Keith Evans checked in on Brad from time to time because Brad was a witness. When they talked, Brad pumped the FBI agent for news, but Evans was tight-lipped and Brad rarely got any information that the media didn’t have.
To kill time until Ginny called, Brad read about new evidence against Charles Hawkins that the New York Times had unearthed. A photographer had snapped a shot in the meeting room at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. The photograph showed Hawkins off to one side answering his cell phone as the first lady finished posing with the last contributor in front of President Roosevelt’s clock. The clock read 9:37, which was around the time Dana Cutler said she’d phoned her mystery client with the news that Charlotte Walsh was returning to the Dulles Towne Center lot from the farm.
Something about the photo bothered Brad, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He wandered into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it out on the deck. While he watched the traffic on the river he sipped from his cup and worried the problem, but nothing came to him. He was still stumped when Ginny called.
Brad was lost in a swamp, fighting his way through mud that sucked at his shoes and vines so thick that he could barely see where he was going. The heat was unbearable-a heavy blanket that wrapped around him, making it hard to move or breathe. From somewhere in the swamp two women begged him for help and he despaired that there wasn’t time to rescue both of them. He wanted to give up but he couldn’t.
In the dream, Ginny stood next to him. Instead of offering encouragement, she calmly informed him, “It just can’t be done. There isn’t enough time to go one place then get to the other.”
Brad shot up in bed, his heart pounding. He knew what had bothered him the day before. When he spoke to Ginny after returning from his run Brad had asked if she had enough time to go home and change before coming downtown or if she was just going to go to the movie straight from work. Ginny had told him that she might not have time to go to a movie and eat dinner.
Brad groped for the light on his nightstand and turned it on. He was bathed in sweat, and his breathing was labored. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to calm down. The important thing was to hold on to the dream. In it Brad was panicky because there wasn’t enough time to be in two places at one time. His subconscious was trying to point out that on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder Charles Hawkins had been faced with the same predicament. Had everyone been going at this case the wrong way?
The clock on Brad’s nightstand said it was 5:58. He knew there was no way he could get back to sleep, so he went into the bathroom and prepared to face the day. While he brushed his teeth, Brad made a plan of action. He would eat breakfast then reread everything that bore on the time element. Just as he ducked under the medium hot spray in the shower a sudden thought distracted him. He paused, the bar of soap in his hand and water cascading down his face and chest. There had been something in Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report that had made no impression on him when he read it. Now the memory triggered a really scary idea.
After finishing in the bathroom, Brad put up coffee and toasted a bagel. As soon as he was done with breakfast, he started reviewing the file in Clarence Little’s case and the articles about the Erickson and Walsh murders he had collected. It was almost eight when he finished reading the item he’d intentionally saved for last, Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report. Brad sat back and stared at the wall across from the couch. A colorful print he’d purchased from a street artist in Greenwich Village hung over the fireplace, but he didn’t see it. His thoughts were elsewhere.
When he’d worked the problem through, Brad went into his bedroom and got his appointment book. A few weeks ago, one of the partners had ordered him to call a doctor at home in the evening after court had recessed in a medical malpractice trial. He’d written the number in his book. The witness was the only doctor he knew in Portland. When the doctor picked up the phone, Brad asked him a question. When the doctor answered it, Brad felt sick. He hung up and sat quietly for a few moments. Then he found Keith Evans’s card and dialed his cell phone. The agent answered after a few rings.
“This is Brad Miller. I’m calling from Portland.”
“What’s up, Brad?”
“I had an idea.”
“Yes,” Evans prodded when Brad hesitated.
“It’s kind of crazy.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Can you answer a question about the autopsy report in Charlotte Walsh’s case first?”
“I will if I can.”
“Is there any evidence that Walsh received a stab wound to her brainstem?”
Evans was silent for a moment while he tried to recall the details of the report.
“Yes, I think there was something about that in the report,” he answered. “Why?”
“You’re not going to like what I have to say but I think you have a problem.”
Chapter Forty-three
The events that followed Brad’s call to Keith Evans would have been very exciting if Brad wasn’t scared to death. First there was the black car filled with very serious FBI agents that spirited him away from his apartment less than an hour after Evans ended their call. Then there was the nonstop flight on the FBI jet to a military airfield somewhere near Washington, D.C., followed by the drive from the airfield to the safe house where Dana Cutler was living and the warning to stay inside and away from the windows so snipers would not have a good shot. And then there was the most terrifying part of the whole affair for someone who was a good but not great attorney-explaining his theory to retired United States Supreme Court Justice Roy Kineer, one of the greatest minds in jurisprudential history.
Brad guessed that Justice Kineer had a lot of practice greeting awe-struck neophyte attorneys because Kineer did everything he could to put Brad at ease when Keith Evans ushered him and Dana Cutler into the conference room at the offices of the independent counsel.
“Mr. Miller, thank you so much for coming,” the judge said as he extended his hand and flashed a big smile. “Agent Evans was effusive in his praise for your deductive abilities, and I’m very anxious to hear your theory.”
Brad couldn’t think of anything to say so he flashed a nervous smile.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Kineer asked. “We have coffee, tea, and soft drinks, and we might even be able to rustle up a latte, or whatever is popular in your neck of the woods? I hear there’s a Starbucks not far from here.”
“Actually, New York is my neck of the woods. I just moved to Portland. So black coffee would be great, if it’s no trouble?”
Kineer’s smile shifted to Dana. “I’m also very pleased to finally meet you, Miss Cutler. Can I get you something?”
“I’m fine.”
“No thanks to Charles Hawkins from what I hear. It seems that you’ve had several close calls.”
The judge sent a young assistant to get Brad’s coffee. Then he turned to the nervous attorney.
“Let’s get down to business, Brad. Can you sit by me? I’m a little hard of hearing.”
Kineer went to the head of a small conference table. Evans sat at the other end with Cutler beside him. A middle-aged man and a woman in her early thirties sat across from Brad. The man had a notepad in front of him. The woman looked intense. Kineer introduced them as staff attorneys.
“So, what do you have for us?” he asked Brad, who suddenly doubted every clever deduction he’d made. It had been one thing to speculate about the case in his apartment and another to explain it to Roy Kineer.