As I mentioned, Mr. Townsend looked awful, and, less charitably, I thought, a little out of it. The eyes that were once un-blinkingly laserlike now flitted epileptically, and his pupils appeared gla.s.sy and dilated. I presumed he had been prescribed some form of medication, which was better than drowning his grief in booze, and probably cheaper.

One of us had to speak, but I had rushed over here in a mental blur, and I wasn't exactly sure how to start this, much less where I wanted to take it, or definitely where it would end. Fortunately, he looked at me and said, "I heard about your role in catching these . . . Well, you took a big chance. I thank you."

I nodded.

After a moment he asked me, "What were they like?"

I knew why he asked, and I wanted to tell him the people who murdered his wife were worthy foes, that our collective failure to get them before the ax fell had nothing to do with our inept.i.tude, it had everything to do with their staggering genius. But he deserved the truth.

I took a deep breath. "I spent considerable time with the woman, MaryLou. She was wild and trampy, viscerally cunning and treacherous. I observed Hank for only a few moments. A large man, physically powerful, though a hair's breadth from a moron. Wizner had more brains than the others, and certainly he had impressive technological skills."

"He was the ringleader?"

"I think he planned the killingsthe single acts themselves. But he had neither the talent nor the background to construct the overarching plot, to arrange the environment, to track the targets, or to design the complexities that surrounded each of the murders."

"What about what he and his ring accomplished at Fort Hood? Some of those thefts showed impressive ingenuity and boldness."

"That was Fort Hood, where he spent much of his life, and where he was on the inside. Also those were thefts committed against a community that had no idea he was preying on them and failed to take proper precautions. This was Washington, our turf. We were aware he was here, we were aware what he was doing, and we did our best to take him down."

He contemplated this, and me, a moment. He said, "I hadn't realized they were so utterly dependent on Barnes. All this, over. . . over what? Family shame." He added, "In thirty-two years in the Bureau, I went up against all types. It's dismaying to see the shades of evil that reside in some people's hearts." He stared at his hands a moment, and I knew this was a deeply troubled man who had spent his professional life fighting crime, and, in the end, it landed on his own doorstep in the most horrible way imaginable. He was struggling to understand why, but the truth was why no longer mattered.

After a moment he looked up at me and said, "I believe that most of us have the capacity to kill, but it is the rare few with the capacity to murder. Don't you think that's so?"

"Certainly that has been my experience. I served with men in combat who killed without hesitation or the slightest remorse. But if you told them to commit murder, to kill for self-gain or for a cause that was immoral, illegal, or trivial, you'd better be able to run fast."

He said, "We come from different worlds, yet not all that different."

"No, not all that different."

"Well, it's over." He looked at me and asked, "Are you a religious man?"

"I am."

"We buried Joan last week. At least I had the satisfaction of standing at her grave and telling her the people who murdered her are all in h.e.l.l."

I nodded. Though I was no longer so sure of it.

In fact, the time had come to find out, and I said, "If you don't mind, I have a few questions."

"You've earned that right."

"Perhaps not." I asked, "A few months back, you appointed a new SAC for National Security at the D.C. Metro Office. How was that decision made?"

The swift change in topic momentarily confused him. "What's this about?"

"I'm not ready to answer that. Please."

"All right. Well. . . Andy Sinclair retired from the job about seven months ago. Our board that manages sensitive selections put two names before me, John Fisk and Jennifer Margold. John's qualifications were, in my view, more impressive than Jennifer's. She had some brick time and she did well. But essentially she was an ace profiler without Washington or high-level bureaucratic experience, which is important for that sensitive job."

"So you chose Fisk?"

He nodded. "d.a.m.ned shame what happened to him. John was a good and able man."

"He was killed three months ago?"

"Murdered. Yes . . . though closer to four months, I think."

"Did Jennie at any point make it known to you, or to others, that she didn't want the job?"

"I'm unaware of it. But it was my practice not to discuss personnel decisions with others, and certainly not with candidates. The FBI is not a democracy."

"Of course. Then John Fisk was murdered, and you appointed her?"

"That's right."

"Maybe she mentioned then that she wasn't interested."

"No. She was quite pleased. Why?"

"One more question . . . please." I was stretching his patience. But I saw a reluctant nod and before his mind changed, I asked, "Why Jennie in the first place?"

"Her record at Quantico."

"She was good?"

"Good is inadequate, Drummond. From a technical standpoint, she was a virtuoso. You're familiar with the program down there?"

"Essentially"

"They are our seers into the minds of our society's most serious criminals. A lot of science and fact-based study goes into their craft, but the best of them, like Jennifer, seem to have an uncanny instinct, almost a sixth sense for it."

He got up and placed another log in the fireplace. It was April, so the room was already stuffy and overheated, though I think his medication left him immune. Sweat was running down my forehead, and I felt like I was smothering. He said, "Jennifer's genius was recognized early. We paid for her advanced degrees. She was a.s.signed some of our most difficult cases. Believe me, she helped stop some of the worst monsters you can imagine."

Either it was the stifling heat or something else, but I suddenly felt ill. Truly ill. Ideas were popping off in my head, little firecrackers, and I was reeling. I abruptly stood and said, "Sir, thank you ... for your time . . . I. . . but I have to leave."

"And I'd like you to tell me what the h.e.l.l this is about."

"It might be about nothing."

But Mark Townsend was a smart man, with a lifelong cop's read on people. He looked annoyed and said, "Don't try that on me. Why are you here?"

I looked him in the eye and said, "I'm not sure I understand why I'm here. But I'll know shortly, and you'll be the first to hear."

He examined me a moment. "I suppose that will have to be good enough."

"In fact, sir, it will."

"I see. Well, thank you for stopping by."

"Again . . . my deepest condolences."

I walked out of Mark Townsend's office and his home. I could see his daughter, Janice, observing me through the living room window blinds as I made my way down the steps and across their driveway. I sat down in the car and drew a few heavy breaths. I tried to gather my thoughts, and after a few moments, I dialed the office of Major General Daniel Tingle.

His secretary answered and I identified myself. The general came on a moment later, and unfortunately, he remembered me and said, "Drummond, don't you and I have an appointment for a small talk?"

"And at the appropriate moment, General, I'll be there, a.s.s in hand, and you may gnaw to your heart's content."

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned." He laughed.

"But first, I need you to do something. I need you to do it very badly, and I need you to do it very fast."

He said, "Does this have to do with"

"General, I need younot an a.s.sistantyou, personally, to call the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico. I need you to ask what happened to Tanner's request for a.s.sistance on that Fort Hood case. This is very f.u.c.king important."

I gave him my cell number, and he agreed to call as soon as he had a response.

Sometimes that which should be plain and obvious is too obvious. Fact: Jennifer Margold was a renowned criminologistin Townsend's words, a prodigy in the foggy art of comprehending the criminal mind, criminal behavior, and criminal techniques. I could barely bring myself to think it, but who more than she had the know-how, opportunity, and means to put this together?

The Secret Service's background checks flowed like a river through her office. She could pluck fish from that stream and apply her particular wizardry to decide whom among those mostly normal men and women best met her need, best fit her notional construct of a homicidal maniac.

She had feigned complete ignorance when Townsend first raised the connection between Jason and his father. Yet I now knew Jennie had read the file on Jason Barnes, had read it months beforenoted his father's nameput two and two together, and asked Elizabeth to retrieve Calhoun's background report.

As a profiler and a trained psychiatrist, she would put Jason under her peculiar microscope and unmaskeven contrive and embellisha web of connections and aberrations ordinary investigators would never guess or imagine. With a little more patient digging, she would understand the unique pathologies of Jason Barnes's family. She would be confident of her ability to create an intoxicating illusion around Jason and, through guile and cleverness, persuade the rest of us that an ugly seed in Jason Barnes's soul had metastasized into a bloodl.u.s.t.

I conjured a mental picture of Jason Barnes in the moments before his death, seated in the chair beside me, inert, confused, fearful, helpless. He had absolutely no clue what he was doing, hog-tied to a chair in that room. He was not a killer. Possibly, he was forged to become a killer, but Jason Barnes, by finding refuge in his better self and in the higher callings of his G.o.d and country, eluded whatever destiny intended for him.

I thought back over the frantic two days Jennie and I had shared, from the moment we entered Terry Belknap's house to the final shootout. She had led me, and she had led the rest of the task force, down the road of leads and breaks, of miscues and misdirections that marked and marred the handling of this case.

It was Jennie who insisted that we interview Belknap's Secret Service detail. She knew Jason had been kidnapped the day before, and she drew our attention to him. His running shoes were lifted from his townhouse, worn probably by Clyde Wizner at Belknap's house, and then returned to his closet. Jennie made sure we found that d.a.m.ning clue, and afterward, it was a simple matter of following Jason's trail, as Jennie filled in the colors and contours of a paint-by-numbers portrait of a tortured soul, enraged and conflicted, punishing us for the sins of his monstrous father.

The phone rang. It was Tingle, and he said, "Drummond, I think Agent Margold was right."

"Right about what"

"The folks at Quantico tried to find that file. It disappeared."

"But. . ." Think, Drummond. "Don't they have a logging ... a tracking system . . . something?"

"Of course. The request was logged in six months ago. When it arrived, it was a.s.signed a lower priority and placed in a sort of hold status. Just as Agent Margold said, their procedure is to work emergency and higher-profile cases first, then the hold cases as they get to them."

"They have no idea how it disappeared?"

"They have an idea." After a moment he explained, "There's only one way it could have happened. Somebody who works at the unit removed the file and carelessly failed to log it out."

That was exactly what happened, I was sure, and carelessness had nothing to do with it. I now knew what I needed to know, and I bid the general farewell.

As she had with Jason, Jennie had probably sifted through hundreds of opened cases before she located Clyde, MaryLou, and Hank, who, individually and collectively, personified the resume for her plan. Or maybe notmaybe it was vice versa. Thinking back, the murders were tailored to fit their peculiar skills, each mirroring in some way their crimes at Fort Hood. As Jennie knew, practice makes perfect in crime, as in most human endeavors.

She gave them intimate insights into the defenses they needed to breach, and into the vulnerabilities and mindset of their victims, and their victims' defenders. After all, Jennie's office reviewed and provided physical support for the Secret Service and Supreme Court protection plansshe knew which victims were accessible, how, and when. As the task force responded to the wave of killings, as we adjusted our strategies and defenses, she adjusted hers, shifting from the most protected targets to the most careless, like h.o.r.n.y Danny Carter, or to the most clueless, like poor Joan Townsend.

It now looked so obvious I couldn't believe we never even suspected it. But it wasn't at all obvious. In fact, it was the most stunning fakery I had ever seen. Only one piece, in fact, could not have been more apparent.

We should all have noticed the intensely psychological nature of the campaign waged against us, a psychic blitzkrieg. We awoke one morning to a disaster, behind the power curve, gripped with desperation, and the relentless fusillade of ensuing murders ground us downleft us sleepless, demoralized, frantic, clawing at one another's throats, and, in the end, so myopically focused on the facts that we missed the overall pattern.

The Army has an entire branch dedicated to the pursuit of psychological warfare, an art intended not to kill and maim, but to incubate panic, fear, and confusion, to create division, and ultimately, to cause defeat. Jennie directed the campaign from the outside, and from the inside, she worked on our brittle psyches, selfish impulses, and frayed egos.

I got out of my car and walked slowly back to Mark Townsend's door. I rang the bell again, and pretty young Janice answered again. I walked back down the hallway to the office and sat down with Mr. Townsend and told him everything I knew.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

Using Mr. Townsend's phone, I called Larry, who rushed over with his apostles, Bob and Bill. They were antic.i.p.ating a confession and looked a little demoralized when that turned out not to be the case.

Also, I called Chief Eric Tanner, who arrived alone.

Any cop will tell you the hardest part of the job is narrowing the suspects. Once you know who, the whats, whens, and hows come fairly easily Once you know who, you wonder what took you so long.

Jennie's plan relied on misdirection. She led the dogs as we chased the fox, and we never once thought to sniff her tail. She was confident we wouldn't, and as I mentioned previously, we all know what overconfidence breeds: sloppiness. The trail of breadcrumbs she left in her wake was long and reckless.

Within a few short hours, Larry obtained her record of travel five months earlier, the three-day round trip to Killeen, the hotel she stayed in, the meals she charged, the rental car she used, and so forth. It wasn't hard, really. It was all there on her Bureau Visa card.

Bob obtained her cell phone records from the week of the killings. What those records revealed were Jennie's repeated calls to several cell phones registered under the name Chester Upyers, though billed to a guy named Clyde Wizner. That Clyde, what a wicked sense of humor. Who would've guessed?

Bill worked on becoming my buddy again. Fat chance.

Eric Tanner really didn't need to be there, but he had earned a front-row seat at the endgame, and I wanted him to have it. And to justify his presence, he updated us on what the CID gumshoes at Fort Hood had learned about Clyde Wizner, about MaryLou Johnson, and about Hank Mercer.

There's always something, and in Clyde's case it was a voracious gambling problem. He was a high roller on a low roller's dime, and from accounts at various casinos he had visited, Clyde didn't know how or when to push away from the table. His only winnings from Vegas were frequent flyer miles and, according to a scrub of his medical records, two cases of clap. As Mom, in her more ruminative moments, used to warn me, one vice always begets another. Also, interviews with his neighbors and some talkative regulars at a local redneck dive indicated Clyde and MaryLou were a hot item and had been for years.

Regarding MaryLou, she had a record: three counts of prost.i.tution, two for pa.s.sing bad checks, and sundry lesser offenses. Born and bred in a dilapidated trailer park on the western outskirts of Killeen, she never came close to the American dream. Also, people who lived there a long time remembered that Mary-Lou's mother, who never married, many years before used to date a guy named Clyde something-or-other, a soldier at Fort Hood, if they recalled rightly. The possibility here was fairly ugly and, we all agreed, more than we needed, and a lot more than we wanted to know.

Hank lived three apartments down the hall from MaryLou, had twice been inst.i.tutionalized, and had an IQ of 72. Neighbors in the apartment complex were shocked and dismayed to learn that he was an infamous thief and murderer. He was widely recalled as a gentle giant, helpful and compliant, a playful guy who liked to horse around with the little kiddies on the playground.

Eric Tanner had another interesting tidbit to pa.s.s on. Two of the civilian employees on his list of suspects at Fort Hood recalled being interviewed some five months earlier by a lady agent from the FBI. No, they didn't remember her name, but she was a looker and they'd know her if they ever saw her again.

So day turned Into evening, and we gathered together in -Mr. Townsend's tiny, overheated study We were all, I think, shocked and thoroughly depressed. Larry said to Townsend, "What we have, sir, is d.a.m.ning . . . but not d.a.m.ning enough. We can justify an arrest for conspiracy. Unfortunately nothing we have ties her directly to the most serious crimes, murder and extortion."

Bob seconded that view and further advised, "We could get a warrant, but an arrest would be premature at this point. We'll dig all night, but we shouldn't jeopardize our chances of a conviction."

Bill nodded agreeably Bill was everybody's pal. Bill would probably smile and nod even if I said we should just forget the whole thing. For the record, I preferred Larry over Bill. With Larry, you saw it coming, at least.

Mr. Townsend for some reason looked at me. He asked, "What do you think?"