The Jefferson Allegiance (10 page)

“Some kind of short sword.”

“A professional,” Ducharme said.

“How would you know that?” Burns asked.

“I’m a professional. Plus, an amateur wouldn’t have gotten to General LaGrange. The hand being cut on McBride, though, indicates some level of emotion. The killer probably didn’t get all she wanted from McBride either.”

Burns was about to say something when there was a knock at the door. He got up and cracked it open to talk to someone.

Ducharme couldn’t hear what they were saying, so he turned to Evie and was about to ask her something when she pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head. Ducharme turned back as Burns returned to his chair and stood behind it.

“You must have powerful friends for someone who doesn’t exist,” he said to Ducharme as he pulled the switchblade out of the table and snapped it closed. “I’ve been instructed to let you go.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “If you think of anything that could help our investigation, anyone who might have done this to your general, give me a call. If you don’t mind,” he added, his voice dripping sarcasm.

Ducharme stood and took the card. “My gun.”

Burns reached underneath his coat, retrieved the MK-23 and handed it over.

Ducharme checked the chamber, and then slid it in his holster. “And where’s my truck and Sergeant Major Kincannon?”

“Both waiting outside the front doors,” Burns said. “Pretty high-speed ride. Modified at the hanger in Lakehurst?”

“Nice try.” Ducharme took a step for the door, but paused. “Is Ms. Tolliver still being held? You said she wasn’t a suspect.”

“That’s the interesting thing,” Burns said. He looked at Evie. “I think you have even more powerful friends than Colonel Ducharme. I’ve been ordered to get you immediate transportation to wherever you want to go, and to assist you in any way possible.” He grimaced. “And to apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you, Ms. Tolliver.”

Ducharme folded his arms, staring at Burns, who was pissed. That apology had cost him. Who was powerful enough to force Burns to eat crow?

Evie shook her head. “There’s no need for you to apologize. I want to help catch Mister McBride’s killer.” She looked at the table. “May I have the disks and the other contents of Mister McBride’s briefcase, please?”

“They’re evidence.”

“It’s two hundred years old,” Evie said. “Surely it’s not important to your investigation.”

Burns crossed his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t mean giving you evidence from a double homicide to take with you.”

Evie faced him squarely. “Colonel Ducharme and I had the disks and the briefcase, not the victims. And since we’re not suspects, it’s not evidence.”

A twitch crossed Burns’s face. “You can have the disks.”

“I want the briefcase and everything that was in it.”

The two stood toe to toe. “We tried turning on the laptop,” Burns finally said. “Everything in it was encoded. Not password protected, but encoded. A very sophisticated program that is basically an electronic one-time pad. I’m told by my experts that a thumb drive with the decipher code is needed because it’s a randomly generated pattern.”

“And?”

“Do you have the thumb drive?”

“No.”

Burns waited, then sighed and stepped back. “They’ll have the briefcase, with the computer, ready for you at the front desk.”

Ducharme turned to Evie, impressed. “Would you like a ride, or would you prefer the FBI give you one?”

“Thank you,” Evie said and left the room.

Ducharme looked at Burns. “What are you going to do now?”

“Conduct a double homicide investigation,” Burns snapped.

Chapter Five

Burns paused before entering the observation room. He pulled a worn, laminated card out of the sweatband of his fedora. The hat—and card—had been given to him by his mother when he graduated the FBI Academy. She’d been a fan of the old movies, when the G-Men wore fedoras and took down the bad guys with tommy-guns blazing. He’d been slightly embarrassed then, but over the years he’d grown to love the hat and the words on the card:

I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

He squred his shoulders and slid the card back into the sweatband, and then entered the observation room behind the one-way glass. He was surprised to see that the two detail FBI agents were gone, replaced by a short, rough-looking older man, obviously someone with more rank than a field agent. He had a bald head, a smashed nose and ice-blue eyes. Those eyes pierced right through Burns.

“I’m Assistant Director in Charge, Turnbull. I’m your liaison to the National Security Council. General LaGrange was an important person.” Turnbull pointed at the screen of a GPS monitor. A dot moved out of the interrogation room and down the corridor toward the elevators. “The transmitter is broadcasting clearly,” Turnbull said. He had an open file on the desk.

“Where are the two officers who gave me the transmitter?” Burns asked.

“I’m handling this,” Turnbull said. “But you lead the murder investigation.”

“Then what are you handling?” Burns wanted to know. He received no answer. “You’re letting me take point so you don’t catch any shit. This goes wrong, it’ll be my hit. It goes right, you’ll grab the credit anyway.”

“There will be no credit,” Turnbull said. “We’ve got the story under wraps. There won’t be any news of it in the newspapers or on TV.” He smiled without humor, putting a finger to his lips. “This is hush-hush.”

“Right.”

“You’re one of our top profilers from what I understand.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Turnbull said. “I just read it.” He held up the file marked “Top Secret, For Official Use Only,” on the cover: Burns’s personnel folder.

“How did you get that?” Burns winced as soon as he asked the question. An ADiC could get anyone’s file.

Turnbull flipped up a couple of pages. “You have a degree in psychology. Interesting. I suppose that helps you as a profiler.”

“At times. Experience is the best teacher.”

“What do you make of that Thomas Jefferson, Edgar Allan Poe bullshit?” Turnbull asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Think we have a serial killer on our hands?”

“I doubt it,” Burns said.

“Why?”

“These murders were very controlled and efficient with no physical evidence left by the killer other than footprints in the snow. Although the killer tortured the men, I think it was most likely a result of trying to get information from them, not for some sick pleasure, although there might have been some secondary gain.”

“’Secondary gain?’”

“Some sense of satisfaction, perhaps even arousal, that the killer isn’t consciously aware of. Or perhaps she is and she’s using some other justification to cover her real motive of enjoyment. But this isn’t just about the killing. There’s a higher purpose to these murders.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s not a serial killer. Tolliver and Ducharme figured out she’s taking trophies—the ring from the General and the flowers and bottle from McBride. That’s indicative of a serial killer, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” Burns said. “Or she could be gathering proof.”

“’Proof?’”

“Proof of death. That she actually did the murders and was taking trophies to show someone else. Or they could be—“ Burns paused.

“Go on,” Turnbull prompted.

“The scene at the Zero Milestone was staged,” Burns said. “Maybe a message being sent. The killer could have taken the items she did as part of something larger.”

“Interesting. So what’s going on?” Turnbull pressed.

Burns gave him a bland look. “Tell whoever you’re reporting to, that you’ll know what I know, as soon as I know it. OK?”

“Don’t push me,” Turnbull said. “You follow orders.”

“I follow my oath and my orders.”

The room was still for a while.

“Who does Ducharme work for?” Burns finally asked.

“We’re still trying to ascertain that,” Turnbull said, “but probably the Activity, as you noted. A rather innocuous name for some very wicked Special Operations types the Pentagon uses for their dirty work around the world. They’re not supposed to operate state-side.”

“They’re not supposed to exist,” Burns said.

“True,” Turnbull said. “Strange, isn’t it.” It was not a question.

Burns thought about it. “This doesn’t make sense.”

He waited, but again, there was no more forthcoming. Turnbull turned to the small TV and pressed play. The interrogation room appeared, Ducharme and Tolliver alone in it. Ducharme turned to her to obviously ask a question, but she shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips.

“A secret keeper,” Turnbull said.

“Not the only one.”

“She’s full of useless information.” Turnbull was staring intently at the screen.

“Perhaps,” Burns said, but he thought otherwise. Tolliver was one of the most intriguing people who’d ever sat across from him in an interrogation room. As was Ducharme. “The head and the heart,” he said.

“What?” Turnbull was still staring at the screen, fiddling with the controls.

“The head and the heart of the two victims might be more than just from a letter by Jefferson. Their deaths have drawn Evie and Ducharme together. The head and heart.”

“Ducharme seems more analytical than passionate,” Turnbull said.

“It’s a veneer,” Burns said. “He’s wound tight. Losing his best friend four days ago, and then his best friend’s father tonight has hit him hard. And it seems a stretch that the two deaths are coincidence.”

Turnbull was still looking at the tracking screen. “Ducharme is moving and I’m willing to bet he’s got Tolliver with him. Weird, isn’t she?” Turnbull said it without any passion or particular interest. “How do you see her as the head? Because it’s full of bullshit information?”

“Actually, my sense is she’s cold and suppressed only externally when dealing with people she doesn’t know. She’s a cauldron of emotion underneath. She learned the control somehow, and not in graduate school. Makes her almost dissociative, which is a dangerous state for her to be in. The memory thing is interesting. How she can bring up apparently disparate facts that are actually somehow connected.”

“’Interesting’?”

“Yeah. Where’s her file?”

“Don’t have it yet,” Turnbull said.

“You’ve got my file and information on Ducharme, but you don’t have Tolliver’s?”

“Odd, isn’t it?” Turnbull said.

“Not the word I would choose.”

“One has to be careful about word choices,” Turnbull said.

“Only with certain people.”

“So they’ll be heading to Baltimore soon.”

Burns was surprised for a second, and then nodded. “Yes. Ducharme isn’t the type to let go of something. He served with General LaGrange. He strikes me as one of those people to whom honor is very important.”

Turnbull closed Burns’s file.

“What else do you have on Ducharme?” Burns asked.

“I don’t have Ducharme’s classified file yet,” Turnbull said. “But he had a life before going into the military that I was able to access. A rather interesting life.”

“Interesting in what way?” Burns asked.

“He’s from New Orleans, but his family history stretches back to the original French occupation of Haiti in the eighteen century. He’s descended from a long line of soldiers, gangsters, and men of violence.”

“That’s an interesting genetic stew,” Burns said.

Turnbull shrugged. “Aren’t they all the same?”

“Not necessarily,” Burns said.

Turnbull stared at him for a second, then stood. “I have a quick reaction force available that’s already moving to Baltimore. Just in case. You let me know what else you need. Everything comes through me. Every report goes to me. You talk to no one else about this. Got it?”

“Yeah.” Burns paused. “What about the disks?”

“What about them?”

“They’ve got to be important.”

Turnbull shrugged. “As Tolliver said—they’re old. Probably keepsakes.”

Burns shook his head but didn’t respond to that. “If Ducharme and Tolliver aren’t suspects, why have we tagged them?”

“I think they’ll lead us to what we want to find.”

“The killer?”

“Of course.”

************

Navy Captain Kevin O’Callaghan finished his thirty minutes on the treadmill precisely ten minutes before midnight. That gave him enough time to shower, put on his robe, and go to his desk to review the latest intelligence briefing from Naval Special Warfare Command for exactly one hour, so he could be in bed at 1 AM, to get his four hours of sleep, which was the maximum he would allow himself. He considered four hours a luxury given that was the total amount allowed during the five days of Hell Week during SEAL qualification. The fact his Qualification was twenty years in the past wasn’t something he dwelled on. The fact he didn’t have to be anywhere until ten in the morning wasn’t even a factor.