And, as the day progressed, it became apparent that the story hadn’t been leaked at all. The story had broken first on the website of the Chicago Tribune. A staff reporter named Mike Whitford had received a call that morning from somebody purporting to be Caleb Wardell. And if it hadn’t been Wardell, it had been somebody equally well informed, because one thing was clear: Whitford had his facts straight in the story. Everything from the details of the escape to the position of the shot that had killed the deliveryman. The detail was accurate, the message concise and pitched perfectly to a mass audience: Wardell was back. Five men dead already, and he was just getting started.
Castle spoke to Donaldson at length by phone. The SAC was not happy. But there was work to be done, and so it got done. The focus of activity had switched to locating Sandra Veldon’s Ford Taurus, but everything else that had been set in motion was still ongoing, with an added load of media briefings.
Two spent 7.62 cartridges were recovered from the wooded area overlooking the lot, validating the forensic guy’s guess. A thumbprint found on one was quickly checked and matched as Caleb Wardell’s, to the surprise of no one. Good work from all concerned, but crime scene work wasn’t what I had been brought in for. To do that, I needed three things: a little time, a little space, and a lot of information. I caught up with Banner outside in the parking lot as she finished a call on her cell.
“Yeah,” she said in acknowledgment. She delivered the word flat: not a question or a challenge, sounding neither impatient nor pleased. She did not seem in any mood to be standing around shooting the breeze, so I cut to the chase.
“Listen, I know bringing me in on this wasn’t exactly your idea, but I think I can help you.”
Banner turned away, staring into the distance and looking like she was thinking of all the things she ought to be doing five minutes ago. Then she looked back at me. “But first you need something from me?”
“Bingo.”
I asked Banner to have everything on Wardell e-mailed to me.
“You already have the file,” she said.
I shook my head. “That’s the Reader’s Digest version. I mean the big file. Everything.”
“Everything,” she repeated. “More homework?”
“Something like that.”
A pause, then she said: “All right. I guess Castle would say it’ll keep you out of the way.”
I didn’t rise to that. Being honest, it did feel a little against the grain, to retreat to desk work when there was a killer on the loose, but it was all part of my system. The game was on, and if I was going to play my part, I was going to have to know my quarry inside out. The task force would take care of chasing up leads, coordinating dragnets and searches, warning the populace — all of the thousand and one other concerns. In the meantime, I had to forget about all of those distractions and get down to business. My business.
Banner didn’t complain about having to take the time out to make the calls, didn’t ask what I was planning to do. Most of the material was available electronically, but she had the remainder faxed through to the command center. While I was waiting, I bought some maps from the supermarket.
When it was done, I thanked her. I meant it, because she didn’t have to help me. It certainly wouldn’t increase her standing with Castle.
She brushed it off. “No need to get all warm and fuzzy. Let’s just say I’m hedging my bets.”
By three o’clock, and with no small amount of difficulty, I had located what seemed like the last motel room in town that had not yet been snagged by an incoming journalist. I checked in as Jerry Siegeclass="underline" an assumed name to hide an assumed name. The room had cable, Wi-Fi, and a desk: everything I needed. I switched on one of the news channels and muted the sound; then I set my laptop up on the desk and got to work.
13
“Agent Banner?” Banner started a little at the sudden voice and looked up from her phone, on which she’d been reading a terse e-mail from Donaldson. The expression on Agent Paxon’s face told her this wasn’t another shooting, not yet. That news wouldn’t come to her in person. When it happened, the first sign would be the ringing of multiple phones.
Kelly Paxon had to be in her first or second year with the Bureau, Banner guessed. She wore a dark skirt and jacket, white blouse, only a little makeup. Her strawberry-blond hair was tied back, and she wore glasses with thin, dark red frames. She was nervous. This was evidently her first time in the midst of one of the really big cases and she, like everyone else, had probably been yelled at a couple of times today by stressed-out superiors.
Banner smiled reassuringly. “What have you got for me?”
“Marion.”
“Wardell’s prison?”
Paxon nodded. “We’ve gone over every piece of paperwork on the transfer. Looks like Wardell was a last-minute substitution.”
“He wasn’t meant to be transferred?”
“It was scheduled, but he was meant to go on his own. Death row transfers are almost always solo. A bunch of the guards called in sick — stomach flu epidemic. They tagged him along with Mitchell, who was also meant to be moved alone.”
Banner massaged her right temple with her index finger in slow circles. “A celebrity serial killer and a Mob witness. Sounds like they were playing pretty cavalier with the star attractions.”
“It seems so, ma’am.”
Banner hated being called ma’am. She knew it was a chain-of-command thing, but it set her teeth on edge every time. It made her feel about a hundred and five. “But why didn’t they have an escort?” she asked.
Paxon looked uncertain, as if she were somehow personally to blame for the lapse in security. “The original paperwork has Mitchell’s transfer coded 1AA. That means silver service — outriders, chopper, decoy vans, the whole ball of wax.”
“So what happened?”
“Somebody recoded it the day of the transfer. It was downgraded to regular security only. Mitchell went from VIP to standard class.”
Banner was incredulous. “‘Somebody’? Wouldn’t something like that need to be signed off on by a bunch of people?”
“In theory, yes. In practice… maybe not. This time it seems to have gone unchallenged.”
“So who made the call?”
“The relevant document is signed by the prisoner transfers coordinator, Paul Summers.”
Banner opened her mouth only for Paxon to answer her question before she’d voiced it.
“Summers didn’t show up for work today or yesterday. We’ve got an address; he lives just outside of a town called Janson. It’s about twenty-five miles north of here.”
“Good work. Do we have anybody out there?”
Paxon shook her head. “We only just got the heads-up.”
Banner looked away from Paxon and at the busy scene around them. Castle was on the phone; Blake was nowhere to be seen. Chances were she’d have to head back to Chicago soon. The consensus at Quantico was that Wardell would be heading back to familiar ground. In the meantime, there wasn’t much she could do here until Sandra Veldon and her car were accounted for. Banner dug the keys to the gray SUV out and jiggled them in her hand. “Come on.”
“To Janson?” Paxon sounded surprised.
“Where else? Let’s see what Paul Summers has to say about all this.”
14