PrivateSector

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

We jumped into the squad car, a cop at the wheel, Spinelli in front, Drummond in back. The cop punched his lights and siren, and we screeched out of the parking space. Then it struck me that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.

I ordered the cop to pull over and shut it down, then said to Spinelli, “What’s this guy doing right now?”

“Who the hell knows? Watching her apartment, I guess.” He scratched his nose, appeared briefly perplexed, and then commented, “Nah. He breaks into the house while the old man’s at work, positions some igniters and fuel, and a few minutes after the old man gets home, he torches the house. Right?” I nodded, and he continued, “He finds a vantage and watches the fire. He sees the fireman haul out the body, then follows the meat wagon to the hospital, so he knows which one.”

I suggested, “Where he picks up Janet’s trail. He follows her when she leaves.”

And he concluded, “He’s probably watching her aunt’s house right now.”

We then spent a few moments batting this scenario around. Of course, there was a very good chance the killer wasn’t behind the fire, that we were on a wild-goose chase, and Sean was earning himself a long session on a big couch with a very nice, very inquisitive shrink. But my instincts told me he was here. So did Spinelli’s.

If we roared into the neighborhood, horns blaring, lights flashing, we’d blow this thing. The track record suggested that this guy was very, very good; we had no idea what he looked like; he’d see us; we wouldn’t see him-end of story.

“We sneak in,” Spinelli concluded.

“Fine.”

“We need an unmarked car and some sort of disguise.”

We batted that around awhile.

Plumbers or airconditioning repairmen were the normal routines, but on short notice were out of the question. Then I got an idea and off we went.

Thirty minutes later, Monsignors Sean Drummond and Daniel Spinelli parked the beat-up Honda Civic we borrowed from Father Brian Mullraney of St. Mary’s parish in front of Aunt Ethel’s town-home in Cambridge. Charitably, the place was a pit: a small, two-storied clapboard affair, seedy and ill-tended, no front yard, just a five-stepped stoop that rose from the cracked sidewalk.

Aunt Ethel answered our knock. She was somewhere in her eighties, shrunken to less than five feet, wispy, white-haired, with a bony, scowling face and hard eyes that regarded us harshly.

I nervously fingered my collar and explained, “I’m Drummond. I called earlier. This is Chief Warrant Spinelli, a military police officer. Please… invite us in.”

“Why are you dressed that way?”

I said, “Please. We’ll explain inside.”

She glowered at Spinelli and said, “I assume you have a badge or something.”

He flashed his shield and we were inside, being led down a short hallway to the kitchen. The whole place smelled musty and airless, like lots of old people’s homes, and was cluttered with old-lady junk; overstuffed chairs, doilies, figurines, and so forth. The kitchen was small and cramped, and looked like a mausoleum for ancient appliances. Aunt Ethel was a very strange duck.

Janet set down her teacup and calmly did the introduction thing, which, considering the circumstances, was sort of strained. The three sisters were huddled around the table, wrung out and glum.

There followed a moment of clumsy silence before Janet asked, “Why are you two dressed like priests?”

So I explained that, and what I had learned from Lisa’s computer file, ending with our suspicion that the killer might be, and, in our view, probably was, hanging around the neighborhood, and he wasn’t through.

My explanation came out a bit rushed, and understandably, the kitchen became very hushed and quiet. I mean, the Morrow sisters had just learned that their father’s incineration was no accident, that one sister might be marked for death, and that the grim reaper might be lurking behind the garbage cans in Aunt Ethel’s backyard. They were hardy women, and nobody got panicky or anything, but nobody looked drowsy anymore.

After a few moments, Janet asked, “Why burn down our house? Why try to kill my father?”

Spinelli replied, “To get you up here. Your old man’s the cheese in the trap.”

“Why? If he wanted to kill me, why not D. C.?”

Why indeed? Exactly the question I had been trying to piece together on the flight up. I wasn’t sure, but back at the hospital, Spinelli had given me an idea worth exploring and I said, “Spinelli still thinks this guy is a copycat.” I then asked, “Why do people copycat?”

Janet pondered this interesting question a moment, then replied, “The normal motives are envy, sympathy, or a perverted sense of brotherhood. Some want to feed off the fame and deeds of other killers, and some want to outdo famous killers, employing the same patterns and techniques, but excelling over the original. Emulation and ego enhancement.”

I nodded. Her Harvard Law professors would be proud of her. This was a textbook reply, almost verbatim. But I’d had a little more time to consider this thing, and it had struck me that part of the problem was that everybody was too wedded to their textbooks. I suggested, “How about as a cover-up? He wants somebody else blamed. Yes? No?”

“That could make sense,” Janet replied.

I continued, “And until now, nobody’s found a link between the victims, thus the prevailing opinion is that there is no link. Killing you would cause everybody to rethink their theories and assumptions.”

“Yes. But killing me up here engenders the same risk.”

“He might think otherwise. Boston’s outside of the scope and jurisdiction of the task force down in D. C. Also, the killer isn’t aware of your… relationship to the head of the FBI field team. Or your entanglement in the investigation.” This was obviously true, she nodded, and I continued, “So maybe he intends to kill you differently than he did Lisa and the others. Arrange your murder without any obvious parallels.”

Janet thought about this, then pointed out, “You’re making a lot of guesses.”

“Look, I know this sounds odd, but…” I thought about how to couch this: “I’m starting to understand how he operates.”

“You’re right. That’s completely off-the-wall.”

“Humor me. Now, let’s call the Boston PD and get out of here.”

“Out of here?” Janet asked.

“Right. Away from this guy.”

Janet exchanged looks with her sisters, then looked at me and Spinelli. She said, “Would you two step out of the kitchen? We need a moment to discuss this thing.”

I glanced at Spinelli, and said to her, “There’s nothing to discuss. Call the Boston PD.”

She pointed a finger. “I think you’d be comfortable in the living room.”

Well, what could we do? It was their house, so Spinelli and I shifted into the living room, where we began studying Aunt Ethel’s very extensive collection of porcelain and crystal figurines, which, if you’re into those things, was pretty interesting. There were several hand-painted ballerinas, and lots of tiny, delicate horses, and some unusual unicorns, and… who gives a shit.

“ We should’ve called the Boston PD,” I informed Spinelli.

“Maybe.”

No maybes about it, pal. The four women in that kitchen were grieving over the murder of their sister and the attempted murder of their father. The shock of those events was not likely to lead to clear thinking or logical conclusions. I felt uneasy, realizing I had misplayed this, hoping they weren’t convincing one another to do what I was sure they were trying to convince one another to do. After a time, Janet finally called us back into the kitchen. The four women were seated around the table, and I didn’t like the pissed-off, determined set of their faces.

“Have a seat,” said Janet.

Well, there were only four chairs, all of which were taken, so Spinelli and I brushed aside some clutter and hoisted ourselves up onto the linoleum counters, which earned us a really nasty glower from Aunt Ethel.

“We have a plan,” said Janet.

I replied, “There’s only one plan. Call the cops. Now. ”

Carol, who was next oldest behind Janet, said, “First, let’s talk about our plan.”

And Elizabeth, the youngest, said, “This man murdered our sister and put our father in the hospital. We’ve paid for the right to decide what to do next.”

I said, “That’s not-”

“Also,” Janet said, “he’s murdered three other women and a driver. And there’s every indication he intends to kill more. If you’re right

… if he’s here, we have a chance to take him off the streets.”

“So,” Elizabeth agreed, “he thinks he has Janet in a trap. That gives us a chance to turn the tables and put him in a trap.”

What they were thinking wasn’t news. But Spinelli was nodding. And all three sisters and Aunt Ethel were nodding.

I drew a deep breath and said, “Thank you. That’s a very noble gesture. It’s also clearly a stupid idea. The odds are completely in his favor.” I stared at Janet and added, “Don’t even think of using yourself as bait. This guy will swallow you whole.”

In retrospect, things might have gone better had I chosen a less provocative manner to state my objections.

Janet’s nostrils sort of flared. Sounding somewhat pissy, she said to me, “I… Damn it, don’t underestimate me. I can take care of myself. And don’t you dare call me stupid again.” She added, “Of course I plan to use the Boston PD.”

Spinelli immediately said, “Good idea-slap up a cordon, and we got this guy by the balls. But be sure to tell ’em only plain-clothes, and no closer than three blocks from here. This guy, he’s good, and he’ll ID ’em.”

If I had had a gun, I would’ve drilled Spinelli on the spot. It suddenly occurred to me that his motive for rushing up here differed from mine. I mean, of course Spinelli wanted to apprehend the killer and become the Man of the Hour, but “Protect and Serve” means protect first. Also, you don’t slap together bait operations on the fly. You take time to consider all the possible twists and eventualities, you handpick your best people, you plan, and then you replan, and then you rehearse, and even then, sometimes your bait ends up inside a chalk outline.

I tried again to explain my very reasonable objections, but it was clear I was the odd man out.

In any regard, Janet finally grew impatient and informed me, “Look, don’t think we don’t appreciate your figuring this out and rushing up here to warn us. But let me remind you, I’m a city prosecutor, and the local police are going to follow my lead.” She pointed her finger at me and said, “You can be part of the solution, or you can keep your mouth shut.”

Actually this was one of those cases where being part of the solution was being part of the problem. So I kept my mouth shut as they tried to hatch a plot. Eventually, Janet stepped into the living room and made the call to the Boston PD. Actually, this was the moment I had been waiting for. No doubt the cops would thank her for volunteering, and then tell her she wasn’t equipped for the job and that would be it.

And when she finally stepped back into the kitchen, she said, “I just spoke with Harry O’Malley, the commissioner.”

Spinelli said, “Yeah, and…”

“Harry loved the idea. He said to give him thirty minutes to arrange a cordon, and suggested we should use that time to refine a plan.”

Shit. In thirty minutes we would have both the killer and his prey bottled up inside a tight cordon. The first problem with that was, we had no idea what he looked like. The second problem was he was very expert at this killing game. The old parable about the two scorpions in the same box popped into my mind, and I recalled with a shudder how it ended-the scorpions stung each other to death.

So they all sat at the table and batted ideas back and forth, while I sulked on the counter, and outside, our killer paced around, surely growing impatient and antsy. Eventually, he could get tired of this waiting game and either depart or throw a murderous tantrum at this house. If he departed, this whole crazy scheme would fall apart. Call that the best outcome. If he attacked, he’d have to kill four women instead of one, not to mention the visiting clergymen. We might get him, and that would be good. He’d probably get some of us also, and that would be bad.

Elizabeth and Carol kept proposing options, all of which entailed the three sisters leaving Aunt Ethel’s house together and sharing the risks and perils.

It was such a bad idea that even Janet knew it was a bad idea, and she eventually advised her sisters, “He’s here for me. We will not put anybody else at risk.”

Elizabeth and Carol shook their heads and began vigorously arguing otherwise.

So I broke my vow of silence and interrupted. “Janet’s right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Janet replied. “He’s waiting for me to separate. He’d prefer to avoid the complications and take me alone.”

Spinelli remarked, “That would appear to be his modus operandi.”

I said, “Really? With Fiorio he whacked the driver to take the limo. He’s not squeamish about eliminating bystanders to get what he wants.”

Actually, three sisters collectively exposing themselves lumped stupidity on top of idiocy. Three targets are naturally harder to protect than one. Protection is a game of risks and odds, and the more targets you add to the mix, the more those odds shift in the wrong direction.

So, while they argued back and forth, I sat and calculated those odds. On the plus side, like many Army CID agents, Spinelli was trained in bodyguard techniques. Among their many other functions, CID personnel are the ones who guard high-level Defense officials, and they are quite proud of the fact they have never lost an official. Very reassuring, right? Indeed, until you realized nobody had ever made an attempt. Still, CID received top-flight training, and from my days in black operations I had received similar training. My skills had atrophied, and I obviously wasn’t the rip-snorting stud I was in my mid-twenties, but I hadn’t forgotten everything I learned. For example, I recalled Lesson One-against a skilled assassin you have almost no chance of protecting The Package.

Eventually, Elizabeth and Carol backed off, and Janet and Spinelli settled upon the outline of a plan. Janet then called the commissioner’s office again, and was switched to the office of the police captain who’d been designated as el jefe of this affair. They sounded like they were old pals, a few warm and friendly pleasantries were exchanged, and then Janet handed off the phone to Spinelli, who spent twenty minutes refining the plan with the Boston PD, settling upon a route, security arrangements, and so forth. I listened in, and considering what they wanted to accomplish, it was probably as good as it was going to get. But for the record, “as good as it was going to get” and “good enough” don’t always match. So while Spinelli was hobnobbing on the phone, I drew Janet into the living room.

I got her alone and said, “I know you think you know what you’re doing, but this is a very high-risk deal.”

She nodded. “I’m aware of that. It’s also the right thing to do. You know that.”

Whether it was or wasn’t the right thing was past being relevant. I replied, “But if you’re going to go through with it, a few pointers.”

“As long as they’re constructive.”

I pointed at her feet. “You and Carol appear to be close in shoe size. Trade your heels for her sneakers.”

“That’s a good idea. I will.”

“He likes to kill with his hands. Don’t let anybody get close.”

“Right… nobody gets close.”

“Your first choice is to run.”

“Run… yes. I intend to.”

“If you can’t, tuck your chin into your chest and fall to the ground. That’ll buy us time to reach you.”

She nodded.

I said, “Get a knife from Aunt Ethel’s kitchen.”

“All right.”

“Keep it in your coat pocket.”

She nodded again, and I advised, “No more than a five-inch blade. Shorter blades are harder to block.”

“A five-inch blade… right… good idea.”

“Keep it in your grip at all times. Practice pulling it out a few times. If you use it, swing up and aim for his gut, not down. Amateurs swing down and end up dead.”

She nodded again and then informed me, “I’m ready for this.”

“No… you’re not. You’re an optimistic amateur going up against a ruthless killer.”

“Stop trying to scare me. You’ll make me so paranoid I’ll blow it.”

Well, I wanted her paranoid. Fear was her only hope of surviving this ordeal. I wanted her so skittish that the slightest threat would cause her to scream her lungs out and flee.

I mentioned, “One other thing for you to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“This guy, these killings, it’s all, somehow, connected to the law firm.”

Since she had suspected this in the first place, she did not appear surprised, but she still needed a moment to ponder this news. “How? Why?”

“I don’t know yet. It might have to do with that company I mentioned to you. But it might not. Still, I think somebody in the firm is involved.”

“Do you know who?”

“If I did, you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Then a fresh thought hit me. I said, “There were e-mails from Lisa to you, Anne Carrol, and Julia Cuthburt that referred to packages. Did you get a package?”

“When was this?”

“About…” I couldn’t recall the exact date, but I remembered the general date, and said, “maybe three weeks ago.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And…?”

“It was a birthday gift for my father. Lisa wanted me to include it with my gift.” She glanced at her watch and said, “Look, I need to keep my mind on one problem at a time. Let’s discuss it later.”

“If there is a later.” I added, “Remember, run; if you can’t, fall down.”

She nodded and returned to the kitchen.