Silver Justice

Chapter 12

Surprisingly, the stitches didn’t hurt much — probably because the local anesthetic hadn’t completely worn off. The hospital had given her pain killers and warned her against aspirin for a week, which was fine — she preferred ibuprofen, anyway. She had no intention of taking the painkillers. Anything that would dull her reactions or thinking was out of the question.

As Silver and Richard made their way from the hospital, she stopped and picked up a copy of the Herald from the sidewalk magazine vendor. The headline screamed about the previous night’s killing in huge letters. She quickly scanned the contents, then looked at Richard with simmering anger.

“Did you see this?”

“I don’t read the Herald. Sorry.”

She shook the paper and then began reading aloud.

“Blah blah blah, ‘Horrendous murder’ blah blah. Oh. Here it is: ‘A task force is being headed by Assistant Special Agent In Charge Silver Cassidy, whose name might ring bells following her work on the Turnpike killer a few years ago. Cassidy declined to comment to the Herald when contacted’. What a prick this guy is. I mean, really.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I try to keep a low profile. Now every reporter, author and nervous politician in New York knows I’m running the task force, which means I’m going to get bombarded with calls. It’s not the end of the world, but it’s another annoyance I’d just as soon do without.”

“I gotcha. Does it say anything else interesting?”

“Not really. Just a rehash of the older cases. I wonder where this guy’s getting his info from, though? He connected this killing with the others awfully quickly. We haven’t issued a statement yet, have we?”

Richard nodded. “We have, actually, but not in time for the Herald to go to press. I think one was issued late morning. NYPD contacts? Someone at the Bureau? Maybe the killer?”

“You’d think they would have called us if that was the case. Then again, you never know. It’s worth asking about, but the problem is there’s a limit to what I can demand if they start in with saying that they got their information from a protected source. Freedom of the press and all.”

“I’d still make the call.”

Silver typed in a quick reminder for herself on her cell phone then slid it back into her purse.

“Where are we off to? You have a chauffeur for the afternoon,” Richard announced cheerfully.

She glanced at him, the sun glinting off highlights in his hair she hadn’t noticed before, and realized she was glad he was escorting her.

She smiled for the first time in a few hours. “I hope you have a pillow for me to sit on.”

He slowed.

“Relax, Richard. I’m kidding. It’s not that bad.”

He resumed his pace. “You had me there for a second. But…I have to say — I don’t know how I’d be reacting if the same thing had happened to me this morning. I mean, Silver, come on. This is a big deal.”

Silver nodded. He was right. But she needed time to process it all, and for that, she needed to be alone.

“I know.”

Miriam looked troubled when Silver walked through the daycare door. She approached Silver and wordlessly hugged her.

“Hey. Let’s not act like we’re going to a funeral or anything, okay? It was just an incident. Nothing more. All part of the job.”

Kennedy came running from the back. “Mommy,” she cried and threw her arms around Silver, causing her to wince. The anesthetic was wearing off.

“Careful. You don’t want to break my hip.”

“Are you all right? What happened?” Miriam asked.

So much for downplaying things. Silver glanced at Kennedy and sighed.

“We had a…a situation this morning. You’ll probably be hearing about it on the news before too long. A man attacked me in the parking garage, and I had to use my gun to stop him.”

“Whoa. Did you shoot someone?” Kennedy asked in a voice laced with admiration.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart.”

“Too cool.”

Silver hesitated, wondering how much her daughter was trying to shock her and how much was genuine. “No, it’s not cool. I’m lucky I’ve had the training to defend myself. Many wouldn’t have been that fortunate.”

“What exactly happened?” Miriam asked, prompting Silver to make an instantaneous decision.

“I can’t talk about the details. I’m not allowed to. Sorry. Those are the rules after a shooting.”

Both Miriam and Kennedy looked crestfallen.

“But you’re okay, Mom?”

She debated how much to share. “I hurt my butt. I’ll be sore for a few days, but that’s about it. So no spanking.”

Kennedy giggled. Miriam gave her a look that said she wouldn’t push it, but that she didn’t believe it was that minor.

Miriam sighed. “Well, you look like you’re in one piece. Thank God. That had to be a dreadful ordeal.”

“I’ve had better mornings. But hey, it gave me a chance to play hooky for the afternoon, so it isn’t all bad. Listen, Miriam, thanks so much for taking care of Kennedy. I don’t mean to rush out of here, but I have to go. I’ve got someone waiting outside in a car…”

“My pleasure, as always. See you tomorrow?”

“First thing. Kennedy, would you please grab your stuff so we can get going?”

Kennedy walked to the corner of the room and scooped up her bag. “Is Richard driving again? He’s cute.”

“It’s not like that. And mind your manners, young lady.”

“That means you think he’s cute, too!” Kennedy squealed.

“Can’t you go back to being more goth, or whatever it is you’ve been lately? You’re kind of freaking me out with all this good humor.”

Kennedy ignored her. “Does that mean he is driving again? Does he carry a gun too? Can I ask to see it?”

Silver gave her a look that could have stopped a truck. She knew Kennedy was deliberately pushing it now, probably from all the accumulated stress of worrying about her mom. But still.

“One wrong word out of you and you won’t have computer privileges for a week. I’m not kidding. So behave, or you’re going to regret it.”

Kennedy affected a pout.

Miriam smiled. “All right, you two. See you in the morning,” she said as mother and daughter began making their way to where Richard waited for them.

The afternoon sped by uneventfully, with Silver fielding a few calls while at home, including a return call from Ben, who had agreed to contact Eric and break the news about the shooting so he wouldn’t hear about it on the news. She felt like she was chickening out, but Ben had agreed that it was a good idea to avoid speaking directly to him. Eric was the enemy now, and she couldn’t afford for a slip of the tongue to be used against her later.

Ben had done the deed and had also asked Eric to refrain from contacting Silver, which was a huge relief. She didn’t need an inquisition, and Eric’s natural instinct was to strike whenever his adversary was weak.

Silver had Kennedy helping her make dinner, selecting the vegetables for their salad and setting the table. Kennedy had been remarkably meek all day, so when she turned to Silver with worry in her eyes, Silver knew that she would need to be careful how she handled the questions that were coming.

“Did you kill the man you shot today, Mom?”

Silver stopped chopping. “Yes, honey, I’m afraid I did. It was self-defense. There was no other way to stop him from hurting me.”

Kennedy nodded, as if understanding that and finding it reasonable. “Why was he trying to hurt you?”

A great question.

“We aren’t sure, sweetheart. We think it has something to do with my job. He was a criminal, and it could be that I somehow made him angry.”

“But don’t police do that every day? Criminals don’t come after police for doing their job.”

“No, ordinarily they don’t. That’s why nobody is sure what this is all about.”

“Are you safe now?”

“Yes, honey, I believe I am. The FBI has protection in place. Nobody can hurt us.”

Silver could see where this was going. She was going to have a kid who couldn’t get to sleep because of nightmares of bad guys trying to get them.

“Then why couldn’t they protect you this morning?”

“Because nobody knew this man was going to try to attack me.”

She instantly saw the hole in the logic of her response.

“But then couldn’t they also be missing someone else who wants to attack you?”

Silver put down the knife and wiped her hands on a towel and walked around the counter to face Kennedy. She sat down at the dining room table, put her hands on Kennedy’s shoulders and looked straight into her eyes.

“Your mom is an ass kicker, Kennedy. This guy tried to get me, and I took him down. That’s what I do for a living — I take down bad guys. I’m very good at it. It’s extremely rare for anyone to attack an FBI agent for that reason. It’s almost guaranteed failure. So this man was either crazy, or desperate, or stupid, because if you mess with me, you lose. Do you understand? Nothing in life is completely safe, but coming for me is about the most unsafe thing I can think of.”

A trace of a smile played around the corners of Kennedy’s lips.

“Having said that, it’s not pleasant to shoot someone, or to be shot at, and it’s even worse to kill someone. I wish I hadn’t had to do it. But sometimes you have to do things you don’t like, and this morning was one of those times.”

“And how’s your butt feeling? The wound?”

“It hurts a little. But I wouldn’t call it a wound. More like a scratch. A bullet ricocheted and creased my bottom. It was nothing. Really. A few stitches…”

Kennedy regarded her skeptically.

“Do I seem wounded to you?”

“You’ve been walking funny, and the clown pants you’re wearing are sort of strange-looking,” Kennedy deadpanned.

Shit. She’d completely forgotten about the pants she had on.

“It’s really nothing. And these are very fashionable right now.”

Kennedy rolled her eyes. “Sure, Mom. I can’t wait to get my own pair of big mama pants. Hey, can I see the wound?”

Silver stood and returned to preparing the salad. “If you’re good, after dinner. But all it’s going to look like is some stitches and some bruising. It’s probably ugly.”

“Okay. That will give us something to do besides watching TV. Now can we talk about Richard? Is he cute, or what?”

Silver shook her head. Another road she was not going down tonight. “No, we cannot talk about the agents I work with like they’re pieces of meat.”

“Is he single?”

“Why? Isn’t he kind of old for you?” Silver asked innocently.

“Is he?”

Silver sighed. She’d raised a pit bull.

Kennedy cocked one eyebrow. “Come on, Mom. Is he single or not?”

“I suppose so.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Kennedy. Seriously. Are you just trying to get under my skin? Haven’t I had a hard enough day as it is?”

Kennedy grinned. “Sorry for asking. It says online that you should establish your romantic interest in a firm yet relaxed manner. Men can get confused with mixed signals.”

Great. Now she was getting dating advice from her ten-year-old.

“Thanks for the tip. Where do you get this from? You’re too young to be reading about men and romance.”

“Oh, Mom. We aren’t living in the Middle Ages.”

“Keep this up, and I will be putting you into a convent until you’re eighteen.”

“I’m just saying. If you are interested, you should let him know. I think he’s a hunk.”

Silver exhaled noisily. “Noted. Now get over here and make yourself useful.”

The next morning, after two hours of being grilled by the psychiatrist, Silver had convinced him that she wasn’t going to swallow her pistol or go on a shooting rampage in a mall. She’d been involved in a shooting once before, seven years earlier, when she was working in Organized Crime, and had gone through the same post-shooting counseling then.

Certified as fit for duty, she returned to her office and sat gingerly in her chair. It was a good thing the bullet had hit the top of her buttock because if it had been any lower she would have been standing for a week.

Among the stack of messages there was one from Eric. She would ignore that one for the time being. She hurriedly returned the rest of the calls in the half hour she had before her meeting with Seth.

Richard had picked her up in the morning, which was way above the call of duty, but he had insisted, and Kennedy seemed quite taken with the idea, so she didn’t fight it. Kennedy had given her a knowing look when Richard had moved around the car to open their doors, and Silver had silently cursed her for her insistence that he was hunky — though she had to admit he was.

Her intercom buzzed to shatter her daydream. She punched the button.

“Yes?”

“We still on for eleven forty-five?” Seth’s voice sounded tinny on the crummy speaker.

“You bet. In my office.”

“Be there in a few.”

Seth ambled in five minutes later with a milk crate filled with files and documents, his notebook computer precariously balanced on top of the pile. He set it down on the floor next to her circular meeting table and pulled up a chair. She rounded her desk and took a seat.

“So what do you have?”

“Well, I first did a search for fires that in any way matched our perp’s MO. Going back ten years. Turns out there are a lot of fires. Tens of thousands. So that didn’t really help.”

“Did you narrow it down to fires where a parent and offspring were involved?”

Seth nodded. “Yes. That dropped the number to hundreds.”

“I really believe the way he’s killing has symbolism for him — there has to be a deeper connected meaning. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“That’s why I started with the fire. It’s the most obvious — I mean, if he’s being literal, that is. If he’s twisting the meaning and obscuring it, or if it’s more indirect…then we’re kind of screwed.”

“I know, Seth. But we don’t really have much else. Unless you believe, as Sam does, that this is all an elaborate ruse to cloak the actions of a terrorist cell or something.”

“This doesn’t really seem like a hit team, does it?” Seth asked.

“Not really. Which brings us back to what you’ve found.”

“There are roughly three hundred house fires that sort of match up, where only a parent and child were killed. But if we further refine the search, we see that there are only nine that really fit the exact description of a parent killed by fire…and a child killed by smoke inhalation.”

“Nine? Well, that’s promising.”

“Of the nine, six would appear to have no match that I can see. But I brought all nine so you can look them over. Let’s see what you think.”

Seth ducked down to his cache of folders for a moment then reappeared and spread out photocopies of nine newspaper articles in front of her.

“Can we cut to the chase and just go to the ones you like? Your top three?”

“Humor me.”

Silver squirmed in her seat, reminding herself that it would be a few days before her wound was really healing. It was tender and starting to itch. She resisted an urge to scratch at the sutures and, as she began reading the first article, made a mental note to check for infection.

Ten minutes later she leaned back and asked, “Which one do you want to start with?”

“Might as well go with the one in Pennsylvania. Six years ago. Stanley Erickson and Sheryl. Father and daughter. He was fifty-one, she was twenty-three, living at home after a brief marriage that didn’t go well. Wife, Louise, was out of town visiting her sister. The fire started in the master bedroom from a cigarette, and because of the age of the house quickly spread and trapped the daughter in her room. The firemen fought the flames for a half an hour but couldn’t get to her. She’d covered herself with a wet blanket, which avoided the worst of the burning, but not the smoke. Survivors were the wife, and two sons, Ralph and Henry, now thirty-one and thirty-four. Ralph is a warehouse manager for an industrial supply company, and Henry is a private detective, after spending ten years on the Pittsburg police force. His discharge was controversial — he was implicated in several incidences of unprovoked violence while on the beat, although no charges were ever filed. Reading between the lines, it looks like he was invited to leave before he was forced to. Since then he’s had a website development company that went nowhere, and now has a private security and investigation company.”

“Interesting. With that background, he would more than have the skills and knowledge of forensics to be our man. And the history of violence is a flag. Hmmm. What about Ralph?”

“Married, two kids. No record.”

“All right, who’s next?”

Seth slid a file to her. “Brooklyn.”

“Ah.”

“Here’s the police report. What’s the most striking is the suicide note. I mean, she was obviously disturbed, but the circumstances…I actually remember reading about this when it happened. It was just so tragic and, well, such a sign of the times…”

“I know what you mean. Multiple sclerosis, at the end of her rope. Give me a quick tour of the high notes, would you?” Silver asked.

“Patricia Jarvis, fifty-seven, married, one child — Rachel, age thirty-four. Husband Howard, now…sixty, I believe. They were unable to continue making the mortgage payment after the 2008 crash, so the bank foreclosed. She was on a cocktail of medications for pain and complications from the MS, and decided the bank wasn’t going to get her house — not while she was alive. So a week before it was going to take possession, she got two five gallon cans of gasoline and doused the place, after leaving a note in the car. Perhaps even more tragic than her death was that of her daughter. She lived only a few blocks away, and her mother’s last act was to call her and tell her that she loved her before she lit the place up. So, sensing something wrong, Rachel raced over, but by the time she arrived, the fire was well under way. She battled her way in before the fire department got there, but got trapped inside by a collapsing beam as she was trying to get up the stairs from the basement access door. When they put out the blaze, Patricia was dead from the fire, and Rachel had died from smoke inhalation.”

“And where was Howard?” Silver asked.

“He arrived at the scene an hour later — he was on the train coming from the city. The report says he found the suicide note, and then he collapsed. They had to sedate him — he tried to run into the wreckage.”

“I can understand why. Poor bastard. Wife, daughter…”

“Yeah.”

Silver read through the file more carefully. “Do we like him as the killer? A sixty-year-old man?”

“Doesn’t fit any of the profiles, does it? Plus, let’s face it, he’s getting along in years to be going on a killing spree. I mean, anything’s possible, but usually when you see older folks in a murder, it’s with a gun, not decapitation,” Seth reasoned.

“What do we know about him?”

“He was in the military at the end of the Vietnam war. Honorable discharge. Engineering degree. Worked as a civil engineer for two companies — last one, for twenty-two years. Retired.”

“A Vietnam vet turned engineer? I’m warming to this for the methodical angle because of the engineering thing, and the military record is interesting, even if it’s ancient history — although his age makes him unlikely. I mean, nothing’s impossible, but the fire happened almost four years ago. So why start now?” Silver read the article again, then put it aside. “What else do we have?”

“The Michigan case. Nine years ago. Father and son. Michael Everin and Scott, ages forty-three and nineteen. An electrical fire. The flames got Dad, smoke got the kid. That left one surviving older son, now thirty-two, and an estranged wife who went on to re-marry. Interesting thing there is that the kid has a record. Aggravated assault, possession of a concealed handgun. Served five years. Two fights while incarcerated. Added six months to his sentence, which was still shortened due to no priors. You can see his prison record — there’s some speculation that he was taken in by a white supremacist gang while inside, but who knows for sure? He’s kept his nose clean since release — that’s about all we know.”

“How long has he been out?”

“Just over three years.”

“We know where he’s living?”

“New Jersey.”

“Really? That’s pretty close to home. And what does he do for a living?”

“Looks like construction, although that’s probably just a catch-all. He’s had a few other types of jobs — four months as a security guard, three as kitchen staff at an Italian restaurant. Currently unemployed. Although, wait a minute. In his prison records, it also notes that he was a kind of wiz with anything electronic or mechanical. So that could explain how he’s gotten past all the locks and alarms if he’s our killer.”

“Perhaps. Anything connecting him to the financial industry? Any reasons to be pissed off at it?”

“Not really. I mean, some of the Aryan Nation rhetoric is anti-Semitic, which includes anti-banking sentiment, but that’s a slender reed. No, so far, the best bet looks like the old guy.”

“Which is to say our odds don’t look particularly good.”

“No argument. But this was your hunch…”

They went through the rest, and half an hour later Silver was left feeling exasperated.

“I think we should pay a visit to all the possibles. Can’t hurt. Get some teams to question everyone. And keep looking for other articles that might tie in — you know the drill. Especially decapitations. Those aren’t common,” she observed.

“I’m already on it. Same search — going back ten years. Should have results coming in by tomorrow, if we’re lucky. This is a tremendous amount of data to sift through.”

“Seth, I just had another thought, and you aren’t going to like it. We’re limiting the search to the U.S., right? What if our killer isn’t from here? I mean, assuming my hunch isn’t completely wrong in the first place…what if he’s foreign?”

“Then our search wouldn’t turn up anything. We don’t have the records access to do a global search along the same lines.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I guess we better hope that our killer was made in the U.S.A..”

“That’s the assumption we’ve been working under.”

“Then let’s not go off on any tangents. Have agents do preliminary interviews, and be sensitive to any tells.”

“Will do, boss. Is there anything else? How are you doing after the shooting?”

“You know. All in a day’s work. Speaking of which, who’s running the investigation on the guy who tried to turn off my lights yesterday?”

“Brett wanted to supervise it himself. He’s taking it personally. I hear he’s got Heron running lead on it.”

“Do me a favor. Keep an ear to the ground, and let me know if you hear anything, okay? I’m supposed to stay clear of it, but that doesn’t mean I have to be in the dark.”

“You got it.”