“And we got away with this?”
“Right to the end. What I’m suggesting is the possibility that Grand Vistas might be a front operation. Maybe they have some kind of deal with Morris Networks-money for the Defense Department’s mail.”
“Sean, this is big.”
“I know.”
“If those are the stakes, the murders make even more sense.”
“Right. But it is only a theory, not a fact.”
She then said, “I’d better call George and inform him.”
“Not yet.”
“I sense you and he have… issues. But don’t underestimate him.”
When I failed to respond, she insisted, “He knows his job.”
“The guy who sent Bob knows his job?”
“I… look, George has his hands full right now. I’ve seen him in action. Believe me, he’s very good.”
“I’m not debating his competence. But what will he do about it?”
She thought about this and swiftly drew the right conclusion. Our earlier problem hadn’t disappeared-we had no evidence linking the firm to the killer. The instant Meany and his Boy Scouts started flashing their Fed badges, the disaster would play out-the firm would clam up, the culprits would be spooked, hard drives would start crashing, and reams of paper would start disappearing into shredders.
I said, “Nor can I divulge what I know about Grand Vistas without violating attorney-client privilege, right? It would be both unethical and legally inadmissible, right?”
“Okay, you make a good point.”
I let her think about that a moment, then I said, “However, the law permits me to inform my attorney about these matters. So you’re my attorney.”
“You can’t afford me.” She peered at me curiously. “You’re serious?” I nodded and she asked, “Why do you need an attorney?”
“To threaten Culper, Hutch, and Westin with a lawsuit.”
“A lawsuit?”
“To use the law to fight the law.”
“I don’t want to throw a wrench in the works, but I think the legal code insists that you have grounds.”
I glanced at my watch. “I have grounds. We’ll discuss it on our way back to D. C.”
“What am I getting into?”
“I’ve got a disciplinary hearing tonight at the firm. You’ll represent me. So go inside and tell Bob to pack his bags.”
Before Janet slipped through the back door, I said, “By the way, could I borrow your cell phone to call my office?”
“Sure.”
I waited until she was inside before I called Northern Virginia information and got the number for the Rosslyn office of the Associated Press, which I then dialed. I asked the switch to put me through to Jacob Stynowitz, whose byline I had noticed on several stories regarding the serial killer. Actually, his stories were really good.
When he picked up, I said, “Mr. Stynowitz, I’m Major Drummond, a JAG officer. I’ve been following your stories about the L. A. Killer. Hey-they’re excellent.”
“Thanks. I try my best.”
“It shows. Gripping stuff.” I didn’t want to lay it on too thick, so I said, “You’ve heard about the two cop killings this morning in Boston?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s on CNN right now.”
“I was there.”
“You were there?”
“A few feet away. Saw the whole thing. The guy trying to kill the girl on the running path… the cops rushing around.”
“Well, that’s interesting. Is that the reason for this call?”
“Yeah. See, I thought… if you’re doing a story on this Boston thing… I could maybe give you a few colorful quotes. I know how these things work, the FBI controlling what’s put out, and they only tell you what they want you to know…”
There was silence on the other end for a moment.
He asked, “Is there a way I can confirm you were a witness?”
“I just spent the morning in the Federal Building with the FBI. Ask them.”
“I will. Now, Mr… I mean, Major…”
“Drummond.”
“Right. I’m required by law to inform you that I’m recording this conversation.”
“Fine.”
He started asking questions, all of which were pretty general in nature, and I answered truthfully, though not completely, as you might imagine. He wanted a little local color, a general description of the event, and so forth.
After a few minutes of this back-and-forth, he’d spent his nickel, and he said, “Anything else you wanted to add?”
“Well, you didn’t ask me to describe him.”
“You mean you saw him?”
“I got a great look at him.”
“Uh-huh. A short guy with a ponytail, right?”
“No.”
“No?”
“About six foot four, maybe six-five, nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, and he didn’t have a ponytail.”
The line went silent for a moment. He finally said, “Uh… that conflicts with the FBI’s description of the L. A. Killer.”
“Yes, I noticed that.” I suggested, “Draw your own conclusion.”
“You mean… you mean, they’ve pinned the wrong guy?”
“Consider that a good conclusion.” I swiftly added, “And another thing…” I paused a moment, then said, “Well… ah, no, forget about it.”
“What? Come on.”
“A lot of people are terrified of this guy, right?”
“You could say that.”
“And I guess… well, what I’d say, having watched him in action, is his reputation’s way overblown.”
“How so?”
“It’s pretty stupid to attack that woman right there in the wide open, police everywhere. And Miss Morrow definitely outfoxed him. You had to see this big idiot running away from this tiny woman.”
Mr. Stynowitz was beginning to sound very excited, and he suggested, “You’re saying he’s not only not the L. A. Killer, but he’s also not competent?”
The string of double negatives aside, I replied, “That’s what I am saying.” I added, “Look, I know this sounds crass, but what I witnessed this morning was stunningly stupid. This is a really sick, perverted idiot who has managed to murder a few women because he sneaks up on them. But when it’s face-to-face, he runs like a jackass. Essentially, he’s a gutless coward.”
Well, we did a little more back-and-forth, but I’d gotten the quotes I wanted in, and he ended by making sure I didn’t mind being openly named, which was really ethical of him, because a lot of his colleagues don’t do that, and he promised he’d play me square, and then we signed off.
The Associated Press, you have to understand, are sort of the hacks of modern journalism, trained to compose and file their stories quickly, which are then distributed to multiple news services. Given Joe Q. Public’s prurient interest in this case, by evening, Sean Drummond’s commentary about America’s most famous killer would make it into a lot of news channels.
The files in the rental car placed Janet ahead of me in the killer’s queue. Had she obeyed Meany’s very sound advice and retreated into protective custody, her odds of living a long and fulfilling life would be excellent. But even the President’s security detail couldn’t protect her out in the open-against this guy, nobody could.
I had held back on the throttle a little in my talk with Janet. I mean, there’s what you see-what we all saw-but to really get inside his head, it helps when you once walked in his shoes.
So, back to what we all saw-his physique. A build like that is the product of thousands of hours in the weight room, careful dieting, probably steroids, and colossal willpower. He probably had a teeny weenie and was compensating, but the shrinks could nail the tail on that particular donkey. Also, nobody gets that expert at the killing game without abnormal drive, discipline, and a vicious competitive streak.
But psychotic minds are individualistic, distinguishable by their unique fetishes and idiosyncrasies. Thus, back to his signature style. It had been his intention to arrange Janet’s murder without drawing parallels to the other victims, right? So why not snuff her with a drive-by shot? Or whack her with sniper rifle from a distance? Atomize her with a bomb? All of these options offered less chance of witnesses and less risk of failure. Also, given her public profile as an ADA who messed around with mob cases, both the torching of her father’s home and her murder could easily be blamed on the goombahs. No-he used a knife and you have to ask, why? My guess was because he wanted her to see him, and he wanted to see the fear in her eyes. This guy drew sustenance and satisfaction from fear. For him, killing had to be personal, a contest where triumph depended on the victim having some chance of winning, but ultimately losing.