Wright was a tall lean African-American in his fifties with a pencil mustache, close-cropped hair, and professorial wire-rimmed glasses. He stood and smoothed the creases from his double-breasted suit jacket. He was at ease in front of cameras and spoke crisply into the bank of microphones. "As the mayor said, the FBI is working in concert with city and state law enforcement officials to solve this case. This is far and away the largest criminal investigation of a serial killing in the history of the Bureau. While we do not have a suspect in custody, we continue to work tirelessly and I want to make this very clear-we will find the killer. We are not resource-constrained. We are throwing everything we've got at this case. It's not a matter of manpower, it's a matter of time. I'll take your questions now."
The press swarmed like a disturbed hive of bees, anticipating that nothing new was forthcoming. The network and cable reporters were civil enough, leaving it to their lower-paid ink-stained brethren from the papers to throw the bricks. Q. Was there any more information on Lucius Robertson's toxicology tests? A. No. Some tissue testing would take a few more weeks. Q. Did they test him for ricin and anthrax? A. Yes. Both were negative. Q. If everything was negative, what killed Lucius Robertson? A. They didn't know yet. Q. Wasn't this lack of clarity bound to trouble the public at large? A. When we know the cause of death we will make it known. Q. Were the Las Vegas police cooperating? A. Yes. Q. Were all the fingerprints on the postcards accounted for? A. Mostly. They were still tracking down some post office letter handlers. Q. Did they have any leads on the hooded man at the Swisher crime scene? A. None. Q. Did the bullets from the two gunshot victims match any other crimes on file? A. No. Q. How did they know this wasn't an Al-Qaeda plot? A. There was no indication of terrorism. Q. A psychic from San Francisco had complained the FBI wasn't interested in speaking with her despite her insistence that a long-haired man named Jackson was involved. A. The FBI was interested in all credible leads. Q. Were they aware that the public was frustrated in their lack of progress? A. They shared the public's frustration but remained confident in the ultimate success of the investigation. Q. Did he think there would be more murders? A. He hoped not but there was no way of knowing. Q. Did the FBI have a profile on the Doomsday Killer? A. Not yet. They were working on it. Q. Why was it taking so long? A. Because of the complexities of the case.
Will leaned over and whispered into Nancy's ear, "Colossal waste of time." Q. Did they have their best people assigned to the case? A. Yes. Q. Could the media talk to the Special Agent in charge of the investigation? A. I can answer all your questions.
"Now it's getting interesting," Will added. Q. Why couldn't they meet the agent? A. They would try to make him available at the next press conference. Q. Is he in the room now? A.-
Wright looked at Sue Sanchez, who was seated in the first row, his eyes pleading for her to control her guy. She looked around and spotted Will standing off to the side; the only thing she could do was fix him with a death stare.
She thinks I'm a loose canon, Will thought. Well, it's time to start the iron rolling. I'm the Special Agent in charge. I didn't want the case but it's mine now. If they want me, here I am. "Right here!" He raised his hand. He'd faced the press dozens of times during his career and this kind of stuff was old hat-he was anything but camera-shy.
Nancy saw the horrified look on Sanchez's face, and as a reflex almost grabbed him by the sleeve. Almost. He bounded toward the podium with a wicked bounce to his step as the TV cameras swung to stage left.
Benjamin Wright could do nothing except: "Okay, Special Agent Will Piper will answer a limited number of questions. Go ahead, Will." As the two men crossed, Wright whispered, "Keep it short and watch your step."
Will smoothed his hair with his hand and stepped up to the podium. The alcohol and its by-products were fully out of his system and he was feeling good, even feisty. Let's mix it up, he thought. He was photogenic, a big sandy-haired man with broad shoulders, a dimpled chin, and superbly blue eyes. Somewhere a TV director in a control room was saying, "Get in close on that guy!"
The first question was-how do you spell your name?
"Like the Pied Piper, P-I-P-E-R."
The reporters edged forward on their chairs. Did they have a live one? A few of the older ones whispered to each other, "I remember this guy. He's famous."
How long have you been with the FBI?
"Eighteen years, two months, and three days."
Why do you keep track so precisely?
"I'm detail oriented."
What's your experience with serial killings?
"I've spent my entire career working these cases. I've been agent-in-charge of eight of them, the Asheville Rapist, the White River Killer in Indianapolis, six others. We caught all of them, we'll catch this one too."
Why don't you have a profile of the killer yet?
"Believe, me, we've been trying, but he's not profilable in a conventional way. No two murders are alike. There's no pattern. If it weren't for the warning postcards, you wouldn't know the cases were connected."
What's your theory?
"I think we're dealing with a very twisted and very intelligent man. I have no idea what's motivating him. He wants attention, that's a certainty, and thanks to you he's getting it."
You think we shouldn't be covering this?
"You don't have a choice. I'm just stating a fact."
How are you going to catch him?
"He's not perfect. He's left clues, which I'm not going to go into for obvious reasons. We'll get him."
What's your bet? Is he going to strike again?
"Let me answer that this way. My bet is that he's watching this on TV right now, so I'm saying this to you." Will stared straight into the cameras. Those blue eyes. "I will catch you and I will put you down. It's only a matter of time."
Wright, who was hovering, practically hip-checked Will away from the mikes. "Okay, I think that's it for today. We'll let you know the time and location of our next briefing."
The press rose to their feet and one voice, a female reporter from the Post, rose above the others and screamed out, "Promise us you'll bring the Pied Piper back!"
Number 941 Park Ave was a solid cube, a thirteen-story brick prewar, its two lower floors clad in fine white granite, the lobby done up tastefully in marble and chintz. Will had been there before, retracing David Swisher's last steps from the lobby to the precise spot on 82nd Street where the blood had drained from his body. He had walked the walk in the same predawn darkness, and lowering himself on his haunches, right on the spot-still discolored despite a good scrubbing from the sanitation department-had tried to visualize the last thing the victim might have seen before his brain went off-line. A section of mottled sidewalk? A black iron window grate? The rim on a parked car? A thin oak rising out of a square of compacted dirt?
The tree, hopefully.
As expected, Helen Swisher rubbed Will the wrong way. She had played too hard to get these past weeks with her telephone tag, her scheduling problems, her out-of-town travel. "She was a victim's wife, for Christ's sake," he had vented to Nancy, "not a goddamned suspect! Show some fucking cooperation, why don't you?" Then, while he was in the middle of being blessed out by Sue Sanchez over his Al Haig, "I'm in charge here" performance at the press conference, wifey rang his mobile just to let him know he needed to be punctual as her time was extremely limited. And the topper-she greeted them at Apartment 9B with a faraway look of condescension, like they were carpet cleaners there to roll up one of the Persians.