“What happened?” Katie asked, spellbound.
“He picked out our undercover agent, who was really twenty-six years old but looked fifteen, as his next victim. We got him.”
“Okay, Dillon, what’s the brain flash this time?”
He smiled at Sherlock, then shook his head at the others. “Too soon for me to say. Now, the big question. It’s Tuesday, what do you want to do, Miles?”
“I don’t know yet, but I guess I need to stay here for a while longer,” and he looked over at Sam and Keely.
Savich saw that he was pissed, frustrated, and nearly at the end of his tether. “Both of you,” he said, “keep us informed.”
Katie became suddenly aware that both Sam and Keely were all ears, down to the last licks on their cones. “Finish your ice cream, kids,” she said, and wiped a bit of chocolate chip off Keely’s mouth.
26
A t eight o’clock that evening, at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., Savich stood beside FBI Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland, waiting for the police chief of Oxford, Maryland, to turn the mike back over to them. The police chiefs from all three jurisdictions were lined up behind the podium, trying to look confident in front of all the blinding lights and the shouted questions.
Standing beside the chiefs were the three victims’ husbands: Troy Ward, looking sad and puffy in a bright blue suit; Gifford Fowler, skinny as a post, standing with a big black Stetson in his hands; and Crayton Maddox, a successful attorney, looking as pale as a ghost, still in shock. He’d managed to dress himself in a Saville Row suit that had to have set him back a couple thousand dollars. Looking at the man now, Savich thought back to the meeting he and Sherlock had with him only two hours before, at his home in Lockridge, Virginia.
He and Sherlock had driven to Lockridge High School in Lockridge, Virginia, an affluent suburb favored by many upper-level government employees. The crime investigators, local and FBI, were still there, and six officers were keeping the media behind a police rope.
Police Chief Thomas Martinez met them in the principal’s office and said without preamble, “The janitor spotted a small leak late Monday afternoon, in the boiler room. He repaired it, then said he couldn’t sleep for worrying so he came back early this morning, before six o’clock, to see that everything was still holding.” The chief stopped and grimaced. “He smelled something. It was Mrs. Maddox, one of our five math teachers. Evidently she’d stayed late to grade some test papers because she and her family were leaving for the Caribbean in the morning. Her husband said he’d talked her into leaving because of the two killings. In any case, she never made it home. Her husband called us around nine o’clock last evening, scared out of his mind. He’d called her cell, gotten no answer. We searched nonstop for her. The janitor found her. Come this way.”
It was not a pretty sight. Mrs. Eleanor Maddox, not above thirty-five, two children, and a whiz at teaching geometry, had been shoved in beside the boiler. Because the weather was cool the boiler had fired up, and that was why the janitor had smelled her body. She’d been shot right between the eyes, up very close, just like the other two women.
Chief Martinez said, “The forensic team finished up about three hours ago. The ME said if he had to guess, it was a.38, just like the other two. He also said that this time, the guy had moved her here after he’d shot her.”
“No witnesses?”
“Not a one, so far.”
“Not even a strange car in the vicinity?”
He shook his head. “No. I have officers canvassing the entire neighborhood. No one saw a thing. Basketball practice and the student club meetings were over, so there weren’t any other students or teachers around that we know of.”
Sherlock said, “I guess he didn’t want her found right away. What does the husband have to say, Chief?”
The husband, Crayton Maddox, was a big legal mover and shaker in Washington, his forte forging limitless access to politicians for lobbying groups willing to pay for the privilege. Exactly what that meant, Mr. Maddox didn’t explain, and Savich, cynical to his toes, didn’t ask. It was nearly six o’clock in the evening, but Mr. Maddox was still wearing his robe. There were coffee stains on the front of it. He was wearing socks, no shoes. He looked like he’d been awake for a week, and none of those waking hours had been pleasant.
Crayton Maddox said, “I called all her friends, all the teachers she worked with, I even called her mother, and I haven’t spoken to that woman in nearly two years.” He stopped a moment, tears choking him, and stared at Savich. “God, don’t you see? This just isn’t right; it shouldn’t have happened. Ellie never hurt a soul, not even me, and I’m a lawyer. She planned on working until we left for the Caribbean, even though I tried to convince her to stay home, not take any chances. Why did he kill her? Why?”
Savich had no answer. “I know you’ve already spoken to Chief Martinez, and he’ll give us all the details. We’re here to ask you to join us at a press conference in a couple of hours at FBI Headquarters. I know you’ll want to hear about all that’s being done and it would be helpful to us if you came. I think it’s important that the world see victims’ families, see what devastation this sort of mindless violence can cause. Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler, the first two victims’ husbands, will be there. Will you join us, Mr. Maddox?”
Crayton Maddox bent his head and, to Savich’s surprise, didn’t ask a single question. Then he said, “Did you know that I called Margie, my assistant? She was here before seven o’clock this morning. She knows everything, that’s what I told Chief Martinez, everything about both me and my wife.” He paused a moment, glanced down at his Rolex, then out the living room window. “Good God, it’s dark outside.” He looked up at them. “I’m usually about ready to come home from my office at six o’clock in the evening. Ellie always got home around four o’clock. She wanted to be here when the kids got home.”
They heard crying from upstairs, a woman’s soothing voice. The children, Sherlock thought. There’d been no children involved in the first two killings. Why had the killer changed?
“My mother-in-law,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “Margie called her and she was here in ten minutes. I guess we’ll have to start speaking again.” He stood, all hunched forward, like he hadn’t moved in far too long. “I’ll be at your press conference, Agent.”
Assistant Director Jimmy Maitland nodded to Savich, then stepped to the podium. He spoke of the cooperation among the three police departments, spoke of the activity by the FBI at the crime scenes, and repeated the hot-line number for any information on the killings. He finished his words to the roomful of reporters with “And this is Special Agent Dillon Savich, chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit of the FBI.”
Most of the reporters knew who Savich was. Jimmy Maitland barely had time to shut his mouth before several reporters yelled out together, “Agent Savich, why is he killing math teachers?”
“Since all the victims are women, do you think it’s a man?”
Savich stepped up to the podium, said nothing at all until the room was quiet, which was very quickly. He knew many of them were jotting down descriptions of him and of the grieving husbands. He said, “Mr. George, you asked why is he killing math teachers, and Mr. Dobbs pointed out that all the victims have been women. Yes, we believe the killer is a man. As to why he’s doing this, we have some ideas, but it’s not appropriate to discuss all the possibilities with you at this stage in the investigation.”
“Is the guy crazy?”
Savich stared thoughtfully at Martha Stockton of the Washington Post, who had the reputation of being something of a ditz, but this time she had stripped away the nonessentials really fast. “No, I don’t think he’s crazy in the sense that he’s frothing at the mouth and out of control. He seems to have planned these killings well enough that so far there are no witnesses. Why he’s doing this, we don’t know yet, but I will tell you this: We will find him. We are spending hundreds of man-hours speaking to fellow teachers and former students. We are leaving nothing to chance.