“You’re saying that Claire Farrington was Dale Perry’s mystery client?”
“Yes. We know that President Farrington called Hawkins from the farm as soon as Charlotte Walsh stormed out. I think that was the call he took at nine-thirty-seven, when Dr. Farrington was posing with the contributors in front of the clock. Hawkins had bad reception. The Secret Service later saw him come out of the suite adjoining Dr. Farrington’s suite. I think he ended up using the landline in that suite to find out about the president’s call.
“I think Claire Farrington tried to check her voice messages on her cell phone once she was alone in her suite and found that she couldn’t connect because of the bad reception. She could have used the phone in the adjoining suite so it would not appear that calls were made from her suite and learned where Walsh parked her car. She could have arranged for someone who knew about the adjoining suites, like Dale Perry, to leave a change of clothes in the suite and a vehicle somewhere on the street. Dr. Farrington could have gone through the adjoining suite, out the door, and down the stairwell. She would have been able to get to the mall just before Walsh arrived and would have had time to disable Walsh’s car, kill her with the scalpel, and call on Hawkins again to get rid of the body. Then she could tell Hawkins that Dale Perry knew too much and Hawkins could have arranged to have him killed in a way that looked like a suicide.”
“That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’” Kineer said.
Brad had grown more confident as he spoke, more certain that he was right.
“What are the odds of two women who live a continent apart and have connections to Christopher Farrington being stabbed with a scalpel in the space between the skull and first cervical vertebra before having their necks mutilated to hide the entrance wound?” Brad asked the judge. “What are the odds that two different murderers a continent apart would make their killings of these two women look like the work of an active serial killer?
“What’s more, if the killers wanted the police to think that Little and Loomis killed Erickson and Walsh why use a method to murder them that was totally alien to their MOs? On the other hand, it makes perfect sense if the victims were intentionally killed with the strike to the brainstem and the decisions to mimic Little and Loomis were made after the victims were dead.”
“Point taken, but we’re still dealing with a lot of speculation. What do you think, Keith?”
“I think there’s a lot to what Brad’s said. We’ve checked the phone records of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. Two calls were made from the suite adjoining the suite where Claire Farrington took her nap. They were made around ten in the evening, but they were made within five minutes of each other. Unfortunately, we can’t pinpoint the time that the Secret Service agents saw Hawkins leave the adjoining suite so we can’t prove that he didn’t make both calls, but the time interval suggests two different callers.
“And we’ve also come up with this,” Evans said as he handed copies of two grainy, black-and-white photographs to Justice Kineer. In one picture a person in jeans and wearing gloves and a hooded sweatshirt was going up a flight of stairs. In the other, the same person was going down.
“These were taken by a surveillance camera in the stairwell leading down to the lobby of the Theodore Roosevelt shortly after ten. I’ve had an agent make a trial run for me. A person leaving at this time and driving at night when the traffic would be minimal could get to the spot in the mall where Walsh parked in enough time to disable Walsh’s vehicle and hide herself.”
“Is there any way to determine if this person is a man or a woman?” Kineer asked. “I can’t tell.”
Evans shook his head. “We can’t determine the sex.”
Kineer looked around the room. “Any suggestions on what to do next?”
When no one answered Kineer smiled. “Do I have any volunteers who want to accuse a pregnant first lady of being a serial murderer?”
Chapter Forty-four
Keith Evans had survived gunfights and gone one-on-one with hardened psychopaths, but he still felt insecure as he followed the Secret Service agent up the stairs to the family quarters of the White House. The agent tried to convince himself that this would be like any other witness interview, but he failed miserably. He and Justice Kineer were not going to be grilling some two-bit drug dealer. They were going to be interrogating the first lady of the United States, an expectant mother who was married to the most powerful man in the world. Evans knew his career could go swirling down the toilet if he screwed up.
The Secret Service agent opened a door for Kineer and Evans, and they stepped into a cozy sitting room. The upholstered furniture sported a bright floral pattern that matched the drapes surrounding several floor-to-ceiling windows. Along the walls were a cherrywood writing desk and tall cupboards displaying pewter mugs and dinnerware from colonial times. Pastoral landscapes in gilt frames added to the feeling that the visitors were going to conduct their interview in the country home of an eighteenth-century American.
A man of average size, dressed in a dark blue business suit and sporting a trim, salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rimmed glasses was waiting at the door.
“Good afternoon, Mort,” Roy Kineer said to Morton Rickstein.
“Good afternoon, Judge,” Rickstein replied. The dapper lawyer and the former justice weren’t friends, but they’d bumped into each other often enough at social and legal functions to call themselves acquaintances.
“Do you know Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked.
“We’ve met on a few occasions,” Kineer answered, turning toward the woman seated in front of a tall window through which the sun shone. Claire Farrington’s back was straight and a smile of mild amusement played on her lips as she studied her visitors the way a queen might regard a supplicant from an outlying part of her realm.
Kineer had forgotten how large and powerful Claire Farrington looked. The first signs of motherhood did nothing to diminish his feeling that it would have been easy for her to overpower girls like Charlotte Walsh and Laurie Erickson.
“This is Keith Evans, Dr. Farrington,” Kineer said. “He’s with the FBI, but I had him seconded to me because he was the lead investigator in the D.C. Ripper case.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Evans,” Farrington said. “You did fine work apprehending Eric Loomis.”
“Thanks,” Evans said, noting that she hadn’t complimented him for arresting Charles Hawkins.
Kineer and Evans found a seat on a couch that was catty-corner to Claire Farrington’s high-backed chair. Evans placed his attaché case on the floor next to a coffee table made of dark polished wood.
“Why do you feel it’s necessary to interview Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked when Evans and the judge were comfortable.
“She’s a close personal friend of Charles Hawkins,” Justice Kineer answered.
“You don’t intend to call her as a witness, do you?”
“I can’t guarantee that. Dr. Farrington was with Mr. Hawkins on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder and may have evidence relevant to the case.”
“I understood that Mr. Hawkins has confessed and plans to plead guilty. If there’s not going to be a trial why would you need Dr. Farrington?”
“It’s not sufficient to obtain a confession,” Kineer said to the attorney before changing his focus from Rickstein to the first lady. “We have to be certain that Mr. Hawkins committed the crimes to which he’s confessing. Sometimes people confess to a crime they didn’t commit because they’re mentally ill or they want publicity or they’re covering up for the real perpetrator.”
Farrington’s expression and demeanor didn’t alter.
“Do you have any reason to doubt Mr. Hawkins’s confession?” Rickstein asked.