“Yes, we can. So you think he’s here, watching his artwork?”
“It’s possible.” Books glances at me. Neither of us really thinks the subject is there, but you never know.
“Agent, our fire captain says it doesn’t look like arson. I mean, there hasn’t been an investigation yet, but he’s been doing this a long time and his instincts are good.”
Books catches the look on my face. Several dozen fire captains and arson investigators have been wrong so far.
“We believe it’s arson,” I say, “and that he’s very good at hiding it.”
“Very good.”
Books says, “Question everyone there, Officer. Treat it like a crime scene.”
“Will do.”
“But try to keep this below the radar,” says Books. “Our subject doesn’t think we’re chasing him right now. No reason to let him know. Not yet.”
We end the phone call. Books checks his phone, a text message. “Okay, the rapid-response team is on their way to the plane. I better get going.”
I start to say something but stop. My eyes move to my duffel bag in the corner of the room. I’ve packed three days’ worth of clothes and toiletries, should the need arise.
“Better you stay here,” Books says. “You have lots to do.”
If I really wanted to put my foot down and come along, Books would acquiesce. But he’s right. We’ve already discussed this. We’ve just received an information dump from the Lisle and Champaign police departments, full of information on Joelle Swanson and Curtis Valentine. That’s what we analysts do, right? We sift through data while the agents run out for the excitement.
An awkward moment hangs between us. Nothing makes sense, not a hug, not a handshake.
“Be careful,” I say to him. “And keep in touch.”
59
BOOKS’S IMAGE appears on the laptop, his words coming a beat after his lips move. “You got me okay?”
“We got you,” I say, with Sophie and Denny seated next to me.
“Nothing major to report, sorry to say,” says Books. “New Britain is a sleepy little town. The victim, Nancy McKinley, is an accountant who works in Hartford. She left for the day at five fifteen, stopped at a grocery store just outside New Britain, then went home. That’s the last anyone heard from her.”
“We didn’t see anything on the video from the grocery store,” says Denny. “Nothing that jumped out at us, but we’re going to keep looking.”
“He wouldn’t have been dumb enough to put down a credit card at the store,” I say. “He probably didn’t enter the store at all. He just waited for her to leave.”
“Her son, Joseph, said she wasn’t dating anybody and didn’t have any plans for this weekend,” says Books. “So maybe our subject just rang her doorbell and forced his way in.”
I turn to Sophie. This is her assignment, checking e-mails and any social media that the victim would have used that might tip us off.
“I’m still looking at it,” she says. “But so far, nothing.”
“We have the state police on standby in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New York,” Books says. “Okay, so tell me what you’ve learned.”
I take a quick look over my notes, a summary of the work of several people on our team.
“On the day he died, Curtis Valentine had an appointment on his calendar at four p.m. to meet a man named ‘Joe Swanson’ from Lisle, Illinois,” I say.
“You’re shitting me.”
I’m not. Our subject used a male version of Joelle Swanson’s name to set up an appointment with the next person he was going to kill, Curtis Valentine. “We’ve traced a cell phone call—a burner cell, of course, untraceable—from Lisle, Illinois, to Curtis Valentine’s office phone on August twenty-second. That’s the same day he killed Joelle Swanson.”
“So he killed Joelle in Lisle, and while there, he set up his next murder, a week later.”
“Yes.” I glance at my notes. “Apparently, this ‘Joe Swanson’ said that he was starting up a new business but wouldn’t say what, and he’d been burned by his last website designer so he wanted to meet Curtis face-to-face.”
“Smart,” says Books. “Very smart. Curtis probably invited him to his home to show off his equipment. And what about Joelle Swanson?”
“Nothing,” I say. “She had nothing on her computer, or from anything we’re hearing anecdotally, to indicate she was planning on meeting anybody.”
Books doesn’t respond to that. It’s not hard to see how this is playing out. Our subject feels comfortable confronting women at their homes, but not so much the men. From what we can tell, he somehow forced his way into the homes of Joelle Swanson and Nancy McKinley but set up an appointment with Curtis Valentine so he’d be invited in.
Is that how it happened with Marta? Did she just answer the door, thinking that our subject was a door-to-door salesman, a guy looking for directions, a meter reader with the electric company? She would have done that. Marta would have opened the door to anybody. She never saw the dark side of anything, only the light.
“Okay,” says Books. On the screen, he looks down at his watch. It’s just after four o’clock central standard time, an hour later where Books is in Connecticut. Today is Saturday, meaning today will be the second murder, the second fire. Oh, if we could issue a warning. But what can we tell people? A murky photograph, no name attached to it, no area of vulnerability, not even an m.o. to point to with any specificity? Hey everyone who lives in the northeastern United States, be on the lookout for a white guy of average height—he might force his way into your house and torture you and burn your house down.
“We’ve sent a bulletin to all local jurisdictions in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York to alert us immediately to any residential fires of any magnitude,” Books says. “With any luck, we’ll have word of the fire tonight less than an hour after it happens.”
“We’ll be ready here,” I say, trying to avoid raising my hopes, but knowing that we are in the game now, that tonight, possibly, could be the break we’ve been waiting for.
60
* * *
“Graham Session”
Recording # 14
September 15, 2012
* * *
I’ll say this for the northeastern part of the country: you sure do change seasons well. There is nothing more majestic than the turning of the leaves up here. Granted, it’s a bit on the early side, so I’ll have to come back this way in October to see the full blooming of fall, but you can see the beginnings of it, like a beautiful woman’s coming-of-age, so full of mystery and promise, so vibrant and invigorating. Puts a real spring in a man’s step, does it not?
Well, I get like this sometimes after I’m done with a session, kind of sentimental and, I might admit, giddy, even euphoric. There is so much to love about what I do, especially the ways I do it nowadays. Do you see what I see in its beauty? In its raw honesty?
There’s an old saying that people are at their most honest at birth and at death. Do you know who said that? It was me! You probably thought I was going to say Robert Frost or Philip Roth, but seriously, it was just me. You ever read those famous sayings on the Internet or in some book of famous quotations and think, Goodness, I wish I had just one of those attributed to me? After all, Will Rogers has at least ten of them. Winston Churchill has dozens, as do many of our famous presidents. I want just one, that’s all, just a single memorable utterance of truth so perceptive that it sticks with you forever.
“A remark generally hurts in proportion to its truth.”
“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
“A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.”
“People are at their most honest when they are born and when they die.”
Yes. Yes, indeed! I daresay my quote holds up quite nicely in that company.
But this isn’t about me, dear audience. It’s about you. What do y
ou think of my brilliance?
Enough, then. I’ve had my time this evening with this fine gentleman, Dr. Padmanabhan, and my sincerest apologies if I’ve butchered the pronunciation of his name. Though I suppose if you asked him, he’d say it wasn’t the worst thing that happened to him tonight.
And now it’s time for me to take my leave. But before I do, I would only ask you, do I sound like someone who is troubled? Of course not. I’m at the top of my game and I’m still having fun. What could that Mary woman possibly have been thinking?
I’ll be back to speak with you tomorrow. Traffic has probably cleared sufficiently on I-95 now, so I best be on my way.
[END]
61
“THE NEIGHBORS say that Dr. Padmanabhan lived alone,” says the officer.
“Thank you, Officer. Please hold.” I click off the phone and punch the button on my radio for Books. “Books, do you copy?”
“Copy, Emmy.”
“Scenario two,” I say. “Scenario two. Call came in from Providence, Rhode Island.”
“Scenario two, copy that. Make the call.”
Thirty seconds later, Books and I are on a conference call with the superintendent of the Rhode Island State Police and the commander of the Connecticut State Police, both of whom have been standing by for my call.
“This is scenario two, Rhode Island and Connecticut.”
“Rhode Island copies that,” says Superintendent Adam Vernon. “Our troopers are in place.”
“Connecticut copies,” says Commander Ingrid Schwegel. “Our troopers are in place as well.”
“We feel good about I-Ninety-five?” I ask, just to ease my nerves. It’s already been the topic of discussion.
“Agent,” says Superintendent Vernon, mistaking my title, “if the suspect is headed back to the Midwest, his only route is through Connecticut, and the only highway that makes any kind of sense is I-Ninety-five. There are forty-one miles of border, but if he isn’t expecting anyone to be waiting for him, he’d be a fool not to take I-Ninety-five.”
“Very good,” I say. “The fire call came in fourteen minutes ago, and I just got confirmation that it’s the fire we’re targeting. My map says the fire is located just north of Miriam Hospital in Providence, which means he has to travel forty miles down I-Ninety-five to reach the Connecticut–Rhode Island border.”
“Even if he got a head start,” says Vernon, “there’s no way he’s reached the border yet. But I’ve already given the order, Agent. As we speak, the flares are going up.”
“This is Agent Bookman. I’m airborne and should be at the border in fifteen minutes. I’ll be the agent in charge, but we’ll have agents on the ground joining you shortly. Let’s be clear on the directive: plate numbers and VINs of any vehicle with a male loosely fitting the description. Permissive searches at a minimum. Anything suspicious—anything at all—your troopers will have my direct contact.”
“Connecticut copies.”
“Rhode Island copies,” says Vernon. “If he’s on the road tonight, we’ll get him.”
62
THE FEED from the FBI helicopter comes through with surprising clarity on my laptop. An overhead view of Interstate 95 as it moves south-southwest from Rhode Island into North Stonington, Connecticut. A split-level highway with two lanes heading southwest, plus a shoulder.
At the border, beneath signs that read CONNECTICUT WELCOMES YOU and NORTH STONINGTON, TOWN LINE, state trooper vehicles from both states have set up a vehicular blockade, perpendicular to the lanes of traffic. Flares precede the blockade for as far as the screen permits me to see—probably a half mile at least, or whatever the protocol is for roadblocks.
The road is jammed with vehicles waiting in line. At the checkpoint, officers and FBI agents shine flashlights into cars, both the front and backseats, sometimes pop the trunk and check it, sometimes direct the car to pull over to the shoulder for a more thorough search, and always record the license plate and VIN number located inside the front door. Once allowed to leave, the vehicles must do an awkward bend around squad cars, then over to the shoulder, before they proceed into Connecticut, not exactly the “welcome” they were expecting from the Constitution State.
The highway is backed up as far as I can see, even as late as it is—near midnight eastern standard time. No doubt, drivers assume that this is a Saturday-night sobriety check, and it turns out to be just that for a couple of unlucky drivers, who end up having their cars impounded and taking a ride to the lockup in North Stonington.
The helicopter moves along the highway, looking for any vehicles attempting to turn around, and I see for the first time that there is a second helicopter doing the same thing.
Books is feeding me names and license plates and VINs as we go along, and I’m running them for criminal backgrounds and for stolen vehicles. I don’t think our subject would drive a stolen car. A criminal background? Hard to say. It obviously wouldn’t surprise me if he had one, but for some reason, I suspect he has a clean record. He’s just that meticulous.
I’ve been managing my expectations here, but there’s no hiding the truth—we have a real chance tonight. Each car that leads our team to take a second look, to pop the trunk, even to move them over to the shoulder, raises the hair on the back of my neck.
And that gives the hair on the back of my neck a lot of exercise, because most of the cars receive extended attention from our team of state troopers and FBI agents. Most of the drivers are men, and the majority of them Caucasian, and we don’t narrow it down all that much when you throw in “average height,” “average build,” and who-knows-what for his hair.
But in the end, each of these cars is allowed to pass.
I’m not wrong about this. He drives to a new part of the country, commits two murders, and returns home. The data doesn’t lie. And he must live in the Midwest. He must. The patterns of his travel can be tied to major highways.
I’m not wrong. He’s a driver, and he’s driving back to the Midwest.
He could have taken a different route. Like the police superintendent said, there are forty-one miles of border. But he isn’t expecting us, and why wouldn’t he take Interstate 95? Of course he would.
The first ninety minutes are slow and, ultimately, uneventful. And then it speeds up, because the number of cars diminishes. The backlog disappears as the hour approaches two in the morning. There just aren’t that many cars crossing into Connecticut at this time.
After a Dodge minivan passes through the blockade, there is a stretch when no cars are on the highway heading southwest. Interstate 95 is empty.
“Where the hell is he?” Books spits, exasperated. “This made all kinds of sense.”
“I know,” I concede. “I thought we had him. There’s no chance he turned around when he saw the blockade?”
“No chance. There’s a trooper up ahead at the first flare, idling on the shoulder. If any vehicle tried to turn around and cross the median, he would have seen it. We’ve had that covered. Damn!”
“Maybe he’s getting some rest first,” I say. “Getting an early start tomorrow.”
Books doesn’t answer immediately. Frustrated or concentrating. Probably the latter. Books doesn’t let his emotions overtake him much. He was always the rational to my emotional.
“I suppose it’s possible he was in one of those cars,” I say. “Remember who we’re dealing with.”
“Maybe. Maybe. Not many midwestern license plates, though.”
True. But that won’t stop me from starting a database and throwing all these names and plate numbers in it.
“We’re going to keep this checkpoint up until dawn at least,” he says. “We can’t do this forever. But let’s give it until sunlight and revisit it then. Sound good?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, keeping up a brave front. But somewhere inside me, I can’t help feeling that we’ve missed him. We set up a spiderweb, but he somehow sidestepped it. Somewhere along the way, I fell too in love with my own anal
ysis, sure that he would behave according to the model I created from the data.
And because I missed, next week, he’ll do this all over again, in another part of the country, to two more helpless victims.
63
I SIT, poised over my computer, running the checks, my brainpower dissipating, my eyes heavy, my back and neck in full-scale revolt. I refuse to look at the clock on the wall, knowing that the little hand is about to hit the eight and the big hand the twelve. Knowing that the roadblock’s now been up for more than ten hours.
“One more hour,” I say to Books through my headset.
“That’s what you said an hour ago,” he replies into my ear.
“One more hour.”
We had originally planned on ending the roadblock at eight o’clock in the morning eastern time, or seven Chicago time. I pushed it an hour to nine o’clock EST, which is coming up now.
“There isn’t even that much traffic,” I argue. A small line of cars have backed up in Rhode Island on their way into Connecticut, but nothing approaching major gridlock. “It’s Sunday morning. It’s not like we’re causing commuters a big pain.”
“We can’t keep this up forever, Emmy.”
“Sure we can. We’re the FBI.”
A pause. Maybe I’m winning another hour. He has to come through this roadblock sooner or later, I tell myself. He has to. Even though another part of me is admitting that somehow I’ve miscalculated.
“No, I’m calling it,” says Books, as if he’s recording a time of death.
“No! Please—just one more—”
“Negative. I’ll call you soon.”
“Books!” I yell, but there’s no feedback. Books has disconnected the line. He knows what it’s like arguing with me. He’s correctly decided that it’s better to just cut me off.
“Shit.” I rip off my headset and throw it down on my desk. I get to my feet and a hot, slicing pain shoots up my back. My vision is blurred from staring at a computer screen all night. My brain, let’s face it, is fried.