by Ed Markham
They had been together more than two years when, at a party Christina was attending to celebrate graduation, someone had slipped GHB into her drink, led her outside, raped her, and left her half-naked and unconscious behind some bushes by the side of a house. Her heart had stopped sometime in the middle of the night.
David hadn’t joined her at the party because he was spending the night at one of the campus libraries in preparation for a morning exam—the last of his undergraduate career. It wasn’t until he returned home from his exam and plugged in his drained cell phone that he learned the girl he loved was dead.
Several students who had attended the party where Christina was last seen told police they’d observed her being physically supported and helped out of the house around one in the morning by a third-year student named Grant Waller. Waller’s housemates told police he’d arrived home after two.
The person who’d raped Christina had worn a condom, but police found Waller’s fingerprints on her wrists and forearms. There were also traces of saliva on her neck and jaw, but a mishap during the transfer of evidence from the medical examiner’s office to the lab rendered the sample unusable.
For his part, Waller told Philadelphia Police that Christina had started leaning on him as he’d left the party. He’d helped her outside, and in the process had touched her arms while trying to keep her upright. She’d started to throw up, and so he’d left her sitting alone on the front steps. Waller apologized for his actions, which he acknowledged had not been chivalrous. But at the time he said he’d been drunk himself and hadn’t wanted to deal with “some wasted chick.”
The police had found no vomit near the front steps of the house, nor anyone who remembered seeing Christina sitting there. But they had no evidence to implicate Waller apart from the hazy recollections of a few intoxicated students, along with the fingerprints, which were located in places that made sense based on the witnesses’ testimony.
David had been broken by the accident. In the days following Christina’s death, his world was a haze—formless and thick with grief. But as the weeks passed and he realized there would be no formal charges brought against Grant Waller, his sorrow had turned to rage, and his life regained color and purpose, though both were black.
He slept and ate little. Instead, he spent his time following and observing Waller. He learned the other student’s habits. He watched him laughing and drinking and hitting on women at parties and bars. And he heard rumors that Waller was known among his friends as a guy who occasionally sold roofies, and who had probably used them on women himself. When David saw Waller furtively slip something into a woman’s drink at one of the campus bars, he had all the proof he needed. He’d walked up and knocked the drink off the table, his eyes never leaving Waller’s even as the drink’s owner yelled at him to buy her a fresh one. He’d left the bar quickly, not wanting to be drawn into a public confrontation that could later implicate him.
Exactly one week later, very late on a warm night, Waller was walking back to his apartment from an off-campus party in a dodgy part of Philadelphia’s North Side. David had stepped from the shadows of the deserted street, raised the pistol, and lifted his hooded head high enough for Waller to know exactly who was pointing the gun at him. “This is for Christina,” he’d said very quietly. And then, raising his voice, he’d shouted “GIVE ME YOUR WALLET.” He pulled the trigger.
When the bullet tore through Waller’s chest, creating a wound that would kill him within a matter of seconds, David felt no remorse. That would come later. In the heat of the moment, as he lowered his head and ran away from Waller’s body, he felt nothing but satisfaction.
The memory of that satisfaction had haunted him ever since, as it haunted him now.
Philadelphia Police, after speaking with people who heard the gunshot and the demand for a wallet, had chalked the student’s homicide up to an anxious mugger. David had never been questioned. He’d also never doubted that Waller was the man who had raped Christina. But he still had to live with the knowledge that he’d stalked and murdered another human being—and that he’d taken satisfaction from that act.
For days, he’d considered turning himself in. Days turned into weeks, but he didn’t go to the police to confess his crime. Instead he made two promises to himself, though he knew both were the cowardly rationalizations of a guilty conscious: He would dedicate his life to serving others, and he would never allow himself to care for a woman the way he’d cared for Christina. He had lost that privilege, and he couldn’t trust himself to feel that much for someone again.
Those promises had allowed his life to move forward. And for fifteen years he had been steadfast in keeping them. But something his mother said to him shortly before her death had cracked the foundation on which those promises rested.
Sitting at her hospital bedside, David had been lost in thought when he felt her cold hand on his cheek.
Her dark eyes, grown cloudy from her disease, had held his as she said, “I know you, David. I know you’re just fine on your own. But don’t be alone, sweetheart. Please don’t. I can’t stand the thought of it. You deserve someone to take care of, and who’ll take care of you.”
Now, as he sat on the staircase in his silent home, he thought about Christina and about Lauren. He thought about his time at the FBI and his mother’s words to him, and he wondered whether the good he’d done—the murderers and rapists he’d stopped—had made up for the man he’d killed in cold blood all those years before.
He stood after a time and walked to his study. Flipping on the overhead light revealed more than two dozen short stacks of computer printouts, each marked up with yellow highlighter and sorted on the floor in piles containing similar words and phrases. The media reports Omar had emailed him had been like lifelines for David during his suspension; they were his only remaining connection to his investigation.
He stepped carefully among the stacks, examining the highlighted text.
Violation. Constitution. Lawsuit. Protected. Citizen. Due process. Amendment.
He’d identified patterns and overlap, but that did him little good. The net he could cast was too wide. Or was it?
He looked up, his mind working. On the wall directly in front of him, his eyes focused on a single photograph mixed in among many in a collage his mother had put together for him years before. The photograph showed him as a young boy sitting on top of his father’s shoulders in front of Independence Hall in Philadelphia, just a mile from Martin’s current South Philly home.
He thought of the travel schedule of Philip Goodman’s television program, and then he walked quickly between the stacks of printouts to his desk. He flipped open his laptop and pulled up a search engine.
Using the “News” tab, he typed in a few of the highlighted phrases along with the name of his parents’ home town. Links appeared to articles on unlawful police seizures and social services custody battles; rules to restrict gun owners’ rights within city limits, and to increase taxes on cigarettes and soft drinks. He scanned each of the articles, but could find no single participant who seemed worthy of the Colony Killer’s wrath.
He clicked forward to the second page of search results, and his eyes froze on a headline: FED JUDGE PERRY INVOLVED IN NSA IMBROGLIO.
David clicked on the story and read silently. Lawrence Perry was a federal judge in the Eastern District of Pennsylvania who was also a member of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court. The FISA Court, David knew, was the semi-secret group of eleven federal judges established to oversee and review FBI, NSA, CIA, and other intelligence agency surveillance requests concerning, at least according to the 1978 act establishing the court, foreign security threats. In practice, the court had far overstepped its initial mandate, a fact long known to David and other FBI agents. The public had become aware of the court’s activity after document leaks revealed the FISA judges were routinely granting cell-phone and online-search warrants to the NSA, which granted that agency access to large blocs of priva
te data on citizens with no known ties to terrorist activities.
He opened a new search page and typed in “lawrence perry constitution.” He read quietly for a few minutes and then pushed back suddenly from his desk, scattering the stacks of printouts. He paid no attention to them as he left the room and retrieved his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans.
“I think I know who she’ll target next,” David said when Carl Wainbridge answered,
Carl was quiet for a moment. “I’m afraid it’s too late, David,” he said. “I just got a call from our Pittsburgh office. Campbell and his team are on their way.”
Chapter 11
WHEN LAUREN WALKED into the lobby of the Ritz Carlton in downtown Philadelphia, the corners of Michael Benedetti’s eyes wrinkled with amusement.
Looking her up and down as he reached to shake her hand, Benedetti said, “If D.C.’s going to pull me out of bed in the middle of the night, I guess the least they could do is send some entertainment.”
He glanced at the other agents from the Bureau’s Philadelphia office. Following their boss’s lead, none of the men tried to cover up their condescending smirks.
Lauren, who had just introduced herself as the special agent in charge, looked at Benedetti as though his comment was so idiotic it almost warranted pity. Almost.
It had taken her and Special Agent Eric Mueller—an experienced and soft-spoken member of the Bureau’s investigative division, whom she’d brought along to assist—less than an hour to helicopter up from Quantico. Jefferson University had let the Bureau land its bird on its hospital’s rooftop pad. Lauren and Mueller had made the trip after Operations tracked down Philip Goodman at the Ritz, where he was spending the night after wrapping up his program’s afternoon taping.
“Glad to hear you’re entertained,” Lauren said to Benedetti. She glared at him as she shook his fleshy palm. When she didn’t release his hand, the smirk on Benedetti’s face faded and he cleared his throat nervously. The entire lobby grew silent. Finally, after nearly thirty seconds, she let him go and said, “Take us up to Goodman’s suite.”
“Yeah sure,” Benedetti said sullenly. “It’s on fourteen.” Lauren caught a commiserating nod from Mueller, and they both followed Benedetti to the hotel’s elevators.
Three of the local Philadelphia agents trailed a few steps behind them, wordlessly raising their eyebrows at one another while thumbing toward Lauren as if to say, “Watch yourself.”
When the elevator expelled the group onto the fourteenth floor, Lauren saw two more men pacing the hallway outside of Goodman’s room. They nodded as she and Benedetti approached.
As she knocked on the host’s door, Lauren said over her shoulder, “Agent Benedetti, you and your men can keep each other company out here. We’ll let you know if we need anything.”
Without waiting for a reply from either Goodman or Benedetti, Lauren slid a key card into the door’s lock. She stepped inside, and Mueller followed her. He turned and smiled at Benedetti as he closed the door in his face.
Chapter 12
PHILIP GOODMAN’S HOTEL suite included a large sitting area, and that was where Lauren and Mueller found the television host waiting for them.
He stood as they entered, and Lauren saw he was wearing rumpled gray slacks, a white undershirt, and an expression of curiosity mixed with fatigue. His dark hair was combed back from his long face, and heavy bags hung beneath his eyes.
Lauren was surprised by his height; he loomed over her like a minor giant.
“Mr. Goodman, I’m Agent Carnicero,” she said as she shook his large hand. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we have a serious matter to discuss with you.”
“That’s fine,” Goodman said, a little distractedly. He looked at Mueller for a moment as though he’d expected the male agent to be in charge. When he realized his mistake, he smiled faintly and said to Lauren, “What can I do for the FBI?”
She noticed his southern drawl was more pronounced in person than it was on television. And the way he said the FBI contained a distinct tinge of derision. That didn’t surprise her; Lauren was familiar with Goodman’s television program, and she knew he had no great appreciation for the federal government or its auxiliaries.
She watched as he sat back down and motioned for her and Agent Mueller to have a seat in two of the remaining chairs. Mueller sat down and placed a voice recorder on the coffee table between himself and Goodman. Lauren remained standing.
The host seemed to find both of these actions amusing. He regarded the voice recorder like it was some type of stage prop produced for comic effect.
“You’re aware of the murders that have taken place along the East Coast during the past two weeks?” Lauren asked him.
Goodman let out a weary sigh. “Of course. The Colony Killer.” He shook his head and frowned in disgust. “The media are so clever, aren’t they? I suppose I’m counted among their ranks, though I hope we can both agree I’m not quite in the same profession as the local newspaper scribblers who derive so much pleasure from their, uh, alliterative inspirations. The way they feed on death sickens me.”
Lauren was a little taken aback by Goodman’s garrulity. “Anything about these murders strike you as curious, or alarming?” she asked him.
“Everything about these murders strikes me as curious and alarming. What I think you mean is, have I noticed the killer seems to be following the same travel schedule as my program?”
Mueller shifted in his seat, but Lauren’s eyes never left the host’s. “That’s exactly what I mean,” she said.
“Well, yes. How could I not?”
“Did you think about reporting this coincidence to anyone?”
Goodman’s air of amusement evaporated in an instant. He sat forward in his chair, his stare growing sharp. “Do you mean to tell me the FBI didn’t recognize the pattern after the second or third murder?”
“I don’t want to offend you, Mr. Goodman,” Mueller said, “but you don’t have many fans at the Bureau.”
The host’s eyes dropped to the carpeted floor and he closed them for a moment as he ran a hand over his mouth. “You may think me paranoid—or maybe just conceited—but I’d assumed your organization was aware of the parallels and was actively monitoring both myself and my staff. I took it for granted that our omnipotent federal government would know all and see all.” He paused, and his eyes returned to Lauren’s. “I’m sorry, Agent Carnicero. I made a gross miscalculation.”
She fought to suppress a scowl. “Any idea why the killer might be trailing you around?” she asked him.
“You mean, trailing my television program around?” Goodman frowned. “Along with the rest of the country, I’ve been following this story with interest. And considering what I’ve read and heard about these murders, it occurred to me that an overzealous fan of mine might be taking the themes of my program too far. But my brain recoiled from such thoughts—for obvious reasons.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes searching the room. “If I’m honest, I suppose that contributed to my not calling the authorities—the possibility that I may have somehow inspired these acts. Believe me, I was on the verge of calling early last week. But then the murders stopped for a time and I told myself it was all just a coincidence. When that man was killed in Connecticut this week, and his death didn’t exactly line up with my schedule . . . ” He shook his head at Lauren. “You see how I equivocated? But truly, I never thought I’d be telling you something you didn’t already know.”
Lauren started to glare at him, but she reminded herself that the public was only aware of five of the deaths—and only one in the past week. Also, the FBI’s media team hadn’t immediately released details on several of the reported murders. A part of her could understand how Goodman might have deluded himself.
“We’ll need to talk to all the members of your staff and production crew,” she said. “Anyone who works for your show. We’ll also need to see any information you have on your audience members.
Lists of names, videos, etcetera.”
“Of course. Anything you need.”
“Have you received any disturbing fan mail recently? Maybe a letter from an admirer, or something else that may be relevant to our investigation?”
Goodman raised his eyebrows. “Agent Carnicero, I get a thousand e-mails a day telling me I’m a national savior, the anti-Christ, and everything in between. When you preach a strong message, and people see that you genuinely believe in what you preach, you’re going to illicit an emotional response.”
“Is that a yes?” she asked.
“That’s a yes. But if you’re asking me if one stood out as exceptional and worthy of the FBI’s attention, my answer is no. But then, I don’t see most of what comes in from the public. My personal assistant, Oscar Ramirez, is more closely involved with that. I’ll ask him to help you in any way he can.”
Lauren nodded to the host and then stepped toward Agent Mueller. She held out a hand, and he retrieved a manila envelope from his laptop bag. “I’d like you to take a look at something,” she said to Goodman as she withdrew a photograph from the envelope. She stole a quick glance at the black-and-white image before handing it to him.
As Goodman regarded the photo from the gas station video, his eyes grew wide. “It’s a woman?” he said. He looked up at Lauren. “The Colony Killer is a woman?”
“This person may have some involvement with these murders,” Lauren said flatly. “Do you recognize her?”
Goodman stared at Lauren for a moment and then returned his attention to the photograph. He examined it closely for a few seconds. “I’m sorry, I don’t know this person.”
Lauren reached to take back the photograph, but he held it away from her, his brow furrowed. “Why haven’t you released this to the media?” he asked.