Unsolved Page 15

  “The bombing in Chicago wasn’t Citizen David,” I whisper. I give them a brief rundown of my side venture tracking my killer; how the murderer of the homeless man, Mayday, tracked those murders; how he must have hacked into my personal computers to learn the specifics of Citizen David’s work so he could imitate David.

  “So—what?” Pully asks, looking like a teenage boy who just rolled out of bed, clumps of his hair sticking up. “He knows you’re onto him, so he’s trying to hide behind Citizen David?”

  “And kill the same kind of people—the frail, the weak—but by a factor of a hundred,” I say.

  Rabbit brushes a strand of gray hair from her face, her eyes intent. “So we have a body of work,” she says.

  “Yes. Scottsdale. Los Angeles. Vienna, Virginia. Indianapolis. Atlanta. Charleston. Dallas. New Orleans. And now Chicago. But I’m not sure about the we part.”

  “Why not?” she asks. “We’re a team.”

  I put a hand on her forearm. “If I so much as suggest that Chicago wasn’t the work of Citizen David, I’ll catch hell. They’ll redirect me. I have to do this under the radar.”

  “But we’ll help you,” Pully insists.

  “No. I’m not taking you down with me. If this blows back, I can’t let it blow back on you.”

  “I hereby volunteer,” Rabbit says, raising her hand.

  “Me too,” Pully chimes in.

  “No, guys. No.”

  Rabbit grabs my hand. “Now, you listen to me, Emmy Dockery. This man just killed two hundred homeless people. I’m working this whether you like it or not.”

  Pully starts in. “And so will I—”

  “Uh-uh-uh,” Rabbit clucks, her finger wagging back and forth like a metronome. “No, boy. You have a long career ahead of you. You don’t need to get crosswise with the brass. Me? I’m closer to sixty than you are to thirty. I have my time in. I’m fully vested. What can they do to me?”

  I thought I was supposed to be the boss.

  Pully sits back, brooding.

  “Focus on Chicago, Eric,” Rabbit says. “There’s plenty to do there. Emmy and I will cross-reference with those other crime sites.”

  My phone buzzes. I pull it out and check the message. “Shit,” I mumble.

  54

  WHILE ERIC PULLMAN mines the data from the Chicago bomb site, I hole up in my cubicle with Bonita Sexton and bring her up to speed on the killer I’ve been tracking.

  “Senior citizens in Scottsdale,” she says to me, summarizing what she’s learned. “Homeless people in LA. Then a series of one-off murders spread around the country.”

  “Let’s start with the one-offs,” I say, showing her a chart I printed out from my laptop. “Each of them was an activist or an advocate for the poor, sick, or elderly. Each was found dead at home. Each lived alone in a one-story house within a block or two of mass transit. Each either had the house up for sale or had recently bought it—”

  “So there was a real estate agent’s video or at least some photos of the house online,” she says. “Something Darwin could use to stake out the place from a distance.”

  “Darwin?”

  “Darwin,” she says. “Appropriate name for our offender, don’t you think?”

  Okay, fine—that’s as good a name as any. Darwin it is.

  “Why does he pick people living in single-story homes?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why near public transit? Oh.” She remembers. “You think he subdues them away from home and drives them back in their own car.”

  “I definitely think that’s what happened in New Orleans,” I say. “The seat of the car was pushed much farther back than the victim, Nora Connolley, would have had it. Someone else drove it.”

  “Okay. So you think he subdued her, drove her back to her house, killed her, then took a bus or train back to his car?” Bonita chews on her lip, eyes narrowed, thinking this over.

  “I know, I know—he went to an awful lot of trouble, right?” I say, reading her thoughts. “That’s what Detective Crescenzo in New Orleans said. But that’s why nobody suspects foul play, Rabbit. There’s no sign of forced entry because he has the keys; no sign of struggle at the house because he subdued the victim, probably by injecting something, away from the house. Everything points to an accident or death by natural causes. It’s a lot easier to believe that a woman slipped in her shower than that a killer subdued her somewhere else, transported her home, then concocted some elaborate scheme to kill her and make it look like an accident.”

  “It’s why you can’t get the police to investigate,” says Rabbit.

  “And the one cop I did persuade to investigate, Detective Halsted in Vienna, Virginia, ended up dead in his home. A forty-eight-year-old man supposedly dead of a heart attack. Stranger things have happened, but it’s getting pretty coincidental.”

  As open-minded as Bonita is, especially to my opinions, even she seems to think it’s a stretch. “What does the timing tell us?” she asks.

  I look at the chart, though I have all the details committed to memory. “Well, most of them were killed on a Monday or very late on Sunday night,” I say. “Not the first one, Laura Berg. She was a Tuesday. And the cop who was investigating her death, Detective Halsted, was on a Wednesday.”

  “But the rest of them were Monday.”

  “Yeah.” I look at her. “What are you thinking?”

  She gets out of her chair with a moan. Tired, weary bones. If Bonita Sexton has slept in the past forty-eight hours, I sure can’t tell.

  She starts to pace, but that’s impossible to do in my cubicle, so we move into the hallway.

  “Darwin picks them from a distance, right?” she asks.

  I nod. “I think so. It’s not hard to identify people who are activists; they tend to make themselves noticed online. And he finds videos of their houses online or he can use Google Earth to see if they have the right kind of house.”

  “So why a Monday?”

  “Laura Berg wasn’t a Monday.”

  “Forget Laura Berg.” Rabbit waves me off. “And forget the cop who was investigating Laura Berg’s death. The rest of them—why Monday?”

  I breathe in, think it over. “Mondays are workdays. You have your routine, built around your work schedule. Weekends? Much less of a routine. You travel. You go out at night. But Mondays are predictable. He could anticipate their movements.”

  “That’s right,” she says in a tone suggesting I’m only halfway there.

  “But Mondays, in that sense, are no different than Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thurs—”

  “Right, so why are most of the murders on Mondays?”

  I deflate. “Just tell me.”

  She wags a finger at me. “Darwin travels on the weekends, he attacks late Sunday or early Monday, and he returns home Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

  That makes sense. “He probably has a job.”

  “Sure. A job with flexible hours.”

  “Or fixed hours, but those hours are fixed in the middle of the week. He works Tuesday through Friday, or maybe just Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.”

  “Which means,” says Rabbit, “that he wouldn’t kill on Tuesdays or Wednesdays.”

  I look back at my chart. Laura Berg—Tuesday. Detective Halsted—Wednesday.

  “And yet he did,” I say as it slowly dawns on me. “And what do Laura Berg and Detective Joe Halsted have in common?” I ask.

  “Vienna, Virginia,” we say in unison.

  “He’s local,” I say. “He didn’t need to build in travel time to Virginia because he’s already here.”

  55

  MICHELLE FONTAINE pulls into the parking lot of A New Day, now into her second week at the rehab facility in Fairfax, Virginia. Forever worried about being late, she arrives nearly half an hour early—9:30 a.m.—not relishing her first assignment of the day.

  She walks into the staff room and sees a TV in the corner, a couple of people sipping coffee and watching the banne
r across the bottom of the screen: STILL NO SUSPECTS IN CHICAGO BOMBING. Two hundred are dead—two hundred homeless people.

  Her mother must be popping Rolaids one after the other right now.

  Just before ten, she enters the fitness room and finds her first Wednesday appointment—the lieutenant—seated in his wheelchair, curling thirty-pound dumbbells. She feels the anxiety swim through her.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” she says. That’s the way her partner, Tom, told her to address him.

  “Ah.” He leans forward and sets the dumbbells down on the mat. “The new girl. Your name escapes me.”

  Girl? She bristles but lets it slide. Any physical therapist has her share of older, and old-fashioned, men. Her job is to improve their physical condition, not their political correctness.

  He uses the wheelchair’s joystick to turn and face her. Sweat has darkened the neckline of his gray T-shirt. His upper body is pumped from the weight lifting, his biceps popping from the short sleeves like small melons.

  “It’s Michelle,” she says, trying to keep her voice strong.

  “Yes, Michelle, the new girl.” Repeating that phrase. Testing her. He stares through her, as he did the last time she met him, every inch the military man except for the long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. That makes him look more like the wounded vet he is.

  “Lieutenant!” Tom Miller rushes in, wearing a red Nationals T-shirt and jeans. Tom has been great so far, showing Michelle the ropes, easing her transition, and his entry cuts the tension that seems ever present around the lieutenant. Tom claps his hands. “Ready to get loco?”

  The lieutenant keeps his stare on Michelle, slowly moving toward Tom. “The Lokomat, yes, Tommy.”

  “Let me see you on your feet first,” says Michelle. She can’t hide behind Tom forever; she has to have some authority in here or she can’t do her job.

  The lieutenant turns to her again. “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve read your file,” she says. “The incomplete SCI. I understand you can stand and walk with assistance. I want to see your progress.” She catches Tom’s eye. His smile has vanished.

  “And am I here for what you want or what I want?” asks the lieutenant.

  She draws in a breath, steels herself. “I’d like to see how you’re progressing, Lieutenant, rather than reading about it in a file.”

  “C’mon, Lew,” says Tom, “she’s new and wants to see what you can do. Show off for her.” Michelle can hear the thread of fear in Tom’s voice.

  The lieutenant blinks and holds his stare on Michelle. “Some mettle,” he says. “I like that. Get me a walker.” He puts out his hand. Tom grabs a walker and rolls it over to him.

  The lieutenant, making a production of it, locks the wheels of the wheelchair, grips the arms, and pushes himself to his feet, trying not to show the strain on his face. His arms are powerful, but his legs, covered by black sweatpants, are not.

  “Let’s use the belt,” says Tom.

  “No.” Patients resist their therapists all the time, but the way Lew says it and the way Tom immediately complies tells Michelle that this particular patient is different.

  The lieutenant, keeping his eyes on Michelle, grabs the walker. He staggers forward, one difficult step after another, Tom hovering nearby but not getting too close. Heel and toe, Michelle thinks instinctively. Heel and toe…

  Six plodding, painful steps later, the lieutenant reaches Michelle, his piercing eyes on her. It’s all she can do to stand her ground.

  “Did I pass your test?” he whispers, his face a shade of crimson from his exertion, highlighting the gray crescent-moon-shaped scar by his eye.

  “Here you go, Lew.” Tom brings the wheelchair over to him. “Sit right down. Great job. Hey, how was Chicago last weekend?”

  Lew settles himself back in the wheelchair.

  “I guess not so good,” Tom says, answering his own question.

  The lieutenant spins around and heads toward the Lokomat—the walking harness suspended over a treadmill. Michelle goes over and starts to adjust the straps.

  “Why would you guess that Chicago was not so good?” asks Lew.

  “Well, I mean—with the tragedy there, the bombing.”

  “Two hundred people off the welfare rolls? I wouldn’t call that a tragedy. I’d call it a good start.”

  Michelle’s head snaps around at those words. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, the lieutenant was just kidding. Weren’t you, Lew?” says Tom, ever the peacekeeper. “We’re running a little late here. We need to get started on the gait training.” He catches Michelle’s eye and waves her off. “His bark is worse than his bite,” he whispers to her as she passes him.

  “Well, I don’t think that was funny,” says Michelle, not willing to let it go, anger replacing her sense of intimidation. “I think it was an asinine thing to say.”

  Tom shows her an apologetic face, searching for some way to break the impasse, to keep the peace. The lieutenant cocks his head, eyes narrowed, as he stares at Michelle. As withering as that stare is, Michelle finds herself unwilling to break eye contact, to be the one to blink first.

  What kind of a monster would say such a thing?

  56

  “THE BEST thing about this book, about this entire series? The teenage girl is tough as nails and as brave as any fictional heroine—but she listens to her parents.”

  “Oh my gosh—imagine that! You know what, you’ve sold me.”

  “And I don’t even work here!”

  Tired after a long day, near closing time at six p.m., Books watches from the register as his homeless friend Petty charms a woman looking for a young-adult book for her daughter, a birthday present. By the time Petty’s finished talking, he’s sold her all five books in the series. Probably better than I would’ve done, Books admits to himself. I wish he’d been here this morning when I couldn’t close a sale to save my life.

  That’s Petty, smart enough, occasionally personable enough, to work in any number of jobs. What is it about his broken mind that prevents him from doing it, from making a decent living, from living a somewhat normal life?

  “You should put that man on commission,” the woman says as she takes her credit card back from Books.

  “Yeah, I know.” Books hands the bag to the customer and watches her leave. Meanwhile, Petty is reshelving the other books that the woman pulled out. “Say, Petty,” he says. “I was thinking. Instead of staying here a few nights during the week, what if you stayed here every night?”

  Petty slides the last book back onto the shelf and turns to Books.

  “I was thinking I could put you to work,” says Books. “I could use some part-time help. You’d be perfect. You’ve read just about every book in the store. And you seem to enjoy sales. So…you work for me here and there—we’ll make up a schedule—and in exchange, you can live in the back room. It’s not much, but it’s a place to stay, and—and I’ll throw in lunch every day.”

  Petty doesn’t answer immediately. Books has tried to find Petty work, but every time, he turns away from it, unable or unwilling to commit. Even something like this, which he clearly enjoys, he won’t commit to.

  Where does Petty sleep the nights he’s not here? Books wonders. Outside? On the train? Books has inquired, but Petty either doesn’t answer or deflects the question with some vague assurance that he manages fine. Books and Petty have become friends, but Petty has opened the door on his life only so far, and Books respects the boundaries.

  “Well, now, I dunno,” Petty says. “I dunno. You been so good to me already.”

  “It would be good for me too.”

  For a moment, Petty seems lost, pushed out of his comfort zone—if drifting from shelter to shelter, never having a job, never knowing where your next meal will come from can be considered “comfort.” Books suddenly regrets his offer. “Something to think about,” Books says. “No big deal.” He will probably never understand the damage inside Petty’s mind, the ways that
the war twisted and warped him.

  The familiar ding of the door opening—not as familiar as Books would like—and Petty says, “But I’ll be happy to help with this customer.”

  They both turn to the door. Books feels something light up inside him.

  “Hi, Petty,” says Emmy. She turns to Books. “I got your text.”

  57

  “WATCH THE FRONT, would ya, Petty?”

  “Yes, sir, Agent Bookman.”

  Books walks back into the inventory room while Emmy finishes her small talk with Petty. It’s the first time he’s seen her since they ended things at his town house. The mix of emotions swirling through him is enough to make his legs weak.

  Emmy walks into the inventory room, and his heart skips a beat, as it always does. As it always will, he thinks.

  She is dressed in a long-sleeved blouse with a scarf around her neck. Before the attack, Emmy wasn’t a scarf kind of woman, but since then, she is never in public without her neck and chest and legs covered. Even in the midst of a tropical summer like this one, no off-the-shoulder tops or plunging necklines, no shorts or skirts. She is covered neck to toe, hiding all of Graham’s damage. She even has bangs covering the scar at her hairline where the serial killer had tried to perform surgery on her scalp.

  She doesn’t want your pity or your help, he reminds himself. She doesn’t want you. “How are you?” he asks.

  She looks at him, holds his gaze. Not answering. Not because she has nothing to say, Books assumes, but because there’s so much to say.

  “Look, Emmy—”

  “I take it, from our last conversation,” she begins—The one where you walked out on me? You mean that one? he thinks—“that you’re assisting the Bureau on the leak investigation. I mean, how else would you know I was the target of the investigation?”

  Books nods.

  “Director Moriarty pulled you back in?”