Founders' Keeper (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 1) Read online

  Lauren looked at David and mouthed, “CC?”

  “Constitutional Convention,” he said to her. Seeing her confusion, he added, “The group of American founders who wrote the Constitution. So far, all of the messages have turned out to be quotes from convention delegates.”

  “I believe you investigative types call that a pattern, am I right?” Shelby asked.

  “Right as rain, Shel,” Martin said as he wrote out Rutledge’s name on the dry-erase board. “And since you’ve been such a big help, we’ve got a lady here for you to impress and a fourth statement that needs attribution.”

  He nodded at Lauren. She introduced herself and re-read the statement found on the front seat of the senator’s vehicle.

  “ ‘A child of the people at large,’ ” Shelby repeated. Again, there was a prolonged silence followed by sounds of papers being shuffled. When he finally came back on the line, he said, “I’m afraid that one doesn’t ring any bells. I’m sorry, Marty.”

  Martin pursed his lips and walked toward the phone. “That’s all right, Shel. I think you’ve cleared a path for us.”

  “Wish I could have gotten you all the way home. Anyway, now that you’ve stumped me, is it all right if I slink away with my tail between my legs? This has been fun, but I’m pretty backed-up today with thesis proposals.”

  Martin and Shelby exchanged goodbyes, but Martin paused before ending their call. “Hey, Shel. Does the date September seventeenth mean anything to you?”

  “Oh come on, Marty,” Shelby said. “You playing with me? That’s the day the founders signed the Constitution.”

  Chapter 19

  AFTER HANGING UP with Shelby Kimball, Martin crossed his arms over his chest and walked to the dry-erase board.

  “Okay, what did I miss?” Lauren asked the room.

  David had recognized the pattern, and he was certain his father had too. He looked at him and said, “You were right about the quotes. I’ll give you the honors.”

  Martin picked up a marker from the ledge of the dry-erase board, and David and Lauren watched as he sketched out a crude map of the Atlantic coast and states. He labeled the states with their postal abbreviations. He also marked X's at the approximate murder locations in Maryland, Delaware, and the Carolinas. He circled the X’s, and then drew nine more empty circles in each of the nine states remaining on his hastily drawn coastline.

  “There were thirteen colonies represented at the Constitutional Convention,” he said as he drew the circles. “So far we’ve got murders in four of them. And in at least three, our man has left behind a message relating the words of one of that state’s convention delegates. Dickinson’s words in Delaware, Williamson’s in North Carolina, Rutledge’s in South Carolina.”

  He paused to pull his notepad out of his back pocket. After a moment he said, “Mitchell Cosgrove was pilloried. Harmon Hill was stabbed with a bayonet. Deke Jacobsen, shot and hanged. And Rebecca Aronson was burned on a goddamned stake.” He shook his head for a moment, and then turned and tapped on the different X’s.

  David looked at Lauren and could tell she was a little taken aback. This was the flip side of his father not many people got to see—the other half of the South Philly, no-bullshit Marty Yerxa who was legendary within the halls of the FBI.

  “So we’re chasing a killer obsessed with the Constitution and America’s founders,” Lauren summarized.

  David nodded and asked his father, “Why’d you do it, pop?”

  Martin grinned. He looked at Lauren while thumbing towards his son. “Every once in a while this one reminds you he has a sense of humor.” His smile faded as his eyes settled on the map he’d drawn. Squinting, he said, “Looks like our man skipped Georgia while he was in the South.”

  “Maybe,” Lauren said. “But no DBs turned up over the long holiday weekend. There could be another body out there waiting to be found.”

  Martin scowled at the thought and tossed the marker onto the small ledge below the dry-erase board. He started pacing. “We have a pattern,” he said, “and not a subtle one. Whoever’s murdering these people is doing his best to make a point.” He looked up, his eyes passing from David’s to Lauren’s. “What’s his point?”

  The room was silent until Lauren cleared her throat. “I can’t answer that, but I’ve got some more news. CJIS finished their DNA analysis. They say the blood and skin used for the messages are consistent on each of the samples, but come from two different people. The skin is from a man, but the blood comes from a woman. Neither is in our system.”

  “That’s damn gruesome,” Martin said, matter-of-factly. “But it doesn’t do us much good.”

  “No,” Lauren agreed. “But our techs working at Cosgrove’s said our subject wasn’t as careful this time.” She stood and handed David and his father each a two-page printout. “They found tire tracks in the woods leading up to the property.”

  David looked at his father and nodded, acknowledging another hit.

  “The pattern and depth of the tread indicate an SUV or pickup,” Lauren said. “Probably something large—like a Suburban or an F-350.”

  David knew SUVs and pickups were among the most popular vehicles in America. Narrowing it to one of the two could help at some point, but not without a lot more information.

  “What about the balsa wood?” he asked her.

  “What?” Martin asked.

  “The wood used to build the pillory was balsa,” David said.

  As his father pondered this, Lauren said, “No luck on that yet. But we found a lot of shoeprints alongside the victim’s leading from the house to the edge of the forest where the body was discovered. They found more of the same prints in the woods behind the property.”

  She read her own copy of the crime scene report. “Size eleven, which puts the wearer’s height somewhere between five-ten and six-two. Tread tells us the manufacturer is Wolverine—pretty common among farm and construction workers, but available everywhere. The depth of the heel imprint puts the subject’s weight between 145 and 165 pounds, depending on how soft the ground was that night.”

  “Skinny son of a bitch,” Martin said.

  “I called our people down in Columbia and had them look around,” Lauren said. “They found a similar print in the field near the stables where Harmon Hill’s body was found.”

  “That’s a start,” Martin said. He walked back to the dry-erase board and tapped his index finger near each of the X’s. “But until we know why he picked these people, we won’t understand his message. And I have a feeling figuring out his message is the key to catching this asshole.”

  “You’re wrong,” David said, more to himself than to his father. Martin started to speak and he added, “Actually, you’re half wrong.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Martin said. Grinning at Lauren, he added, “Explain to this old man again why he’s a dumb shit.”

  “You’re right that we need to find out why our subject picked these people,” David said. “And you’re right that the messages may lead us to him. But understanding the messages is a waste of time. They’re not a key to anything.”

  “You’re so sure?”

  “I’m sure. Our subject isn’t stupid. The planning and execution we’ve seen tells us that. The messages, however they fit together, are a distraction—subterfuge. If anything, they’ll point us in the wrong direction.”

  “What if our subject wants to be caught?” Martin asked. “What if he’s just fucking crazy?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Yes you do.” Martin said this quickly, having had plenty of conversations like this with his son. “I mean irrational—doing things that make no sense.”

  “I haven’t seen evidence of that.”

  Martin frowned. “All these dead bodies aren’t evidence of that?”

  David shook his head. “His motives may be irrational, but the way he’s carrying this out is the farthest thing from it. Up until now he’s been a Swiss watch. Everything’s bee
n pretty close to perfect, and these aren’t impulsive acts. So no, I don’t think he’s hoping to get caught.”

  “All right, all right,” Martin said. He held up his hands in a show of surrender, and blew out air through his nose. He looked at Lauren with a good-natured expression that said, “How do we both put up with this guy?” Then, to David, he said, “What’s that saying you have? The one about clues saying and clues telling?”

  David wasn’t going to answer this, but Lauren chimed in, “What clues say and what clues tell you are two different things.” She looked at Martin and added, “He’s said that to me too.”

  Martin laughed. “Yeah, that’s it. I like that one. A little too deep for me, but I’m sure it’s right on.”

  David stood and stepped away from them to take a closer look at the crude map Martin had drawn—the map with X’s marking the locations of the victims. His unspoken point was clear: Let’s stay focused.

  Martin said to his back, “Four dead in seven days, premeditated but spread this far apart . . . When this gets out, it’s going to be a media frenzy.”

  “No shit,” Lauren said. “This is like journalist porn. It’s going to dominate the news cycle every hour until we make an arrest, and everyone on the East Coast is going to be in hysterics.”

  Even as she spoke, David’s cell phone began to ring. When he answered it, he heard the slow, deliberate voice of his boss, Carl Wainbridge.

  “Turn on CNN, David. Right now.”

  Chapter 20

  SHERIFF MIKE TARKANIAN stood against a backdrop composed of a blue curtain, an American flag, and the State Flag of Maryland. Although his hair was still uniformly brown, Sheriff Tarkanian’s moustache was streaked with gray. As he spoke, the sheriff leaned forward into a hive of microphones and voice recorders.

  Those watching the press conference on television could see only a handful of officials alongside Tarkanian, but it was clear the sheriff was addressing a packed room. Flashbulbs flickered as he spoke, and the bright lights of the television cameras reflected off of his silver badge and tie bar.

  “Due to the ongoing nature of our investigation, at this time I cannot comment on the details of Senator Jacobsen’s death,” Tarkanian said in an emotionless monotone.

  The second his mouth stopped moving, three-dozen reporters opened theirs in unison. Tarkanian signaled one out, and the others fell silent.

  “Do you have any suspects?” the reporter asked.

  “Not at this time,” Tarkanian said.

  He nodded to another reporter, who asked, “Can you confirm the senator was shot before he was thrown over the bridge?”

  Tarkanian repeated his opening statement word for word as though he were reading the surgeon general’s warning on the side of a package of cigarettes. “Due to the ongoing nature of our investigation, I cannot comment . . .”

  The question-and-answer period continued in the same fashion as Tarkanian deflected the reporters’ various attempts to draw from him new information. Like a cluster of safe crackers trying different combinations, the press seemed to believe that, if they asked the right question in the right way, the vault’s door might swing open.

  Finally, after she’d listened to her colleagues try and fail to elicit from Tarkanian the basic outlines of the investigation, a reporter from the Washington Examiner caught the sheriff’s eye and asked him the question she’d been holding back like a pocket ace.

  Those watching on television couldn’t see the Examiner reporter; but they could hear her question loud and clear: “My sources tell me the senator’s murder was the third in a series of bizarre interstate homicides, all connected by messages and symbols associated with the American Revolution. Can you confirm at this time?”

  Tarkanian turned and shot a quick glance at the man standing to his left. Then he looked down at the top of the podium and pursed his lips.

  Mike Tarkanian had been a member of the Anne Arundel County Sheriff’s Office for twenty-six years, and had served as its chief elected official for nearly a decade. And so he knew the types of questions that would come from his friends and neighbors and constituents and the media and every other person he bumped into, every hour of every day, until the case was solved. It was that kind of murder; the kind that hounded you day and night even though it was almost totally out of your control.

  The killing had happened on his turf, but the case wasn’t his. He would coordinate feet on the ground in his small section of the investigation and he would spoon-feed whatever he found to the state authorities and the feds. But he wouldn’t have any real control over its outcome. Still, the questions and expectations would pile up on his doorstep just the same. And if enough time passed, those questions would become accusations.

  Chris Schrade, the Anne Arundel County Executive, had reminded Tarkanian of all this just before the press conference began.

  “Neither of us should have to deal with that kind of pressure and negative PR,” Schrade had said, placing a soft, manicured hand on Tarkanian’s shoulder. “If the public finds out this was just one in a series of murders stretching across several states, well, that redirects the spotlight away from Anne Arundel and puts it on the federal authorities, where it belongs.”

  Tarkanian detested Schrade, but he never doubted the County Executive’s ability to gauge public sentiment or manipulate a thorny situation to his own benefit. Schrade’s fifteen years in office were a testament to his public relations acumen.

  When the Examiner reporter asked her question, Tarkanian recognized that Schrade was the source of her tip. He also knew the county executive could make his life hell if he didn’t follow instructions, regardless of how delicately those instructions had been tendered.

  Tarkanian looked up from the podium. In the same lifeless voice, he said, “I can confirm that the Anne Arundel County Sheriff’s Office is working with both state and federal authorities on the investigation of the senator’s murder and the deaths of at least two other people. However I cannot comment further due to the ongoing nature of our investigation.”

  His expression never changed, but Tarkanian knew the ramifications of this admission; by blessing the tip of the iceberg, he’d given the Examiner reporter the cover she needed to write everything Schrade told her was hiding below the surface.

  Though the assembled reporters clamored for more information, Tarkanian concluded the press conference and walked out of sight behind the blue curtain.

  Chapter 21

  GLANCING AT THE television screen as she worked, the woman paused when she heard Sheriff Tarkanian’s last remark. Her large eyes blinked, and she felt a sudden rush of energy. She ran a hand through her tangles of orange hair.

  She’d been watching the news reports for days, but none had mentioned any connection between her acts. In fact, the national news had made no mention at all of her first two victims, and so she had almost been able to convince herself that the past week had been a dream.

  No more. She watched as the reporters begged for more information from Sheriff Tarkanian.

  Now they’ll begin to understand, she thought.

  She knew the FBI would act quickly to suppress the details of their investigation, and so the press would be slow to assemble the puzzle pieces. But that was all right. It was better if the people were brought into it gradually, her partner had said. “Things that are remembered—things that last—are nearly always slow to take root,” Levi had told her.

  As she thought of him, the woman removed a book from her suitcase. It was leather-bound and heavy, and the top corners of every page were stained from years of gentle thumbing. The title was written in gold lettering: Odette, Princess of Swan Lake. In the tale, a sorcerer forced a young woman to live her days trapped in the body of a swan. Only at night did the girl assume her true form, and only the eternal love of a prince could free her from the evil curse.

  The woman recalled the night Levi had given it to her. They’d been walking along the beach, the cool air blowing in o
ff the ocean waves. Feeling his strong hand in her own, she had marveled at how much could happen to a person in a few short months. A lifetime of loneliness—a shell of depression that had thickened and hardened for twenty-five years—gone.

  Finally, someone understands and appreciates me, she’d thought. I’ll never be alone again.

  When they had reached his house, Levi had told her to wait on the deck. He had a gift for her. “This was my mother’s,” he’d said, handing her the well-worn volume. “I’ve had it since I was a young boy. Now I want you to have it.”

  The woman had not been able to hold back her tears. It was the only time she’d cried in front of him—the only time she had allowed herself to cry at all since she was a young girl. She decided later that her tears were excusable because they sprang from happiness, not from fear or weakness.

  Now, as she sat on her bed in the hotel room, the woman opened the book and read the inscription Levi had written to her on the first page: To my Odette. She smiled and turned the book’s pages, between which were seven shards of what looked like dried paper. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and examined each of the shards carefully. She chose what seemed like the appropriate scrap. It didn’t matter really, but she enjoyed the notion that every thing was destined to serve a particular purpose.

  She rolled up the sleeve covering her left arm and withdrew a small folding knife from her suitcase—another gift from Levi. The handle was ivory and decorated with a hunting scene composed of several dark hounds chasing a white fox. The woman opened the knife and drew its blade across the top of her forearm, watching her taut skin part in an inch-long slit. Four similar marks appeared farther up her arm, alongside many others that had long ago scarred over. She winced as the knife’s edge dug into her flesh, but the pain sent shivers of pleasure up her spine. Her eyes grew wide as she watched the ruby blood begin to collect on the surface of her pallid skin.