Alex Cross, Run Page 6

  Now Schuman stood up and walked over to where Creem was watching the traffic down on L Street. When he spoke again, it was in a needless hush.

  “Elijah, please tell me you’re not planning on doing something stupid, like fleeing the country. Just tell me that much, at least.”

  Creem smiled again, looking down at Schuman. Maybe this tightly wound little man was smarter than he looked.

  “Now why would I need to do that, Bill?” he said. “I’ve got the best lawyer in the city working for me.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  AT THAT AFTERNOON’S MAJOR CASE SQUAD BRIEFING, SERGEANT HUIZENGA GOT the ball rolling by letting us know that word had come down from on high, approving all overtime requests until further notice.

  That got a round of applause—it’s not unusual for cops to work off the clock when things get as tight as they were these days. But of course, on the clock was better.

  “One guess,” I heard someone mutter behind me. “Al Ayla.”

  Just a few months earlier, Washington had taken several hard hits by the Saudi-based terrorist organization, also known as The Family. Both the mayor and the chief of police had caught hell over that one, with accusations of mishandled resources and slow response time to the crisis as it played out.

  The one good thing that had come out of it, apparently, was that we now had the kind of resources we could really do something with. Patrol units in and around Georgetown had been doubled during daylight hours, and in some cases tripled at night. A dedicated tip line had been established, and our neighborhood outreach people were on the street every day.

  Some of that was about increasing the scope of the investigation, to be sure, but some of it was also about heading off the inevitable public flogging you get, no matter how hard you work.

  Each of our three homicides now had a lead detective assigned, along with a full squad of investigators. I’d be running between all three, along with whichever personnel I could pull in from the districts, as needed. Huizenga was happy to have me working with Sampson on the search for Baby Reilly, since the Major Case Squad was out flat right now. As long as these three cases were all grouped under one umbrella, I was the guy holding the umbrella.

  When Huizenga handed the floor over to me, I started by putting the three victims’ morgue photos on the screen at the front of the room for everyone to see. It wasn’t easy to look at, but my whole focus right now was about trying to draw some lines between these cases.

  “These are now officially in chronological order, left to right,” I told everyone. “The autopsy puts Cory Smithe’s time of death at twenty-four hours after Elizabeth Reilly’s, and forty hours after Darcy Vickers’s.”

  People started taking notes. A few just watched and listened, absorbing the details, which is more my own style.

  “Beyond the issue of timing,” I said, “we’ve got a fair amount of common ground here, but mostly in pairs. Almost nothing I’ve found so far cuts across all three cases. Two of the victims were stabbed, for instance—although even there, Ms. Vickers’s wounds were fatal, whereas Mr. Smithe was mutilated postmortem. In both cases it was done with a narrow, but not identical blade.

  “Two of these victims, obviously, were women,” I went on. “Two were found in Georgetown proper, although we don’t know for sure where Smithe was put into the river, so the primary crime scene there is still an unknown.”

  The captain of our Homicide Branch, Frank Salazar, interrupted with a question—probably the question on everyone’s mind.

  “Alex, I know we’re at the supposition phase, but what’s your bottom line right now? How many perpetrators do you suppose we’re looking at?”

  I took a beat to think about it. The short answer was—I wish to hell I knew.

  “Here’s the problem,” I said. “There’s no scenario right now that doesn’t defy logic, or at least, likelihood. We’ve never seen anything like this before, given the geography and the time frame. But I will say that it seems to me, a single killer is highly unlikely. The greater question in my mind is whether our perps are operating independently of each other, or not.”

  That went over like a lead balloon. People were getting anxious for answers, both inside and outside the department. But without more information than we currently had, we were still flying blind on all three of these murders.

  Meanwhile, the whole time I’d been talking, I could feel my phone vibrating—once, twice, a third time, in quick succession. As soon as Huizenga started fielding a few of the questions, I took out the phone and checked messages. They were all from Sampson—two voice mails and a text. That seemed like a good sign to me.

  Since I was still in the briefing room, I checked the text first, and sure enough, it was exactly what I’d been hoping for.

  Alex—Package found. Give me a call, ASAP.

  CHAPTER

  23

  FIRST THING THE NEXT MORNING, SAMPSON AND I CAUGHT THE EARLIEST possible flight from DC down to Savannah, Georgia.

  Elizabeth Reilly’s baby had been found three days earlier, newborn and alone, in a rental cabin on the northern edge of the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge. If it weren’t for CODIS, the national DNA database, that little girl would have been absorbed into the system, put up for adoption, and probably never identified. Instead, as soon as her sample went online, it was only a matter of time before Sampson got a crossmatch to Elizabeth Reilly. With DNA, that meant a hundred percent certainty that this was her child.

  A Charlton County sheriff’s deputy, Joe Cutler, met John and me when we arrived late that morning, at the entrance to Oke-Doke Cabins and Campground. The place had a dozen rental units spread out over a thirty-acre parcel, and Cutler briefed us while we drove back toward the cabin in question. I wasn’t even sure what I was hoping for here, just something to start clueing us in about what had happened to this poor girl.

  “I was the one who responded to the call,” Cutler told us. “Found that little butterbean all wrapped up in a towel and crying her head off. She probably wasn’t more’n a few hours old, but we got her right over to the NICU at Charlton Memorial, and she checked out just fine. No thanks to whoever left her here, of course.”

  “And you don’t know who called it in?” I asked.

  “Just an anonymous ten twenty-one,” he said. “But I’d put my money on the mother. Probably some teenage girl who didn’t have the guts to admit getting knocked up, you know?”

  Maybe, I thought. Cutler obviously had his own feelings about what had happened here, but I was trying to keep an open mind as we drove back through the woods.

  Eventually we came into a clearing, where a single log cabin sat up against a stand of enormous kudzu-choked oak trees. The woods were fairly dense all around here, and if there were any other buildings nearby, I couldn’t see them.

  This cabin was one of the so-called deluxe units, which only meant that linens were provided and there was an indoor bathroom. Still, Elizabeth could have theoretically had everything she needed to deliver her own baby here, including plenty of privacy.

  At the front door, Cutler stopped to point out some gouge marks around the hammered iron knob. “Didn’t actually rent the place,” he said. “Just kind of helped herself. You can check availability online, so it wouldn’t have been too hard to know which one’d be empty.”

  Inside the cabin was sunny, clean, and basic. There was a knotty pine floor with a farm table made out of the same wood, a small kitchenette, a queen-size bed under the dormered window. A bookshelf in the corner had a couple of games and some discarded paperbacks—Dean Koontz, Patricia Cornwell, Stieg Larsson. Nothing to indicate what might have actually happened here.

  I tried to imagine the scene. Did Elizabeth set up her own IV by the bed? Would she have administered the Pitocin right away? How long did the delivery take?

  She had to have been terrified, but that only meant that something even more terrifying had motivated her to come all the way down here.

&nbs
p; Something—or someone. Was it the father? The killer?

  Were those one and the same? I had no proof either way, but that was the version of the story that made the most sense to me, as John and I poked around, trying to put together the pieces of this invisible puzzle.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” Cutler said, watching us from the door. “I kind of hope that baby’s daddy never turns up. Considering the mother, I can’t imagine he’s any prize either, you know? I mean, seriously—what the hell was that girl thinking? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I was starting to think that Elizabeth Reilly just might have been trying to save her daughter’s life by coming here.

  Also, that she just might have succeeded.

  CHAPTER

  24

  SHELLMAN BLUFF, ABOUT TWO HOURS NORTH OF OKEFENOKEE, IS A LOW country fishing town in Georgia, with tidal marshes all along the coast, once you get that far. On the map the whole area looks like a maze of tributaries feeding into Sapelo Sound, which itself feeds right into the Atlantic.

  Sampson and I didn’t have any trouble finding Tommy and Jeannette Reilly’s place, a small stilt house overlooking the causeway at the dead end of a quiet road in the village. This was where Elizabeth Reilly had grown up—and now maybe where her daughter would, too.

  It was eighty-five degrees when we got out of the car. Not unusual for Georgia, but a little ahead of DC’s temperatures. I was sweating in my jacket and tie.

  Down by the water I saw an older woman standing on the dock. She wore a loose white dress, and had a long gray braid down her back. When she turned around, I saw she had a small bundle in her arms, too. John and I walked down from the dirt driveway to meet her halfway, on the dry brown patch of a back lawn behind the house.

  “Grow ’em tall up in Washington, don’t they?” she said, craning her neck, especially at Sampson, who’s six nine. We’d already spoken on the phone; there was no real need for introductions. “I’m going to guess you boys are hungry from your trip.”

  “We’re fine, ma’am, thank you,” Sampson said. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full there, anyway.”

  Mrs. Reilly beamed and turned to show us the tiny little girl. Baby Reilly, as I’d come to think of her.

  “This is Rebecca,” she said. “Our miracle child.”

  The baby was sleeping peacefully, wrapped up in a thin pink blanket. Her face was pink, too, from the heat, and her hair was the same sandy blond that her mother’s had been. For me, there was a definite sense of relief, just laying eyes on her after all the searching and worrying about what might have happened. I think Sampson probably felt the same way.

  Inside, we met Tommy Reilly, who looked to be in his early sixties, like his wife. I couldn’t imagine taking on a newborn at that age, but he lit up just as brightly when he took Rebecca into his arms. It seemed clear to me that these people had already fallen deeply in love with their great-granddaughter. Maybe that’s why they seemed so at peace here, all things considered.

  Once we were settled around their kitchen table, I started in with some necessary business.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Reilly, I don’t mean to alarm you,” I said, “but I have to ask. Have you considered relocating for the time being, or even putting Rebecca into county custody until this can all be sorted out?”

  “You mean, until they find out who killed our Lizzie,” Mr. Reilly said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Just as a precaution.”

  “You know, this isn’t Washington, detective,” he said, bouncing the baby gently on his shoulder. “I don’t mean to come off naive, but it’s pretty quiet around here. And for that matter . . . well, let’s just say I’m a firm believer in the Second Amendment. I think we’ll be okay.”

  “But we do appreciate the concern,” Mrs. Reilly added.

  I nodded, and took my time answering. I could imagine that giving up Rebecca, even just for a little while, could be traumatic under the circumstances.

  “What if we talked to your sheriff’s office about setting up a unit outside?” I asked. “Just for overnights, until we know a little more. I’d feel a lot better if we erred on the side of caution here.”

  “For Rebecca’s sake,” Sampson added.

  The Reillys looked at each other across the table again. Without saying anything, they seemed to come to some kind of silent agreement, the way couples can sometimes.

  “You do what you have to do,” Mr. Reilly said. “I still think you’re going to be wasting Earl’s time, but I won’t chase him off. How’s that sound?”

  Once that was settled, we were able to move on to the subject of Elizabeth herself.

  “I know you’ve probably been asked before,” Sampson said, “but is there anyone we should be talking to in Washington? Any friends, or boyfriends Elizabeth ever mentioned? Or for that matter, anyone who might have had some kind of grudge against her?”

  Mr. Reilly shook his head and went to put Rebecca down in the raised bassinet by the window.

  “I’m not sure Lizzie had a whole lot of friends up there,” he said. “We kind of thought Washington was going to be a chance for her to spread her wings, and whatnot, but she never really did cotton to it. Or to the people, for that matter.”

  “There was one boy,” Mrs. Reilly said. “I suspect he’s the daddy, and maybe even—” She stopped, at a loss. “Maybe the one you’re looking for. But honestly, I have no idea.”

  Sampson took out his pad and a pen. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “Russell,” she said, while John scribbled it down.

  “Russell? Is that a first or last?”

  “First,” Mrs. Reilly said. “At least, I assume so. Lizzie only mentioned him in a few of her letters. Then he just kind of fell off the radar—last fall, I guess it was.”

  “I don’t suppose you still have any of those letters?” I asked.

  The smile I’d seen before came back onto Mrs. Reilly’s face. “Oh, honey, I have all of them,” she said. “Nobody writes real letters anymore, but Lizzie did. I figured those were worth saving. You just sit tight. I’ll go get my Lizzie box.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, SAMPSON AND I SAT ON THE REILLYS’ BACK DECK GOING through an old rosewood box, full of cards and letters Elizabeth had sent her grandparents during her two years in Washington. We put them all in order by postmark, and then started reading.

  Most of the letters were on the same pink-and-gray stationery with Elizabeth’s monogram at the top. They were usually decorated with funny little doodles and cartoons in the margins, and she always signed off with a heart dotting the i in her name.

  At the same time, several of the letters were poignantly honest, about how lonely Elizabeth felt and how hard it was to meet people in the city. What I started to piece together here was a picture of a girl who had been a little naive about the world, a little young for her age, and probably all too vulnerable to a predator.

  As for this Russell person, the first mention of him that we found was buried in the middle of a long letter from April of the previous year.

  Want to hear something funny? I met a nice man the other day—at the Laundromat, of all places!! You never know, right? He talked to me the whole time I was there, and even offered to pay for my dryer. I thought that was cute, but I told him no thank you, maybe the next time.

  And I’ll tell you two a secret—I hope there IS a next time. Gentlemen aren’t exactly easy to find in our nation’s capital!!! Something tells me I’m going to have some extra-extra clean clothes over the next few weeks, ha-ha-ha.

  The next mention came a month later, when she wrote to her grandparents that she’d run into “Laundromat guy (whose name is Russell, btw)” and that she’d accepted a dinner invitation this time. A subsequent letter described how Russell had driven her around to see the monuments at night. It was all very chatty, and never offered any other details about where this guy was from, what he
did for a living, or who he actually was. Whether Russell had been keeping that information from Elizabeth, or if she was keeping it from her grandparents, I couldn’t tell.

  What I did know was that by early December, she was lying to them outright.

  Dear Granny and Dodo,

  I’m writing to tell you something that I’m too chicken to call and say. It looks like I won’t be home for Christmas, after all. We’ve got exams coming up after the break, and I promised my study group I’d meet three times a week in the meantime.

  PLEASE DON’T HATE ME!! And don’t even think about coming up here. Xmas wouldn’t be the same in DC, and hotels are crazy expensive anyway. Just know that I love you, and I’ll be down to visit when I can.

  Sending buckets of love,

  Lizzie

  That letter was dated December 11, which was a full eight days after Elizabeth had already dropped out of nursing school. She also would have been five months pregnant by then—too far along to hide.

  And she never did make it home again, either. The last letter she ever sent was a birthday card for Tommy, in late March, where she wrote about classes I knew she wasn’t taking, and mentioned several times how much she was looking forward to seeing both of them that summer—presumably after the baby was born.

  By the time John and I had read through Elizabeth’s correspondence, it was time to go. We didn’t have all the answers I might have liked, but what we did have was a new person of interest in this case. As soon as we were in the car and headed back to Savannah, I put out a call to Bree.

  I didn’t want to wait on this. I didn’t want to wait on anything right now. Also, we’d already had one leak in the press about Elizabeth’s pregnancy. There weren’t a whole lot of people I trusted with these questions anymore.

  “I’ve got a name I want to run through NCIC,” I told Bree, while Sampson drove. NCIC is the National Crime Information Center, a database operated by the FBI. Anyone who’s ever been arrested, convicted, or detained in the US is in there. It wasn’t exhaustive for our purposes, but it was a good place to start. I’d also be going back through Elizabeth’s phone records, looking at her mail, and reinterviewing her nursing school faculty—anything I could think of to get a line on this supposed boyfriend of hers.