The Candidate (9 page)

ON HER WAY OUT TO LaGuardia, Erica calls Becky.

“Hello, Erica,” she answers. She doesn't quite sound like her usual overeager self. She almost sounds a little spooked.

“Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, yes, fine. I was just . . . doing my laundry. Down in the laundry room. I might be a bit winded. I heard the phone from out in the hall and ran to answer it.”

Funny, it only rang twice.

“Okay. Listen, I have to fly out of town for a breaking story. Can you spend the night at my apartment?”

The apartment has a spare bedroom—originally the maid's room—behind the kitchen. This is the first time Erica has asked her to sleep over, but Becky has earned her trust.

“Of course. That's exciting about the breaking news. Where are you flying to?”

“Detroit.”

There's a pause and then Becky asks, “Does this have to do with the Buchanan bombing?”

Erica wonders how much she should tell Becky—loose lips sink scoops. She probably shouldn't even have told her
where
she was going.

“I should keep that confidential for now.”

“Of course, I understand. But you're going to Detroit?”

“Can you make dinner? If not I can ask Yelena.”

“No, I can handle dinner for sure.”

Erica looks out the taxi window and sees a mother herding her three young children across the street. “Becky?”

“Yes?”

“How do you think Jenny is doing?”

“I think she's doing well, all in all. She does worry about you. The danger you put yourself in.”

“If she brings it up, can you please reinforce that it's my job? And that I'm very careful?”

“Of course. I tell her how important your work is.”

“Thank you. I shouldn't be gone more than a day. Call me if anything comes up, anything at all.”

“I'll take care of everything. Don't worry.”

AS SOON AS SHE HANGS up, Becky reaches for the secure phone, the one that was handed to her on the street by a stranger an hour ago. Just as the lady who called told her it would be: “Go downstairs and walk around the block. A man will hand you a package. Be a good girl. Don't screw this up, Becky. If you do screw it up, we'll have to tell Erica that you stole her scarf and her soap, and what you did with them.”

Picking up the phone fills Becky with some weird combination of fear and excitement. She would never, ever,
ever
betray Erica, but she has to be a good girl. Or else they'll punish her and tell everyone that she's a bad girl—
bad girl, bad girl
—and she won't be able to help Erica take care of Jenny anymore and that's
so
important. Erica and Jenny
need
her.

The phone is so strange and fancy, as thin and light as a wafer, and it can only dial one number. In a way, it makes Becky feel important. She presses the dial button.

“Yes?” The woman's voice is so strong it sends a shiver down Becky's spine.

“Erica is flying out to Detroit. I think it's related to the Buchanan bomber.”

“You
think
?”

“She wouldn't tell me, but I could tell by the way she wouldn't tell me that it was, probably. I'm sorry. Was that a bad sentence?”

“Anything else?”

“She asked me to take care of Jenny and sleep over tonight.”

The voice softens into a purr, an icy purr. “Good girl, little Becky girl. You spend the night with Jenny.”

“I'm a good girl? You won't tell on me?”

The voice goes cold again. “Keep your eyes and ears open.”

After Becky hangs up she sits on the edge of her bed and rocks back and forth . . . back and forth . . . back and forth.

EILEEN IS WAITING TO GREET Erica at the network's jet, which is parked beside the private plane runway at LaGuardia. Eileen is tall and thin, with glasses and dark spiky hair, a little nerdish and gawky, pretty much unable to sit still, a natural-born detail-obsessed producer.

The plane takes off, and Erica studies her file on Tim Markum. She's fascinated by his nonlife—the fact that his apartment was bare, that he had no visible means of income, that he paid his bills with money orders. He grew up middle class outside Missoula, Montana. Even then he was the kind of kid who blended in—when his former teachers and classmates were asked what they remember about him, many drew a blank. In fact, his most distinguishing characteristic seems to be his total lack of impact.

He went on to the University of Arizona but dropped out after two semesters. That was three years ago. Where has he been since? And what compelled him to commit such a horrific act? Surely not his obsession with Chinese fetish porn. Which has created a bit of a challenge for the news media—how do you delicately describe an addiction to videos that go way beyond everyday fantasies into disturbingly hardcore practices? The tabloid websites suffer no such inhibitions, and
they're having a field day with clips of Mistress Anna May Wrong and her colleagues in full whip-snapping action.

When analyzing behavior as shocking and evil as Markum's, Erica keeps an open mind. His motive could have been political, but there's not a shred of evidence that it was. In fact, the man has never registered to vote. It could have been a personal vendetta against the Buchanans for some irrational reason, but there's no evidence that they ever met. It could have been self-aggrandizing, the product of a deluded and paranoid mind. Is Markum schizophrenic? Again, there's no record of hospitalizations, ER visits, or previous psychotic episodes. Or, just possibly, was he under the command of someone? Someone who ordered him to commit the crime? Someone who had taken control of his mind? As Martin Vander said, cult members who are in effect brainwashed become unable to think independently.

It's a fascinating and horrifying case, and Erica is glad she made the decision to fly to Detroit—there's no substitute for being on the ground. She wants to get a firsthand look at this monster, who was apprehended at the Canadian border by an eagle-eyed TSA agent in spite of a beard that disguised his baby-face features and a false Canadian passport.

The plane banks in for a landing. Erica has never been to Detroit—has anyone?—but even from the air she can see its graceful old office buildings, haunting vestiges of its days as an industrial powerhouse. It's hard not to root for this classic American underdog.

Eileen has booked them into a Hyatt near the courthouse. The room is generic to the point of parody, but Erica finds the muted hues and no-frills design strangely calming. And she needs to slow down a little. Markum's arrest is a big break and an important story, but Erica can't let go of her meeting with Vander and his words about Mike Ortiz's affect. Or the fact that Markum seems similarly robotic. Somewhere, way in the back of her mind, a suspicion is taking shape—could the two stories possibly be related?

After a swim and a workout and an early dinner with Eileen, who
seems incapable of talking about anything but work, Erica heads up to her room and calls Jenny.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How's it going there?”

“Fine. We had ravioli for dinner. I helped make the mushroom sauce.”

“And homework?”

“All done. I'm just watching
48 Hours.
”

“Jenny, you know I worry about you watching all those murder shows.”

“I worry about you being blown up by a bomb.”

How can she answer that? “Where's Becky?”

“She's in her room, on her phone.”

Her
room. “Jenny, that's the spare bedroom, the guest bedroom.” And why does Becky have to go back there to take her calls? “Can I speak to her, please?”

“She seemed like she wanted to be alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the call came in, she started to talk in, like, a whisper. Then she went into her room and closed the door.”

“Well, please go knock and tell her I want to talk to her.”

“I don't want to bother her.”

“Do what I asked, please.”

Jenny sighs and Erica can hear her padding through the apartment. Then there's a knock.

“I'll be out in just a minute, Jenny.”

“Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay.” Erica hears the door open, and then Becky says in a rush, “Hi there. We had a nice ravioli dinner, and then I checked her homework and it looked good, so we bargained for a TV show.”

“I don't like her watching those true-crime shows. And I'm okay with you making personal calls, but please keep your door open. You just never know.”

“I'm sorry. I won't do it again. It was just that it was a . . . um, a fella, a boy, a guy I've gone out on a couple of dates with. I'm sorry. I'll tell him not to call me again when I'm here. I mean, I won't talk to him again when I'm here.”

Erica sighs and reminds herself how young Becky is. Dinner went well; homework is done; what's the harm of a little phone flirting? “Not a big deal.”

“Are you in Detroit?”

“I am.”

There's a pause and then Becky says, “I saw that they caught the Buchanan bomber there.”

“Yes, they did.”

“I guess his arraignment is going to be tomorrow.”

Erica pauses before saying, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Erica hangs up and looks out the window at the lights of the struggling city. Something about Becky's tone was unsettling, almost as if she were dissembling. And she's grown so curious about Erica's schedule, about her every move. Erica brushes away her concerns—after all, Becky wants to be in the news business, where curiosity is a must. And Erica has probably been throwing too many personal—and not enough professional—chores at her. The bottom line is that she's doing a good job.

Erica closes the curtains and gets into bed with her laptop, intending to work on her coverage of Markum's arraignment in the morning, but she has a hard time concentrating. She gets out of bed and does a half hour of Tae Kwon Do, working up a good sweat. Erica first started to practice Tae Kwon Do when she was a freshman at Yale, and she found it helped her deal with the anxieties triggered by the high-pressure, high-privilege school. She learned how to defend herself—both literally and figuratively: the practice stresses courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-discipline, and invincibility. She saw her early classes as lessons in adulthood, and she's kept up her practice ever
since. When she's done, she feels a sweet fatigue spread over her limbs. She climbs back into bed.

But sleep doesn't come. What do come are images—haunting, almost fun-house images of Mike Ortiz flashing his spectacular smile.

ERICA IS IN THE SOARING lobby of Detroit's Levin Courthouse, a stately Art Deco building. By not announcing the time of Markum's arraignment until an hour ago, the FBI has been able to avoid the media circus. The Bureau did alert the victims' families immediately after Markum's arrest, and many have come to Detroit to witness the arraignment. Security is tight. Erica and her crew passed through metal detectors, were patted down and wanded, and were finally issued passes to wear prominently around their necks. In addition, the building's main entrance has been closed, and there are at least a dozen uniformed federal marshals present. The only other broadcast media present are a crew from a local station—Erica has definitely scooped the competition. There are about a dozen print and online journalists. All the media are contained behind rope barricades. Around them, lawyers, clerks, and defendants come and go, preoccupied with their own cases. The law grinds on.

Markum is going to be driven from the city jail, where he spent the night, to the back of the building and brought up through the basement. The mood among the reporters is somber and hushed. Erica
feels tense and very curious. She wants to get a look at this killer. And she wants to throw him a question. Just one: “Why?”

She watches the monitor just below the camera, the feed from GNN in New York, where anchor Patricia Lorenzo says, “We now go to Erica Sparks, who is live inside the Levin Courthouse in Detroit.”

“That's right, Pat. I'm in downtown Detroit, where Buchanan bombing suspect Timothy Markum is going to be arraigned before federal magistrate Deborah McGivern. Markum is being represented by prominent defense attorney Jeremy Munson, who is known for his flamboyant style and fierce tactics. Markum is expected to enter a not guilty plea and Judge McGivern will then set a tentative trial date. We are told that among those waiting in the courtroom are Paul and Judy Buchanan's four children, as well as relatives of the other victims of the brutal bombing, which convulsed our nation just four weeks ago.”

Down the hall an elevator door opens and Markum, surrounded by US marshals, is led out. Handcuffed and shackled, he shuffles along, his eyes trained straight ahead, devoid of any emotion.

“Here is Timothy Markum now, being led out of an elevator and escorted to the courtroom.” With that round baby face, slouchy posture, and chubby body, he doesn't look capable of killing a bug, let alone committing an act of terrorism that killed fifteen people and wounded dozens more.

“Mr. Markum, why did you do it?” Erica shouts.

He turns his head and looks at her, dead in the eye—and Erica sees a lost soul who doesn't know the answer to her question. It's almost as if he has one foot in this world and the other in some parallel universe, some dark, unfathomable place where none of the rules of civilization apply. The marshals tug him along.

Then a print journalist—a young man standing near Erica—pulls out a handgun and fires three shots into Markum's face, which explodes in a fusillade of flesh, blood, hair, and brains.

Erica's dress and face and hair are covered with splatter. She drops the mic, leans down, and heaves up a thin stream of bile. Then she
sucks air again and again, filling her lungs.
You have a job to do!
She grabs a handful of tissues and wipes off her face, picks up the mic, and stands up just in time to see the shooter put the gun into his own mouth and pull the trigger.