Executive Privilege

Washington, D.C.

Chapter Twenty

“There’s a call on two,” the receptionist told Keith Evans.

“Who is it?”

“He won’t give a name. He says he has information about the Charlotte Walsh case. He asked for you.”

That didn’t carry much weight with Evans, since he was on TV whenever the Bureau felt the need to hold a press conference about the case. He was tempted to shuffle the call to someone else but the investigation was stalled and you never knew.

“Evans here. To whom am I speaking?”

“I’m not going to give my name over the phone. All you need to know is that I’m a cop and I know something that may help you with the Walsh murder.”

“A cop? Look-”

“You look. I’m taking a chance here, so we do this my way. Walk over to the Mall. Go into it between the Indian museum and the Botanical Garden.”

Evans started to say something but the line was dead.

The Mall was mobbed with tourists and Evans never spotted his caller until a man wearing a lightweight jacket and tan slacks appeared at his side. He was medium height and stocky with the beginning of a beer belly. His face was flat and pockmarked and he’d compensated for his receding black hair by growing a bushy mustache.

“Officer…?” Evans started.

“Not until I get some assurances,” the man interrupted. “Then you get my name and what I know.”

“What kind of assurances?”

“That nothing happens to me if I tell you what I know.”

“Why do you need that kind of assurance?”

“It’s nothing really bad. I just bent the rules for someone and now I find out…Look, what I did was no big deal, but it could get me in trouble on the job so I want my ass protected.”

“I can’t make any promises if I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a hypothetical. Let’s say someone who wasn’t a cop called a cop and asked this cop to trace some license plates. How bad is that?”

“Not very.”

“So, what would you do for this hypothetical cop if he could give you information that might help you in a murder case?”

“I’d promise that the Bureau wouldn’t go to his boss and I’d list him as a confidential reliable informant in my reports so I wouldn’t have to use his name.”

“What if his boss found out what he’d done?”

“You understand I have no direct influence with the D.C. cops?”

The man nodded.

“The best I can promise is that I’d go to bat for him and I’d go as high up as I could in the Bureau for backing.”

“Okay, I can live with that.”

“Do you want to tell me your name?”

“It’s Victor Perez.”

“Thanks, Victor. So, tell me why we’re meeting.”

“There’s this ex-cop I know, Andy Zipay. He’s a PI now. We used to play poker once a month. One night, we were in a big pot and I did something stupid. I had this really good hand and I flipped an IOU into the pot I couldn’t cover. So I owed him the money but I didn’t have it.”

“What’s this got to do with Charlotte Walsh?”

“That’s what I’m about to tell you. This guy could have been a prick about the money, but he cut a deal with me instead. Every once in a while he needs information he can’t get, now that he’s private, so he calls me up and I work off the debt. The night Walsh was murdered I got a call from Zipay asking me to run some license plates. There were three of them.”

Perez handed a list with the numbers to Evans and waited while the agent scanned them.

“One is for a car registered to Charlotte Walsh,” the policeman said. “The next day it’s all over the news that Walsh was murdered by the Ripper. I wasn’t going to say anything at first. Then I started thinking, what if it’s important? So I called.”

“You did the right thing.”

Perez nodded.

“You said Zipay asked you to run three plates,” Evans said.

“Yeah, one car was registered to an electrical contracting company, but the other is used by the Secret Service.”

Evans frowned. “What does the Secret Service have to do with this?”

“That’s what I asked. Andy said he didn’t know, he was asking for someone else. He sounded surprised about the Secret Service. If I had to bet I’d say he didn’t know I was going to say the Secret Service used one of the cars. Then again I’m not that great a gambler.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Andy Zipay’s office was on the third floor of an older office building that had seen better days but was still a respectable address. Keith Evans guessed that he was doing all right but hadn’t struck it rich yet. The small waiting area was manned by a plump, pleasant-looking woman in her midforties who was typing away at a word processor when Evans walked in. He flashed his ID and asked to talk to her boss.

Two minutes later, Evans was seated across the desk from Zipay, a slender man a shade over six feet, whose dark suit contrasted sharply with pale skin that looked like it rarely saw the sun. A narrow mustache separated a hooked nose from a pair of thin lips, and there was a touch of gray in his black hair. The austere suit and the mustache made Zipay look a little like the private dicks in black-and-white movies from the 1940s.

“How can I help you, Agent Evans?”

“I’m in charge of the D.C. Ripper case and you can help me by telling me why you’re interested in a car belonging to Charlotte Walsh-his latest victim-and another car that’s the property of the United States Secret Service.”

Zipay steepled his hands in front of his chin and studied the FBI agent for a moment before answering.

“If I were interested in that information it would probably be on behalf of a client. If that client was an attorney who was acting on behalf of a client I would be an agent of that attorney and prevented by the attorney-client privilege from discussing the matter.”

Evans smiled. “Andy, you may be an agent of an attorney but I checked with some friends on the D.C. police force before coming over, and they say you’re also an ex-cop on the take who was lucky to avoid some real unpleasantness. These people would be ready, willing, and able to bust your balls if they found out how you learned the Secret Service and Miss Walsh owned those cars. So don’t go all legal on me and I won’t go all legal on you.”

Zipay flushed but he held his temper. “I didn’t know it was standard procedure for FBI agents to insult people when they want their cooperation.”

“I wasn’t being insulting. I was stating facts. Now I have no interest in busting your balls. All I want is information. If I get it I’ll probably forget the source unless you turn out to be an essential witness in the Ripper murders.”

Zipay mulled over the agent’s proposition. Evans could see that the PI was upset, which surprised him. Finally, Zipay took a deep breath. He looked very uncomfortable.

“Okay, I’ll help, but I don’t know much and the person who does…I don’t want her hassled. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why is that?’

“She was a cop and she’s gone through some really bad times. She was in a mental hospital for a year.”

“What happened?”

“Nobody I’ve talked to knows the whole story. I was off the force by then so I don’t have a lot of the details-and I’ve never asked her for them-but what I know is pretty awful. She was undercover and she got friendly with a meth cook. These were bikers. Very violent guys, but she worked her way in. They had a secret lab. No one could figure out where they were cooking. She was going to lead the cops to the lab when the bikers got on to her.” Zipay looked down. He shook his head. “They had her for three days before they found her.”

Zipay looked up and straight into Evans’s eyes. “You know I left the cops because I got into trouble. Almost everybody turned their back on me, but she didn’t. When I went private she fed me jobs, helped me out when she could. She has some kind of pension but it’s not much. Whenever I can I return the favor by hiring her to do odd jobs. This deal with the licenses was one of them.”

“Why did she want to know the registered owner?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. She said I should forget about the conversation. I will say that she sounded surprised about the Secret Service. I don’t think she was expecting me to say that one of the cars was registered to them.”

Maggie Sparks rapped her knuckles on the door to Dana Cutler’s apartment. When no one answered she knocked again, louder.

“Miss Cutler, this is the FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”

“What now?” Sparks asked Evans after they’d waited long enough for a response. He was about to answer when the door across the hall opened a crack.

“Are you really the FBI?” a woman asked in an accent that placed her origins somewhere in Eastern Europe.

“Yes, ma’am,” Evans replied.

“Show me some identification.”

Sparks and Evans held up their ID in the narrow space where a chain spread between the door and the jamb. A second later, the chain was detached and the agents found themselves face to face with an elderly woman in a pink house dress.

“She’s not in,” the woman said. “She hasn’t been there since the commotion.”

“What commotion?” Evans asked.

“It was a few nights ago. I called the police as soon as I heard the gunshot.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Mrs…?”

“Miss, young man. Miss Alma Goetz.”

“Miss Goetz, please tell us what happened.”

“These walls are paper thin. When I heard the shot I opened my door a crack to see what was happening. There wasn’t anyone in the hall and the shot sounded close by. That’s when I called 911. Then I heard her slam the door across the hall open.”

“Her?” Evans asked.

“Dana Cutler, the woman from across the hall.”

“How do you know it was Miss Cutler?” Evans asked.

“I saw her running toward the stairs.”

“Did the police come?” Sparks asked.

“Yes, there were two of them, but they were very rude.”

“Oh?” Evans said.

“You’d think they would be polite, since I risked my life to make the call. I could have been shot, you know?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sparks said. “What you did was very brave.”

“I’m glad you think so because the police officer was very short with me. He told me to go inside and he didn’t even ask me any questions.”

“He didn’t take a report?” Evans asked, surprised.

“When I tried to talk to him he said that everything was under control and he ordered me to shut my door. He said this was police business and I could get arrested for obstruction of justice if I continued to ‘butt in.’ Those were his exact words, ‘butt in.’”

“So you didn’t see or hear anything else?” Evans asked.

“Oh, no, I heard plenty. Like I told you, these walls are very thin.”

“What did you hear?” Sparks asked.

“I heard screams before Miss Cutler ran out. That was after the shot.”

“Go ahead,” Evans urged.

“The police went into the apartment. They had their guns out. A man yelled out, ‘Don’t shoot, we’re federal agents.’ Then the policemen went inside and shut the door.”

“Did you see anything else?”

“I certainly did. About fifteen minutes after the policemen came, two men left the apartment. One of the men was supporting the other man. He looked like he was in pain. Ten minutes later, the police left. Fifteen minutes after that three other men went into the apartment.”

“Were they with the police?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t have uniforms.”

“How long were these men in the apartment?”

“An hour or so. When they left they were carrying black trash bags.”

“Did Miss Cutler ever come back to her apartment after the excitement died down?” Sparks asked.

“I never heard anyone go in or out, but I guess she could have come back while I was sleeping or out shopping.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Goetz. You’ve been a big help.” Evans handed her his card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

“I will. And you’re much nicer than those policemen.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I guess they teach you manners in the FBI.”

“Can you tell me where the super lives? We’d like to get inside Miss Cutler’s apartment.”

Miss Goetz gave them the apartment number and Sparks talked with Cutler’s neighbor while Evans went downstairs. He returned ten minutes later with the key.

Cutler’s bedroom was so messy it was hard to tell if it had been searched or not, and the tiny living room had the same lived-in feel, but someone had scrubbed down every surface in the hall and the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Evans asked.

“If you believe Miss Goetz, Cutler shot someone who may be a federal agent.”

“There’s no evidence anyone was shot.”

“There’s plenty of evidence that someone cleaned up. Just compare the hall and kitchen to the bedroom and living room. And you said that your informant ran plates that belonged to the Secret Service. If we’re talking about people in this town with enough clout to shut down a police investigation they’d be near the top of my list.”

“We don’t know that the investigation was shut down. There may be a police report, 911 tapes, medical records. We should check. This could just be a domestic dispute. Maybe Cutler was dating someone who works for a federal agency and she went off.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Sparks asked

“Not really.”

“What do we know? We’ve got a PI who writes down some license numbers. Why would she do that?”

“She’s on a case; we’re talking about car licenses, so she’s tailing someone,” Evans answered.

“Charlotte Walsh?”

“That’s my guess. She asked my informant to run Walsh’s plate and she was surprised when he told her that another plate was registered to the Secret Service. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was tailing a Secret Service agent.”

“So, somewhere, Walsh crosses paths with the Secret Service,” Sparks said.

Evans walked to the door to the bedroom and looked it over again.

“They were searching the apartment. Cutler came back and caught them,” he said.

“She shoots a federal agent then runs,” Sparks said. “Either she shot him thinking she’d surprised an intruder or she shot in self-defense.”

“She’s an ex-cop. If she found a burglar she’d hold him for the police whether she shot him or not.”

“She shot a person she thought was a burglar, learned she’d shot a Fed, and ran because she was scared,” Sparks said.

“What if it was self-defense? What if they were searching for something they thought Cutler had? She comes home and they try to force her to tell where it is and somehow she gets the drop on them.”

“What were they looking for?”

“If the intruders were Secret Service, it has to be something that connects Walsh to…Jesus, Maggie, Walsh worked for Farrington’s campaign, and the Secret Service guards the president.”

“PIs take pictures of people they’re following,” Sparks said.

Evans was quiet for a moment. “If Cutler was hiding pictures in this place they’d have found them. It’s too small.”

“Unless Cutler interrupted the search before they got them.”

“Or Cutler has them someplace else.”

Evans’s cell phone rang and he snapped it open. While he was talking, Sparks looked around more carefully than she had the first time they’d gone through the apartment. She noticed that all of the trash baskets had been emptied and there were no scraps of paper with writing on them anywhere in sight. She pulled open the drawers of a desk in the living room and found them empty. And she didn’t see a computer. Whoever had gone through the apartment after the police left had been very thorough.

“I had someone run Cutler’s phone records for her cell and home phones,” Evans said when he finished the call. “Fredricks looked them over and came up with something interesting. Does the name Dale Perry ring a bell?”

Sparks thought for a moment before shaking her head.

“He’s an attorney with a lot of political contacts, including several in the White House.”

“There’s the Secret Service connection again,” Sparks said.

“Cutler’s called him a few times this year and twice the week before Walsh was murdered. Some of the calls were to Perry’s private line at his office or his cell phone.”

“Why would a small-time PI be calling a big shot lawyer with ties to the White House?”

“Let’s ask him.”

“One other interesting thing,” Evans said. “I asked Fredricks to get me Cutler’s file from the cops.”

“What’s it say?”

“That’s what I’d like to know; it’s classified.”

“I bet this place is bigger than my apartment,” Maggie Sparks said as she looked around the reception area of Kendall, Barrett and Van Kirk.

“I bet they pay more rent than you do, too,” Evans said.

“I bet I could retire on what they pay in rent for a year.”

Their ruminations on the reception area of Dale Perry’s law firm ended abruptly when a stunning blonde with a deep tan walked into reception dressed in a fire-engine red dress and sporting a lot of gold jewelry.

“Agents Sparks and Evans?” she asked, flashing a radiant smile that would have lit up the room in a blackout.

“I’m Keith Evans, and this is Margaret Sparks.”

“I’m Irene Miles, Mr. Perry’s personal secretary.”

I’ll bet you are, Maggie Sparks thought. Out loud she said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Miles. We’d like to speak with Mr. Perry.”

“He’s waiting for you,” Miles said. “Would you like some coffee or tea? I can also bring you a caffe latte or a cappuccino.”

The agents passed on the refreshments then followed Miles down a carpeted hallway where they found Dale Perry waiting in a large corner office decorated tastefully with antiques. Before leaving, Miles motioned the agents to a place on a couch under an exquisite oil painting of a French country village that looked a lot like a Cezanne Evans had seen in the National Gallery. The window behind Perry’s desk had a view of the White House. Evans wondered if Perry and the president flashed coded messages back and forth when the lawyer was lobbying for one of his clients.

“Thanks for taking the time to see us, Mr. Perry.”

The lawyer smiled. “When the receptionist told me who was in the waiting room I got curious. It’s not every day I get a visit from the FBI.”

Evans smiled back. “Let me put you at ease. We’re not here to arrest you. Your name popped up in an investigation, and we’re hoping you can help us.”

“I will if I’m able.”

“Thanks. Do you know a woman named Dana Cutler?” Evans asked.

Perry’s smile stayed on his lips but he shifted in his seat. “She’s a private investigator.”

“Does she work for your firm?”

“She’s not employed by Kendall, Barrett, but I have contracted with her on occasion when I needed help on a project.”

“Has she worked for any of the other partners?”

“I don’t know.”

Perry definitely looked uncomfortable.

“Doesn’t Kendall, Barrett have in-house investigators?” Maggie asked.

“We do.”

“Then why would you need Miss Cutler?”

Perry wasn’t smiling anymore. “If I answered that question I would have to violate the confidences of my clients. That would be unethical.”

“I can understand your concern,” Evans said, “but we’re worried about Miss Cutler. Her name came up in connection with a murder investigation. We tried to interview her, but she’s missing. We’re concerned for her safety.”

“Who was murdered?”

“A young woman named Charlotte Walsh. We have reason to believe that Miss Cutler was following her. Was she tailing Miss Walsh on your instructions?”

“I just explained that I can’t discuss the firm’s business.”

“Then she was working for the firm on this case?”

Perry looked annoyed. “I didn’t say that. I am forbidden by the rules of conduct that govern my profession to either confirm or deny any involvement Miss Cutler may or may not have had with this Walsh individual.”

“Would you be willing to tell me the last time you spoke to Miss Cutler?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to help us find her? She may be in danger.”

“I’ll help any way I can as long as it doesn’t involve discussing the business of Kendall, Barrett. In my opinion, your inquiry is doing just that.”

Evans frowned. “How can the business of your firm possibly be affected by you telling me the last time you spoke to Dana Cutler?”

“Are you aware that I am a personal friend of the attorney general and the director of the FBI?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“I feel your questions are verging on harassment. I’ve taken time from my day to talk to you, but I am very busy and this interview is terminated.”

Evans stared directly at Perry for a moment. Then he stood up.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to provide more assistance.”

Evans smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. I thought this meeting was very informative.”

Perry must have pressed a button under his desk because Irene Miles opened the door and held it in a way that suggested she expected them to leave. Sparks and Evans didn’t say a word until they were standing at the elevator bank.

“I think we just got the bum’s rush,” Maggie said.

“That we did, but Perry told us more than he wanted to.”

“He’s worried about something.”

“That’s for certain, and it concerns Charlotte Walsh.”

Evans was about to follow up on his thought when his cell phone rang. He looked at the readout.

“We’ve got to go back to headquarters,” he said as soon as he broke the connection. “That was Kyle. They’ve figured out how to find the Ripper.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Half an hour after leaving Dale Perry’s law office, Keith Evans walked into the conference room that had been assigned to the Ripper Task Force. The energy in the room would have run the lights in the city for a year. Everyone was in motion, talking excitedly on their phones, pacing with purpose, or energetically punching computer keys.

“What’s up, people?” Evans asked, and everyone started talking at once about polyvinyl siloxane, also known as PVS, the substance that had been found in the mouths of every Ripper victim with the exception of Charlotte Walsh.

“It’s the impression material a dentist uses when he’s going to have a crown or a bridge made for a patient,” explained Kyle Hernandez, a former soccer star at UCLA with a chemistry degree. “It’s soft when the dentist places it over a patient’s teeth. After it sets it’s removed from the mouth, and die stone, which is like a very hard plaster, is poured into the impression. Then the PVS, which is very elastic, is lifted off. The die stone model is scanned using a computer, and a robot mills the crown from porcelain or a technician makes a bridge or crown using a lost wax technique. We think we found minute traces of PVS in the victims’ mouths because someone used it for a model. When the PVS was removed from the mouth small traces remained.”

“How does this help us find the Ripper?” Evans asked.

“Dentists work closely with the technician who’s going to use the model. Sometimes they have the tech come to their office while the patient is there. Sometimes they’ll send a full-face photograph to the tech.”

“Do these technicians have access to personal information about the patient like an address or phone number?”

Hernandez grinned and nodded. “They could. Say they’re standing next to the dentist while they’re examining the patient and the patient’s file is sitting on a table. All the tech would have to do is take a peek. Or it could be something as simple as the dentist introducing the patient to the technician.”

Now Evans was as excited as everyone else. “Did all of the victims have dental appointments shortly before they were killed?”

“Bingo!” Hernandez answered as his grin widened. “But they all went to different dentists…”

“…who used the same lab,” Evans said, finishing the agent’s sentence with a flourish.

“Sally Braman is at the lab now talking with the owner, and Bob Conaway from the U.S. attorney’s office is ready to draft a search warrant application as soon as we give him an affidavit laying out probable cause.”

Evans smiled. “Good work people. Let’s hope this is the end of the line.”

“He’s two blocks away in a tan Toyota van, turning onto King Road…now,” the agent tailing Eric Loomis’s van reported.

Evans, Sparks, and two other agents were across the street from Loomis’s house in an unmarked car. A SWAT team was hiding behind Loomis’s detached garage and would seize him as soon as Evans told them Loomis was out of the van. He tried to calm down, but he felt like he’d been injected with methamphetamine. His hands were shaking, his palms were damp, and the way his heart was racing he was certain he’d flunk his yearly physical. He shut his eyes and pictured a clear mountain lake surrounded by green meadows and domed by a blue sky dotted with white, puffy clouds. The meditation technique failed miserably as soon as the agent tailing Loomis announced that the lab technician was turning onto Humboldt Street and would be pulling into his driveway momentarily.

Loomis’s house was a Dutch Colonial that had been built on a quarter-acre lot. There were two floors above ground and a basement, which was entered from a mudroom on the side of the house opposite the garage. A narrow alley separated the garage from the house. Doors on the side of the garage and the house opened into the alley. This meant that Loomis could park in the garage and carry his victims into the basement with little risk that he would be seen.

The van slowed down as it approached the house. Loomis used a remote to raise the garage door, and moments later he was inside.

“Now,” Evans said the moment Loomis shut the van’s door behind him. Four agents in SWAT black rushed inside the garage, and the tailing car swung in front of the van to block an escape attempt.

“FBI, FBI!” Evans heard the SWAT team shout as he sprinted across the street. The men who’d come through the front of the garage trapped Loomis against the van just as the side door to the garage jerked open. Evans lost sight of Loomis as more agents surrounded him. By the time he entered the garage Loomis was flattened against the side of the van and his hands were cuffed behind him.

The SWAT members parted leaving him face to face with his prisoner. Evans had checked for a criminal record and found two traffic tickets. Loomis’s record was as unexciting as his appearance. If he had to use one word to describe the prisoner it would be “soft.” The lab technician was five ten and flabby. His hair looked limp, and he wore thick glasses with a black plastic frame. An unimpressive mustache graced his upper lip and a scraggy goatee hid a weak chin.

“Eric Loomis?” Evans asked.

Loomis looked dazed. “What…what is this?” he stuttered.

“Are you Eric Loomis?” Evans repeated.

“Yes, but…”

“Mr. Loomis, I have a search warrant for your home. With your permission, one of my men will use your keys to open your door.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you don’t help us by letting us use your keys and telling us the combination for your alarm, we’ll have to break, in and that could cause damage to your door.”

“Wait a second. What’s going on? Why do you want to search my house?” Loomis asked, his voice rising.

“Will you give us permission to use your keys?”

Loomis was sweating and looked panicky. His head jerked around. Everywhere were men in black with menacing countenances.

“I don’t know,” he managed.

“Very well, Mr. Loomis, since you’re unwilling to cooperate I’ll have one of my men break the window in your side door.”

“Wait, don’t. The keys are in my pocket. Don’t break anything.”

Evans nodded, and Maggie Sparks stepped forward. When Loomis saw that an attractive woman was going to search him, he flushed and looked even more anxious. When Sparks fished in his pocket for his set of keys Loomis grew rigid.

“The combination, please,” Evans commanded.

Sparks opened the door and shut off the alarm, and Loomis was herded into the living room and placed in an armchair. The prisoner was docile, head down, eyes on the floor. Evans left two agents with him then organized a search of the house. As soon as the search teams dispersed, Evans and Sparks headed for the basement. The first thing that hit them when they opened the door was the smell of rotting meat. Evans slipped on a surgical mask, Tyvek booties, and latex gloves. Then he turned on the light at the top of the stairs and walked down cautiously with his weapon drawn. Everyone assumed that the Ripper was a loner, but you never knew.

The first thing Evans noticed was the soundproofing. Loomis had made sure that the neighbors would not hear his victims scream. The next thing he noticed was the shelf against the wall. Arrayed across it were four glass jars. In each jar was a model of a set of teeth. Evans froze on the stairs when he saw the teeth and so did Sparks. In the silence they heard labored breathing.

The basement had the feel of an operating room. Bloodstains covered the floor, and a table covered with surgical tools stood to one side. But it wasn’t these implements that drew the eye, nor was it the two large dog cages that stood against one of the walls. What stunned Evans and Sparks was the dental chair that was positioned in the center of the room and the naked, gagged woman who was manacled to it.

Jessica Vasquez was hungry and dehydrated but she appeared to be unharmed with the exception of some bruises she’d received when Loomis kidnapped her from a mall parking lot several days earlier. Evans and Sparks talked to Vasquez while they waited for the ambulance to take her to the hospital. She told them that Loomis had kept her in one of the dog cages without food or water for two days and never spoke to her during her ordeal. One evening, he’d drugged her and taken impressions of her teeth before returning her to the cage. This morning, he had manacled her to the chair and fitted her with a leather S &M mask with a ball gag before he went to the lab.

“I know I should feel elated, but I just feel sick and exhausted,” Evans told Maggie as they watched the ambulance carrying Vasquez disappear around the corner.

“Hey, get a grip. We saved Jessica Vasquez’s life and captured a truly evil man. You should feel proud of what we accomplished.”

“But I don’t. I just feel sad because of what those other poor souls went through.”

Sparks laid a hand on his forearm. “You’ll never save everybody, Keith. Think of all the women who are going to be safe because Loomis will be behind bars.”

“Good point, but I still feel sick about what we saw in that basement.”

“You can take a shower tonight. And I’ll buy you a drink or two after we interrogate Loomis.”

“I don’t know, Maggie…”

“Well I do. You’re too damn maudlin for someone whose team just cracked one of the biggest serial cases in D.C. history.”

“Agent Evans.”

Evans turned to find one of the lab techs approaching. He was holding a jar like those that had been found in the basement. In it was another model of a set of teeth.

“We found this. Ted Balske thought you’d like to know.”

“Where was it?”

“Hidden in the rear of Loomis’s van under a blanket.”

Evans and Sparks took a close look at the model.

“How many of these models do we have now?” Evans asked the forensic expert.

“There were four in the basement. This makes five.”

“Thanks.”

The forensic expert left to log in the model, and Evans frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Sparks asked.

“Loomis made models of the teeth of his victims for trophies.”

“Right. That’s where the PVS comes in.”

“There should be six sets of teeth, but there are only five.”

“You’re right,” Sparks said. She looked as troubled as did Evans.

“The medical examiner didn’t find any PVS in Walsh’s mouth,” Evans said. “What if none of the false teeth match Walsh?”

“What are you getting at?” Sparks asked, afraid she knew what Keith was going to say.

“We could have a copycat murder. Someone who killed Walsh then faked the Ripper’s MO. Think about it. We just figured out what the substance in the victim’s mouths is, so Walsh’s killer wouldn’t know how to fake that part of Loomis’s MO. And there’s no way he could plant a set of false teeth in Loomis’s basement because we just figured out that he’s the Ripper. We have to find out if the dental work matches every victim except Walsh.”

“The MO for Walsh’s murder was almost identical to the MO Loomis used when he killed the other victims, including evidence we held back from the press and the public,” Sparks said. “The copycat would have to have access to the case file.”

“A federal agency would have access,” Evans said, “and some federal agencies employ people who can sanitize the scene of a shooting.”

“You’re talking about Cutler’s apartment.”

Evans nodded.

“You’re beginning to sound like a Web site for conspiracy nuts.”

“I am, but sometimes there really are conspiracies. While I’m talking to Eric Loomis, why don’t you see if you can find a police report detailing what happened at Cutler’s apartment?”

Chapter Twenty-three

There was nothing friendly about the surroundings in which Eric Loomis found himself. The dull brown walls were stained, the fluorescent lighting flickered at odd moments, and the bridge chair on which he sat was cold and hard. Keith Evans wanted badly to break Loomis but he waited patiently, observing the prisoner for forty-five minutes through a two-way mirror before going into the interrogation room. The lab technician’s legs were secured to a bolt in the floor limiting his range of motion. He sat quietly at first before shifting his position more and more frequently, failing in his attempts to get comfortable and growing more agitated as the seconds ticked away.

When Evans finally entered the room the manacled prisoner looked up. The FBI agent sat on a comfortable chair on the other side of a scarred wooden table and worked hard to mask his distaste. Loomis wore an orange jail-issue jumpsuit, which was intentionally a size too small and cut into the rolls of fat at his waist and thighs. His limp, uncombed hair was oily, there were pimples on his forehead, cheeks, and chin, and the prisoner exuded an odor that reminded Evans of stale cheese. The agent wondered if his reaction to Loomis would still have been revulsion if he was meeting him for the first time under different circumstances and didn’t know what the lab technician had done in the basement of his house.

“Good evening, Mr. Loomis.”

Loomis didn’t answer.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Evans asked as he placed a tape recorder on the table between them.

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Well you should. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“We’ll see,” Loomis answered with an enigmatic smile.

“Before we talk, I’m going to give you the Miranda warnings. You probably think you know them from television or the movies but you should listen carefully anyway.”

Loomis folded his arms across his chest and looked away while Evans recited the warnings.

“Do you understand your rights, Mr. Loomis?” Evans asked when he finished.

“Do I look stupid? Of course I understand them. I have a degree in chemistry.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re stupid, Mr. Loomis. I’m required to ask everyone I question if they understand their rights. Not everyone has an IQ as high as yours.”

Loomis raised his head slowly until he was staring into Evans’s eyes. Then he smirked.

“What number interrogation technique is that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“‘Flatter the prisoner and gain his confidence. Make him feel that you’re on his side,’” Loomis said in a mock instructor’s voice.

Evans laughed. “That actually was a heartfelt statement. You are smart and you had us going. If you hadn’t made one small mistake we might never have caught you.”

Loomis looked down. Evans knew the prisoner was dying to know how he’d been tripped up, but he was smart enough not to take the bait.

“Before we go any further, I need to know if you want to be represented by a lawyer.”

Evans wanted to continue questioning Loomis, but Loomis’s answers would be inadmissible in court if he didn’t waive his right to counsel.

“I plan on representing myself, Agent Evans.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? Virginia and Maryland have the death penalty. What you did will qualify you for it.”

Loomis smiled. “Another clever interrogation technique. If I say anything suggesting that I know I qualify for the death penalty you can use my words as an admission.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I just want you to understand the seriousness of your situation. Trying a death penalty case is a specialty. The government will provide you with a lawyer experienced in capital cases if you can’t afford an attorney. Even someone as intelligent as you would have trouble learning everything you’d need to know if you decide to represent yourself.”

Loomis smirked again. “I’ll take my chances.”

“If you’re sure you don’t want a lawyer?” Evans repeated so there wouldn’t be any questions later if Loomis challenged his interrogation.

“Okay,” Evans said when Loomis didn’t answer, “Mr. Loomis has waived his right to an attorney and is choosing to represent himself. So, Eric…Can I call you Eric?”

“Sure, Keith,” Loomis answered sarcastically.

Evans laughed. “You’re okay. Not many people in your position can keep their sense of humor. What I can’t figure out is why someone with a chemistry degree and a good job would kidnap and kill those women.”

Loomis smiled again and shook his head. “You aren’t very good at this, Keith. From your question I take it that I’m supposed to believe that an FBI agent working the biggest serial murder case in the history of the D.C. area has not been schooled by the VICAP experts at Quantico in the psychological profile of the serial killer he’s hunting. Try again.”

“Okay, Eric. Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

Evans shrugged. “Let’s start with Jessica Vasquez. Why did you kidnap her?”

“I didn’t.”

Evans looked perplexed. “You’re saying she somehow found her way into your basement then decided to strip off her clothes, put on an S &M mask and strap herself to a dentist chair? That’s pretty weird behavior.”

“I have no idea how that woman ended up in my basement. But I suspect the FBI may have had something to do with planting her there along with the other so-called evidence you claim to have found.”

Now it was Evans’s turn to smile. “So you’re the victim of a government conspiracy?”

“That’s one possible explanation.”

Evans asked the question he’d been waiting to drop into the conversation.

“Do you think the FBI was so anxious to make an arrest that we murdered Charlotte Walsh and dropped her in a Dumpster, or did the real D.C. Ripper do that?”

Loomis sprang upright and strained against the chain that manacled his legs to the floor.

“I did not kill that bitch. That is totally bogus. That is a complete frame-up.”

“That’s hard to believe, seeing as how the MO in Charlotte Walsh’s case is identical to the other Ripper murders.”

“Not if the FBI committed the murder to frame me. You’d know how to duplicate the Ripper’s MO. You think you’re clever but I’m a lot smarter than you and I’ll-”

Loomis stopped. He seemed to realize that he’d lost control. Rage showed on his face for a moment more. Then he slumped down on his chair and stared at the tabletop. Evans tried to continue the conversation, but Loomis refused to speak from that point on.

Maggie Sparks found D.C. police officer Peter Brassos and his partner, Jermaine Collins, sitting at a table in Starbucks, where she’d had their supervisor tell them to meet her. Brassos was thick and heavy muscled and Sparks pegged him for a gym rat. Collins was a lanky, light-skinned African-American. There were no coffee cups on the table and neither man looked pleased to see her.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Sparks said after flashing her credentials. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“What’s this about?” Brassos demanded curtly, ignoring her offer.

“I’m working on the D.C. Ripper task force.”

“I heard you got him,” Collins said.

“We think we have, but there are always loose ends to tie up.”

Brassos looked confused. “We haven’t had anything to do with the Ripper murders.”

Sparks nodded. “This is probably a wild goose chase, and I know you’re anxious to get back to work, so let me get to the point. A few nights ago, you two responded to a 911 call about a shooting at an apartment house on Wisconsin Avenue.”

Both men stiffened as soon as she mentioned the address.

“What about it?” Brassos asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Maggie took out a copy of the police report Brassos had written after the incident. She pretended to check something in it.

“You talked to an Alma Goetz?”

Brassos forced a laugh. “The crazy neighbor. Yeah, I talked to her.”

“You think she’s crazy?” Maggie asked.

“Not crazy but a real busybody, a snoop. Lives alone, wants attention, that type. We run into them from time to time.”

“She said she heard a shot from the apartment of Dana Cutler, the neighbor across the hall.”

Collins’s brow furrowed. “Pardon me, Agent Sparks, but what does this have to do with the Ripper case?”

Sparks flashed a friendly smile. “Cutler’s name came up during the investigation. So, what about the shot?”

“There wasn’t one,” Brassos said. “We went across the hall. The door was unlocked. We knocked. No one answered, so we went in to see if there was an injured person inside. There wasn’t.”

“You looked through the apartment?”

“Yeah, the whole place.”

“Did you see anything that struck you as odd?”

“Nah, it was just an apartment.”

“Why do you think Ms. Goetz was so certain she heard a shot?”

“It was the door,” Brassos said. “She told me she was inside her apartment and heard the so-called shot through the walls. I told you the door to Cutler’s apartment was unlocked. I think Goetz heard the door slam. She’s pretty old. Her hearing probably isn’t great.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s one explanation. I talked to her, and she said she heard someone inside the apartment tell you not to shoot because he was a federal agent.”

Brassos threw his head back and laughed. Maggie thought the laugh sounded forced.

“I told you, the apartment was empty. Goetz is dingy.”

“Yeah, she struck us as unreliable, but what about the wounded man? Where did he come from?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss Goetz saw a man being helped out of the apartment by a second man.”

“I told you, there wasn’t anyone in the apartment,” Brassos said.

“Was someone else in the apartment house hurt at the same time?”

“You know, I’m talking to you as a courtesy,” Brassos said. “This sounds like an interrogation to me.” He stood up. “If you got a beef with us about our report, file it. I got work to do. Come on, Jerry.”

Collins stood, too. Sparks did nothing to stop them. If it became necessary, she could always subpoena the officers.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she apologized as she got to her feet.

“I don’t think you are,” Brassos said, and the officers walked out.

While he’d been interrogating Eric Loomis, Evans was so focused that he forgot he was exhausted, but his fatigue flooded over him as soon as he was done questioning the serial murderer. Evans had turned off his cell phone during the interrogation so he wouldn’t be distracted. When he checked for messages he found one from Maggie Sparks asking him to call as soon as he was able. Evans arranged to meet her at a bar near Dupont Circle and he was washing down the bite he’d taken out of his cheeseburger when Maggie walked in. She scanned the bar and smiled when she saw Keith’s upraised hand.

“How did the interrogation go?” she asked as she slid into the booth opposite Evans.

“Not well, but we don’t need a confession with all the evidence we have. He’s representing himself, by the way. Loomis thinks he’s going to outsmart us.”

“Sounds like he’s a true megalomaniac.”

“A classic case.”

“That should make things easier for the prosecution. Did he offer any explanation for the presence of a naked woman in his basement and all those false teeth?”

“Of course. We planted them to frame him.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

Sparks signaled the waiter and ordered her own beer and burger.

“What did he say when you brought up Walsh?” she asked when the waiter left.

“That’s interesting. He was very calm, very superior, during the questioning, like it amused him. He played mind games with me as soon as I started. But he went ballistic when I mentioned Walsh.”

“What’s your impression?”

“I don’t think he killed her.”

“Whether he did or not, something is going on. I asked for the police reports for the Cutler incident. There is one. Officer Peter Brassos wrote it. He says he and his partner, Jermaine Collins, went to the apartment in response to a 911 report of shots fired. There’s an account of an interview with Miss Goetz that jibes with her version of what happened, but Brassos wrote that he didn’t find any evidence of a shooting in the apartment and there’s no mention of a wounded man being helped out of the apartment.

“I had Brassos’s supervisor set up a meeting. Collins and Brassos told me the door to Cutler’s apartment was unlocked, but there was no one inside and no sign of a shot being fired.”

“What did they say about the wounded man?”

“They told me there wasn’t one.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No. They were nervous all the time I was questioning them. I’m certain they’re covering up something, but I don’t know how we can prove it. There isn’t any evidence that anyone was shot in Cutler’s apartment. I went back and talked to some of the other neighbors. No one admitted that they heard a shot or saw a man being helped out of the place. So what do we do now, boss?”

“I’d like to go to sleep but I’ve been thinking about Dale Perry all afternoon. That fucking gnome pissed me off with that name-dropping bullshit.”

“It’s probably not bullshit. I bet he has tea and crumpets with the AG and our boss every day at four. Guys like that move in circles we can’t even dream about.”

“They also put their pants on one leg at a time, Maggie. I still believe we’re in America where an asshole like Perry is subject to subpoenas and can be perp walked with enough probable cause. So, I’m thinking we pay him a visit and see if we can shake him up a bit. What do you say?”

If you went strictly by mileage Dale Perry’s mansion in McLean, Virginia, wasn’t that far from Keith Evans’s apartment in Bethesda, Maryland. In the real world, the two communities were light-years apart. As far as Evans knew, no Supreme Court justices, members of the Kennedy clan, or former secretaries of defense lived on his block, and none of the homes in Evans’s neighborhood were surrounded by a stone wall and sat on several acres with a view of the Potomac River.

“Old Dale is doing well,” Maggie commented.

“I don’t think we’ll find him begging for handouts anytime soon.”

“Unless the handouts are in the billion-dollar range and earmarked for Boeing or Halliburton.”

“True.”

The trip that started at the Chain Bridge ended at the spear-tipped wrought-iron gate that blocked the driveway to Perry’s house.

“You call on the intercom,” Evans said. “I don’t think he likes me, and you’re young and sexy.”

“That’s two strikes. Ask me to bring you coffee and I’m slapping you with a sexual harassment suit.”

Evans smiled and Sparks leaned out of her window and spoke into a metal box affixed to the wall. They waited, but there was no answer. Sparks noticed a small gap between the two edges of the gate. Out of curiosity, she got out of the car and pushed. The gate eased backward. Sparks pushed harder, and the gate opened enough for Evans to drive through.

“What do you think is going on?” Sparks asked when she was back in the car.

“I don’t know, but the gate shouldn’t open like that, and someone should have answered the intercom.”

Evans experienced a nervous tingle in his gut when Perry’s house came into view. Most of the three-story brick Colonial was dark.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Sparks said.

A driveway curved in front of a portico supported by white columns that contrasted pleasantly with the red brick walls. When Evans got out of the car, it was so quiet he could hear the river flowing behind the estate and the wind pushing through the heavy-leafed trees.

Evans walked under the portico and pressed the doorbell. The agents could hear the bell echo through the house but no one came to the door. Evans leaned forward and tried the doorknob. The door opened. He looked at Sparks, and the agents took out their guns.

Even in shadow the entryway of Perry’s house was impressive. A crystal chandelier hung over a floor laid out in a checkerboard pattern of black and white marble. A polished oak banister curved upward to the second floor along marble stairs. Evans imagined the elegance of the foyer when it was bombarded by the refracted light that would pour from the massive light fixture.

“Mr. Perry,” Evans called loudly. No one answered.

“There,” Sparks said, aiming her weapon down a hall that ran to the right of the staircase. Evans took the point and the agents moved cautiously down a narrow hall toward the light coming from a room at the end. Evans motioned Sparks to one side of the door. When the door was almost open, Evans slid into the room with his gun leading the way, but he knew instantly that the weapon wasn’t necessary. Dale Perry, the room’s only occupant, sat at his desk, his head back and his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. His right arm hung straight down, and the fingers of his right hand almost touched the smooth side of a.38 Special. An ugly bloodstained wound at his temple was an advertisement for the cause of his death. Evans felt Perry’s neck for a pulse. Then he straightened up and holstered his weapon.

“Call 911.” He sighed. “Tell them we’ve discovered an apparent suicide.”

Chapter Twenty-four

It was the third item on the eleven o’clock news after the lead story about the arrest of the Ripper and a discussion of Claire Farrington’s pregnancy. Dana Cutler heard it while she was sitting on the bed in her motel room with her back against the headboard eating another ham and cheese sandwich. She lost her appetite when the anchorwoman announced the suicide of prominent D.C. attorney Dale Perry.

According to the news report, Perry had worked until 6 P.M. then driven home. His butler said that it was unusual for his employer to come home before eight, and Perry’s chef said that he hadn’t prepared dinner because he had been told that Perry was eating with a client and would be home late. Perry had given his staff the night off with no explanation. Although there would be no official determination of the cause of death until the autopsy was complete, an unidentified source had told a reporter for the station that the death looked like a suicide.

A few things occurred to Dana as she considered the implications of Perry’s death. According to the stories about Walsh’s murder, unidentified sources had told the press that the coed had been abducted from her car in the parking lot of the Dulles Towne Center mall. If Walsh was a Ripper victim that was one thing, but if the Ripper hadn’t killed her, Dana wondered how the killer knew Walsh had parked at the mall and where she was parked. Dale Perry’s mysterious client knew. Dana had phoned the client with the information. With Perry dead it would be impossible to learn the client’s identity.

Dana was certain that Dale Perry was no suicide and that she would die as soon as she was found by the men who’d killed Perry. Dana had been counting on selling her pictures to the president in exchange for money and a guarantee of safety, but with the president undertaking a scorched earth policy it looked like that option was off the table. What to do? Only one other option occurred to her.

The offices of Exposed, Washington, D.C.’s largest circulation supermarket tabloid, occupied two floors of a remodeled warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of the city that teetered between decay and gentrification. The inflated prices paid by upwardly mobile young professionals for rehabilitated row houses had sent rents soaring and the old established neighborhood businesses scurrying. As a result, trendy new restaurants and boutiques were interspersed with lots filled with construction equipment and abandoned storefronts.

Patrick Gorman, the owner and editor of Exposed, was a grossly obese man with heavy jowls, a massive stomach, and the permanent crimson complexion of an alcoholic. He had purchased the warehouse for a song when his only neighbors were junkies and the homeless. If he chose to sell he could make a fortune, but he had too much fun peddling phony news stories to people who needed to believe in miracles, the existence of legendary creatures, and the idea that the rich and famous led lives more unhappy and tumultuous than their own. Real news was about death and destruction. Exposed reported on a world filled with wonder.

Gorman was in high spirits when he left the Exposed building a little after eight at night. Headlines touting Elvis sightings always sold, but the lead story in this week’s paper had Elvis boarding a UFO, a one-two punch that was guaranteed to boost circulation. There was a small parking lot in the rear of the building. The security guard opened the door for Gorman and watched him waddle over to his car. Though most of the neighborhood’s unsavory characters had fled there were still some vagrants who were too lazy to go elsewhere, so you could never be too careful. Gorman struggled into the front seat of his Cadillac. As soon as his door was locked he waved at the guard, who waved back before returning to his desk in the lobby to watch Gorman leave on one of his monitors. Gorman was thinking about the profits he anticipated from next week’s sales when he felt the muzzle of a gun press into his right temple.

“Don’t be frightened, Mr. Gorman,” said a voice from the backseat.

“Don’t hurt me,” Gorman begged.

“Don’t worry,” Dana said as she shucked off the blanket that had concealed her. “My name is Dana Cutler and I’m here to help you win a Pulitzer Prize.”

Oh, great, Gorman thought. I’m being held captive by a lunatic. Out loud, he said, “Winning a Pulitzer has always been one of my fondest wishes.”

“Good. Now drive out of the lot before the security guard gets suspicious and pull into the first side street so we can talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Gorman said as he made odd faces in hopes that the security guard would realize something was wrong.

“I can see what you’re doing in the rearview mirror. Cut it out and drive. I told you, I’m not here to hurt you. I have a business proposition. Take me up on it and you’ll be famous.”

Gorman was certain his captor was delusional and he decided that he couldn’t risk upsetting her. He drove out of the lot and turned into the first street, which made up one side of a construction site for more upscale condos. Dana told him to park in the shadows between two streetlights.

“Okay, Ms. Cutler, what do you want?”

“Have you been following the Ripper case?”

“Of course. We’ve carried a story about it in every issue since he was identified as a serial killer.”

Gorman almost added “It was great while it lasted,” but thought better of it.

“The police think the Ripper had six victims,” Dana said.

“Right.”

“I think there were five. Charlotte Walsh was murdered by a copycat killer, and I know the killer’s identity.”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“It’s more than a theory. I can prove it.”

“And you want to sell me the proof?” he guessed.

“Exactly. So tell me, how much you think it would be worth to get your hands on proof that the president of the United States was having an affair with Charlotte Walsh and was with her on the evening she was murdered?”

The president! She was definitely nuts, Gorman thought.

“A lot of money,” Gorman said out loud to humor Dana.

“See, we agree on something. How much is a lot?”

“Uh, I don’t know, fifty thousand dollars.”

“I’d say more like one hundred and fifty thousand.”

“That sounds fair. Why don’t I drop you someplace and I’ll start getting the money together?”

Dana laughed. “I know you think I’m crazy, but it’s insulting that you also think I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t-”

“It’s okay. I know how crazy I sound. So it’s time to show you the proof.”

Dana handed Gorman an envelope filled with the best shots from the farmhouse and some other photographs of Charlotte Walsh.

“I’m a private detective,” Dana explained. “A few days before she was murdered, I was given an assignment to follow Walsh and report to a client on everything she did. And don’t ask me for the client’s identity. I don’t know it.

“The night she was murdered I followed Walsh to the Dulles Towne Center mall. A car arrived and she got in. I followed Walsh into the Virginia countryside to a farmhouse. There were armed guards patrolling the grounds and a car registered to the Secret Service parked outside. I have shots of the license plate of the car used by the Secret Service. I’d advise you to run the plate yourself. Some of these shots also show the weapons the guards were carrying. Check out the weapons carried by the Secret Service and you’ll find they’re the same type.

“Walsh went upstairs. She was with a man. The lights in the room went off long enough for them to have sex. When the lights came back on, Walsh was angry. She stormed out of the house and yelled at someone inside. I have a clear picture of the man. It’s Christopher Farrington.”

Gorman had been shuffling through the photographs in the envelope during Dana’s narration. He froze when he came to the photograph of the president staring after the car that was returning Walsh to the mall. Dana saw the reaction and smiled. She knew she had him.

“These pictures have a date and time on them. Walsh left before midnight of the day her body was discovered in the Dumpster. The Ripper could have killed her, I guess, but think about it. Farrington is running an election campaign, his wife’s pregnant, and his mistress-a teenager-is upset with him. Then the one person who could destroy his election chances just happens to be the random victim of a serial killer. That would certainly be a piece of good fortune, would it not?”

Gorman stared at the time and date stamp.

“So, Pat, are you ready to do business?”

“Why me? The Washington Post can pay a lot more, and they’d print your proof immediately. I publish a weekly.”

“You’ll put out a special edition if we do business. That’s one of my conditions.”

“Okay, but you still haven’t explained why you want to do business with Exposed. Our credibility isn’t the best. Aren’t you afraid the White House will just claim this is a hoax?”

“You know who Dale Perry is?”

“The lawyer who committed suicide.”

“Only I don’t think he did. Dale is the man who hired me to follow Walsh for his client. I was spotted when I took these pictures. A few hours after I took the shots, two men attacked me in my apartment and demanded the pictures. I shot one of them and escaped.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I wish I was. Several nights later, I met Dale at a bar to arrange for the sale of the photos to the president. More men were waiting for me when I left, but I managed to slip by them. The fact that Dale is dead tells me that the president isn’t buying. I need money fast so I can go on the run. You’re the owner of Exposed. If I talk to the Post it will take time to get the money. For the amount I want, a Post reporter would have to talk to his editor, who would have to get permission from the board of directors. Then they wouldn’t pay until they’d investigated. The longer I wait, the greater the chance Farrington’s men will find me. I need those pictures published fast. Once they’re front-page news the president won’t have any reason-other than revenge-to want me dead. And he’d be the prime suspect if I die. My only hope of staying alive is that the scandal will make Farrington forget about me.”

“How do I know these are real? It’s easy to fake digital pictures.”

“You publish stories about Bigfoot and alien abductions, Gorman. Why do you care if they’re real?”

“Because this story isn’t about Bigfoot. You don’t call the president of the United States a murderer without unimpeachable proof.”

“Fair enough, Pat. Check the clothing.”

Gorman looked puzzled.

“The pictures of Walsh show the clothes she was wearing when she went to the farmhouse. The Ripper’s victims were all found fully clothed. Find out if the clothes on the corpse are the same as the clothing in my photographs.”

Gorman was quiet for a moment. Then he turned in his seat so he was facing Dana.

“I’m not going to print these pictures if this is hoax, but if they’re real I’ll go after this story with everything I have.”