“I'm twenty-six, for God's sake. What difference does that make? Can we get back to my kids now?”
Twenty-six? Not even close. Wow. There it was. The first opening.
I looked at my notes; then I decided to take a little leap with her. “So Brendan, Ashley, and Adam live at home with you. Is that right?”
She nodded again. When I got something right, it seemed to calm her down tremendously Relief spread over her face, then seemed to continue down into her body “And were they home yesterday when I was there?”
She looked confused now, and the angeT that had ebbed away edged back. “You know they were, Agent Cross. You were right there. Why are you doing this?”
Her voice rose as she spoke. Her breath had gone shallow. “What have you people done with my children? Where are they right now? I need to see them. Right now.”
The door opened, and I held my hand up to the guard without taking my eyes off of Mary. It was obvious her pulse had quickened as the agitation seemed to take hold.
I took a calculated risk with her. “Mary” I said gently “there were no children in the house yesterday”
Her response was immediate, and extreme.
She sat bolt upright and screamed at me, her neck muscles straining. “Tell me what you've done with my children! Answer me this instant] V/here are my kids? Where are my kids?”
Steps sounded on the floor behind me, and I stood up so I could be the first one to reach her.
She was raving now, screaming over and over.
“Tell me! Why won't you tell me?” Now she had started to sob, and I felt sorry for her.
I slowly walked around the table. “Mary!” I shouted her name, but she was completely unresponsive to the sound of my voice, even to my movement toward her.
"Tell me where my kids are! Tell mel Tell me! Tell me! This instant!“”Mary I leaned over and took her by the shoulders, as gently as I could under the circumstances.
“Tell mel”
“Mary look at me! Please.”
That's when she went for my gun.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 97
SHE MUST HAVE SEEN THE HOLSTER tucked inside my jacket. In a split second, she reached up and her hand was on the butt of my Glock.
“No!” I yelled. “Mary!”
I instinctively knocked her back into her chair, but the gun wrenched free from the holster and she had it. I caught a flash of her eyes, which were glazed and crazy.
I dove at her, grabbing her wrist with one hand and the gun with the other. I continued to yell her name.
Next, the two of us fell over the chair as it went down with a loud crack.
I was vaguely aware of people scrambling all around us. My focus stayed on her.
She strained, red-faced, slamming my side with her free fist. I now had a knee on her chest and one hand still on her wrist, pinning the gun to the ground, but she was as strong as she looked.
And her finger was already wrapped around the Glock's trigger. She squirmed hard, turning the barrel of the gun toward herself - and tilting her head to meet it. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“No! Mary!”
With a rush of adrenaline, fighting an equal surge of resistance from her, I managed to lift her gun hand toward the ceiling. Then I smashed it back down, very hard, against the floor.
The Glock fired once into the wall of the interrogation room, even as it fell out of her grasp. I snatched it up, the shot still ringing in my ears, the side of my face numb.
There was a brief, suspended moment of near silence. Mary stopped struggling immediately, and then, in an unbelievable echo of the previous day's events, the police descended on her like a small army They picked her up as she flailed once again, arms and legs whipping crazily I could hear her unchecked sobs as they carried her away “My babies, my babies, my poor babies ... Where are my children? Oh, where? Oh, where? What have you done with my children?”
Her voice receded down the hall until a heavy door slammed with great finality, and she was gone. Not surprisingly, I didn't get the chance for another interview To make matters worse, if that was possible, I saw James Truscott as I left the building about an hour later. He was among the throng of reporters gathered outside waiting for any tidbit of news.
He yelled at me, "How did she get your gun, Dr. Cross?
How'd that happen?" Somehow, Truscott had already gotten the story.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 98
I COULD ONLY WONDER about the causes and the full extent of Mary Wagner's mental illness and the obvious torment and stress it was putting on her. There certainly hadn't been any time for a meaningful psych evaluation, and my part in the investigation was coming to an end now, whether I liked it or not. And, to be honest, I had mixed feelings.
By early that afternoon, Mary's state of mind was a moot point. LAPD's search of her house had turned up a holy trinity of evidence.
A Walther PPK, discovered under a blanket in her attic crawl space, had already shown a preliminary ballistic match to the weapon used in the murders.
CSI had also found half-a-dozen sheets of children's stickers and, most significant, stolen family photographs from Marti Lowenstein-Bell's office and Suzie Cartoulis's purse.
Both Michael Bell and Giovanni Cartoulis had positively identified the photos as having belonged to their murdered wives.
“And best of all, most important anyway,” Fred Van All5- burg told the small group of agents assembled in his office, "twelve o'clock came and went today without incident.
No new victim, no new e-mail. It's over. I think I can safely say that."
The mood was grimly congratulatory Just about everyone was glad to leave this one behind, but the details of the case would haunt most of the team for some time, just as the D.C. sniper case still lingered in theJ. Edgar Hoover Building back East. It's an unsatisfying and unpleasant feeling, but also part of what drives us to do better.
“Alex, we owe you one on this.” Van Allsburg finally came over to me. “Your work on the case was invaluable. I have to say that. I see why Ron Burns likes you close to home.”
A few uneasy laughs went through the room. Agent Page reached from behind and patted my shoulder. He would go far in the Bureau, if he could keep his passion for solving crimes.
“I'd still like to take a peek at that final evidence LAPD found. And maybe get a real interview with Mary Wagner,” I said, diverting back to what I thought was most important.
Van Allsburg shook his head. “Not necessary.”
“There's no reason for me not to stick around another day -” I started to say "Don't worry about it. Page and Fujishiro are good for the details; I can back them up.
And if we really need you again, there's always frequent-flier miles, right?“ His tone was artificially bright. ”Fred, Mary Wagner wouldn't talk to anyone before I came. She trusts me."
“At least, she did,” he said. “Probably not anymore.” It was a blunt statement, but not aggressive.
“I'm still the only person she's opened up to. I hear LAPD is getting nowhere with her.”
“Like I said, you're just a plane ride away if we need you back. I spoke about it with Director Burns and he agrees. Go home to your family You have kids, right?”
“Yes, I have kids.”
Hours later, packing my bag at the hotel, I was struck hard with another kind of realization: Actually, I couldn't wait to get home. It was a huge relief that I'd be back in D.C. again, with no immediate travel plans.
But - and the but was important - why had that fact been so far from my mind in Van Allsburg's office? What were these blinders I wore, and how did I keep forgetting I had them on? What kind of dramatic wake-up call did I need before I got the message?