“No one knows why the killer selected this name as his primary alias. I’d imagine he admires something about Günter Grass, or about something he wrote. Steve and the behavioral sciences group at Quantico will be telling us more about that. No one knows his real name. He only goes by the name Günter.
“Last night I spoke to our local Interpol guy here in Washington, Johnny Baines, to Jacques Ramie in Lyons, and to Hans Claus in Berlin. Günter Grass isn’t on their current radar because he hasn’t been active in well over ten years, at least not that anyone knows of. That’s why it took MAX a little while to find him.
“The German and French authorities are certain that no such person or anyone similar is connected to any known terrorist cell.
“So the question is, where has the guy been? What’s he been doing? Where is he now? Still in Washington or long gone? And how did the person behind the two murders even know about a guy like this, a professional assassin?”
Jimmy Maitland said, “Of course, there is no one by this name currently here in the U.S., no passports or visas issued in that name. Bottom line, we know who he is, but we have no clue where he is.”
Ben Raven asked, “No old photos? Nothing?”
Savich nodded. “I’m passing out a grainy old photo that Jacques Ramie sent over. They tried to clean it up digitally, but it’s still not good. You’ll see that it’s a photo of a much younger man. He’s big, you can tell that much, and looking at the clothes, it would put the photo in the mid- to late eighties. Even though he’s older now, he’s still got to be pretty strong to take out Justice Califano and Danny O’Malley.”
Jimmy Maitland shook his head. “The thing about picking high-risk places—it’s very rare for a professional. A professional is in and out, clean and fast, gets the job done. But our guy’s got to have this adrenaline shot. We’ve never run into anything like that before.”
“Calling himself Günter Grass, that’s just nuts,” said another agent.
“He’s giving everyone the finger,” Jimmy Maitland said. “Done it for years; unfortunately, he’s gotten away with it. He’s still free. Estimates on how many people he’s killed, Savich?”
“Jacques believes it to be around twenty. Günter was active until the late eighties, none of them high-profile killings—drug dealers, international mafia, those sorts of hits. Then nothing. Until Justice Califano.”
“He probably made himself a big bundle and retired,” said Jimmy Maitland. “Changed his name. He could be living anywhere in the world, or he could be living down the block from one of us, as far as we know.”
“And that brings up another thing,” Savich said, and sighed. “According to Interpol, the man is fluent in four languages—German, French, Italian, and, naturally, English.”
“Does he sound American or English?”
“American, I’m told. The person behind these murders knows Günter on a personal, business, or social level. And somehow, he found out exactly who and what Günter was and still is.”
“Hey, Günter could be somebody’s plumber,” called out one agent.
“With what they charge, he wouldn’t have had to take the job,” said another agent.
CHAPTER
23
ST. LUKE’S EPISCOPAL CHURCH
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY MORNING
ST. LUKE’S WAS far too small for the throng of mourners there to witness Justice Stewart Califano’s funeral. The media were kept milling about outside the small Episcopal church, trying to catch a brief interview with all the notables who were invited.
There was room for only one hundred and fifty mourners inside St. Luke’s. Friends and family only, other judges, members of Congress, and the President and Vice President and their families. The President himself delivered the eulogy.
Margaret Califano sat with Callie, holding her hand, both of them covered from head to foot in black. Margaret’s friends, their husbands and families flanked her. Like the Swiss Guard protecting the kings of France, Savich whispered to Sherlock.
Director Mueller, DAD Jimmy Maitland, Sherlock, Savich, and Ben Raven sat two pews behind Margaret Califano, and behind them were several Supreme Court police officers, including Henry Biggs, who still looked frail, but at least was alive. Savich wondered why Mrs. Califano had invited him. She was, he decided, a class act.
When the service ended, the President and First Lady were escorted out of St. Luke’s, surrounded by the Secret Service, then the Vice President and Mrs. Chartly. Margaret stood beside her husband’s flag-draped coffin, shaking hands, speaking in her low quiet voice, thanking people for coming. When it was time, she looked toward the doors, saw the media held back by the Metro police. She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked out with Callie to speak to them, the coffin wheeled slowly after her by the eight remaining Justices, an incredibly stirring sight Savich knew would be immortalized around the world.
The shouted questions stopped the instant she opened her mouth. Margaret spoke quietly, and graciously thanked everyone for their warmth and support for her family. Concerning the investigation, she said only that she was confident the FBI would find the man who had killed her husband. She also said that after her husband’s interment at St. Martin of the Fields, she would speak to the media, at her own home. She politely declined to answer any questions, only repeated, “I will speak to you again later at my home.”
The small, private interment went quickly and smoothly, with the media kept a good distance away from the gravesite by the same officers who had been at St. Luke’s.
Savich, Sherlock, Ben, and a few more FBI agents accompanied Margaret Califano to the press conference she gave at her home on Beckhurst Lane. She answered every question patiently and politely.
“We hear The Washington Post has the inside track on this because of you, Ms. Markham,” shouted one reporter. “Is that proper conduct for a major newspaper in an investigation of this stature?”
Callie stepped forward. “No, it certainly wouldn’t be if such a thing were true, but it isn’t. I’m on a leave of absence from the Post. I’m helping the authorities as much as I can, but only as Justice Califano’s stepdaughter.”
Jed Coombes, Callie’s editor, called out, a mixture of sarcasm and bitterness clear in his voice. “It’s true, she won’t give us the time of day.”
This brought more laughter.
“You’re gonna fire her?”
A thoughtful frown. “Probably not.”
When it was over, when finally all the TV vans and reporters had left, Sherlock went home to Sean, and Savich stopped in to see Jimmy Maitland at FBI headquarters.
FBI HEADQUARTERS
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
IT WAS WINTER, dark at five-thirty. A cold drizzle slapped against the window in Jimmy Maitland’s office. Savich sat in front of his boss’s desk, his hands clasped between his legs, staring at his shoes.
“MAX has come up dry, and so have we,” Savich said. “Günter seems to have completely disappeared in 1988.”
“Anything at all useful about Günter before 1988?”
Savich shook his head. “He could be an American, an Albanian, an Armenian. He left no clues. The guy’s a pro.
“As for the rest of it, the local investigation—we haven’t turned up a fingerprint, a footprint, usable DNA, not even a vague description by a witness. The garrote leaves no trace, one of its advantages.
“We’ve followed up on all the phone records, checked every deleted file on computers that could be connected to the Justice, but nothing has fallen out of that.