by Brian Haig
“Okay.”
“He chose his approach to keep you between us and him. He’d seen us and he used your body as a screen, so we’d be lousy witnesses.”
She thought about this a moment, then asked, “You think he was that calculating?”
“There’s more.” I then asked her, “What was he doing when you fired at him?”
She thought back, then said, “I… yes, it was some kind of strange weaving motion.”
“He stepped closer to you?”
“Yes. He did. Then he started weaving.”
“Because you communicated that you had a gun. It was the look in your eye, maybe, but I’d bet you jammed the barrel against your coat, and he detected it. Certain self-defense courses teach that in close-quarters situations, you move right up to the shooter, then start a quick shifting of the feet and midsection, intended to throw off a shooter’s aim.”
“You think I missed him?”
“I do.” She appeared disappointed as I added, “Now, think about the way he aborted the mission, then rushed you and knocked you over. Or afterward how he dodged around like a broken Ping-Pong ball, moving unpredictably from side to side. That’s another technique taught in certain specialty courses.”
She thought about all that, then asked, “So you think he’s former military?”
“Maybe. They’re not street skills. And it was reflexive-no confusion, no hesitation, he just responded, fluidly and automatically. You understand what I’m saying? Eye-to-synapse-to-muscle coordination like his is extraordinarily rare. He’s a natural. Also, he trains constantly to have that edge.”
Janet considered all this, then said, “Sean, he’s not a machine. He’s human, and therefore fallible. He fell for our trap.”
“That won’t happen again.”
She considered this, then asked, “He is coming again, though?”
“Guys only get that good if they invest a lot of ego into their work. They don’t regard failures as failures, just notices to do better next time.”
She cracked a faint smile, confirming my earlier suspicion. She definitely wanted to go another round with this guy. Also it confirmed she was a selective listener-we should have both been on the next flight to Mongolia.
But I knew she wasn’t going to be talked out of it, and I said, “So, what do you conclude?”
“He’s hired help. But was he hired by somebody in your firm?”
“Somebody in the firm is connected.”
“Somebody Lisa worked with obviously.”
“Yes. And now we know it has to be somebody I work with also.”
I then spent a few minutes updating Janet on everything I had learned about Morris Networks and Grand Vistas. I was careful to couch it just right; these are the things I know, these are the things I only suspect, and these are the harebrained meanderings of a paranoid mind. Unfortunately, the latter outweighed the former, but in our business circumstantial cases are often the best you can get.
When I finished, she said, “It makes sense. Money and scandal-those are the motives.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have another idea?”
“Well, I’ll share a random theory. Morris Networks has a clutch of Defense contracts, and it’s about to win a contract with DARPA, the organization that handles most of our most secretive projects.”
“Go on.”
“Morris Networks can read all its customers’ e-mails and listen in to their traffic.”
“Really?”
“So, here’s this big company that hocked its soul to a secretive foreign conglomerate. And through its networks runs some of the most sensitive secrets in this country. War plans, top-secret technologies, troop movements, you name it. What if this foreign conglomerate is a front? What if it actually belongs to a foreign intelligence agency?”
“And is eavesdropping on sensitive information?” She considered that a moment, then said, “Is that possible?”
“During the cold war, we found out the Soviets had underwater cables running through some of its military harbors. We learned those cables were used by the Soviet military to carry some of their most sensitive information. We sent in subs to tap those cables. For years, we moved subs in and out of the harbors, right under their noses, tapping into the traffic. It was a gold mine.”
“And we got away with this?”
“Right to the end. What I’m suggesting is the possibility that Grand Vistas might be a front operation. Maybe they have some kind of deal with Morris Networks-money for the Defense Department’s mail.”
“Sean, this is big.”
“I know.”
“If those are the stakes, the murders make even more sense.”
“Right. But it is only a theory, not a fact.”
She then said, “I’d better call George and inform him.”
“Not yet.”
“I sense you and he have… issues. But don’t underestimate him.”
When I failed to respond, she insisted, “He knows his job.”
“The guy who sent Bob knows his job?”
“I… look, George has his hands full right now. I’ve seen him in action. Believe me, he’s very good.”
“I’m not debating his competence. But what will he do about it?”
She thought about this and swiftly drew the right conclusion. Our earlier problem hadn’t disappeared-we had no evidence linking the firm to the killer. The instant Meany and his Boy Scouts started flashing their Fed badges, the disaster would play out-the firm would clam up, the culprits would be spooked, hard drives would start crashing, and reams of paper would start disappearing into shredders.
I said, “Nor can I divulge what I know about Grand Vistas without violating attorney-client privilege, right? It would be both unethical and legally inadmissible, right?”
“Okay, you make a good point.”
I let her think about that a moment, then I said, “However, the law permits me to inform my attorney about these matters. So you’re my attorney.”
“You can’t afford me.” She peered at me curiously. “You’re serious?” I nodded and she asked, “Why do you need an attorney?”
“To threaten Culper, Hutch, and Westin with a lawsuit.”
“A lawsuit?”
“To use the law to fight the law.”
“I don’t want to throw a wrench in the works, but I think the legal code insists that you have grounds.”
I glanced at my watch. “I have grounds. We’ll discuss it on our way back to D. C.”
“What am I getting into?”
“I’ve got a disciplinary hearing tonight at the firm. You’ll represent me. So go inside and tell Bob to pack his bags.”
Before Janet slipped through the back door, I said, “By the way, could I borrow your cell phone to call my office?”
“Sure.”
I waited until she was inside before I called Northern Virginia information and got the number for the Rosslyn office of the Associated Press, which I then dialed. I asked the switch to put me through to Jacob Stynowitz, whose byline I had noticed on several stories regarding the serial killer. Actually, his stories were really good.
When he picked up, I said, “Mr. Stynowitz, I’m Major Drummond, a JAG officer. I’ve been following your stories about the L. A. Killer. Hey-they’re excellent.”
“Thanks. I try my best.”
“It shows. Gripping stuff.” I didn’t want to lay it on too thick, so I said, “You’ve heard about the two cop killings this morning in Boston?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s on CNN right now.”
“I was there.”
“You were there?”
“A few feet away. Saw the whole thing. The guy trying to kill the girl on the running path… the cops rushing around.”
“Well, that’s interesting. Is that the reason for this call?”
“Yeah. See, I thought… if you’re doing a story on this Boston thing… I could maybe give you a few colorful quotes. I know how th
ese things work, the FBI controlling what’s put out, and they only tell you what they want you to know…”
There was silence on the other end for a moment.
He asked, “Is there a way I can confirm you were a witness?”
“I just spent the morning in the Federal Building with the FBI. Ask them.”
“I will. Now, Mr… I mean, Major…”
“Drummond.”
“Right. I’m required by law to inform you that I’m recording this conversation.”
“Fine.”
He started asking questions, all of which were pretty general in nature, and I answered truthfully, though not completely, as you might imagine. He wanted a little local color, a general description of the event, and so forth.
After a few minutes of this back-and-forth, he’d spent his nickel, and he said, “Anything else you wanted to add?”
“Well, you didn’t ask me to describe him.”
“You mean you saw him?”
“I got a great look at him.”
“Uh-huh. A short guy with a ponytail, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“About six foot four, maybe six-five, nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, and he didn’t have a ponytail.”
The line went silent for a moment. He finally said, “Uh… that conflicts with the FBI’s description of the L. A. Killer.”
“Yes, I noticed that.” I suggested, “Draw your own conclusion.”
“You mean… you mean, they’ve pinned the wrong guy?”
“Consider that a good conclusion.” I swiftly added, “And another thing…” I paused a moment, then said, “Well… ah, no, forget about it.”
“What? Come on.”
“A lot of people are terrified of this guy, right?”
“You could say that.”
“And I guess… well, what I’d say, having watched him in action, is his reputation’s way overblown.”
“How so?”
“It’s pretty stupid to attack that woman right there in the wide open, police everywhere. And Miss Morrow definitely outfoxed him. You had to see this big idiot running away from this tiny woman.”
Mr. Stynowitz was beginning to sound very excited, and he suggested, “You’re saying he’s not only not the L. A. Killer, but he’s also not competent?”
The string of double negatives aside, I replied, “That’s what I am saying.” I added, “Look, I know this sounds crass, but what I witnessed this morning was stunningly stupid. This is a really sick, perverted idiot who has managed to murder a few women because he sneaks up on them. But when it’s face-to-face, he runs like a jackass. Essentially, he’s a gutless coward.”
Well, we did a little more back-and-forth, but I’d gotten the quotes I wanted in, and he ended by making sure I didn’t mind being openly named, which was really ethical of him, because a lot of his colleagues don’t do that, and he promised he’d play me square, and then we signed off.
The Associated Press, you have to understand, are sort of the hacks of modern journalism, trained to compose and file their stories quickly, which are then distributed to multiple news services. Given Joe Q. Public’s prurient interest in this case, by evening, Sean Drummond’s commentary about America’s most famous killer would make it into a lot of news channels.
The files in the rental car placed Janet ahead of me in the killer’s queue. Had she obeyed Meany’s very sound advice and retreated into protective custody, her odds of living a long and fulfilling life would be excellent. But even the President’s security detail couldn’t protect her out in the open-against this guy, nobody could.
I had held back on the throttle a little in my talk with Janet. I mean, there’s what you see-what we all saw-but to really get inside his head, it helps when you once walked in his shoes.
So, back to what we all saw-his physique. A build like that is the product of thousands of hours in the weight room, careful dieting, probably steroids, and colossal willpower. He probably had a teeny weenie and was compensating, but the shrinks could nail the tail on that particular donkey. Also, nobody gets that expert at the killing game without abnormal drive, discipline, and a vicious competitive streak.
But psychotic minds are individualistic, distinguishable by their unique fetishes and idiosyncrasies. Thus, back to his signature style. It had been his intention to arrange Janet’s murder without drawing parallels to the other victims, right? So why not snuff her with a drive-by shot? Or whack her with sniper rifle from a distance? Atomize her with a bomb? All of these options offered less chance of witnesses and less risk of failure. Also, given her public profile as an ADA who messed around with mob cases, both the torching of her father’s home and her murder could easily be blamed on the goombahs. No-he used a knife and you have to ask, why? My guess was because he wanted her to see him, and he wanted to see the fear in her eyes. This guy drew sustenance and satisfaction from fear. For him, killing had to be personal, a contest where triumph depended on the victim having some chance of winning, but ultimately losing.
All of which suggested an outsized ego driven by a particularly twisted narcissistic complex.
Inside my head I could picture this guy jerking heavy iron bars over his head and gazing adoringly at his own sculpted image in the mirror. By extrapolation, I was betting he followed his own publicity compulsively. He fed on the public fear and outrage. It made him feel oh so fucking smart and superior to outsmart the FBI and the great American public. At risk of getting too wrapped around the twisted metaphysics of this thing, for him, the public image, the way he shaped that image, the way he manipulated that image, that was another mirror.
So, back to my motive. He would understand why I was shooting off my mouth. I was alerting him that I was aware I was on his list, and in a visceral, machismo, one-badass-to-another way, I was pissing on his mirror. Here he had gone to all this time, trouble, and effort to copycat, and I was tearing off his disguise, yanking down his drawers, and telling the world he had a teeny weenie. Metaphorically speaking. Three points on the board for Drummond. He would now feel the need to recoup those points. Also, he would assume I wasn’t guarded, whereas Janet was guarded, and every professional killer knows to go after the low-lying fruit first.
I truly didn’t really want this guy coming after me. I used to be quite good at this game, a long time, a few serious wounds, and too many cheeseburgers ago. He was clearly still at the top of his game, in tip-top shape, a creature honed and sharpened to a murderous edge. But I definitely didn’t want him coming after Janet. In fact, what I really wanted was to convey to George Meany that I had no hesitation about going into protective custody, especially if the FBI had a safe house in Bermuda. In the interest of the federal budget, I’d even agree to shack up with Janet.
But Janet wouldn’t go, so I couldn’t go. I was therefore telling myself that Janet’s odds of stopping this monster were less than mine. Also, I was developing a very deep crush on her, despite the fact that she was once actually engaged to George the Dork.
I withdrew my wallet and pulled out Lisa’s picture.
The calculus had just changed. This guy had snuffed out a beautiful life, actually, several beautiful lives, and when I thought that was the product of madness, I could live with the state meting out whatever penalty twelve of his peers thought he deserved. Now that I knew he had murdered my beautiful and talented friend for filthy lucre, I wanted to strangle him with his own guts.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Predictably, George Meany threw a monumental hissy fit when Janet informed Bob, and Bob then unhappily informed his boss, that she had insisted on returning to D. C. for business. After what sounded like a fairly good tongue-lashing, an ashen-faced Bob handed Janet his cell phone.
She said to Meany, “George, let’s not get into an argument about this.”
He said something, and she nodded, and replied, “That’s right. My mind is made up. I have work to do, and I’m going to do it.” And they we
nt back and forth like that for a while, sounding like an old married couple.
But apparently, experience had taught him that with the lady in question he wasn’t going to win this, or any, argument. A compromise of sorts was reached; he would have two more special agents meet us at the Delta departure gate, to be reinforced by two more agents when we arrived at Ronald Reagan National.
Janet and her aunt and sisters then spent some time doing the emotional good-bye thing, and I used the occasion to draw Spinelli out to the back porch. We had a deal, and to show I honored my word, I gave him a swift rundown on our suspicions about the firm, what we’d found inside the car, and so on. He got the sanitized version, of course. Daniel Spinelli was motivated by self-interest, and to protect my self-interest I carefully held back a few key issues I might need in exchange for later favors. He seemed to really appreciate my confidences, however, so I exploited his good mood to arrange another deal.
In fact, two guys in nondescript clothing were cooling their heels by the curb when we pulled up to the Delta entrance at Logan International in Bob’s black sedan. From the look of them, Meany had apparently concluded that the search for the killer was going nowhere; or his boss had ordered him to move Janet’s safety up a few pegs on his priority list, because these two were clearly members of the A-team. Grim-faced, hard-nosed, and well-built, they had already completed the paperwork to fly with their guns, and in fact had persuaded Delta to whisk us through the ticketing procedure and allow us to cool our heels in the VIP lounge until three minutes before takeoff.
I like guys who take no chances when my safety is at stake. Also, I was really hungry, and I stuffed my pockets with free peanuts.
But they obviously had been prebriefed that we were difficult cargo, because they put up almost no fight when Janet insisted they sit no closer than six seats forward or aft, so she and I could have a discussion about confidential legal matters. It wasn’t like this guy was going to come running down the aisle and whack us, anyway, so they obliged us, and we had two hours to jointly ponder our dilemma and plot our strategy.
The dilemma was fairly straightforward-somebody in the firm was an accessory to murder. Janet commented that this was like one of those old closed-room mysteries English people go nuts about, where somebody killed the host-but who? The shortlist included Harold Bronson, Cy Berger, Barry Bosworth, Sally Westin, and Hal Merriweather. I wanted it to be Hal, or Barry, or Harold.