The flight up to Portland was a little over an hour. Moli-nari was on the phone for the first few minutes. When he got off, I wanted to talk.
I laid out the crime photos. “You were going to tell me what this meant. MAI?”
“The MAI was a secret trade agreement,” he explained, “negotiated a few years back by the wealthy countries of the WTO. It extended to large corporations rights that some-times superseded those of governments. Some people think it created an open hunting season on smaller economies. It was defeated in 1998 by a worldwide grassroots campaign, but I'm told the OECD, which Propp worked for, was redraft-ing it and testing the waters again. Any ideas where?”
“The G-8 meeting next week?”
“Yeah... By the way” - he opened his briefcase - “I think you might get some use out of these.” He handed me folders that turned out to be the intel jackets from Seattle I had requested. Each was stamped CONFIDENTIAL, PROPERTY OF THE FBI.
“Keep them close,” the deputy director said with a wink. “Might prove a little embarrassing to me if they got out.”
I skimmed through the records from Seattle. A few had prior records - everything from inciting a riot to resisting arrest and unlawful possession of a firearm. Others appeared to be students caught up in the cause. Robert Alan Rich had an Interpol file for inciting violence at the World Economic Forum meeting in Gstaad. Terri Ann Gates had been bagged for arson. A gaunt-faced Reed College dropout with tied-back hair named Stephen Hardaway had committed a bank robbery in Spokane.
“Remote-triggered bombs, ricin,” I said, thinking aloud. “The technology is pretty advanced. Any of these connected enough to pull off the strikes?”
Molinari shrugged. “Somebody could've teamed up with an established terror cell. The technology's for sale. Or we could be dealing with a white rabbit.”
“White rabbit? Like the Jefferson Airplane?”
“It's the name we give someone who's been hiding for a long time. Like the Weathermen from the sixties. Most of them have fit into society again. They have families, straight jobs. But there are a few still out there who haven't given up the cause.”
A cabin door opened and the copilot said that we were starting our descent. I stuffed the files in my briefcase, impressed with how quickly Molinari had followed up on my request.
“Any last questions?” he asked, tightening his seat belt. “There's usually a squadron of FBI officials who latch on to me when we land.”
“Just one.” I smiled. “How do you like to be addressed? Deputy director sounds like someone who runs a hydro-electric factory in the Ukraine.”
He laughed. “In the field, generally `sir' comes with the territory. But out of the field, what usually works for me is `Joe.'”
He tossed me a smile. “That make it any easier for you, Lieutenant?”
“We'll see, sir.”
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Chapter 47
WE WERE WHISKED by police escort from the private air-field outside Portland to the Governor Hotel in the center of town. The Governor was an old restored Western, and this was the worst thing that had ever happened there.
While Molinari conferred with the head of the regional FBI office, I got up to date with Hannah Wood, a local homi-cide inspector, and her partner, Rob Stone.
Molinari gave me time to go over the crime scene, which was definitely grisly. Clearly Propp had let his assailant in. The economist had been shot three times - twice in the chest and a clean-through to the head, the bullet lodg-ing in the floor. But Propp had also been slashed several times, probably with a serrated knife that still lay on the floor.
“Crime team dug this out.” Hannah showed me a bag containing a flattened 9mm bullet. A large gaff hook in a
Baggie was also being held for us.
“Prints?” I asked.
“Partials off the inside doorknob. Probably Propp's. The Swiss consulate's contacted Propp's family back home,” Hannah said. “He had dinner with a friend scheduled last night, then a seven A.M. flight to Vancouver. Other than that, no calls or visitors.”
I put on a pair of gloves, flipped open the briefcase on Propp's bed, and shuffled through his notes. A few books were scattered about, mostly academic stuff.
I went into the bathroom. Propp's toilet case was laid out on the counter. Not much else to go on. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
“Be easier if you could tell us what we're looking for, Lieutenant,” Stone said.
I couldn't. The name August Spies hadn't been released yet. I focused on prints of the crime scene photos that were taped to the mirror. It was an ugly, horrible scene. Blood everywhere. Then the warning: MAI.
The murderers were doing their homework, I was think-ing. They wanted a soapbox. They had it. So where the hell was the speech?
“Listen, Lieutenant,” Hannah said uncomfortably, “it's not too hard to figure out what you and the deputy director are doing up here. That horrible stuff going on in San Francisco? This is connected, isn't it?”
Before I could answer, Molinari came in with Special Agent Thompson. “Seen enough?” he asked me.
“If there are no objections, sir” - the FBI man pulled out his cell phone - “I'll advise the anti-terror desk in Quantico that the killer is on the move.”
“You okay with that, Lieutenant?” Molinari looked toward me.
I shook my head. “No. I don't think so.”
The FBI man shot me a double take. “Run that by me again, Lieutenant?”
“I think you should wait.” I gave weight to each word. “I don't think this murder is related to the others. I'm almost sure of it now.”
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Chapter 48
THE ROOM ABOVE might have just crashed through our ceiling, the way the FBI man blinked. To his credit, Molinari didn't react one way or the other. He seemed ready to hear what I had to say.
“You are aware of what Gerhard Propp did for a living? And why he was in this country in the first place?” Special Agent Thompson asked.
“I'm aware,” I answered.
“And where he was scheduled to present next week?”
“I was briefed,” I said. “Just like you were.”
Thompson aimed a smug smile toward Molinari. "So this
is some other homicidal maniac who just happens to be tar-
getting the G-8?“ ”Yeah,“ I said. ”That's exactly what I think." Thompson laughed and flipped open his phone. He
started to punch in his speed dial.
Molinari held his arm. “I'd like to hear what the lieu-tenant has to say.”
"Okay... The first thing is, this crime scene is com-pletely different from the others. One, this perp is probably male; that's clear from the force used to knock Propp to the ground. But that's not what I'm referring to. It's the physical condition of the body.
“The first two murders were detached.” I pointed to the crime scene photo taped to the mirror. “This is emotional. Personal. Look at the cuts. The killer defaced the body. He used a handgun and a knife.”
“You're saying there's a difference between blowing some-one up, or pouring Dra_ no down their throat, and this?” Thompson said.
“Have you ever pulled a trigger on the job, Special Agent?”
He shrugged, but his face went red. “No... So?”
I took down the photo of Propp's body. “Could you do this?”
The FBI man seemed to hesitate.
“Different killers, different temperaments,” Molinari cut in. “This one could be a sadistic maniac.”
“All right, then there's the timing. The message yesterday indicated that there would be another victim every three days. That'd be Sunday. Too soon.”