Capital Crimes (12 page)

WILL PUT DOWN the phone at Camp David and turned to Kate. “Now I feel terrible,” he said.

“Why?”

“You remember that I sort of wished that Dr. Calhoun would be the next victim?”

“Yes.”

“He is.”

25

DR. DON BEVERLY CALHOUN looked at his wife through swollen eyes. “Where is that fucking doctor?” he demanded.

“Donald, watch your mouth,” his wife replied primly.

“Where is he?”

“He had to take a phone call from somebody who might be able to help,” she said.

The reverend looked at the clock on the wall. “That was an hour and a half ago.”

“The prayer circle is outside,” she said. “I want to bring them in here and get them praying for you.”

“Tell them to pray out there,” the reverend replied testily. “Tell them the Lord can hear them, wherever they’re praying from.”

“You’re clearly not yourself,” she said. “It must be the fever. I’m going to bring them in here now, so you compose yourself.”

The reverend tried to object, but she was already out the door. He felt another wave of fever and thrashed in the bed, but his wrists had been restrained. “Goddammit!” he screamed. “Get that doctor in here!” He looked toward the door to find a group of men and women, shocked looks on their faces, filing into the room.

“Reverend, we’re here to pray for you,” a woman said.

“Get the hell out of here!” the reverend shouted, and they fled.

His wife marched back into the room and slapped him sharply across the face. “You get ahold of yourself!” she screamed at him.

Taken aback, the reverend shut up, just in time for the doctor’s arrival.

“We’ve had some help from Britain,” the doctor said, holding up a syringe. “Are you willing to try it?”

“I’m not going to be a guinea pig for anybody!” the reverend shouted.

“He’s delirious,” his wife said. “Give it to him. I’ll sign the consent form.”

A nurse supplied the form, and Mrs. Calhoun signed it.

“I won’t take it!” the reverend yelled.

“Oh shut up!” his wife said. “Doctor, give it to him.”

The reverend tried to writhe away as the doctor stepped forward, but the man simply jabbed the syringe into his IV and stepped back.

“How long will it take to work?” Mrs. Calhoun asked.

“I don’t know,” the doctor said. “I don’t know if it will work at all. Apparently, Dr. Calhoun is the only human being ever to receive it.”

“I’m a goddamned guinea pig!” Dr. Don screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks.

KINNEY SAT at his kitchen table eating a chicken Caesar salad that Nancy had prepared. Both were wearing only terrycloth robes, which Kinney had purchased for the occasion.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Kinney said.

“You are awful,” she replied. “Eat your lunch.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Where are you getting all this sexual energy?”

“I’ve been saving it up for about four years,” he said.

She stroked his cheek. “Poor baby.”

He pushed back his chair, swept her into his arms, and marched back into the bedroom.

“We’ll starve,” she said, kissing him.

“It’s worth it.” He ripped off both their robes and took her. They were both in climax when the phone began to ring. Kinney answered on the tenth ring. “Yeah?” he panted.

“It’s Smith,” Kerry said. “Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

“I just got in from jogging. What’s up?”

“Calhoun is responding to the treatment the Brits sent,” Smith said. “His temperature is down nearly to normal, and he’s taking solid food.”

“Good news. What did we get from the TV cameras, anything?”

“No, the handshaking on the front steps is not televised. However, there was a security camera working. The tape is on its way here.”

“You get out to Peachtree DeKalb Airport and charter an airplane. I want to look at it with you.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be in Washington just as soon as I can.”

“Call me when you know your ETA, and I’ll meet you in my office.”

“Will do.” Smith hung up.

Kinney collapsed into Nancy’s arms. “We may have caught a break,” he said.

“Oh, good,” she replied. “Are you ready to fuck me again?”

“Mercy,” he cried. “Mercy!”

She dissolved in laughter. “Well, I’m glad to know you can be worn out.”

“Give me a few minutes,” he replied. “Oh, God.”

KINNEY WATCHED as a TV and a VCR on a stand were rolled into his office and plugged in. “Have you seen this?” he asked Smith.

“No, sir. I left for the airport the minute the tape was in my hands.” He switched on the TV and shoved the cassette into the machine. An image, in black and white, appeared, sharp and clear. A series of poles and velvet ropes were being set up on the church steps. The shot was from above, at a nice angle.

“Thank God Calhoun’s people are using high-resolution equipment,” Kinney said. “I was afraid we’d get something like a convenience-store image.”

“Here comes Calhoun,” Smith said, “and here comes the crowd.”

“Where are the marshals?”

“Calhoun declined federal help, said he’d provide his own security. A lot of good it did him.”

The man was sixth or seventh in line, waiting patiently to move forward.

“Jesus, what kind of clown is that?” Kinney asked.

“A clown in a clown suit,” Smith replied. “He can’t be for real.”

“Get our video people on this and see if they can get an image of him without all the disguise.” Kinney watched as the man stepped up to Dr. Don and grabbed his hand. Calhoun’s face reflected shock and pain, and the man was hustled away by attendants. “Well, at least we have a clear image of a man wearing a disguise,” Kinney said. “Did our Atlanta people interview any witnesses?”

“Yes. The people behind the guy in line saw him, but from behind. We’ve managed to get one person who saw him in the parking lot.”

“Anybody see him get into a vehicle?”

“No, but there was an RV in the line of cars waiting to get out of the lot. There are always RVs there on a Sunday,” Smith said. “People come from all over to hear the reverend preach.”

“So we have nothing specific—a plate, a brand of RV?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Something occurs to me, though.”

“What?”

“Our man is running out of ways to kill. He’s repeated himself, now.”

“Thank God he didn’t use a bomb. The carnage at the church would have been horrific.”

“Yes, it would have.”

“Get our video people and an artist on that image right away,” Kinney said. “Call people at home and get them in here. I want to know what he looks like without the getup.”

26

JEB STUART CALHOUN of South Carolina, newly that state’s senior senator, rose in the well of the Senate to address his colleagues.

“Mr. President,” he intoned, bowing slightly toward the senator who was presiding that day, “we have now reached a new low in the meanness of politics. The left in this country is now stooping, almost weekly, to actual political assassination!”

A dozen senators were on their feet, shouting “No!” and “Shame!” above a general uproar, as the presiding senator banged his gavel for order. Nearly ten minutes passed before quiet was restored.

“And,” Calhoun went on, “responsibility for these acts must be laid squarely at the feet of the president of the United States!”

This time the uproar was so loud and the epithets hurled so abusive, that the chair was unable to restore order. After all else had failed, he declared the Senate in adjournment, banged his gavel, and walked out of the chamber. Capitol guards were called in to protect Senator Calhoun and walk him back to his office, while other senators threw newspapers and other trash at him.

WILL AND KATE watched the scene together on the evening news. “I don’t believe it,” Will said. “I knew it was coming, but I still don’t believe it.”

“I think it might actually help,” Kate said.

“How?”

“Calhoun has disgraced himself by uttering those words, and that will make it more difficult for others to utter them. By the way, did you know that he and Dr. Don are first cousins?”

“No, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Their daddies are brothers. That kind of insanity must run in the family.”

“Dr. Don is recovering nicely after the injection of the British antidote,” Will said glumly. “But Kinney reports that the security camera tape from Atlanta wasn’t much help in identifying the suspect.”

“He has hairy wrists,” Kate said.

“What?”

“The suspect has thick, gray hair on his wrists, unless he was wearing a wrist wig, too. That was the only part of his body, except for his neck, that was of any help to the FBI. I read the report this afternoon.”

“His neck and his wrists?”

“He was wearing two wigs, a false mustache, maybe false ears, and heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. It’s surprising how the glasses helped conceal his face. They made it difficult to tell much about his nose, which is normally a major ID point. They could tell from the size of his neck and wrists that he wasn’t anywhere near as heavy as he had made himself look with the padding, so they put his weight at between one-fifty and one-eighty.”

“Such a big range?”

“His neck and wrists may be larger than natural from exercise, but then again, maybe not. Oh, his height is about six feet. They got that by comparing him to Dr. Don, who is also six feet. That’s if our guy wasn’t wearing lifts in his shoes, which he may well have been.”

“I don’t believe it. They got the guy on high-resolution videotape and all they can figure is his neck, his wrists, and his weight within thirty pounds?”

“And that’s just a guess. This guy is very smart, Will, and he’s not going to be easy to catch. I feel sorry for Kinney, because the whole thing rests on his shoulders, and he’s got almost nothing to work with. I think the profile he’s drawn up is good, but since he was unable to find a current or recent employee of federal law enforcement or intelligence who matches it, he’s at a dead end.”

“He’s still got this guy in Silver Spring—what’s his name?”

“Coulter. Coulter died this afternoon.”

“What?”

“He had a second stroke, died before the ambulance could get there. He was getting out of his car, with his wife’s help, when he collapsed. The two FBI agents who were watching his house called an ambulance and tried to help, but it was no use.”

“So now we have no suspects at all?”

“I’m afraid that’s the case.”

“Poor Kinney. And I had such hopes for him.”

BOB KINNEY, drained of sexual energy, had kissed Nancy Kimble goodbye and put her in her car for the drive back to South Carolina. Now he was at his desk, staring straight ahead, when Agent Kerry Smith knocked and entered. “Good morning, sir.”

“Hmmm?”

“Sir, are you all right?”

“Just tired, Kerry.”

“You can’t let this get you down, Mr. Kinney. We’re going to get something on this guy soon, and when we do, he’ll be toast.”

“You know Coulter’s dead?”

“Yes, sir. I told you, remember?”

“Oh, yes.” Kinney made an effort to bring himself fully alert. “What have we failed to look at, Kerry? What have we failed to do?”

“I think we’ve looked at and done everything anyone could reasonably expect us to do, in the circumstances, sir.”

“There are two things wrong with your statement, Kerry: One, we are not expected to act reasonably, only effectively; two, nobody cares what the circumstances are, they just want results.”

“That’s unfair, sir. We have to work within the constraints of the evidence.”

“No we don’t. A prosecutor has to work within the constraints of the evidence; investigators have to be brilliant, even when there is no evidence.”

“Well, we have some, sir.”

“Oh, yes? Tell me.”

“He has hairy wrists and a strong neck.”

“That’s not going to look very good on a wanted poster. We can’t even put this guy on our list of top ten criminals, since we don’t have a name or a description. How do you organize a nationwide search for someone with hairy wrists and a strong neck?”

“Well, not nationwide, sir, just the Eastern seaboard, from Atlanta to New York. I-95, basically.”

“So we put out an APB to the state troopers along the route, telling them to look out for a suspect with hairy wrists and a strong neck, driving an RV?”

“Well, we’re not exactly sure about the RV, are we?”

“All right, Kerry, put out a bulletin to all the state police units that patrol I-95. Anytime they stop an RV, they’re to pay particular attention to the wrists and neck of the driver and report any similarities to our description at once. And for Christ’s sake, don’t put this out to the press. It’ll make us sound like idiots.”

“And what’s wrong with our computer people? Why haven’t they tracked down the ACT NOW website?”

“It’s not as easy as it seems, sir. The guy keeps changing things, so that we have to contact it through different servers.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s as if we went to search a house for him and he’d moved to another house.”

“Oh.”

“They’re still working on it, though. We might get lucky.”

27

KATE HAD BEEN AT HER DESK in Langley for half the morning when the mail arrived. She had a personal mailbox at CIA headquarters, just as she did at the White House, but mail rarely arrived that way. This morning, though, there was one letter, and she recognized it immediately.

Kate,

How long does this have to go on? How many people have to die before you will address the issue at hand? I can help you take this guy
out of circulation within a very short time, if only you will help me. I’m old, I’m ill, and I don’t want to spend my last days in this joint.
You ask, how could a man in prison help to catch a rampaging murderer on the outside? The answer is, I once knew him,
and I recognize his technique. I want to be a good citizen, but I want to die free, too. Help me help you.