by Ed Markham
David read on. He knew the rest, which concerned Edith’s taking a job with the Alderman Library.
“That’s it?” Martin asked.
Omar nodded. “So far. We’re still digging.”
Lauren leaned forward at the table. “So this sick chick meets up with Harney, whoever the hell he is, and they come up with this plan to murder people they think have crapped on the Constitution?” She shook her head. “Why?”
“Turn on the news,” Martin said to her. “If they wanted people to focus on the Constitution, they’ve sure as hell done that.”
“Yeah but people are horrified by all this,” she said. “I keep hearing about how our politics have grown too belligerent, and that these murders are creating blowback for the far-right.”
Martin chuckled. “There’s no such thing as bad PR, Butch. I heard the same talk last year after the Speaker of the House’s wife was killed by that freedom fighter nut job. Lots of discussion about how everyone needed to cool out, but then the infighting roared back stronger than ever. Look at the way attendance is ballooning for Goodman’s rally tomorrow. You think these murders don’t have something to do with that?”
“What have we found on Levi Harney?” David asked Omar.
The small man gestured toward the projection screen, and David watched as he pulled up a webpage splashed with red, white, and blue, as well as images of minutemen and the Liberty Bell.
“Committees of Correspondence?” Lauren said, reading the name at the top of the page.
“It’s a popular blog among the very far right,” Omar said. “I mean the fringe. Militia groups and preppers, conspiracy theorists . . . it just started about six months ago, but it already has a pretty heavy following.”
“Committees of Correspondence,” Martin repeated. “Those were the shadow groups that helped organize colonial opposition in the lead up to the Revolution.”
“Yeah,” Omar said. “I read the same thing on Wikipedia.”
As Martin frowned at him, David said, “What does this have to do with Levi Harney?”
“Check out the signature at the end of each blog post,” Omar said. He highlighted one section of the text, and David saw the name “L. Harney.” Below this appeared the title, “The Patriot in the Shadows.”
Omar continued, “He writes a lot about the Constitution and the Founding Fathers, especially James Madison. I found a few of the Madison passages you turned up at UVA mixed into his older entries. His latest post went up yesterday. He talks about a national rebirth and mentions the death of a great patriot and his followers. He also calls on all true Americans to rise up when they witness this great patriot’s fall.”
“Great patriot,” David said. He looked at his father and started to repeat the Thomas Jefferson quote scrawled on the wall in Edith Vereen’s kitchen. “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time—”
“With the blood of patriots and tyrants,” Martin finished for him. He nodded. “Vereen’s certainly killed enough tyrants—at least, they were tyrants in her eyes. Maybe Harney’s responsible for supplying the blood of the patriot? But who does he think is going to rise up?”
Lauren cleared her throat. “We checked in with Homeland Security and our people who monitor the militia groups. They said there’s been a lot of in-group chatter since the murders started two weeks ago, but nothing too alarming. There’s some worry about concerted action, but not much.”
“Concerted action?” Martin asked.
She said, “Attacking regional ATF and FBI offices, preparing to go to war against the National Guard . . . that’s the gist I got from DHS. But they told me they’ve seen these groups riled up before and they’re not too worried about it.”
“Who publishes this blog?” David asked Omar.
“According to the domain host, an eighty-five-year-old Ohio woman.”
“Come again?” Martin said.
“Yeah, that’s B.S.,” Omar said. “Someone cracked into the domain host’s system—” He stopped himself and glanced at Martin warily. “Without getting too technical, someone hacked into the servers that host this blog site. Whoever did this made it look like this Ohio woman is publishing the content, but she’s not. I’m working with the domain hosting company to sort things out, but it could take a while.”
“We don’t have a while,” Martin said. As he spoke, David stood and walked to the dry-erase board. He stood for a moment looking at his father’s hand-drawn map. “Where’s Philip Goodman from?” he asked over his shoulder. “Originally?”
Omar clicked a few keys on his computer and then sat back in his chair. He folded his hands on top of his head and, letting out a long breath, nodded toward the projection screen. “Marietta,” he said. “Just north of Atlanta.”
David tapped on the empty circle in the state of Georgia. “I want to talk with Goodman myself.”
Chapter 26
THE STREET WAS dark, but landscape lighting illuminated the expansive house from the ground up. The house’s red brick façade formed two sharp, symmetrical roof peaks that gave the place a look of austere menace.
“Nice place,” Martin said as he and David made their way up Goodman’s front walkway. “I should have played an FBI agent on TV.”
“Paul Newman’s ugly brother,” David said, conjuring one of his mother’s old jokes about Martin.
Both men smiled.
David had hoped to inform Goodman that his rally the following day was cancelled for security concerns, but Carl Wainbridge had told him they didn’t have enough evidence of a security risk to take that step.
“At least we don’t at this point,” Carl had said. “I agree with you that a risk exists. But absent a precisely identified threat, there’s a lot of concern that this would look like a muffling of Goodman’s right to free speech. He’s contra to the current administration and their politics, and cancelling his event would be viewed suspiciously and politicized to no end. Also, the president’s life is in at least as much danger every time he sets foot outside, and we keep him safe. We need to do the same for Goodman. If he decides to press on, so must we.”
“Am I talking to you, or to Jonathan Reilly?” David had asked.
Carl hadn’t answered. He hadn’t had to, and David knew his question was out of line.
Now, as Philip Goodman opened his front door, David was surprised at his height. The host loomed in front of him like a late-day shadow. Goodman wore a neatly pressed shirt and tie, and David could see he still hadn’t washed off the touches of makeup from the latest taping of his television program.
“May I help you?” Goodman asked in a deep southern drawl that was more pronounced in person than it was on TV. His brow furrowed as he regarded David’s T-shirt.
“I’m Special Agent Yerxa.” David held up his FBI credentials, and Goodman’s furrowed brow grew smooth. “I’d like to speak with you about your event tomorrow on the Mall.”
The host stood staring for a moment at David and then at Martin. Finally he said, “What happened to the young woman and her quiet friend who woke me up last night?”
“We’re the evening shift,” Martin said.
Goodman let out a deep sigh. “Yes, all right.” His voice was edged with disdain. He moved back into his house and motioned for them to follow.
After passing through a large foyer, the three entered a study where a single lamp was burning on the room’s large oak desk. The walls of the study were covered with neatly stuffed bookshelves and gold-framed works of art—mostly Revolutionary War scenes—and a tastefully worn oriental rug covered most of the floor. Two high-backed armchairs faced away from the curtained window and toward the desk. Goodman turned on a lamp between the chairs, lowered himself into one of them, and crossed one long leg over the other before folding his hands on one knee. As he regarded David and his father, his expression was one of barely restrained contempt.
Martin leaned against the edge of Goodman’s desk while David stood looking at the host. “I re
alize this is the second night in a row we’ve bother—” he began to say, but Goodman cut him off.
“Awful business this morning,” he said. “Just awful.”
David looked at him.
“Was it you who shot that sick young girl, Special Agent Yerxa?” Goodman asked. He shifted his eyes to Martin’s. “Or maybe it was this gentleman who didn’t introduce himself?”
“You can call me Agent Yerxa, too,” Martin said as he crossed his arms over his chest and scrutinized the host. “You seem upset about something.”
Goodman looked affronted. “I am upset about something. Last night your female colleague showed me a picture of that young women—Edith Vereen. I’ve been watching the reports all day today. You’d obviously known she was involved with the murders, but her photograph wasn’t made available to the public until you killed her this morning.” He shook his head. “I wonder how many lives you could have saved—maybe even that girl’s—if you’d let the people in on what you knew.”
“The people?” David asked.
“Yes, the general public.”
“What do you care about her?” Martin asked.
“I don’t care about her,” Goodman said. “I simply find it disgusting that your organization feels it has the right to hide information from the public.” He shook his head, his agitation plain. “Why is it that everyone who works for the Federal Government—the least-exclusive employer in the country, by the way—somehow feels he’s endowed with the wisdom and right to withhold information from the very people he purports to serve? It’s deplorable.”
While David watched the host in silence, Martin smiled and said, “I actually think you make a good point, and I appreciate a lot of what you talk about on your program, even though I’m a member of that un-exclusive, information-withholding federal government you deplore. You go off the rails a bit sometimes, but that’s just my opinion.”
Goodman looked warily at Martin, and David’s father continued, “The photograph of Edith Vereen . . . if you knew what we knew, you’d understand why we had to keep that information private.” When Goodman started to smirk, Martin added, “Our colleague told us you had some information yourself you decided not to share with authorities.”
Goodman’s posture relaxed, and his contempt seemed to ebb. “Yes,” he said, his eyes falling to the rug at his feet. “I recognized a week ago that the murderer appeared to be following the path of my tour. But I was absolutely certain your organization was aware of the connection.” He paused. “At the same time, I must admit I was frightened to become involved in all this.” He winced as he spoke, as though pained by his own cowardice. “I’m sure a part of me was in denial and hoping it would all go away. I regret my lack of courage, as I made clear to the other FBI agents last night.” He raised his eyes to meet Martin’s. “But then, the correlation between the murders and my tour was so glaring I can still hardly believe you missed it.”
After another pause, he added, “You said your visit tonight has to do with my event tomorrow?”
“You live here alone?” David asked, not answering Goodman’s question. He cast his eyes around the room.
“Yes.”
“No family? No partner?”
“No.” The host frowned. “With so much work to do, I never seemed to find the time. Why do you ask?”
“In my experience solitude breeds obsession.”
“Would that be personal experience?” Goodman asked, raising his eyebrows. “You look like a man well-acquainted with lonely, work-filled nights.”
David smiled faintly at him, and the host went on, “I am an obsessive, Agent Yerxa—absolutely and by every definition. I think most successful men are to some extent. You need to be a little obsessive to make your mark on this world.”
David said, “I need to inform you of something else we haven’t made available to the people, as you called them. We think Ms. Vereen had an accomplice, and that this person has plans that involve your rally tomorrow. We believe this person may be an over-zealous fan of yours, but so far we haven’t been able to find him in your audience videos or fan mail.”
Goodman stared at him in silence for a moment. “How . . . what makes you suspect that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Martin cut in. “What matters is that your life is in danger, and we think it would be wise to cancel your event.”
“My life?” Goodman asked, all the contempt gone from his face.
David nodded, and Goodman started to speak. Then he stopped himself and his fingertips bounced on his knees. His eyes lost their focus, and for a time he seemed very far away. Then he began to shake his head slowly. “No, Agent Yerxa. I’m not going to cancel my event tomorrow. And I hope you won’t try to cancel it for me.”
Martin said, “We’d like to, but the people who sign our paychecks say we don’t have that authority. But I wonder why you’d want to put yourself and your fans in harm’s way?”
The host sat up straighter in his chair. He ran his large hands over his dark hair and then along the necktie hanging on his chest. “Last night, it occurred to me while talking with your colleague that whoever was committing these murders might turn his—or as it turns out, her—sights on me. And I’ll admit, the prospect that something dreadful could happen frightens me. I worry about myself, and I worry about all the good Americans joining me for the celebration. But tomorrow is the culmination of years of my hard work. And, though regrettable, these murders have captivated the nation and kindled a greater interest in our Constitution. Tens of thousands of people are joining me for a celebration to honor our country and our founders, and I’m not going to disappoint them. I have a duty to perform. I hope you’ll perform yours and protect me, my fans, and my guest.”
“Your guest?” Martin asked.
The host looked surprised. “Yes of course. My guest. The Speaker of the House.”
Martin let out a laugh. “Farnsworth? You’re joking.” When Goodman bristled, he added, “I’ve seen you trash centrist politicians like him on your program. Why would he want to take abuse from you in person?”
Goodman looked offended. “I don’t trash anyone, Agent Yerxa. I present my points of view and my criticisms, and I offer others the chance to debate me any time they like. Most refuse. But the speaker—who, by the way, is a fellow Georgian and a man I’ve known and respected since we were boys—has agreed to join me tomorrow to present his viewpoints.”
When Martin still looked incredulous, Goodman added, “As one of the leaders of his party, I’m sure Spencer recognizes the importance of embracing all factions of the electorate—whether center, left, right or otherwise.”
“You’ve known the speaker since you were boys?” David asked.
“We attended the same prep schools back in Marietta, and we were on the debate team together. I’d like to say we’ve remained friends since those formative years, though I think respectful adversaries would be more accurate.” He turned his eyes to Martin’s. “As you pointed out, Agent Yerxa, our political philosophies don’t enjoy much overlap.”
David started to speak, but Goodman stood up abruptly. “My apologies, gentlemen, but as you both know I have a very big day tomorrow, and I feel I’ve given you quite enough of my time already. I’d appreciate it if you’d both leave my house now.”
David nodded and motioned to his father. Martin pushed off from Goodman’s desk and said to the host, “I can’t say this was a pleasure, but it wasn’t a disappointment. Glad to see you’re as passionate about your beliefs in person as you are on television.”
A few minutes later they pulled out of the host’s circular driveway. As they did, David waved to the two agents he’d ordered stationed outside Goodman’s home for the host’s protection.
“What did you make of him?” he asked his father.
Martin cleared his throat. “Kind of an asshole. But he seemed like a straight-shooting asshole to me. What did you think?”
David didn’t answer right away. “I’m not
sure,” he said finally. After another long pause he added, “The Speaker of the House as his guest tomorrow . . . that worries me.”
Sunday, September 17
Chapter 27
DAVID SAT BACK in his chair and rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of a palm. Lauren handed him a cup of coffee, and he took a long sip, trying to swallow his fatigue.
“What time is it, Butch?”
“A little after one-thirty in the morning,” she said, sitting against the edge of the table in front of him.
“What day?”
She smiled at him. “Yeah. I’m pretty wiped out, too.”
“Well neither of you slept last night,” Omar pointed out from his seat across the conference table.
“Thanks for the reminder,” Lauren said sarcastically. “I’d forgotten.”
David took another sip of his coffee. The three of them were the only ones left in the conference room. Two dozen support agents and some other ancillary team members were working in other parts of the building, but Quantico’s usual clamor of activity was absent—replaced by the buzz of overhead florescent lights and the gentle whisps of the circulating central air.
After returning from Philip Goodman’s home, David and Martin had joined Lauren and a handful of their analysts in the conference room. Together, they’d spent two hours bent over laptops and file printouts, reviewing Edith Vereen’s email and phone records, as well as her credit card and bank histories. They’d also gone over the forensic and medical examiner’s reports on Edith’s father and her home in the hopes of turning up some evidence of Levi Harney.
They’d found nothing.
Omar and his team had been similarly unsuccessful in their hunt for leads on the name Harney. They’d combed through Philip Goodman’s fan letters and email, as well as his audience records, without success.
“I also have bad news to report on the UVA security videos,” Omar had said. “We can’t find them.”