During that time he was charged with two more DUIs and lost his license. That didn’t stop him. He was spotted buying drugs in Anacostia at one point; stopped and arrested with meth and black-tar heroin in his possession at another. A month after that, he was arrested on charges of beating a hooker; he’d done it while wasted, blaming her for who he’d become.
At least seven times, Metro police were called to the Fowler residence by neighbors complaining of domestic disturbances. Nine months into his radical new behavior, Fowler lost his job, voted out by his partners. Two months after that, Fowler’s wife changed the locks on the house, got a restraining order barring him from contact with her or her children, and filed for divorce.
That action had only driven Fowler further away from his former self. Not a month went by without something interesting to report about the counselor. Charges of attempting to intimidate a witness in his divorce trial. Charges of child abuse by his wife. Illegal possession of firearms.
The night his divorce became final, Fowler broke into a former friend’s house and stole whatever he could lay his hands on. He was arrested and spent ninety days in jail, his first real stretch, but not his last.
His ex-wife announced her intention to wed Dr. Barry Nicholson, an old friend of the family, and a week later, Fowler showed up at the optometrist’s office high on a handful of substances and carrying a knife. He threatened Nicholson and terrorized the staff at the doctor’s office for almost an hour before being arrested and subdued.
Nicholson had refused to press charges, stating that he believed Fowler was mentally ill and that his radical change in behavior was the result of something organic rather than environmental. The court ordered Fowler held for a psychiatric review, but nothing conclusive was found and he was ultimately released.
Next, Fowler tried to disrupt his ex-wife’s wedding. Guards caught him and escorted him out, but he could be heard shouting that Barry Nicholson was doomed and that his ex-wife was doomed. Since then, Fowler’s life had turned even more squalid and desperate.
To support his habit, Fowler tried to become a drug dealer. He was not successful and lived on the street for a while, the usual elegant lodgings-dumpsters, abandoned houses, public restrooms. Then a third-rate hooker who called herself Patty Paradise took him in. Patty was a pathetic druggie herself, afflicted with the shakes, rotted teeth, HIV, the whole catalog of problems that accompany meth addiction.
Fowler had recently spent four months in jail in Montgomery County, Maryland, on burglary charges.
“He got out the day after Thanksgiving,” McGoey observed. “Which gave him a solid twenty-eight days to get ready for this.”
“Unless he was preparing before that,” I said, rubbing my temple. “As an old boss of mine used to say, ‘There’s no rest for the wicked and no snooze button on the human time bomb.’”
CHAPTER 11
In the hour that followed, Fowler never once picked up the phone. But members of Adam Nu’s team got hold of snow camouflage and crept close to the house with listening devices. They returned around ten minutes to eleven, and I recommended that Tom McGoey call a quick meeting of the minds.
We gathered outside the two vans in that makeshift shelter, which was surprisingly warm and dry, given the weather around it.
“He’s into hour four holding the hostages by himself,” I began. “This is not a good thing. With a partner, Fowler can sleep. Without a partner, each minute gets more difficult for him. He’s got to monitor the people he’s holding. He’s got to be suspicious of every creak in the floorboards.”
One of the SWAT guys who was wearing the snow camouflage, a small, tough-looking officer named Jacobson, said, “He’s whacked on something.”
“You had visual on him?” McGoey asked.
“For a second, when we tried to place a listening device. Fowler moved through our line of sight carrying his works.”
“What’s he shooting?” I asked.
“He’s moving fast, jittery,” Jacobson said. “My bet’s meth.”
It made sense. In jail these days, meth was passed around like hors d’oeuvres at a party. In the past few years it had become just as popular on the streets of DC. And Fowler was a known user.
“Okay, so depending on how long he’s been on this particular tweaking binge, he could go rhino on us at any moment,” Nu said.
A meth addict on a binge is chaos walking and talking. In the first day or two, his emotion swings. Gregarious one moment. Paranoid the next. Euphoric, and then drowning in the depths of depression. At a certain point, however, usually after he’s spent many days awake, the drug triggers a bout of wild rage, and the tweaker goes rhino trying to destroy anyone and anything around him.
“Any sense of how close we are to that?” I asked Jacobson.
The SWAT officer shook his head. “Not from what we saw.”
“Do we have the listening device planted?” McGoey asked.
Jacobson shook his head again. “Too much snow and ice. We were nervous that if he heard us try to clean the outer window, he might open fire on the hostages.”
“Smart,” I said.
Nu informed us that his men had been able to get permission to enter the homes adjoining the Nicholson residence and were already moving into position.
“I’m putting two snipers to a house, and assault teams in range of every door-front, back, patio, kitchen, garage. If we can distract Fowler at the front door-where these kinds of guys tend to concentrate their attention-we may be able to go in through the back.”
“Alarm system?” I asked.
“Good point,” Nu said. “I’ll have it shut down.”
The discussion had turned to going after Fowler. It frustrated me, but if the man wasn’t going to talk to us, what else could we do?
“Let’s talk about timing,” McGoey said. “I think the longer we wait…”
I noticed something that made me stop listening to him in the middle of his sentence. I saw, over Nu’s shoulder and out through a slit in the tarps, a bundled-up woman tromping through the four inches of snow that now coated the city. She was walking right toward us. I caught a glimpse of her face in a flashlight beam.
It was Bree.
What was wrong? Why was my wife here?
CHAPTER 12
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ll be right back,” I said as I broke away from the group, and Bree entered the shelter.
“Hey,” I said, going to her. “What’s wrong?”
She drew back her hood.
“Wrong?” Bree asked in a whisper. “When I left the house, Nana was crying her eyes out, sure that you were going to die on Christmas Eve.”
My stomach churned. “Look, I’m fine. You can see for yourself. I’ll call her.”
“She’s gone to bed.”
“Which is where you should also be.”
“Do you think I could possibly sleep, Alex?”
I sighed. “Bree, you of all people know how this works.”
“I know how it works for you,” she said. “I can say no to the job but you can’t, Alex. That’s not good for you or your family. Especially at Christmas.”
“Sometimes you can’t say no, even if it is Christmas,” I said. “Sometimes you have a lunatic meth head who decides that the holiday is a perfect time for him to take his ex-wife, their three kids, and her new husband hostage.”
Bree hugged herself, looked away, and said, “You have a family who all feel like other families in a crisis come first for you.”
“That’s not fair, Bree.”
“Maybe not,” she said, looking back at me. “But I thought it was important that you know that your children think that.”
My head felt heavy. So did my chest. I said, “I am sad beyond words to hear that, Bree. And there is nothing I want more at this moment than to go home right now and then get up in the morning tomorrow and unwrap presents. But I honestly don’t know how I’d live with myself if I did that and then heard that this guy murdered his entire family when I might have been able to prevent it.”