McCord took a step backward, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Okay, sorry. Didn’t mean any offense.” He stared at her for a moment. “You were at the other bomb site this morning, the one in Maryland?”
“Yes.” The word was short and tight.
“Bad?”
“Never seen worse.”
“I’m sorry.” His face went feral with sharp eyes and bared teeth. “I’d like to get this son of a bitch, to show he can’t get away with this.”
“Trust me, after this week my whole team is in complete agreement.” Meg blew out a long breath and forced herself to relax. She knew the stress of the day was catching up with her, putting her on the same razor’s edge as McCord. “So give a girl who’s had a horrific day a break and help me out here. Why do you think he picked you? And why the Washington Post? Why not the New York Times, which sells way more papers?”
McCord winced. “Thanks for that little reminder.” Cody raced over to him with a bright green tennis ball locked in his jaws. He dropped it at McCord’s feet and looked up at him with eyes full of hope. “Where on earth did you get this?” Cody just gave a whine in response. “Okay, bud, you got it.” Picking up the ball, he lobbed it across the green space, grinning like a kid when Cody took off after it, six other dogs, including Saki, joining in. “Truthfully, we actually wondered the same thing, especially when it became clear we were the only paper with his message.”
Meg appreciated his ability to quickly change gears. “And what conclusion did you come to?”
“We had a picture no one else had. An FBI K-9 handler. . .” His words petered off and he stepped back a pace to stare at her, hard. Then his head whipped toward the pack of dogs. “Which one did you say is yours?”
“The blue American bully,” she said. She waited for him to face her before she finished. “I left Hawk, my search and rescue black Lab, at home. Yes, that was us.”
“Christ almighty.”
“You didn’t like that picture either?” Meg asked sweetly. Too sweetly. “It didn’t win my appreciation to be caught at that moment.”
“No, I’m thinking about what you’ve been through in the past four days. What your dog’s been through. That must have been hell. I’m sorry.”
Meg blinked at him, at a complete loss of words. Not only was he not pumping her for information, he was being sympathetic. Silence weighed heavily until she finally found words to fill it. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Not me personally, but anyone with an ounce of compassion would be sorry about what you must have seen on Tuesday. And today had to be worse.”
“It was. Not a single survivor inside those walls.”
“It sounds like some war zones I’ve been in, so I won’t ask you for details. I know you can’t give me any and your job doesn’t set you up for them anyway. You try to find the survivors. When it comes to details on the perp, that’s not your wheelhouse.”
“No, it’s not. Although I can tell you a thing or two about him from the destruction he leaves.”
“You don’t need to tell me. He’s a cold son of a bitch. Look, I can promise you this. If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll make sure your superiors are in the loop immediately.”
“No matter what? Or only on the grounds that they’ll let you publish it?”
McCord’s jaw locked, as if he was struggling to keep calm in the face of her continued disbelief. “No matter what. Look, this is bigger than me or my paper. Yes, my editor and I made a case for publishing it based on how that worked for the FBI in the Unabomber case. And after some discussion, the FBI agreed it would be best to let the public read it and see if it rang bells with anyone. But it was theirs no matter what. Here, let’s make a deal.” He pulled out his wallet, drawing a business card from it, and held it out to Meg. “If I hear anything, I promise to pass it up the line. If you hear anything, you let me know. Maybe we can do a little off the books research if needed.”
Meg fought back the tide of suspicion that rose at his words long enough to take his card, only to hold it by the edge as if it was soaked in a corrosive chemical. “You’re seriously proposing a partnership? Between the FBI and a reporter? I can see what’s in it for you, if you can pump the FBI for info, but what’s in it for me?”
“I’m thinking a little cooperation might not be amiss. Our end goal is the same, isn’t it? I’m a conduit; you’re the long arm of the law. You keep me in the loop, I can make sure any message you want gets out there, either quietly or as a sixty-point headline. And I have contacts. Contacts who would never talk to law enforcement of any kind, but with information the FBI would find useful. So maybe if we work together, we can make a little magic.”
“My version of magic has that bastard locked in a cage on forty-eight counts of murder one,” Meg said. She studied Clay for a moment, weighing her options. Did she dare trust him? Maybe not, but considering what was at stake, an uneasy partnership for the greater good might be the only way. But the moment he dropped the ball.... She jammed his card in her pocket and then handed him one of her own cards. “My cell is on there. That’s the best way to reach me because we’re so often on the move.”
“Thanks. And I like the way you think, because right now, I have a bad feeling that we’re not done at forty-eight. I’m not sure how many more he’ll get in before you nail his ass to the wall. I just pray to God you nail him soon.”
Meg hoped so too. And hoped she hadn’t just made a deal with the devil to make it happen.
Chapter 11
Hasty Search: A search designed to cover the most likely places a subject might be located in the least possible time. It is usually the first search tactic used.
Saturday, April 15, 7:11 AM
McCord residence
Washington, DC
“All right, all right. Just hold on a minute.” McCord nearly stumbled over Cody dancing around his legs at the bedroom door as he clumsily pushed his glasses up his nose. Pushing past the excited retriever, he shuffled toward the kitchen with only one thought in his head.
Coffee.
Blessedly, the coffeemaker was ready with a full pot of manna-from-heaven waiting for him. He poured a cup and braved the heat for two large swallows, then leaned back against the counter to let the caffeine start to make its way into his bloodstream. He had less than a second though, before a cool, wet nose pushed against his hand and silky fur brushed over his knees. He cracked open one eye and stared down into wide brown eyes above a smiling mouth and lolling tongue. “Okay, I get it. Give me a second. And the coffee’s coming with us.”
Stumbling back into the bedroom, he snagged yesterday’s jeans off the armchair in the corner and pulled them on over his boxers. He leashed the dog, grabbed his coffee, keys, a jacket, made sure he had enough poop bags, and then they were heading down the stairs.
Once again he questioned his sanity over getting a dog when he lived in a converted third-floor apartment in an old Victorian brownstone. You couldn’t have been that lonely, he chided himself as Cody pulled hard on the leash when they burst through the front doors and out into cool spring sunshine. He barely had time to pluck his copy of the Washington Post off the front step before Cody was yanking him down the street.
Fifteen minutes later they were back inside, Cody having done his business and now tucking into his bowl of kibble. McCord threw himself—carefully, coffee was liquid gold at this hour of the morning—down onto his leather sofa. Wrapping both hands around his second cup, he drank deeply and then let his head fall back against the cushions.
He’d been unsettled when he came back from the park last night and was restless well into the wee hours of the morning. He wasn’t sure if it was the nonstop news coverage of the second bombing attack, or remembering the haunted look in Meg Jennings’s eyes when she talked about not being able to get away from the job. He’d seen pictures from the bombing, but only from helicopter flybys; the FBI and the Maryland State Police weren’t letting anyone into that sit
e, let alone reporters looking for a hot story. She’d been on site, had gone into that building, seen the victims. And worse. Early in his career, he’d covered an arson spree that had taken out a number of empty warehouses back home in Portland. Except one of the fires had taken out a drunk, homeless man. He’d never forget the sight and smell of the body being removed from the burnt-out skeleton of the warehouse.
But thirty-seven people died in that attack alone.
He reached for the remote control sitting on the old, battered sea trunk that served as his coffee table. His hand hovered for a moment—did he really want to immerse himself back in the tidal pool of pundits and political theories? Right-wing activists, paramilitary groups, homegrown terrorists. Reporting the news was one thing; seriously analyzing it was something else. But the unending drive to fill the airwaves and get higher and higher ratings by constantly keeping the nation petrified and off balance wasn’t right. It made him second-guess his choice of career.
“Thirty-five and you’re already too old and jaded to play the game, McCord. This is when you’re supposed to be coming into your prime.”
He snatched up the remote, flipping on the top national cable news channel. As usual, two commentators were rehashing yesterday’s bombing. Thirty seconds told him nothing new had surfaced in the case.
Setting his coffee down on the trunk, he picked up the Post and started to leaf through it quickly. Nothing new there either, at least not that he hadn’t already known or written himself. His article on the second bombing was front page, above the fold with a screaming headline: HOMEGROWN BOMBER STRIKES AGAIN—37 DEAD IN SECOND ATTACK.
McCord swore under his breath when he saw the smiling, lively pictures of some of the victims clustered below the fold almost like an afterthought. He’d lost that argument in spades: He’d wanted the pictures of the victims front and center—they were the story, not the bomber. But the Powers That Be didn’t agree and put them below the fold. The sensationalism of print media wasn’t that different from the TV stations.
What was missing from his story, and everyone else’s, was the single eyewitness the FBI had under wraps. By the time the story leaked to the media that one person just narrowly escaped the bombing, the FBI had him or her safely hidden away. That eyewitness was their best informant, and they wanted to keep that witness out of the hands of the media. They didn’t think the bomber would go after the witness—his job was done with the actual bombing—but they knew his or her life would be hell if the media ever caught on.
McCord’s attention was caught by the sound of singing and he looked up to the video footage of a mass of candles filling the darkness and the strains of “Amazing Grace.” The title “National Mall Candlelight Vigil” stretched across the bottom of the screen. The footage showed the people of America mourning their dead, leaving flowers and cards outside the Whitten Building and at the side of the road near the police roadblock on Highway 40 in La Vale.
How many more dead before they caught this sicko who saw his own needs as more important than anyone else’s? An idea sparked in McCord’s head for a piece—the bomber versus the dedicated personnel that tracked him. He’d never get near the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit until they made themselves available for a profile, but he could talk to some of the best psychological experts in DC, then compare and contrast the mind of such a twisted killer to those who swore to get him, people like Meg. People who were affected and invested, who needed to catch him to put themselves at peace. Who wouldn’t—who couldn’t—rest until he was caught. It was a great way to highlight those who tried to stay out of the limelight. Sometimes in the media, evil trumped good simply because of the amount of time spent focused on it. Time to highlight the good, to bring it out of the shadows.
He reached for his laptop to make a few notes before the idea fizzled. He quickly booted up, started a new document with his notes, and saved it for future reference. Seeing as he was already online, even this early in the morning, he flipped over to his e-mail to see if there was anything new since he last checked at three in the morning.
His breath caught at the sight of the only new e-mail: SecureDrop message for C. McCord.
It doesn’t necessarily have to be him. It could be about anything else, or it could be a tip to his identity.
Or it could be him. Find. Out.
He logged on to the web site, cursing the mere seconds it took to authenticate him and take him to the SecureDrop site. There was a single message listed for his access. He took a deep breath and opened it.
Mr. McCord,
You DISRESPECT ME sir. I gave you a great story and when I looked at your paper in the library I couldn’t even see it on the rack because it was so low down on the page. Even worst, I give you a great picture and then you didn’t print it. I spent good money on a camera so youd know I ment bisness, and I had to reduce payload too. Should I take my bisness to the New York Times?
Did you like the cumotion at the Infernal Revenue Service? I have pictures of that to but maybe Ill send em somewhere else. The IRS targeting of Conservative and religious groups was more than a scandal, it is an outright terrorist attack against the American people! IRS can seize anything it wants, and take away any money a man can make. Nothing is safe. Nothing is sacred. Even what’s past down. The U.S. government has set itself above the people and exercised its global influences unlawfully against the Constitution. And they publish shit like “Public education is the cornerstone of conflict management efforts.” Or “application of aversive conditioning techniques may provide immediate relief for agricultural damage and provide public satisfaction that a problem is being addressed”. When any fool knows the best answer is a bullet. Shouldn’t need no dammed permit either.
If you want my pictures from yesterday you need to ask me nicely.
Sincerely,
~ This Angry David has taken down two Goliaths.
Stay tuned.
McCord took the time to pick up his coffee and guzzle half of it in hopes of instant clarity. He glanced at his cell, knowing he should already be calling his editor. But he gave himself a moment to study the message first, before any arguments with the offices upstairs and discussions with the FBI. Just to study it and learn its secrets.
The arrogant yet condescending tone of the first message was mostly gone. In its place was anger, pure and simple. You’re not getting the attention you want and it’s pissing you off. Meg and the rescuers were highlighted, the victims were highlighted, you were not. The call not to print the photo of the Whitten Building could be laid at the feet of the FBI. Printing the message had a purpose—to get public input into the killer’s identity—but they didn’t want to give out details about how the crimes were being committed. In this day and age of Internet searches, excess information could spawn copycats, and that was the last thing they wanted. Not to mention they didn’t want to sensationalize some of the victims’ last seconds as they stood in the windows, staring up at the drone. Publishing the message served a purpose; publishing the picture did not. McCord didn’t disagree.
He considered the comment about agricultural damage and weighed the possibilities he was referring to his first target. “The best answer is a bullet”? That didn’t make any sense. He’d used a bomb, much more heavy handed than a bullet.
It was the last line that filled his stomach with dread. “This Angry David has taken down two Goliaths. Stay tuned.” He wasn’t finished. Not even close. Time to call in the cavalry.
He picked up his cell phone and speed-dialed the call, waiting impatiently while it was picked up. “Sykes, it’s McCord.” He paused as a sleepy, irritated voice filled his ear. “Yes, I know it’s not even eight yet. I need you to meet me at the office. He’s contacted me again. I’ll be there in twenty.” He ended the call before Sykes could pepper him with questions. Better to just deal with the whole thing in one shot. And if he knew Sykes—and after five years working under him, he thought he did—he could bet money on the fact Sykes was on t
he phone with the brass at that second and they were all going to meet in twenty minutes at the Post.
Cody dropped his favorite stuffed toy—a comical raccoon with ridiculously oversized eyes—at McCord’s feet. McCord ruffled his ears and gave him a thumping pat on the side. “Sorry, buddy, not this morning, but maybe you can sweet-talk Pattie into some extra play time.” He made a mental note to call his dog walker from the car, telling her he had to head into the office unexpectedly and would need her again today. Luckily for him, she was extremely flexible, and had a soft spot for both him and Cody. “If not, when I get home again.” He stood. “Whenever that will be,” he mumbled under his breath, as if his dog could understand him.
He quickly pulled on clean clothes and grabbed his phone, laptop, and car keys. “Okay, bud, see you later. Be back as soon as I can.” He tried to ignore what he thought was a look of sadness from where the dog curled up in McCord’s old recliner. He turned to the door, but stopped with his fingers on the handle. Why not?
Then he dug a card out of his wallet and quickly keyed the number and a short text into his phone: He contacted me again. Heading to the office now to discuss with the brass. Will likely be reporting it within the hour. Keep it under your hat, but will let you know more when I can.
Chapter 12
Distractors: Items like food or favorite toys placed in search areas to confuse or distract working scent dogs.
Saturday, April 15, 9:34 AM
Forensic Canine Unit; J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
“Greg, got a second?”
Greg Patrick looked up from digging through a desk drawer on the far side of the office. “Sure. What’s up?”
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