Executive Privilege

Washington, D.C.

Chapter Eleven

Keith Evans was exhausted. As the agent-in-charge of the D.C. Ripper task force he was expected to set an example by outworking the FBI agents under him. Last night, he’d crawled into bed after midnight. Now it was 5 A.M. and he was up again, groggy, eyes raw, and with no time to shower before heading to the scene of the Ripper’s latest atrocity, a Dumpster in the alley behind a Chinese restaurant in Bethesda, Maryland. The task force office had been notified as soon as the locals realized they had another victim of the Ripper. Evans was sorry that the Bethesda police were so competent; he could have used the extra sleep. At least the bastard had been considerate enough to leave the body only a few miles from Evans’s house.

After finding a parking spot a block from the crime scene Evans took a swig from his thermos and grimaced. He’d been too rushed to put up a fresh pot, and the day-old coffee he’d reheated in his microwave was barely tolerable. As Evans trudged along the sidewalk the wind blew a page of newsprint toward him. He was so exhausted that the skittering sports page hypnotized him and it took an effort to pull his eyes away from it. Evans shook his head to clear it. The Ripper case was wearing him out. When he looked in the mirror he no longer saw the fresh-faced Omaha detective who’d broken a serial case that had stumped the FBI. The agent-in-charge of the FBI task force had been hunting the killer for three years and he was so impressed by Evans’s spectacular detective work that he’d convinced the young man to apply for a spot in the Bureau.

When Evans started the course at Quantico he’d been twenty-nine, six two, and a rock hard 190. All of his hair was sandy blond, his skin was tight, and his blue eyes were piercing. Evans was almost forty now and he resembled that younger man only from a distance. There were gray hairs among the blond, and you could see black shadows under his eyes when he removed the glasses he needed for reading. He was carrying an extra ten pounds around his waist and his shoulders were slightly stooped. And the truth was that he’d never duplicated the intuitive leap that had led him to crack the case in Nebraska. There had been victories or he wouldn’t be heading up the Ripper task force, but they’d been accomplished by dogged police work rather than brilliant deduction.

Along the way, Evans’s long hours had ruined a decent marriage and worn him down; not the best state for dealing with an extremely bright murderer. And there was no denying that the Ripper was smart. He knew police procedure and he was great at covering his tracks and eliminating trace evidence. There were the usual theories about the killer being a cop or a cop wannabe, some disgruntled security guard who had not been able to qualify for the force and was taunting the police to prove they’d made a mistake in rejecting him. But anyone with half a brain could go online and learn all about crime scene investigation. The truth was that the task force had no idea who was behind the killings that were starting to freak out the good citizens of Washington, D.C., and its environs.

A barrier manned by a Bethesda police officer had been set up across the mouth of the alley to keep out curious civilians who, despite the early hour, were already straining to see the activity around the crime scene. Evans squeezed through them and stopped on the other side of the sawhorse to sign the security log that contained the names of everyone who entered the crime scene and the time they’d signed in and out. The alley was swarming with crime scene technicians, uniformed cops, and agents recognizable by their blue windbreakers with FBI stitched on the back in bright yellow letters. Evans pulled on a pair of latex gloves and donned a set of Tyvek paper booties even though he knew it probably didn’t matter what he deposited at the crime scene now that it had been compromised by the cops, techs, and agents who’d been through the alley in the past few hours, not to mention any civilians who had wandered by since the killer had deposited his grisly package.

The Dumpster was halfway down the alley, and a body bag holding the victim lay next to it. At the other end of the alley was the van that would transport the corpse to the morgue for the autopsy. Standing next to the body bag was Arthur Standish, the county medical examiner, who was sipping coffee from a Starbucks cup. Evans trusted Standish, who had done a thorough job autopsying the second Ripper’s victim before the Bureau got involved.

Evans started toward the body but was intercepted by a stocky officer with a salt-and-pepper crew cut.

“Ron Guthridge, Bethesda PD,” the man said as he extended his hand. “I was in charge of the scene until your boys took over.”

“Keith Evans. I’m lead on the FBI task force.”

“I know,” Guthridge said, grinning. “You’re a TV celebrity.”

“Thanks for calling so fast,” Evans said, ignoring the dig. He was the public face of the FBI on this one. His fellow agents had been ribbing him about how bad he looked at his press conferences. Now he had to put up with kidding from the locals.

“Believe me I’m pleased as punch to turn this baby over to you.”

“Do we have an ID?”

Guthridge nodded. “The victim is Charlotte Walsh, an AU student. We have an address for her apartment, too.”

“And you know this because you found Walsh’s ID in the Dumpster under her body.”

Guthridge’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

“The Ripper always leaves his victim’s ID under the body,” Evans said, regretting that he’d had the urge to show off as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Exhaustion was eroding his IQ. “We haven’t made the fact public,” Evans added quickly.

“No one will learn it from me,” Guthridge assured him.

“Has anyone visited her apartment?” Evans asked.

“No. As soon as we realized we might be dealing with the Ripper I put everything on hold so I wouldn’t step on your toes.”

“I appreciate the courtesy.”

“Like I said, this is your baby and you’re welcome to it.”

“Great way to start the day,” Dr. Standish said to Evans when he and Guthridge arrived at the Dumpster.

“I love the smell of garbage and dead bodies in the morning.”

Standish chuckled and Evans flicked his head toward the body bag. “Why do you think we have another Ripper victim?”

Standish was suddenly serious. “The eyes are missing.”

The authorities hadn’t told the public that the Ripper removed his victims’ eyes, either. It was always good to hold back certain facts to weed out false confessions.

“What about the substance we’ve been finding in their mouths?”

“I won’t be able to tell until I’ve conducted the autopsy and sent a sample to the lab.”

Minute traces of a substance had been discovered in the mouths of all four of the Ripper’s victims but the FBI lab had not figured out what it was and why it was there.

“Hillerman, bring over the wallet,” Guthridge yelled at the tall, thin African-American policeman who was in charge of logging in the crime scene evidence.

Hillerman brought over a plastic evidence bag containing, among other items, a black leather Prada wallet. Evans fished the wallet out of the bag and examined its contents. The driver’s license belonged to Charlotte Walsh and listed an address a few miles from American University.

Evans squatted down and unzipped the body bag. He knew what to expect but he was still appalled by the horrors one so-called human being could visit on another member of the human race. The Ripper dressed his victims before disposing of their bodies, but Evans could still see the black holes where the poor girl’s eyes should shine and her throat, which looked like a wild animal had gotten at it. There was no question that the pretty girl in the driver’s license photograph and the abused young woman in the body bag were the same person.

“Did anyone find a car belonging to Walsh nearby?” Evans asked Guthridge.

“No, but we’ve got an APB out,” the sergeant answered.

Evans stood up and copied the address on the license into a notebook. Then he replaced the wallet in the evidence bag and handed it back to Hillerman.

“I really want to catch this son of a bitch,” Evans muttered.

“I’ll drink to that,” Standish said before taking a sip of coffee.

Guthridge’s cell phone rang. He stepped away and pressed it to his ear. After a brief conversation, the sergeant returned to the small group.

“They just found Walsh’s car in a remote part of the lot at the Dulles Towne Center mall. The car won’t start because someone disconnected the battery, and there’s blood on the driver’s seat.”

“Is there a crowd around the car?” Evans asked.

“No. A security guard noticed the car sitting by itself before the mall opened and got suspicious. When he saw the blood he called it in.”

“I’m going to send a forensic team out there. But we’ll tow the car as soon as they give the okay. Play this down.”

“I’m on it,” Guthridge said.

Evans talked to one of the members of the forensic team before walking over to the Dumpster. He held his breath when he looked in so he wouldn’t have to smell the odor of rotting food that permeated the area behind the restaurant.

“Where was she lying?” he asked.

Hillerman handed Evans a bag with crime scene photos that had been snapped before the body had been removed. The top shot showed Walsh’s corpse splayed across several black garbage bags. He rifled through the other shots, which documented the place where the body had been found and the condition of the Dumpster after the body was removed. All of the other victims had been found in Dumpsters. Evans didn’t have to be an English lit major to figure out the symbolism for which the Ripper was aiming.

“I can’t do anything more here. You can take the body, Art.”

Dr. Standish signaled to two men who were waiting to take away the corpse.

“I’m going to drive over to Walsh’s apartment.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I have any results.”

“Thanks,” Evans said, feeling twice as tired now as he had when he’d entered the alley.

Charlotte Walsh lived on the fourth floor of an eight-story building, part of a shiny new complex that combined housing with trendy restaurants, upscale chains, and quaint boutiques. As soon as Evans found the address, he knew Walsh came from money. No starving student could afford to live in this apartment house, which was meant for young professionals earning six-figure salaries.

During the drive from the crime scene, Evans had called his partner, Maggie Sparks, and told her to meet him at Walsh’s place. A slim, athletic woman in her early thirties dressed in a black pinstripe pants suit and a white, man-tailored shirt was pacing the sidewalk near the entrance to the building. Sparks ’s glossy ebony hair, high cheekbones, and dark complexion suggested Native American DNA. She did have some Cherokee blood but her ancestors had also been Spaniards, Romanians, Danes, and others of unknown origin, so she wasn’t certain where she belonged in the genetic hodgepodge that had produced the human race.

“Sorry to roust you out of bed,” Evans apologized.

“No you’re not,” Sparks answered with a smile. “Misery loves company.”

Evans smiled back. He liked Sparks. She worked as hard as any of the task force members but was able to keep her sense of humor. They’d gone out for drinks a few times after work but he’d never gotten up the nerve to ask her to do more.

The lobby was marble, dark wood, and polished metal lit by Art Deco wall sconces. Colorful abstract art hung on the yellow pastel walls. Evans flashed his ID at the security guard who sat behind a desk in the lobby. The guard was dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks and looked like he pumped iron. His black hair was slicked back, and he eyed Evans’s credentials suspiciously.

“We need the apartment number for Charlotte Walsh, please,” Evans said.

“I’m not certain I can give out that information, sir,” the guard said as he squared up his shoulders and tried his best to look dangerous.

Evans read the black lettering on the guard’s gold name tag.

“Miss Walsh was murdered this morning, Bob. I’m sure you don’t want to impede a homicide investigation.”

The guard’s eyes grew wide. “Sorry,” he said as he ran down the list of tenants, all traces of his tough guy persona gone. “That’s seven-oh-nine.”

“Does she live alone?”

“No, she’s got a roommate, Bethany Kitces. She came in two hours ago.”

“Thank you. We’re going up. Don’t tell Miss Kitces. Let us break the bad news.”

“Yeah, of course.” The guard shook his head sadly. “That’s terrible. She was a sweet kid.”

“You knew her?” Sparks asked.

“Just to say hello to. She was always friendly.”

Evans briefed Sparks during the elevator ride to the seventh floor and the walk down a lushly carpeted hall lit by more wall sconces. Evans stopped in front of a black lacquered door with a decorative gold lion’s head knocker and a doorbell. He opted for the doorbell and they waited patiently through three rings before a sleep-drugged voice ordered them to stop their racket. Evans told Maggie Sparks to hold her ID up to the peephole.

“Miss Kitces,” Sparks said through the closed door, “I’m Special Agent Margaret Sparks. I’m with the FBI and I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?” Kitces asked. Evans could hear the suspicion in her tone.

“It concerns Charlotte Walsh, your roommate.”

“Has anything happened to her?” Kitces asked, concerned now.

“I’d prefer to talk to you in your apartment where we’ll have some privacy.”

Evans heard locks snapping and the door was opened by a barefoot woman who looked to be in her late teens. She was wearing pajama bottoms and an AU T-shirt and could not have been taller than five feet. Bethany Kitces’s round face was framed by long, unkempt, curly blond hair, and she wore no makeup. It was obvious that she’d been roused from bed, but the presence of the FBI agents had acted like a cup of powerful espresso and her large blue eyes were wide open.

Evans found himself in a small foyer standing on a blond hardwood floor that was partially covered by a Persian throw rug. Beyond the vestibule was a large cluttered living room outfitted with ill-used but expensive furnishings. The agent noticed a state-of-the-art stereo system, a large plasma TV that hung from the wall like the abstract art in the lobby, a black leather couch, and a coffee table. Sweatpants were draped over an arm of the couch, and a bowl stained by melted ice cream stood on a coffee table next to an opened Coke can. The floor and two leather recliners were littered with other items of clothing, fashion and fan magazines, and CD holders with the names of pop groups Evans didn’t recognize. A bookshelf held a mix of textbooks and trashy novels.

“This is Special Agent Keith Evans, Miss Kitces. He’s working on Miss Walsh’s case with me.”

“What case? What’s happened to Lotte?”

“Maybe you should sit down,” Sparks suggested, walking past the wary young woman and heading toward the couch. Evans held back until Walsh’s roommate was seated. The young woman looked nervous.

“We’re sorry to wake you up,” Sparks said. “I understand you just got in a few hours ago.”

Kitces nodded.

“Were you out all evening?”

“Yes.”

“When did you leave the apartment, last night?”

“A little after seven.”

“Was Miss Walsh still here?”

“No, she left around four.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No. She just said that she had some stuff to do.”

“Where did you go?”

“What’s this about? Has something happened to Lotte?” Kitces asked again.

“I’ll answer your questions in a moment,” Sparks said, “but I need your answers first.”

Sparks noticed that Kitces’s shoulders were hunched and she’d clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

“I was with my boyfriend. We stayed at his apartment. I just got back around five.”

“Why didn’t you stay all night?” Sparks asked.

Kitces blushed. “We had a fight. I got angry and left.”

“Can you tell us your boyfriend’s name?”

“Barry Sachs. Now, can you please tell me what happened to Charlotte?”

“I’m afraid I have bad news, Bethany,” Sparks said softly. “Your friend is dead. She was murdered last night.”

Kitces looked stunned. “She’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Kitces stared for a second then she leaned forward and began to wail. Sparks moved next to her quickly and placed a comforting arm over her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she said soothingly as the young woman wept. Evans went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Bethany was sobbing quietly when he returned.

Sparks took the glass from Evans and helped Bethany drink it down.

“I have some things I’d like to ask you,” Sparks said when Kitces was calm enough to question.

“Okay,” she answered, her voice so low Evans had to strain to hear her.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Miss Walsh?”

“No, everyone liked her.”

“She didn’t have any enemies, anyone she mentioned that she was afraid of?”

“We’ve been rooming together since the term started and we were in the dorm last year. I never heard her say anything like that and I never heard anyone say anything bad about Lotte.”

“Have you noticed anyone suspicious lurking around here or on campus, or did Lotte mention anything like that?”

“No.”

“Can you think of anything out of the ordinary that’s happened recently?”

“I really can’t. She just had fun, you know. We’re in a sorority. Lotte was involved in campus politics. She dated.”

“Any boyfriend problems?”

“No. She was going with this Alpha Sig, but they both decided it wasn’t working. They’re still…were still friends.”

Kitces paused. “Gee, I can’t get used to…” She choked up and managed a tearful, “You know.”

The agents waited for Bethany to regain her composure. When she signaled that she was ready Sparks asked her next question.

“Can you tell us something about your friend? It will help us find the person who hurt her.”

Kitces wiped her eyes and took another sip of water.

“She’s from Kansas,” Bethany said when she could speak without crying. “Her dad’s an orthodontist and her mom is a lawyer in a big firm in Kansas City. Lotte is…was very smart. She had almost all A’s her freshman year. She’s poli-sci. She wanted to go to law school, then maybe politics. She worked on a congressman’s campaign in high school and she was working for Senator Gaylord.”

Bethany paused and frowned.

“Yes,” Sparks prodded.

“You asked about anything odd. There was something. Lotte was working on President Farrington’s election committee. Then she quit and started working for Senator Gaylord.”

Evans’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying she switched her allegiance?”

“Yeah. What made it strange was she really liked the president, she was a huge fan, and she used to bad-mouth Gaylord all the time. When she started working for Gaylord she still didn’t seem all that excited about her campaign or her positions. And, now that I think of it, what makes everything weirder is the way she acted when she came back from Chicago.”

“What happened in Chicago?”

Kitces hesitated. “I promised her I wouldn’t say anything.”

“I can understand that you want to be loyal to your friend, but she’s been murdered, Bethany. You wouldn’t want to hold back information that might help catch her killer.”

Bethany looked away. The agents let her think.

“Okay,” she said when she turned back. “It was something to do with President Farrington. That’s all she would tell me. One afternoon, I came home from class and found her packing an overnight case. This was when she was still volunteering at Farrington’s campaign headquarters. I asked her what was up. Like I thought maybe she was meeting some boy and staying over, not that she did that a lot. She was pretty old-fashioned. She’d only stay with a guy she really liked and not right away, you know. Like not on the first date or even a second.”

Bethany looked at Sparks to make sure she understood that her roommate wasn’t a slut. Sparks nodded.

“So I teased her about her seeing some guy, and she said it wasn’t like that. She said that the president was giving a speech in Chicago and she’d been invited to hear him and help out at the fund-raiser, but it was all hush-hush and she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. And that’s when she swore me to secrecy.”

“She didn’t say why her trip was hush-hush?”

“No. I tried to get it out of her but she wouldn’t give.” Kitces looked down. “I feel bad about telling you. She didn’t want me to say anything, and I promised.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“I hope so.”

“Was Lotte excited about this trip?”

“Yeah, but that changed when she came back. She stopped volunteering for Farrington and she was quiet and seemed nervous. Then, a week or so later, she started volunteering for Gaylord.”

“Did she ever tell you why she switched?”

“No.”

“You said that her mood changed after Chicago. What was the difference?” Sparks asked.

“Lotte was always upbeat. After Chicago she seemed to go up and down, quiet for a few days then excited and secretive then nervous and quiet again.”

“And you don’t know what was causing her to be like that?”

“No. I asked a few times if everything was okay. I thought it was a boy.”

“And you’re sure that wasn’t it?”

“If she was seeing someone she’d have told me.”

“Do you have a number for Lotte’s parents?” Sparks asked.

The color drained from Bethany ’s face. “Oh my gosh, her parents. I’m not going to have to tell them, am I?”

“No, we’ll take care of that.”

“I guess I’ll have to talk to them about the funeral and all. I want to be there.”

“It seems like you were a good friend to her,” Sparks said.

“It was easy,” Bethany said. Then she sobbed, “She was the best.”

“Could you show us Lotte’s room?” she asked when Kitces had cried herself out.

Bethany wiped at the tears that streaked her cheeks as she led the agents down a short hall. Walsh’s room was luxurious by the standards of most college students and much neater than a typical dorm room. The bed was made, there were no clothes on the floor, and the top of Walsh’s dresser and desk were orderly. Evans guessed that Bethany was responsible for the mess in the living room. He wandered over to the desk while Sparks looked in the dresser and the closet. Several books about the United States Congress were stacked in a neat pile.

“She was working on a paper about the Senate majority leader for an honors program,” Bethany explained.

“Thanks,” Evans told her. He found a physics text and a few books about international politics on the other side of the desk. Evans frowned. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what was bothering him. He opened the desk drawer and rummaged through it. He riffled through a checkbook but found nothing of interest. There were pens, Post-its, some paper clips, and a stapler. Another drawer contained letters from Walsh’s parents. Something dawned on Evans. Walsh’s parents might be old enough to communicate through snail mail but anyone closer to her age would be using e-mail. Evans searched the room but he didn’t find what he was looking for.

“Where is Miss Walsh’s computer?”

Bethany looked around the room too before answering. “If it’s not here she must have had it with her. She had a laptop. She took it everywhere. She carried it in her backpack.”

Evans took out his cell phone and dialed the agent who’d taken custody of the evidence from the Bethesda police at the crime scene. He asked if a backpack or a computer had been found in the alley. Then he asked if a laptop or a backpack had been found in Walsh’s car. After a few minutes, Evans hung up.

“ Bethany, if Miss Walsh didn’t have the laptop with her where would it be?”

Bethany shook her head. “It wouldn’t be anywhere. She never let it out of her sight. It had all her stuff on it: her papers, private stuff. It was either on the desk or in the backpack.”

“She must have backed up her hard drive,” Sparks said.

“Sure,” Bethany said. “Everyone does. She kept her backup disks in a plastic box in her desk.”

Evans started opening the drawers in Walsh’s desk again but he couldn’t find the box.

“ Bethany,” Evans asked, “I don’t want to alarm you-and there may be a simple explanation for the missing laptop and backups-but can you check this room and the rest of the apartment to see if anything else is missing?”

Kitces looked scared. “Do you think someone broke in?”

“I don’t know what your place usually looks like so I have no opinion. Did you notice anything unusual when you got home, this morning?”

“No, but I was pretty tired. I just went right to bed. I didn’t look around.”

Sparks and Evans helped Bethany search the apartment, but they didn’t find the laptop or anything else that would help them in the investigation and Bethany couldn’t point to anything else that was missing or out of place. When they were certain that there was nothing more to be done Sparks asked Bethany if she wanted them to call a friend to come over. Bethany said she’d call her boyfriend. Evans called police headquarters and asked to have a policeman come over to take Bethany ’s statement regarding the missing laptop and backup disks. As soon as the police officer arrived the agents thanked Bethany again, gave her their cards, and left.

“Do you think someone broke in, last night?” Sparks asked as they rode down in the elevator.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think happened to the laptop?”

“If she had it with her, the Ripper might have kept it as a souvenir or he could have left it with the body and someone took it.”

They walked side by side for a few moments then Sparks turned to Evans.

“We should have someone in the Kansas City office break the news to Walsh’s folks.”

Evans shuddered. He always felt so sorry for the parents. He could not imagine what it felt like to learn that your child was dead and then to learn that she’d died in pain and terror. He felt guilty that some other poor bastard would have the responsibility of visiting Charlotte ’s parents.

“When is this son of a bitch going to screw up?” he muttered angrily.

“He will, Keith. They always do.”

Evans frowned. “This business with the campaigns is strange. I wish I knew what happened in Chicago.”

“You can ask someone in Farrington’s campaign headquarters. There’s probably a simple explanation.”

“I don’t think so. You don’t just switch sides like that. Something must have happened.” Evans thought for a moment. “Maybe the Ripper works on Farrington’s campaign. Maybe he hit on her and freaked her out.”

“That would explain Walsh quitting Farrington’s campaign, but it wouldn’t explain why she went to work for Gaylord.”

“True. I don’t remember. Have we found any connections between the other victims and either campaign?”

“Not that I recall, but I’ll have someone check it out. But I’m betting that whatever made Walsh switch her allegiance to Gaylord had nothing to do with our case.”

Chapter Twelve

Dana drove random routes until she found the type of run-down motel that sits on the outskirts of small towns that have seen better days. The accommodations at the Traveler’s Rest consisted of rustic cabins whose peeling paint had not been touched up since around the time we were fighting World War II. The only hints that the motel existed in the twenty-first century were the signs advertising FREE HBO AND INTERNET ACCESS. A little after five in the morning, Dana paid the clerk cash for a few days’ lodging then drove Jake’s Harley behind the fourth cabin from the office so it couldn’t be seen from the road. About the only advantage she had was that no one knew what she was using for transportation, and she wanted to keep it that way.

Dana had used cash to pay for a toothbrush, toothpaste, and other basic toiletries plus a few days’ supply of prepackaged sandwiches, taco chips, and bottled water in a gas station minimart hours away from the motel. She’d also made a stop at a Wal-Mart where she’d purchased a few changes of clothes and a duffle bag. After taking a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she caught a few hours of fitful sleep. When she woke up, she sat around in her T-shirt and panties, watching CNN while she ate half of a ham and cheese sandwich and drank a bottle of water.

The lead news story was about the D.C. Ripper, who had claimed a new victim. The police were withholding the name of the deceased until her parents were notified. There was nothing about the shooting at her apartment, but she wasn’t expecting a story. The people who’d attacked her wouldn’t want any publicity. They had probably sanitized the place and had someone with authority that could not be questioned silence the cops. If she could hide for a few days they might conclude she’d hightailed it for someplace far from Washington, D.C. That would give her a little breathing room. With no place to go and nothing to do, Dana killed the day watching old movies and periodically checking out the news.

A river flowed behind the motel. Sometime in the distant past, one of the owners had set up a picnic area with three tables in a copse of cottonwoods that grew near the bank. The sun was close to setting when Dana grew claustrophobic and left her room. It had been a warm day, and she went outside in a T-shirt that covered the gun she’d shoved into the waistband at the back of her jeans. Dana brought a sandwich and a bag of chips to one of the tables and washed them down with swigs from a water bottle. While she ate she thought over her options. There weren’t many. She couldn’t run forever without money, and the pictures of Walsh and Farrington were the only things of value she possessed. How to cash in, though? She couldn’t drive up to the White House and demand to meet with the president.

The sun went down and a chill wind pushed away the warmth. Dana decided to go inside and research Christopher Farrington in the hopes that she would spot a way to get her demands to him. It turned out that the motel’s boast of Internet access was a bit overblown. There wasn’t a way to access the Internet from Dana’s room but there was an old computer in a corner of the motel office that a guest could use. To do so, Dana had to pay for the use of the motel’s password. This was fine with her, since her inquiries would show up as the motel’s inquiry if she was on an agency hot list.

The owner’s teenage daughter was manning the desk in the office. Dana paid for the password. The young girl put the bills in the till before turning her attention back to the television that perched on a corner of the counter. Dana went online and typed in “Christopher Farrington.” A dizzying number of references popped up on the screen, and she started shuffling through them, looking for something she could use.

Dana had lost her interest in current affairs during her stay in the mental hospital and had not rekindled it when she became an outpatient. She hadn’t voted in any election for some time, so a lot of the information that was common knowledge to the average voter was news to her. Dana read about Farrington’s rags-to-riches story and a biography of the first lady. After learning that Charles Hawkins had been with the president since his early days in Oregon politics she read his biography, too. The article about Hawkins contained a paragraph about his role as a witness in the trial of Clarence Little, who was accused of murdering the Farringtons’ teenage babysitter when the president was the governor of Oregon. She was just starting to read an account of the case when she heard the name of another teenager on the television.

“Miss Walsh is believed to be the latest victim of the D.C. Ripper, who has been terrorizing women in the D.C. area for over a year,” a newscaster was saying as the picture on the screen showed an alley filled with police personnel.

Dana was too stunned to work on the computer. As soon as she reentered her room she began pacing back and forth across the short strip of floor that ran between the bed and the dresser. She felt sick to her stomach and racked with guilt. Would Walsh still be alive if she had continued to follow her? Would she have been able to foil the attack by the Ripper?

When she was in the hospital, some of her fellow cops who visited had told her that they couldn’t imagine what she’d been through. Dana didn’t have to imagine what Charlotte Walsh had gone through. She’d been to the far side of terror and despair herself. The only difference between Walsh and herself was that Dana had survived the journey.

Another thought occurred to her, and she felt a chill. What if Walsh wasn’t a victim of the D.C. Ripper? Dana trembled, and she sat on the bed. She thought about everything that had happened to her and to Walsh and decided that there was no way this was a simple coincidence. Dana wasn’t buying Walsh as the random victim of a serial killer. Not when Dana had just escaped being the victim of a random burglary-rape-murder. Maybe the men in her apartment had been federal agents following orders from Farrington to get rid of anyone who knew about his affair. Not only did Dana know that the president had been with Walsh, but she also had photos that could prove it.

Dana took a deep breath and tried to calm down. The president couldn’t kill her as long as she had the pictures, but she knew his agents would stop at nothing to get her-or anyone who was helping her-to tell them where they were. The pictures were her only way out of this mess, and she could think of only one person who could negotiate her safety with the president. Dale Perry had gotten her into this mess, and he was going to get her out of it.

Chapter Thirteen

The chambers of the United States Senate were impressive but they were also small because only one hundred citizens of the United States were entitled to hold the office. Maureen Gaylord was one of them. Everyone who watched her stride across the Senate floor toward the podium was impressed by her poise and air of command. This impression had not been left to chance. Gaylord’s hairdresser had worked on her at home early this morning and a makeup artist had come to her office. The outrageously expensive suit she was wearing made her look businesslike but approachable. She knew this because this suit and several others had been paraded in front of a focus group earlier in the week, as had several versions of the speech she was about to deliver.

Senator Gaylord, a former Miss Ohio, was a wholesome-looking brunette who had used the scholarship money from several beauty pageants to finance a degree in business at Ohio State and a law degree from Penn. She’d grown up as trailer trash, which gave her credibility with the common folk, her years as an attorney for a major corporation worked for conservatives, and her Ivy League credentials played well with intellectuals. Gaylord was a political everywoman who was wily enough to avoid committing to the right or the left but duplicitous enough to make those who approached her believe she was on their side.

The president pro tempore of the Senate gaveled the chamber to order, and Maureen stared into the television cameras. There weren’t many people in the gallery that hung over the Senate floor but there were plenty of media representatives in attendance, and that was all that counted.

“I am standing today in the most august deliberative chamber in the world thanks to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Six months ago, a homegrown group of radical Islamists calling themselves the Army of the Holy Jihad conceived a despicable plan to attack the office buildings of the United States Senate with enough explosives to inflict massive casualties. One of the offices that would have been destroyed was mine. If it had not been for the brilliant work on the part of the Bureau these evil men might have succeeded. The fact that these deluded maniacs were willing to attempt such a brazen act highlights the absolute necessity of giving as much support as possible to the gallant men and women who risk their lives daily so that we may live our lives in freedom.

“I am proud to be a cosponsor of the American Protection Act, which will greatly add to the weapons the Bureau, Homeland Security, the CIA, and other groups on the frontlines of the war on terror presently possess. Some people have carped about various provisions of this act. One complaint I find especially galling is that which has to do with the profiling, investigation, and possible internment of Arabs living in or visiting the United States, including citizens of Arab descent. Those who complain about these important provisions of the act have let political correctness blind them to reality. With few exceptions the perpetrators worldwide of acts of atrocity have been Arabs, and some of these Arabs, like the Army of the Holy Jihad, have been the homegrown variety. They have reaped the benefits of democracy and capitalism while spitting in the face of those who educated and protected them and gave them opportunities few other countries give to their citizens.

“Yes, a few may suffer unjustly if this act is passed, but if we are going to protect our citizens, sacrifices must be made in this age of suicide bombers and terrorists unfettered by the laws of common decency. Our wonderful justice system can be counted on to correct most of these injustices, but our great American political and judicial systems must be protected so they may continue to help the United States remain the greatest country on Earth.”

Senator Gaylord spoke about various sections of the bill for forty more minutes then held a press conference before walking back to the Russell Senate Office Building through one of the underground passages that connected the Capitol to her office. She could have taken the subway, whose small, open-top cars reminded her of a Disneyland ride, but Gaylord preferred to walk so she could have some quiet time. Some supplicant for some special interest took up almost every minute of her day, and her greatest gift to herself was her rare moments of solitude.

Gaylord knew that the American Protection Act had no chance of passing, but her defense of the act had solidified her support among the conservatives in her party. She was also certain that Christopher Farrington was going to condemn the bill, which would give her a chance to paint him as soft on terrorism. The president was so wishy-washy on so many issues that the label had a chance of sticking. Incumbent presidents were usually hard to defeat, but Farrington hadn’t won his position. She didn’t even think of him as a president. He was a political hack who was merely saving her place in the line of succession. Without the mantle of the presidency, Maureen knew that Farrington wouldn’t stand a chance against her, and she was convinced that she could strip away the cloak that was concealing his true worth from his shoulders and expose his inadequacy to the world. By the time Senator Gaylord walked through the door of her office she was feeling righteous and self-confident and ready to do whatever was necessary to pound Christopher Farrington into dog meat.

“Good speech,” Jack Bedford said from his seat on the couch. Her chief of staff was a former political science professor with degrees from Boise State and the Kennedy School at Harvard.

“I knew it would be. Any reaction yet from the press?”

“Fox loved it, and MSNBC vilified you. They brought up all that World War II stuff about interning the Japanese.”

“That’s to be expected.”

“But I’m not here to talk about your speech.”

“Oh?”

“Something happened that I thought you should know about.”

“And that is?” Gaylord asked disinterestedly as she took a brief look through the stack of documents on her desk that her AA had put in the priority pile.

“A girl named Charlotte Walsh, who worked at campaign headquarters, was murdered by the D.C. Ripper.”

Gaylord stopped what she was doing and looked up. “That’s horrible,” she said with genuine emotion. “We’ll send condolences to the parents and order flowers for the funeral. Nothing cheap.”

“Already done.”

Gaylord looked upset. “I hope the Ripper isn’t one of our staff or volunteers.”

“The FBI was questioning everyone at campaign headquarters but Reggie Styles has everything under control. If the Ripper is involved in your campaign there’s no evidence to show it. He’s probably some deranged, Caucasian loner who lives with his mother. That’s what the profilers always say.”

Gaylord grunted then she grew uncommonly quiet. Bedford sat patiently. His boss always got like this when she had an idea.

“Do you think we can use the presence of a successful serial killer in the D.C. area to paint Farrington as weak on the crime issue?”

“I’ve already written a line for you to use when you meet the press about Walsh’s death. ‘If Farrington can’t protect the people who live in his city how can he protect an entire nation?’ What do you think?”

Gaylord smiled. “I like it.”

Bedford grew serious. “There’s something else. Walsh may have been a spy for Farrington.”

“What!”

“As soon as we found out Walsh worked for you I sent someone to offer condolences and support to her roommate. It turns out that Walsh was a big Farrington supporter up until a week before she volunteered to work at our campaign headquarters. I mentioned this to Reggie. There’s a kid from Georgetown who’s volunteering. Seems he had dinner with Walsh the evening she died. He told Reggie she was pretty much alone in the office when she wasn’t scheduled to be there and she jumped when he found her making copies of an economic report. Then, a few minutes later, he caught her in Reggie’s office, and she jumped again. Reggie checked his office and nothing’s missing, but he had a list of our secret contributors in a locked drawer in his desk.”

“If Farrington planted a spy in our office we may be able to use that to our advantage.”

“My thinking exactly, but we have to tread carefully, especially now that she’s dead. We don’t want to be seen as throwing mud on the victim of a terrible crime.”

“Of course not. Why don’t you look around a little more and see if you can come up with some solid evidence that implicates Farrington’s people. Meanwhile, schedule a press conference for me. Maybe we can fly the parents in. That would be nice, don’t you think?”

Chapter Fourteen

“Where the hell have you been?” Perry demanded angrily when his secretary put Dana’s call through.

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’d better have a damn good explanation for your behavior. My client says you quit in the middle of your assignment after leaving some insane message about attacking someone in the woods.”

“It wasn’t my message that was crazy, Dale. It was the assignment. And, quite frankly, I don’t think your briefing was complete. You left out the part about the armed Secret Service agents and a few other tiny details.”

“What Secret Service agents?” Perry blurted out. Cutler thought he sounded genuinely confused, but lawyers were trained to lie.

“We’re going to meet tonight and have a long talk,” Cutler said.

“The fuck we are. What you’re going to do is bring the pictures you took and the cell phone I gave you to this office immediately.”

“And if I don’t, what are you going to do, sue me? I think Court TV will have a field day airing a trial that features a discussion of the goings-on at the president’s fuck pad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“President Christopher Farrington sent two men to kill me last night because I have pictures showing him in a bedroom with Charlotte Walsh shortly before she was supposedly killed by the D.C. Ripper. Guess what Mr. Family Values was doing in that bedroom with a girl who’s young enough to be his daughter?”

“Jesus Christ, Cutler, not on the phone.”

“It looks like I finally have your attention.”

“How soon can you get to my office?”

“Do you think I’m a total idiot? I’m not going anywhere near your office. Tonight, after the sun sets, you’re going to take a drive. Bring your cell phone. I’ll tell you where to meet me as soon as I’m certain you haven’t been followed. And don’t think I’m alone. I’ll have people watching you,” she lied, “and you’ll never know they’re there. If they spot a tail, the pictures go to the press. Understand?”

“Do not even think about making those pictures public.”

“That’s completely in your control, Dale. I want money for them. Either the president pays or CNN pays. I don’t care. I wasn’t planning on voting for Farrington anyway.”

For the meeting, Dana chose The 911, a bar in South-West D.C. that had two exits in addition to the front door. One was near the restroom and opened onto a side street, and the other was in the kitchen and opened onto a back alley. They would come in handy if she had to run. The bar was owned by Charlie Foster, a retired police sergeant she knew from the force. He’d put his life savings into it, and Dana had the impression he wasn’t making much of a return. The 911 was dark and smelled of stale beer and sweat and the noise level was high and threatening. Best of all, for Dana’s purposes, the customers were poor and black, and so was the neighborhood. If Farrington sent a Caucasian anywhere near The 911 he would stand out.

Meeting in a predominantly African-American neighborhood worked in Dana’s favor for another reason. In the legal community, Dale Perry’s reputation for viciousness rivaled that of Vlad the Impaler. Tales of Perry’s hardball tactics were tossed around at bar conventions the way baseball fans traded tales of no-hitters. Dana had heard the stories and knew she needed an edge. Meeting at The 911 gave it to her. Dale Perry didn’t like poor people and he feared blacks, whom he assumed all wanted to rob and kill him. Fear would keep Perry off balance during their negotiations.

Dana surveilled the area around The 911 for two hours before entering the tavern through the kitchen and mysteriously appearing on the seat across from the frazzled lawyer. She hadn’t told Perry the type of establishment she’d chosen for the meet and he was still wearing a dark blue business suit, a silk shirt, and a Herme`s tie, which made him as conspicuous in The 911 as someone dressed like Santa Claus.

“Enjoying the ambience, Dale?” she asked with a smirk.

“You’re lucky I’m still here,” Perry answered, trying to sound tough. It might have worked if it weren’t for the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the way his eyes shifted nervously as he spoke.

“Here’s the deal, Dale,” Dana said. “What you paid me to follow Charlotte Walsh was more than fair for a simple surveillance assignment, but it didn’t come close to compensating me for being hunted by armed Secret Service agents or being attacked by two men in my apartment who told me that they were going to rape me if I didn’t give them the pictures I took of Farrington and Charlotte Walsh. You know my history, so you know how that kind of threat would affect me.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that.”

“As far as I’m concerned you’re responsible for totally fucking up my life. I had to knock out a Secret Service agent when I was escaping from Farrington’s love nest. Then I had to shoot a man claiming to be a federal agent to keep from being raped. So, not only am I running for my life, I’m facing serious federal charges. If I get arrested I’m not going to protect my employer, Dale. I’m going to cut any deal I can and I’ll implicate anyone I have to in order to protect myself. Believe me, it’s in your best interests and the best interests of your buddy, Christopher Farrington, to buy me off and shut this thing down.”

“What do you want?”

“I want assurances that I am not being hunted and that I will never be charged or arrested for any possible crime growing out of this fiasco. Then I want a million dollars.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I lowballed the price, Dale. I could have asked for a lot more. But I figured a million is an amount your cronies can come up with quickly, and while it’s a lot of money to me it’s chump change for people in your circle. It’s also fair pay for what I’ve gone through and a hell of a lot less than Farrington will have to pay a PR firm for spin control if I sell these pictures.”

“Assuming I can come up with the money, how do you propose I call off a federal investigation?”

Dana shook her head in disgust. “Don’t yank my chain if you want the pictures. You’re on a first-name basis with every powerful politician in the administration, including the attorney general, and the president is his boss.”

“What assurance do I have that you won’t take the money and sell the pictures anyway?”

“Dale, my primary goal is not to get a million dollars; it’s to live to spend it. The president can have me killed anytime the spirit moves him. I want Farrington to have a reason to forget about me. I’m keeping an insurance set of photos that will go to the media if I die under mysterious circumstances, but I have every reason to keep them a deep, dark secret if everyone plays fair.”

Perry shook his head. “You are one crazy bitch, Cutler. I can’t believe you have the balls to blackmail the president.”

“It’s not a question of courage, Dale. I’m scared to death. Those photographs are the only thing keeping me alive, and I’m going to use them any way I can so I can keep breathing.”

Perry looked down at the table. When he raised his eyes he looked contrite.

“I’m sorry you’re in this mess, and I’m very sorry about what happened in your apartment, especially because of what you went through when you were a cop. I really had no idea you’d get in so much trouble when I asked you to take the job. I thought the assignment would be easy money for you.”

“Well it wasn’t.”

“I feel responsible for getting you into this fix and I’ll do my best to get you out of it. Let’s get out of here and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Dale.”

“Hey, I like you, Cutler. You’re tough, and you’ve always done good work. You’ll come out of this okay, trust me.”

It was the “trust me” that did it. Dana had almost bought Perry’s sudden change of heart until he said that. Something was going on, and Dana knew it wasn’t going to be good. While she smiled “trustingly” at Perry her eyes worked the room. No one seemed out of place so the people working with Perry had to be outside.

“Why don’t you give me a number where I can get in touch when I have news for you?” Perry said.

“It would be best if I called you.”

“That’s fine. Give me a day to work on the problem. I should know something soon.”

“Great, and thanks, Dale.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Perry said.

“I have to hit the powder room first. You don’t have to wait.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Dana watched Perry leave. She kicked herself for not frisking the lawyer. She bet he was wired and broadcasting their conversation. If so, there were probably men waiting for her to walk out of the door near the restroom, so Dana headed in that direction before ducking into the kitchen. The kitchen staff was comprised of two short order cooks, who gaped at her as she stripped off her jeans and T-shirt and pulled the change of clothes Charlie Foster had left her out of a plastic garbage bag. She slipped a hairnet over her hair and pulled on a pair of baggy pants and several sweatshirts that made her look dumpy and heavier than she’d ever been. An apron, glasses with plain glass for the lenses, and a.45 completed the ensemble. When she was dressed, Dana filled one garbage bag with refuse and another with her clothes before opening the back door wide enough to peek into the alley. No one was waiting in front of the door, but she saw a shadow at one end near the street. There was probably someone at the other end, too.

She yelled as loud as she could in Spanish that they were bastards for making her haul this shit out all the time. “I’m a chef, I ain’t no garbage man.”

Dana slammed open the lid of the Dumpster and tossed in one bag. Then she stomped down the alley, muttering to herself. When the man stepped out of the shadows to check her out she tightened her grip on her sidearm and looked at him.

“What cho want, pendajo?” she asked belligerently.

“Sorry,” the man said as he stepped back into the shadows.

Dana sucked in air and walked quickly along the escape route she had paced off hours before. As she walked she imagined eyes boring into her back and she waited for the sound of a shot, but the disguise had worked. In a few moments, she was astride the Harley and racing away from The 911.

Chapter Fifteen

Christopher Farrington had been in Iowa campaigning when the police identified Charlotte Walsh as the Ripper’s latest victim. He ordered Charles Hawkins to fly to his next campaign stop then rushed back to the hotel from the fund-raiser he was attending as soon as he was notified that his aide was waiting for him.

Farrington was seething when he entered his hotel suite. After telling everyone else to leave, he confronted his friend.

“CNN reports that Charlotte was the Ripper’s latest victim. That’s some coincidence.”

Hawkins shrugged. “You always were lucky, Chris.”

Farrington glared at Hawkins. “What is wrong with you? The D.C. Ripper? What were you thinking? That’s the most high-profile case in Washington since those snipers. We needed to stay under the radar and you’ve put us on national television.”

“We are under the radar. It’s the Ripper who’s on the hot seat. Who’s going to make a connection between a college sophomore and the president of the United States?”

“That fucking PI, that’s who. Have you a line on her yet?”

“No. She set up a meeting with Dale Perry and we put a wire on him, but she got away.”

“Damn it, Chuck, how did that happen? She’s a low-rent snooper. You’ve got special ops and the latest technology. Why didn’t you track her with a satellite?”

“We didn’t think we’d need to. We thought we had her trapped, but she’s very resourceful.”

“Why was she meeting with Dale?”

“She wants to sell the pictures for a million dollars and assurances that we’ll let her alone.”

“Then buy them.”

“It’s not that simple. She told Dale that she’s going to keep an insurance set in case we renege on our bargain.”

“Well we won’t.”

“Chris, if we pay her it will be in her best interest to sell another set to the media. We wouldn’t dare kill her once the pictures are public knowledge. You’d be the prime suspect if she dies, even if it’s from natural causes. There would be an uproar. Gaylord would claim you had the CIA take her out with some exotic, untraceable poison that mimics a heart attack. If we controlled Congress we could stop an investigation, but we don’t. Even if you’re eventually cleared, the investigation would last through the election and the bad publicity would kill you.”

“What are you going to do about Cutler?”

“Try to find her. Once we’ve got her I can assure you she’ll tell us anything we want to know.”

“Then find her and do it quickly. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Well, don’t. Everything is under control.”

“It doesn’t sound like it,” Farrington answered. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Hawkins hesitated.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“There may be a few problems I didn’t anticipate, but they’re nothing you should worry about.”

“What problems?”

“One of our people in Gaylord’s camp says that she’s going to use the Ripper murders against you by suggesting that you can’t be trusted to protect America if you can’t protect the people of the D.C. area against one murderer.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t have anything to do with finding the Ripper. That’s a local police matter.”

“The FBI does have a task force that’s running the investigation,” Hawkins corrected.

“Right, but I have nothing to do with that. You get Hutchins to set the record straight,” he ordered, referring to Clem Hutchins, his press secretary.

“We’re working on it.”

“Good. You said ‘problems,’ plural. What else has gone wrong?”

“My source also tells me that Gaylord’s people suspect that Walsh was our spy.”

“Can they prove it?” Farrington asked, concerned.

“I don’t think so. They can prove she volunteered for us before she switched sides, but they can’t prove she gave us copies of Gaylord’s secret contributor list.”

“If it ever gets out that we asked Charlotte to steal from Gaylord’s campaign headquarters I’d be ruined. It would be Watergate all over again.”

“You don’t have to worry, Chris. Even if Gaylord could prove that Walsh was our spy, she can’t use the information without making the list public knowledge. They’d be exposing their secret slush fund.”

“That’s right,” Farrington answered with a smile of relief. Then he grew pensive.

“How close is the FBI to catching the Ripper?”

“My sources in the Bureau tell me that they have no idea who he is.”

“That’s good. Maybe they’ll never catch him. That would be the best scenario for us.”

“I agree. But if he is caught he’ll probably take credit for killing Walsh just to up his body count. And, if he says he didn’t kill Walsh, who’ll believe him?”

Farrington sighed. “You’re right. Okay, concentrate on the PI. I want her found and neutralized. Do whatever it takes. Once she’s dealt with we should be home free.”

Farrington was suddenly lost in thought. When he spoke he looked sad.

“She was a good kid,” he said softly.

Hawkins wanted to tell his friend that he should have thought of the consequences of his actions before he decided to bang the young volunteer, but he held his tongue.

Chapter Sixteen

Keith Evans had no social life, so spending the weekend at work required no sacrifice. Six months ago, when his last girlfriend broke up with him, she told the agent that she’d come to believe that the only way she’d get to see him was by committing a federal crime. Evans did like football, but the Super Bowl had been played months ago, he wasn’t into basketball or baseball, and he’d never developed an interest in golf. When he started to feel sorry for himself he just plunged more deeply into his work. Keeping a lid on his personal problems got harder when his workload was low or, as now, when he was spinning his wheels.

This weekend Evans had reread every piece of paper in the Ripper cases, hoping for a new insight, and all he’d gotten was eyestrain. Now it was late Monday morning and he couldn’t think of a thing to do, since he’d exhausted his efforts on the case Saturday and Sunday. It seemed that his only hope was that the Ripper would screw up at some point, which was not unlikely.

Sociopaths or psychopaths or antisocial personalities (or whatever the current term was) were able to kill so easily because they had no empathy for their victims. Evans thought that this was because they had never been fully socialized like normal people. He believed that all children were sociopaths who thought only of themselves and their needs. Parents were supposed to teach their children to think about the effect of their actions on others. Serial killers never successfully completed the course, so they never developed a conscience. The reason that Evans was certain that the Ripper would make a fatal mistake was because most serial killers, like most little children, saw themselves as the center of the universe and believed they were infallible. If they did screw up they usually blamed their failures on others-the victim, their lawyer, or any person or institution that was convenient. The big problem with this theory was that serial killers frequently had above average intelligence, so the big mistake might take a while to manifest itself. Meanwhile, more women would die.

Just before noon, while finishing a deli sandwich, Evans picked up a report on the first Ripper murder and realized that he’d read it an hour before. He couldn’t think of another way to occupy his time so he stood up and headed for the coffeepot. He was halfway there when his phone rang.

“Evans,” he answered.

“I’ve got a Dr. Standish on two,” the receptionist said.

Evans punched the button and was greeted by Standish’s cheery voice.

“I’ve completed Charlotte Walsh’s autopsy and we should talk.”

Standish had insisted on meeting Evans at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from the coroner’s office. The agent found the medical examiner sitting in the back of the restaurant. Standish had chosen to eat there out of consideration for the sensibilities of the other patrons, whose meals would be ruined if they overheard the graphic anatomical descriptions that often accompanied any discussion of an autopsy report. While Standish took for granted the blood and gore in which he waded each day, he was aware that the vast majority of Americans did not. That point had been brought home during one of the first trials in which he’d testified, when a thirty-two-year-old appliance salesman on the jury had fainted during his description of a death by chain saw in the trial of a mean-spirited drug dealer.

“Hey, Art,” Evans said, sliding into the booth just as the waiter walked up to their table.

“Try the veal scaloppini,” the medical examiner suggested as he dug into his side dish of spaghetti in marinara sauce.

“I ate already,” he told Standish. “Just coffee, please,” he said to the waiter.

“So, what have you got for me?” Evans asked as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

“Some strange shit,” Standish replied when his mouth was empty.

“Oh?”

The medical examiner picked up a sheaf of papers that had been lying on the vinyl beside him and tossed it to Evans.

“First off, cause of death. The eyes were missing and there were many stab wounds identical to the type of wounds we’ve found in the other Ripper murders. The torso and genital area were a mess, and there were a large number of slashing wounds all around the neck. In fact, the whole neck was pretty hacked up.”

“That sounds like the other killings.”

“Right, except the other victims were mutilated before they died. Most of Walsh’s wounds were postmortem. I could tell that because I didn’t find the quantity of blood you’d expect when a person is stabbed and the heart is still beating.”

“So, what killed Walsh?”

“That’s interesting. When I took out the brain I found a wound that indicated to me that a sharp instrument had been thrust into the base of the back of the neck between the skull and the first cervical vertebra. This severed the spinal cord and caused instant death but hardly any bleeding.”

“So the stab wound to the spine killed Walsh, but the Ripper still went after her as if she was alive.”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“Maybe he was upset that the first thrust killed her and he inflicted the other damage in a rage.”

“That’s possible, too,” Standish agreed before shoveling some more veal into his mouth. Evans sipped some coffee and thought while he waited for the medical examiner to swallow.

“We’ve got some other anomalies,” Standish said, pointing his red-stained fork at the FBI agent. “I didn’t find evidence of forced intercourse as I found with the other victim I examined. The autopsies you sent me on the other women listed bruising around the genitals and other indications of rape, but there was no indication of this with Walsh.”

Evans spread his hands and shrugged. “He may not have been in the mood if she was dead.”

“True.”

“And the other anomalies?”

“You know the substance that’s been found in the victims’ mouths?”

“The one we can’t identify?”

“Right. You found it in every victim’s mouth, right?”

Evans nodded.

“Well, it wasn’t present in Walsh’s mouth.”

Evans frowned. “Are you suggesting that we’re dealing with a copycat?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just the sawbones. You’re the detective.”

“How similar to the wounds in the other cases are the wounds in this one?”

“Oh, the MO is almost identical except for the extensive damage to the neck.”

“Is it possible that the postmortem neck wounds were inflicted to draw attention away from the real cause of death?”

Standish shrugged. “Anything’s possible. I will say that creating that much carnage was effective. I wouldn’t have stumbled across the fatal wound if I hadn’t decided to remove the brain myself.”

Evans was quiet for a while, and Standish took the opportunity to finish off his lunch.

“If we have a copycat who is able to duplicate the MO so closely, he’d have to have seen the other bodies at the crime scenes, or crime scene and autopsy photos, or he’d have to have read the autopsy or crime scene reports,” Evans mused.

“I’d say so,” the doctor agreed. “Unless the newspapers gave a very detailed description of the injuries that each victim suffered.”

“No, there was nothing like that in the press or on TV. Tell me, Art, could the Ripper have killed Walsh by accident? That would support the idea that he mutilated her postmortem in a rage. You know, he’s all set to work on her then she has the audacity to die on him. That could have set him off.”

“As I said, anything is possible, but I don’t really see the killing being committed by mistake. It’s like a rapist who claims he slipped and his dick accidentally penetrated the victim. This was a pretty precise thrust.”

Evans scowled then shook his head. “Thanks for ruining my day.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I just work here.”

“As if I didn’t have enough to do, now I may have to find two killers.”

“You’ll solve the case, Keith. Remember, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these…Oh, wait, that’s the postmen. What do you boys do when it snows and rains?”

“We go after the bad guys. Some days, though, are easier than others.”