company were transferring narcotics out of state in loaners?”
“Sure,” Thompson said, his smile returning. “How could I forget? You drove our BuCar into the back of one of their rentals at forty miles an hour.”
“I had no choice!” Martin shouted. “Those DEA jackasses couldn’t put together a strong enough case to secure our search warrants.”
“You could have given me time to buckle my seatbelt first, you prick. I still have a scar on the top of my head.”
“At least you still have hair up there to cover it up.”
Both men laughed and shook their heads, remembering. Then Martin said, “For a while, we were both convinced the manager was running things. Remember? Dominguez, or whatever his name was?”
Thomson’s smile mellowed and he nodded. “Yeah, we fucked up.”
“We got that poor son of a bitch deported—him and his wife. And by the time we realized our mistake it was too late to reverse Immigration’s decision.”
Thompson looked thoughtful for a few seconds, and then he stood up from the edge of the table. “I see where you’re headed, Marty. But I can’t just let this go.”
“And you haven’t,” Martin said, raising his hands to ease Thompson back down. “You spoke with Carl, and you met with the print people who made the false ID. You’ve made your point, and whoever’s looking over your shoulder will hear that you came down here and knocked some heads together.” He paused. “David and his team don’t need a lecture. You’ll only distract them from the things they need to focus on right now.”
Thompson was silent for a few seconds. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I didn’t want to come down here in the first place. But you don’t understand how the deputy director operates. Reilly was already wound up on this one, even before the false arrest. He answers to friends in Washington, and he isn’t the type to put himself between his guys in the Bureau and the firing squad. He’s going to start pointing down the line—asking how each level of oversight did what they could to keep this investigation on track, and—”
Martin frowned. “So you’re going to do the same thing? Hunt around pointing fingers instead of backing your people?”
Thompson sighed.
“Shit happens even when everyone’s on the ball,” Martin said. “Especially with a guy like Jonathan Reilly running the show, no one’s going to take any chances. What if we’d held up today and this guy had turned out to be our killer? We had a print match, and we did what we had to do.”
Thompson nodded. “Okay, Marty. But talk to David and let him know Reilly’s headhunting now. He’s volatile, and he’s going to be quick to yank the hook on whoever’s running this if it’ll make him look like he’s holding people accountable.”
“Fine, Tim. I’ll do that.”
The two talked for a few more minutes before leaving the office. Thompson collected his people and departed for Washington. Martin returned to the conference room to join the rest of David’s team.
The younger agents and analysts looked at him with a mixture of awe and admiration, but the glare he sent back at them refocused their attention on the task at hand.
Martin walked to the dry-erase board that still bore his hand-drawn map of the East Coast. He looked at it for a moment, and then drew a fresh X in the previously empty circle marking New Jersey.
He thought about the afternoon’s false arrest. He thought about the murders, and about Deputy Director Jonathan Reilly. Back in Philly, he and his buddies had three words for this type of situation: Bad fucking news.
Chapter 33
“CAUSE OF DEATH was likely acute hypoxia.”
As he spoke, the forensic pathol
ogist—a stocky young man with a neat beard and a tiny, lipless mouth—bent down to examine patches of dried blood around Deb Pepper’s mouth and nostrils. David and Lauren watched him scrape a small amount into a disk-shaped plastic container.
The woman was bound to a wingback chair and encased in a solid husk of black tar, her mouth frozen in a contorted moan.
“She’s badly burned, but that wouldn’t have killed her,” the pathologist continued, speaking with an exaggerated casualness. “The tar essentially asphyxiated her skin, depriving her of oxygen. She may have choked on the tar as well, but we won’t know that until we complete an autopsy.”
“And the feathers?” Lauren asked.
Deb Pepper’s body was coated in a gray dandruff.
“Yeah, those,” the pathologist said, chuckling. “They didn’t contribute to her death, although I’m assuming you knew that. Figuring out why someone would tar and feather an old woman is your job, not mine.” He grinned.
David could understand why some people in his profession affected this kind of death-is-routine nonchalance. It was insecurity mostly, and he saw it all the time—usually among younger techs. Typically he ignored it. But he could feel Carmichael’s false arrest rooting around in his stomach, scratching at his insides and making him feel rotten.
“Stop smiling,” he said to the pathologist, his voice calm but freezing cold. “This isn’t a joke.”
The small man’s grin evaporated, and he cleared his throat. “No, it’s not,” he said, chastened.
“Anything else you can tell us now?” Lauren asked him, her voice projecting much of the animosity David had kept out of his own.
“Yes,” the pathologist said, nodding quickly. He crouched down and indicated a thin line of clean blouse just above the rope that encircled the old woman’s body. “The area where the ropes were pressed against her body is free of tar.”