PART TWO
The Arrest
February 9–11
The way to arrest financial joy-riding is to arrest the chauffeur, not the automobile.
—WILSON
CHAPTER 15
Monday, February 9, 7:40 a.m.
THE SECOND MEETING OF the serial task force was under way. Coroner Ellis was just finishing her latest remarks to the group concerning the Wells and DiMarco deaths when an officer entered the conference room and handed Chief Murphy a note. As Murphy read the note to himself, Lotello had a moment to reflect on what Ellis had just reported. Bottom line, the coroner’s office still had nothing useful—no prints, no semen, and no DNA except the victims’ at either of the crime scenes. The killer was either very good or very lucky, or both.
“We’ve had another murder,” Murphy sighed. “Derrick Johnson, chairman of the SEC. His wife found him earlier this morning in his home office. Oh, and Rosemary, there’s someone here from your office to speak to you.”
Ellis excused herself and left the room. The others sat there, dazed by what they had just heard, not sure what to do or say. It seemed longer to those waiting, but it was only a few minutes until Ellis returned and spoke.
“Chairman Johnson was shot twice at close range, similar to Senator Wells. He and his wife had returned home from a dinner last night. She went up to bed. He went into his office to do some paperwork. She fell asleep. When she woke up this morning, she discovered he had never come up to bed. Again, no fingerprints or other unintended evidence found at the scene. This time, however, the killer left behind two additional intended pieces of evidence: a handwritten note and a homemade DVD.
“The note’s pretty straightforward. ‘It’s all your fault. You did it. You killed Ryan. Now I got you.’ That’s all it says. The DVD has more. I haven’t seen it yet, but if it’s not just a ruse, I’m told it may, along with the fact that Chairman Johnson was a male, cast a different light on things. My office sent over a laptop, projector, and screen so we can view it together.”
The equipment was set up. Ellis played the DVD. For a moment, no one said a word. Then, they all started talking at once. Lotello sat quietly looking at everyone else in the room trying to be heard over everyone else.
Deputy Mayor Arnest was in a panic. “My God, this is beyond belief. And the mayor is due to address the press at nine thirty. I’ve got to let him know.”
“Hold on, Colleen,” District Attorney Reilly responded. “We don’t know what we have here. Wells and DiMarco were both sexually assaulted postmortem, apparently the actions of some kind of warped psychopath. Dare I add a serial psychopath. Even before taking this DVD into account, Johnson’s circumstances are quite different. The DVD makes things even more uncertain.”
Chief Murphy turned to Lotello. “Do you have any thoughts, Frank?”
“Right now, I have more questions than thoughts, Chief.
“For example, do we possibly have a copycat killer here, someone other than the person who killed Wells and DiMarco? Johnson’s a male rather than a female, but he did work in the government like our first two victims.
“We need to figure out whether there are any sexual implications in the Johnson murder. Different strokes for different folks. What appeared to be a garden-variety sexual pervert—perhaps with a fixation on politicians—is now possibly quite different than what first looked to be the case. We may have a killer who is simply targeting government officials of any gender, and who only disguised his intentions with fabricated sexual overtones initially to throw us off the scent. This may be far more subtle and complicated than we first thought.”
Arnest spoke up again. “Yes, but what am I going to tell the mayor?”
Lotello snapped back, “This is not about the mayor, Colleen. Tell him whatever the hell you want to tell him. You know as much as we do. The problem is not what you’re going to tell him. The problem is what he’s going to say at his almighty press conference!
“In my opinion, the last thing anyone should do right now is say anything about this DVD and note before we know more reliably what we’re dealing with. All the public should be told is that we are working on this as hard as we can, but that for strategic reasons information will only be made available on a strict need-to-know basis.”
Chief Murphy looked at Arnest. “Colleen, I think you should tell the mayor what Frank just said. Please encourage him to exercise the appropriate restraint.”
Lotello wasn’t finished. “Vince, yesterday I emphasized the importance of forcing Ayres and Santana to open up to us, and to do so quickly. You said you would be working on this. Do you have anything for us yet?”
“We’ve had some success and some failure. I reached the publisher of The Post yesterday afternoon. He’s an old golfing buddy. He spoke to Santana. She doesn’t want to be questioned by you because she supposedly doesn’t know who her source is. At least that’s what she claims. We have no way of knowing whether this is true, or just a cover. Santana says she received two voicemail messages, each very short. The voices were each male. Each seemed to be from the same caller. She says she did not recognize the voice. The first message suggested she check out Wells’s residence for something interesting. The second message told her to go to DiMarco’s place.
“As for Ayres, I’ve completely struck out. No one could find him yesterday. I’ll try again today.”
Lotello still wasn’t finished. “Aren’t the newspapers supposed to refrain from running stories like Santana did without actually knowing their source and being able to corroborate what they have been told?”
“Yes and no, Frank. Santana only reported what she learned when she went to the crime scenes. By definition, that’s corroboration. All Santana’s guilty of is trying to be first with the story. Puffing or exaggerating what she knows. Essentially trying to play up her importance. I think she’s highly embarrassed at this point. Trying to cut her losses by hiding behind the First Amendment and her source privilege rights. There is no privilege here. Unfortunately, there’s no source, either. At least not one we can flush out.”
Lotello had a few more ideas about the calls he had been discussing … with Beth. It still seems to me that if anyone has actually been calling Santana, it must be the killer. But why would the killer do this? What was the motive behind the supposed calls? Was it that the killer was after attention that he thought Santana would provide? He didn’t leave any evidence until the third killing. Why then? Was the killer at first trying to avoid directing attention to who may be his real targets—politicians—so he could more easily assassinate still more of them? Is he done, at least for now? Is that why he’s decided to now leave us some clues? The DVD’s pretty grisly, but who knows whether it’s accurate in terms of what it says. Or is some kind of ruse. Unlike the mayor, however, Lotello didn’t have to share his thoughts. At least for now, given that he had no confidence in the discretion of the serial task force members, he wasn’t about to.
Seeing nothing further to be gained in the meeting, Chief Murphy recessed it and said they would not meet again until the next morning at seven thirty, at least in the absence of any further developments.
CHAPTER 16
Monday, February 9, 9:30 a.m.
HORATIO JACKSON HAD BEEN elected mayor of Washington, D.C., a little over a year ago. He had campaigned on the promise to get tough on crime. So far, he had been delivering. Crime in D.C. was down modestly from the prior two years, but the recent three murders of prominent politicians could prove harmful to his political future.
Flanked on either side by District Attorney Reilly and Police Chief Murphy, Jackson approached the podium set up at the entrance to city hall. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is indeed a sad state of affairs that brings us here today. As you already know, Washington recently lost two of its finest public servants: first Senator Jane Wells, on Thursday, and then Deputy Secretary of the Treasury Jody DiMarco, barely a day later, on Friday. This would of course be a travesty a
t any time. However, given the central importance of these two individuals in battling the almost unprecedented economic challenges now facing our country, the loss of these leaders at this time is particularly devastating.
“Unfortunately, we have learned just this morning that a third murder has occurred in our district, late last night or early this morning. The latest victim was SEC Chairman Derrick Johnson, another important financial leader in our federal government.”
The resulting pandemonium in the audience came as no surprise. “Mayor Jackson,” interrupted a voice from those in attendance. “Do we have some kind of serial killer running loose in our town?” A sea of affirmative nods and murmurs demonstrated that many in the audience shared this concern.
“Whoa, whoa, please, let’s not make matters worse than they already are by drumming up a lot of rank speculation.”
“C’mon, Mayor,” cried another voice. “Three public officials murdered in barely four days. What’s the deal?”
“Folks, please,” responded Jackson, trying not to lose control of the gathering, “it’s way too soon to know exactly what we have here. We need to give our local police officials a chance to do their jobs. I’m not taking any questions this morning. It’s too soon for that.
“Please remember: I ran for election on a get-tough-on-crime platform. So far, I’ve made good on that promise. I intend to continue doing so.
“District Attorney Reilly and Chief Murphy inform me we are doing all we reasonably can and are already pursuing leads we expect will produce results. I’m not at liberty to say more at the present time because it could compromise our efforts. We will continue to update you as matters develop. Thank you.”
Jackson turned and beat a hasty retreat from the press conference he had called for his own grandiose purposes. Reilly and Murphy scurried along behind him.
* * *
STANDING AMONG THE HORDE watching the circus, it was all he could do not to break out laughing. These fools just don’t get it. What a bunch of idiots they are! Maybe another clue or two will help them. Still all alone, with just his thoughts, and his frustration. How much longer would all of this go on?
CHAPTER 17
Monday, February 9, 9:45 a.m.
THE PRESIDENT OF THE United States, Roger Tuttle, turned off the television in his office. Morons! He punched one of the buttons on the phone sitting on his desk. “Yes, sir,” the voice in the intercom responded promptly.
“Please have Manny come in.”
“Right away, Mr. President.”
Three minutes later, preceded by one short knock on the door, White House Chief of Staff Manuel Reyes entered the president’s office. “Good morning again, Mr. President. Something I can do for you?”
“Did you see our fine mayor’s press conference a few minutes ago?” Barely waiting for the affirmative nod, Tuttle continued. “What’s wrong with these jackasses? Can’t they see what’s happening? I don’t know for sure, but it seems to me that our killer has a very dim view of our political leaders.”
“I was thinking precisely the same thing, Mr. President.”
Tuttle suspected that Reyes didn’t have the slightest idea what Tuttle was really talking about.
“I want to meet with our congressional leaders as soon as possible. How about this afternoon?”
“That’ll work if I can cancel your basketball game.”
“No way. Jay Leno needs to tell the public I’m a cool dude. Very fit and all that. Have to make time for my hoops. And my tee times. Can we get them in here tomorrow morning?”
“That’ll work. If we do it before the morning security meeting.”
“Good. Twenty minutes is all I’ll need. Tops.”
“I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Mr. President.”
CHAPTER 18
Monday, February 9, 10:00 p.m.
HE FINISHED SEALING THE envelope, the note safe inside. Paraffin gloves would mask any prints. Getting the envelope delivered would be much more difficult. He turned off the light. Once again, he was all alone, in the dark, with just his thoughts, and frustration. But it wouldn’t be much longer now.
CHAPTER 19
Tuesday, February 10, 5:00 a.m.
ANYONE WATCHING THE UNUSUAL scene would certainly have been intrigued by the apparent incongruity of it all: the well-kept, middle-aged woman and the equally unkempt panhandler actively engaged in discussion.
“Hey, miss, can you please spare some change? I’m really hungry.”
“How about twenty dollars? Would a twenty-spot do?”
“Sure would,” he said, quickly sticking out his hand, imagining all he was going to do with the twenty-dollar bill that crossed his palm. “What the fuck? What am I supposed to do with half a twenty-dollar bill? You messing with me?”
“Nope, not at all. I’ll be waiting right here with the other half just as soon as you get back.”
“Back? Back from where? Where am I supposed to be going?”
“Just down the street there to the Capitol building. You know it, right?”
“Yes, but I don’t get it. That’s not exactly on my route. Not anywhere I go.”
“All you have to do is take this envelope in the front entrance and hand it to one of the security guards.”
Looking a bit unsure, he said, “You gonna get me in trouble?”
“I’m just trying to do a good deed. If you’d rather, I can give it to FedEx to deliver for the same twenty dollars.”
“Ain’t gonna blow up, is it?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. Do you want the twenty or not?”
“Why ain’t you doing this yourself, lady?”
“That’s it! What I will do myself is give someone else my twenty dollars.”
“No, no. Please. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” He quickly snatched the half bill and envelope from her and started off down the street. He stopped and turned back to the woman. “You gonna be here when I get back? I really need the twenty dollars.”
“Right here.”
“Okay, then. I’ll be right back.”
Off he went, envelope in hand, the half-twenty-dollar bill already safely stashed in his pocket.
* * *
SHE LOOKED AROUND, CONFIDENT no one had noticed them together. She took a rock the size of a softball out of her purse, bent down, placed the rock on the sidewalk, and put the other half of the $20 under the rock. Shaking her head, she went off in the other direction. Amazing what you can still get done in Washington for twenty dollars if you set your mind to it. In D.C., money’s all that matters.
CHAPTER 20
Tuesday, February 10, 5:30 a.m.
SECURITY OFFICER JOE HINTZ was upset. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he figured he needed to call his boss, Frank Hartwell, the Capitol building night-shift security director. Hartwell, who had been in security for decades, would only make him more nervous, but Hintz didn’t think he had any choice.
“Mr. Hartwell? This is Officer Hintz, here in the lobby. We have a bit of a situation, sir. I’m not sure what to do. Thought I should call you.” Trying to control his nerves, Hintz could feel they were getting the best of him.
“I don’t understand, Joe. What do you mean?” Hartwell’s aggressive tone unnerved Hintz even more.
“Well, sir, some street vagrant walked in here a few minutes ago. With a package some lady asked him to deliver. He gave it to me. It’s not really a package. Just an ordinary envelope with the business card of James Ayres taped across the front of it. Ayres works for Senator Wells. The senator who was murdered last week. They have an office in the building. There’s no return address or any other marking on the envelope. What would you like me to do, Mr. Hartwell?”
“Is the guy still there?”
“No. I asked him to hang on for a minute. As soon as I picked up the phone to call you, he bolted.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“It happened so quickly, I didn’t realize he was running till he was half-way
out the door. I was afraid to leave my post. Did I mess up?”
“I guess not. Hold onto the envelope. I’ll be right down.”
Approaching Officer Hintz a moment later, Hartwell asked, “Where’s the envelope?”
“Right here, Mr. Hartwell.” Hintz attempted to hand the envelope to Hartwell.
“No, no, Joe, don’t hand it to me, for cripes’ sake! Just set it down on the counter. I have no idea what it is, or what’s inside it. We don’t want any more prints on it than it already has. And we certainly don’t want to move it around any more than necessary. I’ve already called the anti-terrorist folks. They’ll be here in a few minutes. We need to wait for them.”
Hintz said nervously, “This seems like something out of one of my spy novels. Nothing I would be expecting to happen to us here in the real world.”
Hartwell ignored him.
Ten minutes later, three men entered the building lobby, one of them in a business suit and the other two in white lab coats wheeling steel briefcases. They were all business, not a smile among them. Their apparent leader, the one in the business suit, asked, “Is Mr. Hartwell here?”
“I’m Hartwell.”
“Lieutenant Janus Lewski, Homeland Security.” He didn’t bother to introduce his two associates. “Where’s the envelope?”
“Right here.”
“Have you handled it?”
“No, I haven’t, but Officer Hintz here did. When it was handed to him by the vagrant who brought it in.”
“Let’s see what you have.” Without comment, one of the other two agents extracted some tongs and a mask from his briefcase and gently began examining the envelope. Hintz wished he were somewhere else.
Five minutes later, the technician said to Lewski, “Two sets of prints, presumably the vagrant and the security guard here, and no residue of any kind on the outside. There’s no sign of anything inside the envelope other than one sheet of paper that appears to be a newspaper clipping. It doesn’t seem threatening.”
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