Don't Speak

by J. L. Brown

  “Pretty much. My father was CIA, so I always thought I would follow in his footsteps. After a former president—who shall remain nameless—stole the election, I decided to go into politics instead. At the time, I wanted to change the system that allowed that to happen.”

  “You said, ‘at the time.’ You no longer feel that way?”

  “Most days, no, but I’m going to keep trying.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Ha! It may be easier to describe what I don’t do. My title is legislative director, but I act as Senator Fairchild’s chief of staff. I help set her legislative agenda and priorities, develop strategies to help them pass, and evaluate their political outcomes. I manage the staff of assistants and correspondents and work with counsel to draft bills.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It is, but I love it.”

  The waitress brought their food and they began to eat.

  “What’s up with the pink wristband?”

  He set his burger down, fingering the band.

  “It says ‘Strength,’ for breast cancer awareness.” He extended his arm across the table to show her. “My mother had breast cancer when I was in college.” He noticed her expression. “No . . . she survived, but I saw the courage and strength she demonstrated to beat the disease. I’ve worn this ever since.”

  “She must be quite a lady.”

  “She is. She’s my hero. Her illness forced me to grow up fast.” He took a bite of his burger and sipped his beer. “But we didn’t meet here to talk about me. I’ve thought a lot about your case. Any leads?”

  “Not many.”

  He clasped the beer mug in both hands. “Citizens on both ends of the political spectrum are upset about the direction of our country. The reason Senator Fairchild is so passionate about winning is she believes we must come together, if we want to remain a superpower. To quote Abraham Lincoln, ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’” He chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Jade asked.

  “I’m starting to sound like the senator. She’s always quoting political figures. Anyway, I believe the two-party system has outlived its usefulness. It panders to the extremists in both parties and to special interests. Politicians no longer govern.”

  “What does this guy hope to accomplish?” she asked. “Does he really believe Congress will pass legislation to prevent further death?”

  “He’s delusional if he does. Then again, he may not want Congress to do anything. If he’s true to his word, this will force him to continue killing conservative talk-show hosts. That may be what he wants. For him, it’s a win-win.”

  “Good point,” Jade said. “Why taunt us?”

  Landon paused, trying to catch up with Jade’s train of thought. “Ah . . . the email. Beats me. Death wish? Hates authority? Had a run in with the FBI? Thinks the FBI is out to get him?” He laughed. “Well, I guess the FBI is out to get him now. He also may be Machiavellian. The end justifies the means and all that.”

  “How so?”

  “He’ll do whatever it takes to save the country or save democracy or purify the country of those filled with hate or intolerance or all the above. He may believe he’s the only one who can save us.”

  “That’s a lot of responsibility for one person.”

  They fell silent. The waitress cleared their plates away, refilled Jade’s Pepsi and brought Landon another beer.

  “Given the killer’s liberal politics,” he said, “have you checked out blogs and op-ed pages written by liberal thinkers?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” She made a mental note to check it out.

  *

  Jade and Landon lingered in front of the restaurant. A man on the street corner played the drums on several plastic buckets and a big overturned trash can. They stood watching him, listening to the reggae and African mix.

  “He’s pretty good,” Landon said.

  “We owe him a dollar,” Jade said.

  “Owe him?”

  “Yeah. If a street performer is good enough to make you stop, you at least owe him or her a dollar.”

  Landon extracted a bill from his pocket. A five.

  “He must be worth it,” he said. He sauntered the ten yards to the near-full jar and returned. “I guess a lot of people stopped.”

  “Do you play an instrument?” Jade asked.

  “I play a little guitar.”

  She nodded her head to the beat. “His music reminds me of my best friend.”

  “Who’s your best friend?”

  “Zoe.”

  “Zoe? First name only? Like Beyoncé, Rihanna, and Adele? Zoe and I worked together on several of Senator Fairchild’s campaigns. She’s a trip.”

  Jade nodded. No need to mention she already knew that. Zoe had given her Landon’s phone number, but she hadn’t used it. She’d called Fairchild’s office directly. “I need to go.”

  “I know.”

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome. Maybe I can play for you sometime.”

  She eyed him with a quizzical expression.

  “The guitar.”

  “Oh. Maybe. Goodbye.” She turned toward her building.

  “Wait!” He touched her arm. “Let me walk you.”

  Jade scowled, feeling the strength of his grip on her forearm. “I’m an FBI agent. I can take care of myself. Besides, it’s across the street.” She pointed to the employee entrance.

  “Well, I’m a legislative aide and I would like to accompany you across the street.”

  She smiled at the spark in his eye. He was charming. And handsome. She checked her watch. Their thirty-minute dinner had lasted two hours. He offered her his arm. She peered at it and back at him.

  “Thanks, but I got it.”

  A shadow of disappointment passed over his face.

  Not her problem.

  She crossed Ninth Street without looking back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Washington, DC

  Jade Harrington entered the conference room for the task force’s morning briefing.

  “Kramer is the best QB prospect since RG3,” Austin Miller said. “He runs like a running back.”

  By the earnestness of his expression as he spoke, Jade surmised they could only be chattering about the Redskins.

  Christian, seated across from Austin, crossed his arms. “He throws like Billy Kilmer.” He would know. Christian was an amateur Redskins historian and knew everything about the 1970s quarterback who led the franchise to its first Super Bowl. He knew the team’s history, even as far back as when it was called the Boston Braves. “Start him on your fantasy football team, if you’re so confident about his ability. I’ll gladly take your money.”

  Jade laid her folders on the table, but remained standing. “No one understands better than I the importance of the Redskins and winning our fantasy football league, but I need to interrupt this discussion for something of equal importance. I received a phone call from the Pittsburgh PD.”

  She had their attention. Christian, Austin, Max, Pat, and Dante stared at her, tense and expectant. Dante lowered the front two legs of his chair to the floor.

  “We have a match. The hair located at the scene in Pittsburgh where Randy Sells was murdered matches the hair found on Taylor LeBlanc, the victim in Baton Rouge. Neither hair belonged to the victim.”

  Christian and Austin pumped their fists and said “Yes!” The same reaction Jade had made at her desk, when she heard the news a few minutes ago. They now had conclusive evidence two of the cases were connected. A small moment of triumph.

  It didn’t last.

  There was a knock on the door. A male agent poked his head in and pointed at the blank projection screen. “Turn it on. Shakespeare struck again.”

  *

  One advantage of having a rookie on her task force: Jade had someone to go out and get lunch for her. The half-eaten Italian sub heaped with meat Austin had brought her lay next to her key
board. Normally a bottomless pit, she was so pumped up now she couldn’t eat. Almost. She sipped a Pepsi through a straw as she stared at her computer monitor, the latest email from TSK taking up the entire screen.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  I am disappointed. In my last email, I had asked politely for new legislation to address the monopoly of conservative talk radio in this country. To fill the airwaves with an equal share of inclusiveness and tolerance and equality, not hate. An ideology of tolerance that brings us together, not divides us. I want to be a part of an ideology that is greater than the sum of its parts rather than one of divisiveness. How about you?

  Perhaps not. I have seen no evidence of pending legislation or discussions taking place within Congress regarding the issue of balance and fairness on the airwaves. Our government is not taking me seriously, so, as the old saying goes, if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.

  There will be another murder.

  To my clueless friends at the FBI, I shall give you a clue this time. Just one. Within the next week, a conservative talk-show host on the West Coast will be killed.

  My hope is that this death will bring the much-needed attention to the issue of fairness, and facilitate discussion in our august halls of Congress to help us build a bridge to a better, more balanced dissemination of information in the future.

  Sincerely,

  TSK

  P.S. FBI, I may bump into you on the West Coast. Catch me, if you can.

  She wondered about a person driven to kill because of ideology. An ideology of tolerance. How much sense did that make? She would have laughed at the hypocrisy, if the stakes weren’t so high.

  Jade’s mood darkened.

  What does he gain from taunting us? More exposure? Does he want to be caught? Is he one of us?

  Why did she just think that?

  She read the email again and sat back in her chair to think.

  The tingle along her arms compelled her to look up from her monitor. Austin stood in her office doorway, his eyes shining.

  “What is it?” Jade asked.

  Although he seemed ready to burst if he didn’t tell her, instead, he said, “You’re going to want to listen to this.”

  *

  The CONFAB task force was back in the conference room. The group waited, restless, as Austin hooked up a laptop to two speakers.

  “I’ve listened to hundreds of recordings.” He glanced over at Jade. “I’m not sure what I ever did to you, but this was the worst assignment you could’ve ever given me.”

  Jade smiled, but said nothing, not bothering to hide her impatience.

  “After a while,” Austin continued, “I recognized a pattern by one caller whose vocabulary and speech were similar to TSK’s writings.” He paused. “And the same caller’s voice talked to more than one of the victims.”

  The other agents glanced at each other, the tension in the room building the longer they waited.

  Jade started to pace. “Get on with it, Austin.”

  Austin paused one more time for dramatic effect. “I heard the same voice today.”

  Christian sat forward in his seat. Austin began the recording and adjusted the volume.

  “The Fairness Doctrine . . . are you kidding me?” asked a deep voice, born for radio.

  “Yes. Why not?” asked the caller.

  “Because we don’t need it, you moron. If someone wants to listen to the other side, he can change the channel. I will never talk about liberalism on my show. My listeners don’t want to hear about fantasy land. They want to hear about the real world. And this . . . TSK . . . wants minorities and women to own more broadcasting licenses? Haven’t we done the affirmative-action thing? Haven’t grievances been redressed enough? Minorities are already given too many breaks.”

  Silence, then: “You have no clue, you ignorant bigot, and no idea what it’s like to be a minority in this country. You deserve to die.”

  Jade tensed and glanced at Austin. He was not trying to suppress the smile on his face.

  “Oh, yeah? Am I talking to TSK? Hello? Hello?” The commentator’s voice seemed to move away from the microphone. “Did we lose him?” A pause. “I guess we lost him. Shit. I hope I’m not next.” The commentator laughed. A nervous laugh. He spoke into the microphone. “Well, uh, we’re going to take a commercial break. Be right back.”

  Austin clicked off the recording. The room was silent.

  “Could he be a minority?” Jade questioned Max, doubt evident in her voice.

  “He doesn’t sound black,” Dante said.

  “What does that mean?” Jade asked.

  “You know . . .”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It would be an unusual profile for this type of case,” Max said, breaking the tension, “but, at this point, we can’t afford to rule anything out.”

  “What station?” Jade asked.

  “KSFC in San Francisco,” Austin replied.

  She turned to him. “This is good work.”

  He beamed.

  Dante threw a sidelong glance at Jade. “West Coast.”

  She read a printed copy of the email again and sat up straighter.

  “Last line . . . ‘Build a bridge?’ Could he be talking about the Bay Bridge?” She turned to Max. “Could it be that easy?”

  Max shook his head. “I believe our UNSUB is too intelligent for that.”

  Christian shrugged. “I think we should check it out.”

  Jade turned to Dante. “Any luck with the yearbook photo?”

  Dante’s cheeks reddened. He shook his head. Under his breath, he said, “I think it’s a dead end.”

  Jade wondered how hard he had tried.

  Pat said, under her breath, “So’s your love life, but you keep trying, don’t you?”

  “We don’t have any other leads,” Christian said. “Let’s go for it. What do we have to lose?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  San Francisco, California

  The KSFC offices were located in a gleaming glass skyscraper in the high-rent district of San Francisco. It was night. Jade, Christian, Max, Pat, Austin, and Dante were crowded in a van parked a block down the street, a computer repair company logo on its outside paneling. Monitors displayed multiple views of the intersecting streets in front of the building, the parking garage, and different areas of the radio station.

  Arriving two nights ago, they had met with a team from the San Francisco Police Department. Men and women from the department were all around them outside now, dressed as businesspeople, tourists, and the homeless. Jade couldn’t distinguish the cops from the civilians.

  She had interviewed—twice—the radio commentator, Billy Stone, whose voice she had listened to on the audio recording. Although shaken, he agreed to continue his normal daily routine in the hope the killer would make an attempt on his life.

  So far, nothing had happened.

  MSNBC had not received another email from TSK.

  Jade peered at her oversized, platinum watch. The talk-show host was wrapping up his broadcast. She scanned the monitors again. Nothing. Several people walked down the street, but they all seemed purposeful, with somewhere to go. More important, they strode by or away from the building.

  “I don’t like this,” Max said, glancing at Jade. “I think he’s sent us on a wild-goose chase.”

  Before Jade could respond, her radio crackled.

  “I may have something. Parking garage. Second floor.” Silence for a few minutes. “Our man just came out the door. Another man is walking toward him. I’m on it.”

  More silence. A grunt. Then, “Got him.”

  Jade, Christian, Austin, and Dante jumped out of the computer repair van, running, their FBI jackets flapping behind them with the wind. Passersby stopped and stared.

  The team flashed their badges to the security guard in the lobby as they ran toward the stairs.

  Jade’s stomach clenched, uneasy. “I think Max is right. Something’s wrong.�
�

  Right behind her, Christian said, “What?”

  “Every crime, so far, has been in a different location: parking lot, alley, bedroom, parking garage. This one is like Houston.”

  From behind both of them, Dante said, “You’re overthinking it. Sometimes, it is what it is.”

  Jade didn’t turn around but kept running.

  “With this guy?” Jade asked. “I don’t think so.”

  They burst through a door to the garage’s second floor, guns drawn but lowered as they ran. A cop squatted with his knee on the back of a prone man, struggling to handcuff him. A few police officers surrounded him, guns leveled on the suspect. Jade, Dante, Austin, and Christian rushed up to them.

  Jade stopped a couple of feet away, the officer subduing the man at last.

  The suspect peered up at her and grinned.

  Her shoulders dropped. “Shit.”

  This kid appeared too young to be the mastermind of the TSK killings. Jade would go through the interrogation process, but she knew what they would determine.

  They had the wrong man.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Washington, DC

  His producer indicated the “Go” signal.

  “Well, well, well . . . I would like to introduce to my audience my special guest: the Democratic nominee for the presidency of the United States, Senator Whitney Fairchild. Whitney, welcome.”

  “Thank you, Cole, it’s good to be here, and, please, call me ‘Senator’ or ‘Senator Fairchild.’”

  “I stand corrected. Now, I must tell you, little lady, I do respect the fact that you crossed enemy lines for this interview.”

  “Well, Cole, presidential elections are important and I believe in fairness. Your listeners have the right to hear both sides of the issues in order to make better and informed decisions.”

  “Ouch. Nice plug for the Fairness Doctrine, but many conservatives would argue the mainstream media is already too liberal.”

  Senator Fairchild smiled. “Whom did we blame everything on before the media? Do you remember?”

  Cole understood why women loved her. Men, too. She was more attractive in person. So much class. Aristocratic. Cole would play up her elitism. His audience hated that.