“Make sure Hughes brings his fingerprint and stain-retrieval kit. And the tissue collector, too. And bring plenty of dry ice.”
“Howard’s riding us pretty hard.” There was a discernible edge to Eisen’s voice. “We’ve got nearly two hundred evidence bags from Weaversville to screen. He’s asked several times to speak with you, Christine. He wants to know why you’re not here checking for evidence.”
“Listen, Brian, now’s not the time to quibble. Just get down here right away. It’s the murderer’s fucking lair, for Christ’s sake.”
“OK, OK. By the way, I picked up this weird tip from a friend who works the police beat at the Indianapolis Star newspaper.”
Prusik sat up attentively. “And?”
“Evidently, a woman riled enough to call our Indy field office after midnight Sunday night said that the suspect shown on TV was seated next to her on a Greyhound bus bound from Chicago to Indianapolis. The spitting image of the suspect, she was quoted as saying. It was the day Claremont was charged with the murders.”
“See!” Prusik smiled at McFaron, who looked back, curious. “Does Howard know yet? This business about Indianapolis?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
With the usual plethora of erroneous callins and claimed sightings, Prusik doubted he would have given it much attention even if he had heard.
“Keep it on ice, Brian. I need more time without Thorne interceding and shutting down this line of investigation. You and Hughes get down here as fast as you can.” She clicked off her phone.
“Son of a gun.”
“Well?” McFaron said. “Are you going to tell me?”
“It’s possible our Donald Holmquist chose public transportation and is deliberately avoiding his own vehicle.” Prusik wanted to believe the information Brian had passed on, but rationally she knew it was a long shot. Still, her intuition was working on overdrive. She turned sideways, facing the sheriff. “He’s being careful, very careful.”
Christine opened her forensic case and withdrew the small brass-framed picture she’d recovered from the room in the apartment. It was sealed in a clear plastic evidence sleeve, and she held the old black-and-white photograph close to inspect it. She could hardly contain her excitement. She nudged Joe, who was looking over her shoulder at the picture of two mothers, each holding a baby.
“Do you see it?” she said. “Look closely at each child.” Christine handed the framed picture to him.
She noticed the sheriff squinting. “You can’t see it?” she said, unable to contain her excitement.
“I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be looking at,” he said. “Why don’t you just tell me?”
“I’ll admit that it’s subtle. And you haven’t had the benefit of speaking directly to Dr. Emil Katz, our staff forensic psychiatrist.” Although it was only a five-by-seven photograph, the camera that took the picture had an excellent lens, because the details captured were sharp, unmistakable.
“Notice the babies’ hair.” She pointed to each child’s head. “Opposing whorls—their cowlicks go in opposite directions. One infant is raising his left hand, see, and the other, his right.”
McFaron blew air out his lips in an expression of consternation. “For starters, Christine, how can you be so sure they’re both boys, even?”
“From this picture, I can’t. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. David Claremont as the killer certainly doesn’t make sense.
“Imagine being separated at an early age from your twin brother. You grow up and don’t hear or see or perhaps even remember much of anything about this other you’ve been taken from. Then, all of a sudden, voilà, his face—your face, or nearly so—appears on every TV set in America, every newspaper. There it is. Your face is his. And your crime is also his now. Still, it’s a face you’re seeing for the first time in years. Someone who looks like you, a presence that you’ve had more than an inkling of at different times.”
Prusik’s heart was racing. “He can’t stay away, Joe. He traveled on public transit to Indianapolis because he can’t stay away.”
“The state capital, the transportation hub,” McFaron pointed out, “where he would need to go to catch another bus to Weaversville.” The sheriff still wasn’t fully on board with Christine’s assumptions, but the infants in the photograph did show a distinct familial resemblance, and the adoption records definitely confirmed there were brothers, if not twins.
Prusik squeezed the sheriff’s forearm with both hands. “He’s going to meet his brother.” She banged the door panel hard. “Yes! It fits.”
“Take it easy with that door,” McFaron said. “Taxpayers’ property.”
She weighed her choices. It couldn’t wait. Things were happening too fast. Joe and she had struck the mother lode and were hot on the killer’s trail. There was no time to convince and redirect Thorne’s and Howard’s attention before the trail would run cold, or worse, Holmquist would kill again. On that last thought, Christine nervously scrolled through her cell phone’s directory of courts and prosecuting attorneys for the southern Indiana district. She hesitated. What she was doing could mean her job. Prison even. Did she really have no other options? Her pinkie began throbbing—she hadn’t even realized she was clenching her fist. Slow down, Christine, think it all the way through, she counseled herself. Not only was she contemplating doing something her superiors would never condone, but it would surely bring down the wrath of the whole bureau on her. She’d be breaking the law. No question. Like he’d be, snuffing the last breath out of another innocent girl. What other viable alternative did she have that could stop that from happening?
Without further discussion, Prusik got out of the car, tapped in the number to the Weaversville, Indiana, prosecutor’s office, and slowly walked down the sidewalk, not wanting McFaron to hear. “Prosecuting Attorney Gray, please.”
“Preston Gray here.”
Prusik filled him in on the developments: since Claremont’s arrest three days earlier, not a particle of concrete evidence had been retrieved that tied him to any of the killings—no foreign blood, no semen, no identifiable DNA in scrapings taken from under any of the victims’ fingernails or Claremont’s. She assured Gray there wouldn’t be any. The case wouldn’t stick.
“It was my impression Bruce Howard and his team were still collecting evidence at the Claremont farmhouse and outbuildings, Special Agent Prusik.”
“Mostly they’re circling back over evidence we’ve already tested,” she said, her mind humming. The information that Holmquist was in transit meant that things were moving fast. Timing was everything, and she needed to motivate Gray to help set the trap.
“We’ve uncovered proof that Claremont has a brother, an identical twin,” she disclosed with an increasing sense of vindication. “We’ve verified it with fingerprints and obtained blood-typing matches identical to Claremont’s own blood group. More detailed DNA profiling analysis is under way. The point is, we have a window of opportunity here, sir, and I am authorized to convey to you our support of a petition for bail.” Her heart raced. As much as she disliked going out on a limb, lying to a public official, she feared more the clock ticking and the increasing chance of another young girl crossing paths with Donald Holmquist.
“Surely you’re kidding?” Gray sounded incredulous. “You have any idea what you’re saying? The media will have a field day.”
“I’m not talking about letting him go completely free, Counselor, far from it. I’m talking around-the-clock surveillance. I’m talking about catching the real killer.” She swallowed hard, turned, and faced McFaron sitting in the car, watching her. She looked down at her feet. “I have authorization for this request. You have the full backing of the bureau on this.”
“You’re saying the FBI will accept full responsibility?” Gray said slowly.
“I’ll have my office fax it to you tonight.”
“You say Claremont has an identical brother? A look-alike who’s responsible for these kill
ings?”
“Yes, sir. Our evidence backs it up without a doubt.”
“How can you be sure it wasn’t Claremont, rather than his twin, who committed these crimes?”
Christine could practically hear Gray shaking his head back and forth, trying to process the information and assess the effects of her request on his office. “Look, I understand your concerns primarily lie with your community. How it would look to release Claremont on bail? We’ve formulated a plan that our experts believe will break the case and give you what you need for a successful conviction.” She covered the receiver while taking in another deep breath.
Silence on the other end. Prusik could tell Gray needed more. He wouldn’t be able to go to the media or answer the phones that would surely ring off the hook, explaining that a twin had committed the crimes, a brother who hadn’t yet been apprehended. That would strain his office to the limit.
“There is a phenomenon at work here, Mr. Gray, a form of twin bonding that is difficult for me to explain over the phone. Suffice it to say that the best minds at the bureau support this view. Claremont’s interview confirmed it. Subsequently we’ve uncovered proof that he has a twin. Lawrence and Hilda Claremont adopted David before his first birthday. I don’t believe Claremont knows for sure he has a brother. We’re very close to bringing this man in. The brother. The killer, sir.”
“Close? I’m sorry, Special Agent. Close won’t cut it. Not down where I live, it won’t.” She headed down the block, farther away from the car.
Prusik had expected that convincing Gray would be a long shot, and losing her cool now would do no good. “Admittedly, sir, it’s not what the bureau would prefer, either. If we had a choice. It’s the public we all want to protect.” Her tone grew more urgent. “That’s precisely the reason for the bureau’s request now. In order to catch the brother before he commits another heinous murder we must all take a chance, Mr. Gray. Claremont won’t ever be out of our sight. Count on it. But in order to bring his brother to bay there must be publicity. It’s the bait—announcing on every radio station and TV channel that David Claremont has been released into his parents’ custody on the Claremont farmstead in Weaversville. We’re counting on the media to do its part, sir. In our bureau chief’s best judgment, it will lead to the murderer’s arrest. Time, however, is of the essence.” She stopped before asking him whether he wanted to have the next gutted girl on his conscience.
More interminable silence on the other end—Gray was apparently mulling things over. He emitted an extended sigh, then said, “Send that directive. I’ll examine it. If it says what you say, I’ll agree to house arrest, meaning Claremont stays in his parents’ house twenty-four seven under police surveillance and monitoring. My office will stipulate as to bail. I’ll start the paperwork tomorrow first thing.”
“Good.”
Prusik had been successful. If the transposition phenomenon was at work, freeing Claremont should serve up the killer. Still, it was a daring move, which Thorne would never have approved—or thought of. He hadn’t a clue of the dimensions of this case. He would have her head for it, unless she delivered.
She made one more call to her secretary, Margaret, and then got back in the car. She looked at Joe, then stared into her lap, unsure how to broach what she had just set in motion.
“So are you going to tell me what that call was all about?” McFaron said.
Christine met his eyes and smiled faintly, knowing it might be their last conversation for a while. She took a breath and explained.
McFaron didn’t respond right away. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Christine, I have to say that’s kind of…a gutsy thing to do without passing it by Thorne first, don’t you think?”
Christine agreed with him completely, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. She gave him a stony look.
“I’m just thinking of what’s best for you,” he continued. “I don’t want to see you in a fix. Lose your job or anything.”
“Try telling that to Holmquist’s next victim, why don’t you? Or her parents.”
“But sending an agency directive?” he said. “There’s got to be a better way. It could end your career.”
“Don’t you think I know? But you know as well as I do, when the importance of filling out routine forms or summary reports redirects our focus, it’s the people who fall between the cracks. And lives are lost. Don’t you see? With any luck, Holmquist will surface in Weaversville very soon. There’s no time for politics, Joe. Not now.”
“I’m not going to tell you how to do your job.” He paused, gave her a serious look. “And I won’t argue with you if you’re in actual pursuit of someone, apprehending a suspect. But this? If you want the truth, Christine, what I’m hearing is justification at any cost, the means to an end.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but McFaron held up a hand. “Police procedure and bureaucracy are important. It’s what makes arrests stick, criminal convictions hold. I’ve got to deal with the state police, other counties’ sheriffs, prosecutors, the FBI, state crime lab, state bureau agents. My point is, all this rigmarole that you speak of—and I do often see it as that, too—doesn’t give me the right to cut to the chase, ignore probable cause, trample down someone’s door, and especially not lie to a prosecuting attorney.”
He looked at her resignedly. “So if things don’t pan out the way you hope, what will you do?”
Prusik looked grim. “Assuming I’m not wearing an orange jumpsuit and asking permission from a prison guard to make a phone call to my lawyer?”
“Well, golly, Christine, did you think for even a moment about discussing this scheme with me?” McFaron rubbed his finger over his lip.
“Of course I did.” She closed her eyes. “And I knew what you’d say.”
“But, come on, Christine, we have the goods, the apartment evidence. Is it really worth potentially throwing away the case like this?”
“It’s really very simple, Joe,” she said matter-of-factly. “The killer is on the move. I made the call to catch him. And if I’m dead wrong, or get fired or worse, so be it.”
McFaron got out of the car. Prusik followed. A half-moon peeked above a row of tenements.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said, referring to the moon, hoping to save the tense moment from becoming any tenser.
“Yes, it is, Christine,” McFaron said with obvious resignation. “Look, under the circumstances…” He shrugged. He couldn’t let it go. “Christine, did you even stop and think that my job may be on the line, too? Did you ever consider that?”
“If you want to back out, I’ll entirely understand. I stepped out of the car before making the call, Joe, to keep you from being a witness so that your job wouldn’t be on the line. In fact, no one from my office even knows you’re here in Chicago. You can walk away into the night,” she said flatly, “and I won’t hold it against you one bit. You’ve done me a huge favor helping out in Delphos. I couldn’t have done that alone.”
McFaron studied her face. “No turning back with the directive, I suppose. It’s a done deal?”
“It’s probably in the prosecuting attorney’s hands as we speak, or it will be shortly.” Prusik had called her secretary and listened as Margaret keyed in word for word the directive to send to Prosecuting Attorney Gray, and then printed it out on the bureau’s embossed stationery. The older woman had shrugged off Christine’s promises to take the blame for any fallout, saying that if it came to it, she really wouldn’t mind taking an early retirement. After reading the copy back, she had faked Prusik’s signature and messengered the document over to Gray’s office.
“Look, I’ll admit it’s a risky move, and I understand your disapproval.” She looked Joe in the eye. “I’m prepared to take the heat if it backfires. If you need to be reminded, we’re talking about preventing the next murder, Joe. And evisceration.”
McFaron nodded somberly. “Under the circumstances, I think it’s best that I return tonight, see what’s what.”
In a soft voice, he continued, “You and I both know that I’m not going to be of much help to you at this point. Convincing your people. If anything, they’ll misconstrue my presence, making things worse for you. And I certainly won’t be any help to my own office, the people of my county. You agree?”
The look of dejection on the sheriff’s face pained her. Dinner in a nice, cozy restaurant wasn’t to be. She had made her choice—made her bed as it were—although she believed in her heart that the decision had been made for her by circumstances at work that were beyond her control. She had no choice. She wished the sheriff would stay but knew that he couldn’t.
Christine took a deep lungful of breath. “OK then. Shall I drive you to the airport?”
The twenty minutes to O’Hare were passed in silence. As much as she wanted to, Christine restrained herself from explaining, again, her rationale for her actions; she realized that any hope of salvaging things with Joe would have to wait for another day. She glanced at him and was aware of his tight jaw, the muscles twitching by his eye. Whatever he wasn’t saying was costing him, too.
The car idled at the curb in front of the United Express entry doors. “I appreciate your flying up on such short notice, Joe,” she said. “I couldn’t have gone into that awful place without you. No way.”
McFaron pursed his lips in curt acknowledgment of her words. “OK then.” He opened the car door and placed one foot on the sidewalk. “I’ll call you later tonight. See how things are going.”
She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with him, fearing she’d lost more than just a good friend. A moment later Christine looked up as he was passing through the security kiosk near the entrance. He waved politely, his face restrained now, not like when he had first arrived and given her a beaming smile. Tears filled her eyes in the privacy of the car, and feelings of being at the end rather than the beginning of the relationship consumed her.
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