Death of an Intern (33 page)

M
y cell phone rang. It was Max. “That was quick.”
“I just dropped Mr. Brown off.”
“Party time?”

“It has that feeling.”

I heard a positive tone in his voice. “Should I go to your office?”

“No. Are you up-to-date on your serial killer story?”

“Including the new find?” Meaning the mirror.

“Yes. We're close, but it may still take a lot more shoe leather.”

Lassiter had liked my hospital story, but suggested I round off what she felt were a couple of rough edges. I went back to my desk, made the corrections and took it back.

Lassiter planned to run it as a Metro page-one piece with a headline. Maybe it would force the Health Department's hand. I knew it would get the radio talk shows' attention. That was always fun for me, the furor my articles created.

But for now, I will have to wait with everyone else for the results of MPD's search.

W
hen expectations crescendo, heightened anxieties create false perceptions. Hype and hyperbole poured out of people's brains and into their mouths. It was nearly 6:30 on a day that felt like a week. Max and MPD Chief Douglass sat in a conference room, now dubbed
The War Room
. Take-out food bags, pizza boxes, soft and hot drink cups were strewn over the large table, with fresh supplies stacked on side tables waiting to be devoured. The background noise was not Mozart, the Beatles or the Grateful Dead, but static and occasional blips of conversation from portable communication devices.

At 6:32, Detective W. R. Hayes walked in carrying a folder and some printouts. “They're working their way through the lists, Captain, Chief. Here are the ones that don't have a phone number or had one that's been disconnected. It's an alphabetized list, and they're into the G's.”

Hayes handed Max the folder and placed the printouts on the conference table. He then helped himself to pizza and a soda. Max slowly paged through the sheets, when he suddenly stopped and lurched forward in his chair, as though launched by a great force.

“Excuse me, Chief, but the world is full of surprises.” Max pointed to a name on the printout. “It's a black van owned by Elizabeth Agnes Carr. This could be the former employee from the Vice President's office who was the former lover of the Vice President's sister. Carr is currently under close, covert observation by the FBI.”

The chief stared at the paper. “It says she lives on 29th Street Northwest.”

“She used to. That's why no telephone is listed. Carr's the one who moved into a Virginia condo last fall with that unaccountably large cash down payment that got our friends curious.”

The chief shook his head. “She couldn't be the serial killer; the first two women were raped.”

“True. And the mirror may not have come from her van. But this is too much of a coincidence to overlook. We need to see that van,” Max said as he pushed a button on the console phone. “Delia. Bring me the
Intern file
. We may have something here.” He then punched in another number.

“Mr. Davis' office,” a female voice answered.

“I'm Captain Max Walsh, Homicide MPD. This is urgent for Mr. Brown.” His pulse was racing. The wait was short.

“Max.” said Reed Davis, a.k.a. Mr. Brown.

“We've got ownership of a van. Beth Carr.”

“Our Beth Carr?”

“Elizabeth Agnes Carr,” Max almost gagged in his excitement. “I have nothing here with her middle name, do you?”

“Hold on.”

Max had a sinking feeling in his gut and a flash of pain across his lower back. Oh please, he thought. Not that he wanted her to be the killer, but he hoped she would at least be the owner.

“It's her.”

“The registration address is on 29th Street Northwest in the District.”

Again a pause. “Yup. That was her apartment before moving into the Virginia condo,” the FBI special agent confirmed.

“Hold on,” Max requested. He turned to his chief. “She's the one.”

“But she now lives in Virginia, will they—”

Max put a hand up, wanting to hear Davis. “Say again, Reed.”

“We'll bring her in and question her. With you present, of course.”

Max looked at the chief. “They'll do it.”

“When?”

“How soon, Reed?”

“Carr and our mole are in North Arlington at a Jazz Club tonight. How about first thing in the morning? We'll get permission to tap her phone immediately. I'll have an agent make a dead drop to our mole tonight.”

“Will the mole bring her in?”

“No. We'll pick her up in the morning when she arrives at work. The mole will remain free to be her friend. Carr could be involved, but I find it highly unlikely she's the killer.”

“She could know the killer without knowing that person is the killer,” Max said. “Like loaning the van to someone. We need to see that van fast.

I doubt she keeps it where she now lives.”

“Give me the registration information and I'll have our folks search all the streets and parking lots in Fairlington Village,” Reed offered.

Max read him all the particulars on the van. “Thanks, Reed. I'll see you first thing at your place. I am looking forward to our chat with Ms. Beth Carr.”

“A
re you still at work?” I asked Max, when I answered my cell.
“Yes, and it's one of my more fulfilling days. We have an owner of the van, and we know the owner.”

“Know?”

“We will do the interview first thing in the morning.”

“Why wait?” My voice jumped up a half octave, and my pulse quickened.

“Our friends are handling it.” That meant the person was not in D.C. “In fact, a friend is with Number One as we speak.”

“Oh my gosh!” It was Beth Carr. “How will they handle it?”

“They want to protect that relationship, so the friend will be kept out of the initial interview. They'll intercept Number One arriving at work in the morning.”

“But that's in D.C. Why don't you—?”

“I'll be at the party in our friend's house.”

“And how close can I get?” I asked, already dreading the answer, since it was out of Max's direct control.

“Outside, but very close. I'll call you in the morning. Be at work by 8:00. That way you won't be far away.”

“Thanks, Max. Nobody except you…” I choked back my emotions.

“And we would not be where we are at this moment without you. It's a wash. Talk to you in the morning.” He disconnected.

Beth Carr. Somebody she knows used her van. Maybe Manchester. He did special favors for the future President of the U.S.A. Beth's connection begged the question: Would Janet have died if she had aborted? Could it be that a future President didn't want a bastard child running around, literally under his nose. Some former Presidents might have populated the Ozarks or Cape Cod with them, but Grayson was known as squeaky clean.

Was becoming President worth a murder? Certainly powerful people were capable of directing considerable amounts of force with immense amounts of money to conspire in unspeakable actions. Yet, Frederick “Rick” Grayson could be sitting on top of a time bomb not of his own making.

Jerry came home and we sat up for hours going over every piece of evidence, real and circumstantial. I made more notes. He made sure we ate.

M
ax called me from FBI headquarters at 8:00 a.m. “We are about to have a little Q and A. It may take a couple of hours. I'll call when it's over.”

“I will be right outside their front door,” I said excitedly.

“You better pack a lunch; it could take a while.”

Max disconnected. I put three snacks and a fresh bottle of water in my bag. The walk to FBI headquarters would take me about twenty minutes. I'd leave around 9:00 and hope for a restaurant to be open in the area, in case I had a very long wait. My pregnancy made it difficult to predict exactly what was going on inside me. I planned to use the ladies room on my way out. For now, no liquids.

I reached FBI headquarters at 9:40. The walk took me through McPherson Square, where Max and I brown-bagged it from time to time. I passed the National Press Club that I still had not joined and walked down to 14th and E streets. It was a block from the Hotel Washington with its rooftop Terrace Restaurant.

I walked north on E, adjacent to the long triangular space called Freedom Plaza. A place for celebrations, demonstrations, and arts and craft shows. I passed the historic National and Warner theatres and in two blocks reached the Hoover Building, FBI headquarters.

It was a lovely spring day and I enjoyed the walk. I found a low landscape wall near the entrance that I could use for a seat. I read, took an occasional bite or swig, and walked down the block and back. The temperature was eighty with low humidity.

I called Mary. “Ms. Lassiter has alerted me I might be working late.”

Fortunately, things like that didn't faze Mary, who had the placidity to handle tumultuous events, while keeping her reporters, mostly me, on an even keel. It was a special talent.

At 10:45, Max emerged from FBI headquarters.

“What did she say?” I gushed, half running to him.

“She was cooperative, but confused. She owns a van that she hasn't used since last October with…guess who?”

I was pumped. “Frankie? Did she say that?”

“No. However, I assumed so, because you had said Carr and Grayson were lovers back then. She, however, chose not to say, which made no difference because Carr is not our killer. The FBI mole gives her an ironclad alibi for the night of the Alvarado killing. They were together all night.”

“That's taking undercover to a new level.”

“I have detectives and a forensic team heading to a private garage in Northeast near Capitol Hill to inspect the van. We're back to a waiting game, but this could be a shorter one.”

My heart was pounding with anticipation. “If the mirror fits the van, could that mean Frankie might be involved?”

“That would fit nicely with your earlier theories. Come on, I'll take you back to your office. I have to meet with the chief.”

I called Mary and asked her to tell Lassiter I was on my way with big news.

When I entered the newsroom, I went directly to my news assistant's desk.

“Ms. Lassiter awaits you.”

I dropped off my stuff and headed to my editor's office. There were four people there. I knew two of them: Managing Editor Barton Williams and Lassiter's associate editor, Van Peoples. I didn't recognize the third man or the woman in the group.

Lassiter waved me in. “We were just talking about you.”

All four heads turned in my direction, and the men stood. I felt a slight flush. I could be entering some tricky waters. What had I told Lassiter and what had Lassiter told them? I had to place faith in my boss that she had not given out any details. I put on a faint smile, as I stepped in.

Lassiter began the introductions. “You know Barton.”

“Yes. How are you, sir?”

He nodded. I felt like a little girl.

“And of course, Van.”

We nodded and smiled.

“I don't believe you know our legal counsels, Sandra Farmer and Russell Prendergast. Pull up that chair.”

I dutifully did so, as the men resumed their seats.

“How are you feeling?” Van asked, but not solicitously. He looked at the two lawyers. “Laura is pregnant. About two months?” He looked to me for affirmation.

“Just about, but I'm fine,” I confirmed.

“This is a fact-finding, what-if session,” Barton Williams said in official-sounding tones. Not the language or tone used in editorial sessions with Lassiter.

I smiled and looked at my boss, who was sitting back passively. Some advice Jerry once gave me popped into my head. When he prepared clients for trial, the hardest thing, next to getting them to tell the truth, was getting them to not answer a statement, to be patient, and to wait for a question. I would wait. There was a long pause. I'd wait. This was their party and I was the late guest.

“Well,” the managing editor said, shifting in his chair, “what's the situation with the serial killer? Any leads?”

“MPD is hot on a couple of things, but they aren't telling the media.” This was true, if I separated myself from the rest of the media. Lassiter would catch my distinction and know I had learned more from Max, but I couldn't make it public.

“Avery was saying you had a meeting this morning, one that might bring forth some positive results.” He looked to Lassiter for affirmation.

She said nothing. Maybe she had said too much.

“I wasn't actually in one. I was close by one, waiting for it to conclude.”

Lassiter frowned at me. I picked up her cue that I was being too tight with my information. “I believe MPD knows more than they are saying while they wait for corroboration.” I said that with more calm than I had thought possible.

“Oh?” The managing editor looked to Lassiter.

“It appears,” my editor said, “the police and the FBI have a lead on the vehicle that was used in the killings. However, after the sniper-killing fiasco and all the erroneous descriptions about the vehicle, MPD is being tight-lipped.”

Lassiter looked at me, and I smiled and gave her a faint nod. Okay, I'd give them a little more. “I have it on good authority we may hear something very soon, this evening maybe, about the vehicle and its owner.”

Lassiter and Peoples looked at each other. They knew exactly to whom I referred, and knew I had stuff the rest of the media did not. My boss confirmed that when she gave a slight nod to Van.

The lawyers looked the same as when I had come in. Thank God, Jerry wasn't like one of them. Barton Williams looked uncomfortable, but being a veteran of the journalistic wars, he must have understood my meaning.

“That's what I was coming in to tell you, boss.”

“Thanks, Laura. Barton?”

The managing editor shook his head. Lassiter didn't have to ask Van. We three would talk later.

I rose, as did the men. “Mr. Williams, boss, Van, Ms. Farmer, Mr. Prendergast, have a good day.” I walked through the newsroom to my desk and felt my adrenaline drain away with every step. I buzzed Mary, took a couple of long pulls on my water bottle, and leaned back in my chair. Neither car accident had taken as much out of me emotionally as that meeting.

Mary arrived. “What did they do to you?”

“I was fine in there. The walk to here is when I lost it.” I took another long pull on my bottle.

“Take some deep breaths. Give that baby some oxygen. You've probably cut off its supply,” Mary exhorted.

I followed her instructions and took several long, slow, deep breaths, after which I felt a big improvement. “Thanks. I didn't know what Lassiter had told them, but I saw some very disappointed faces in that room, especially Barton Williams.”

“Oh?”

“I tried to put myself in Lassiter's situation. What would she have said to them, and what could I say that wouldn't make her look bad while demonstrating I was on top of the story? And you know what? I think I did just that.”

“No wonder you're such a mess. I bet that took more out of you than either of your accidents, knowing you.”

I could have kissed the matronly mother of two. Mary nailed me perfectly. I could never tell this caring person how much she meant to me. It might ruin our relationship.