Harvath let out a long breath.
“What is it?” said Wise. “You disagree?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just trying to process all of this. Listen, I don’t like to underestimate anyone, especially someone this dangerous, but I also don’t like to overestimate them, either.”
“You think I’m giving him too much credit?”
“What I think is that the guy screwed up. Whether he is a sociopath or a psychopath or whatever, I’m not a doctor and I don’t care. What I know is that as good as he’s been, he’s finally made a mistake. Is he losing control? Maybe, but when he grabbed that girl’s wrist in the Granary Burying Ground, I don’t think he could have known that he would go on to kill that night, that he’d kill a friend of the girl he grabbed, or that we’d tie it all together.”
Wise agreed. “That makes sense, but keep in mind that not only are we potentially dealing with someone who is not rational and who does not make sense, but he’s now killed three people. If I’m right and he is losing control, he may become more dangerous.”
“He may also make another mistake,” Harvath replied. “Speaking of which, what do you make of how the body of the young girl was left in the Charles River? Does that tell you anything?”
“It tells me several things. The first is that this was likely an impulsive crime of opportunity. The woman made herself available to him and he struck. Once he did, though, he had a decision to make. Presumably, he could have left her right where he killed her. But instead, he risked the added time to steal the things he needed, weigh her down, and then drop her in the water.”
“Which means what?”
Wise took a few moments to reflect before answering. “Whoever this girl was, I think we can safely assume he hadn’t come to Boston to kill her.”
“But he cut her ears off like he had with Claire Marcourt. Why?”
“Without interviewing him, it’s hard to say for sure. He may have simply enjoyed it and wanted to relive it, or he may have rushed Marcourt’s murder and wanted to take his time with the prostitute. Remember, for a lot of these killers, the act is all about the power they wield over their victims.”
“And weighing the body down in the Charles?” Harvath asked.
“Perhaps he was ashamed of what he had done and wanted, symbolically, to be rid of it, or maybe he realized on some level that this impulsive act was a mistake that could not only jeopardize him, but also his operation. Therefore, he had worked to cover it up as quickly as possible.”
Processing information from Bill Wise was like drinking from a fire hose. Harvath was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there could be even a remote CIA component to the attacks. Circumventing alarm systems like the one at the Registry of Motor Vehicles, as well as looping CCTV footage, though, was straight out of the Agency’s playbook.
“Could the killer have weighted the body down simply because he needed to buy time?” Harvath asked.
“For what?”
“He killed Marcourt in Georgia then came up here for Penning. Maybe he’s traveling by air and didn’t want the body to be found until after he had made it safely away to wherever he was going next.”
As he waited for the man to respond, Harvath ran the list of remaining kidnap victims through his mind: Betsy Mitchell—Seattle, Jonathan Renner—San Francisco, and Peter Whalen—Chicago. Since getting the call to come to Boston, he had been racking his brain trying to zero in on locations in the remaining kidnap cities that would be symbolic for the group behind the killings. The only thing he could come up with was that they all had Federal Reserve branches. But would the killer be that obvious, especially after the choices of Jekyll Island and the Liberty Tree site?
“There is another possibility,” Wise said, interrupting Harvath’s train of thought. “What if you’re right? What if the killer was trying to buy more time, not to get out of Boston, but rather because his work in Boston wasn’t complete?”
Harvath was about to comment when his other line rang. “Bill, I have another call. Stand by for second.”
“Will do.”
Harvath clicked over to the other line. It was Cordero back at police headquarters.
“The crime lab just called,” she said. “They finished processing the wrist cuff.”
“Did we get any prints?”
“We did. It looks like a thumb and a partial that may be an index finger. They’re working up the report now. How soon can you get back here?”
“I’m only a couple of blocks away,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
“Ten-four. Hurry up. As soon as we get the prints, we’re going to start running them through the databases.” With that, she said goodbye and hung up.
Cordero and the FBI could run every database she had access to, but he doubted she was going to get a single hit. If this guy was who Harvath was beginning to think he might be, there was only one place that would have a record of him and even then it would be guarded like Fort Knox.
He clicked back over to Wise. “We got a hit on the wrist cuff from the girl accosted at the Granary Burying Ground. We believe it’s a thumb and a partial index finger.”
“That’s terrific.”
“Do you think your Swim Club pal, Gage, can do anything with it?” asked Harvath. He could sense Wise’s hesitation before he even responded.
“At the CIA when you’re gone, you’re gone. They watch you clean out your desk, and then they go through everything, and I mean everything, before you’re escorted off the property. All of your access is canceled and the only information you’re leaving with is what’s between your ears. He’s not going to be sitting on reams of data, much less the jackets of the people Swim Club was spinning up to place in the field. There were a bunch of them and most were freelancers with lives entirely separate from the Agency. They just got called up when Langley needed them.”
“Wait,” said Harvath. “You’re telling me they can lead normal lives? How the hell is that even possible?”
“Think of them like alcoholics. Some were exceptional at hiding their illness. With treatment, they were quite functional.”
“And the others?”
“With time, the others lost the fight and fell over the edge.”
It was a chilling analogy. Harvath wanted as much information as he could get. “Reach out to Gage,” he said, “and lean on him as hard as you can for whatever he can give you.”
“How much are you comfortable with me revealing to him?”
“Right now, limit it just to the killer,” Harvath replied. “You can use the partial description we have and feel free to talk about his MO as much as you want, but keep the names of the victims and any mention of the Fed out of it.”
“Understood,” said Wise. “Email me the prints and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Sounds good. There’s just one last thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Be very careful who else you talk with beyond this Gage fellow. And make sure to keep a pair of eyes in the back of your head.”
“Same goes for you,” Wise said. “Our killer isn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He not only likes to kill, he’s compelled to. And if he did come out of Swim Club, he’s very, very good at it.”
“So am I,” said Harvath, ending the call and slipping the phone back into his pocket.
Stepping out into the rain, he opened his umbrella and headed back toward 1 Schroeder Plaza and Cordero’s office. As he walked, he was haunted by several of the things Bill Wise had said, not the least of which was that their killer might still have work left to do in Boston.