Edge of Black Page 20
“But it’s not him.”
“We don’t know that. We still need to run the prints we found. There is a mountain of evidence that puts him together with the attack. The problem is, even with him off the street, there’s going to be yet another wacko waiting in the wings. Our people are working day and night to mislead these lone wolves. We’re watching three others right now, just to make sure they aren’t making friends with the wrong people. It takes months, years, to set this up. And yet somehow, someone has slipped in under the radar and manufactured enough abrin to make a weapon. God knows what else he has planned. We have to catch up to him before he does something else, and this was our best shot. Even if the Moroccan wasn’t responsible but knows who is, we’re golden. And if there is a third party and he thinks the pressure is off, he might make his move. We’ve got eyes everywhere, just waiting for it. And when we catch the bastard who did this, no one will be the wiser until all the details emerge. We control the game now, and we will explain our reasoning once the shit is in custody. Okay?”
“Big gamble. Your ass, not mine.”
She smiled. “Exactly. So we have work to do. Where are we on Conlon’s computer?”
“Inez and the boys are going at it. They were like a bunch of locusts. Do you ever get the sense that we’re becoming obsolete?”
“No. They may have the technological advantage, but we’re the adults. We know that you don’t get a blue ribbon for trying. They may not have that figured out just yet.”
Fletcher laughed. No kidding.
“What’s the next target?”
“No earthly idea.”
“And yet you’re calm as a deep blue sea.”
“You know that all the motion in the ocean goes on underneath the surface, right?”
“Meaning?”
She sat back in her chair and sighed. “I’m sick inside, Darren. It eats at me. I don’t sleep, I subsist on coffee and carbs. The fact that we lost three people is killing me. But I have to keep treading water, conserving energy, knowing that in a few hours, or a few days, or a few weeks, I’ll have to strike off and swim my way to the shore, dragging their bodies with me, hoping we don’t all drown.”
Fletcher looked at her, really looked. Past the artfully applied makeup and the styled hair to the dark circles under her eyes, the small worry wrinkle between her eyebrows. He suddenly found himself wanting to smooth the troubled look away with a few gentle strokes of a finger, and turned away to gaze out the window. They had no view up here, but the city still shimmered beneath him, the warm haze of summer descending. There would be rain tonight, washing clean the sins of the great city.
Bianco got up and came around the desk, set a hand on his arm.
“Darren, this is going to work. I can feel it. We just need to keep treading water a little longer, and we’ll catch a great wave.”
Inez knocked on her boss’s door. Fletcher could see the excitement bubbling off her.
“Ma’am? I’m sorry to bother you, but we have something you need to look at.”
* * *
Fletcher drove back to Falls Church with some interesting information under his belt.
The skies were gray and low, threatening. Fletcher didn’t care. It was good to get out of the confines of the JTTF, out from under Bianco’s eye. He still thought they were playing with fire, announcing the culprit had been caught when they weren’t one-hundred percent that he was solely responsible, but it wouldn’t be his ass in a sling should the story blow up in their faces.
Instead, he needed to find out more about Marc Conlon, in light of the fact that his computer files showed the mind of a very disturbed young man.
Very disturbed.
The kind of disturbed the JTTF could hang their hat on. The Moroccan may have been publicly trying to blow up the Capitol, but it seemed Marc Conlon could very easily be the accomplice they were looking for instead of an innocent victim.
The Conlons’ house had double doors on the front, a regular wood door behind a glass storm door. The wooden door stood open, allowing easy access for multitudes of people who were coming to pay their respects to Mrs. Conlon and her son.
Fletcher knocked on the glass, then pulled the door open. There were noises coming from the back of the house, a television, most likely. He called out, but no one answered. He tried again, and this time, there was a thin, reedy voice that answered, “In the back.”
Lucy Conlon was a mouse of a woman, small eyes and twitching nose and graying hair cut in an unflattering bob. There was none of her in her son outside of the small stature—he was dark where she was light, gregarious where she was shy, outspoken where she was strangled. She was curled on the sofa facing the television, which was running some sort of infomercial. Maddening if you were in a normal frame of mind, blank distraction if you weren’t.
She turned her head back to the screen when she saw him. “You must be the detective who called. Sit down if you like. What’s wrong with Marc’s computer?”
Fletcher had called before he drove out, just as a courtesy, so she wouldn’t be too blindsided. He may have understated his reason for calling.
He sat in the chair across from her, set the laptop on the table between them.
“Mrs. Conlon, I’m afraid I have some more bad news.”
Chapter 36
Falls Church, Virginia
Detective Darren Fletcher
Fletcher was astonished. Lucy Conlon may have been a mouse, but she was finding her inner reserves right now. She leaned forward with her finger in his face, every inch of her body shaking in anger.
“I will not repeat myself again. My son was not a terrorist. If you say that he was, I will sue you and everyone you’re associated with. He’s never had any contact with that man who was arrested.”
Fletcher ran his palm across his forehead. They’d been at it hammer and tongs for nearly twenty minutes now, and he was getting tired of the battle.
“Ma’am, no one is saying he was a terrorist. But your son’s computer contains some rather disturbing information. You can’t deny he was working on some sort of manifesto. It’s all right here.” Fletcher tapped the lid of the laptop.
“I told you. It’s not a manifesto, it’s a research paper. He was studying their lifestyle. He wanted to be an anthropologist. That Ledbetter woman got him all turned-on with her book, and he struck out to repeat her findings. He was starting his master’s degree work early. They let them do that now, work on credit toward a master’s while they are doing undergrad. That’s all this is.”
Her voice finally wavered a bit. No mother wants to find out that her son could be involved in a crime, especially one so heinous as an attack on a mass transit system.
“Mrs. Conlon. Please understand. Right now, no one is accusing Marc of planning the Metro attack. But the material we found in his computer makes it quite clear that he was on a bad path. He had contact with several less than savory people. He was exploring converting to Islam. He was talking to white supremacy groups. This is not the computer of some innocent who played Dungeons and Dragons in his spare time. This is the computer of a quiet revolutionary, gearing up for a serious change of routine.”
She shook her little mousy head and her wispy hair barely moved. “I’m telling you, he is innocent in all of this. He was a curious boy. He liked to see what made people tick. He wanted to live a hundred lives. Church, for example. He’s been to services at just about every single church in the metro area. It didn’t matter what the religion was, he was interested in how the people who attended responded to their environments. He wasn’t planning anything. He was just studying them. Studying the people and their actions. I know it in my heart.”
This was getting him nowhere fast. She would never admit her son could be involved in the attacks. He decided to try a different tack.
She crossed her arms and gritted her teeth. “You’ll have to believe me, because that’s what he was doing. He had plans to finish college early and get his Ph.D. before he was twenty-five. He was a really smart kid.”
“Mrs. Conlon, please. In the course of his research, Marc came across some very nasty people. Did he ever mention being afraid of anyone in particular? Did he get calls late at night? Was he upset about anything?”
“My God, the boy was nineteen. He got calls at all hours, and was always upset. His hormones hadn’t settled yet.”
“Where is Marc’s father?”
She glanced at the floor. “Dead. When Marc was just a boy. I raised him myself. And that’s why I can assure you that he was not a bad kid. And he’s gone now. My baby is gone.”
She started to cry, and Fletcher stood. Nothing like browbeating a grieving mother to tears. There was nothing more to be learned here. He handed her his card.
“Mrs. Conlon, I may call on you again. I truly am sorry for your loss. I’ll show myself out.”
Driving back downtown, Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder if Marc Conlon had duped everyone in his life, or if his mother was telling the truth. If that was the case, it was entirely possible that his research had gotten him killed. Which meant Fletcher was back at square one. Again.
Chapter 37
Dillon, Colorado
Dr. Samantha Owens
Sam found Xander’s world more and more charming the longer she spent in it. And for someone who liked to keep to himself, he was practically a rock star around Dillon. Everyone knew him. Everyone welcomed him back with open arms. It was a good thing they weren’t trying to be subtle, because that would have been near on impossible. Sam understood why he’d chosen to hide out in the Maryland mountains instead of coming home. There, he could be alone. Here, that would never happen.
She got that. Entirely. It was one of the big reasons she’d chosen to move to D.C., just to get away from the constant noise of people caring.
After running into three more people who were happy to see him, they finally got settled at the restaurant with thick dark roast coffees, mouths watering at the smells emanating from the grill. Sam hooked into the free wireless and opened the website George had sent her to, Fotki. She pulled the Post-it note with the username and password from her wallet and logged into Loa Ledbetter’s account.
There were more than ten thousand pictures to sort through. Sam stifled an inward groan and remembered her plan—look to the events Ledbetter had immortalized on her walls first. Xander watched over her shoulder as she started sorting through the photos.
If the pictures were any indication, Ledbetter lived an amazing life. There were folders from every continent, every major city across the world. She did a search for Hawaii, and four separate folders popped up. She searched through them until she found the shot of Ledbetter on the plain below the volcano, the rosary pea plants next to her.
“I find it highly ironic that she’s the key to realizing the poison was abrin,” Xander said.
“No kidding. The simple fact that she’s been in contact with the plants makes me wonder what she might have had to do with this. And why a killer would go so far off the beaten path to discover how to weaponize the abrin, and use it to murder three people.”
“It’s looking more and more like a targeted assassination.”
Sam took a sip of her coffee. “I agree. There are just too many coincidences. And if we look at Ledbetter as the primary target, not Peter Leighton, the whole story shifts. I think Fletcher is off on the wrong trail, and we’re on the right one. But one thing doesn’t work for me.”
“What’s that?”
“The three must have been exposed to more abrin than the remainder of the people who were sickened. Leighton had asthma, so it’s conceivable that he would react more intensely than the others to the effects of the poison in the Metro, but he was all the way on the other side of town, and there are plenty of immunosuppressed people with lung ailments who take the Metro. The odds of it only affecting him and Conlon and Ledbetter are astronomical.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“That we’re missing something major. A delivery method. This killer disguised the murders in an attack on the masses, so he was desperate to cover his tracks. He doesn’t want recognition for himself, he just wanted three people dead and didn’t want to be caught. This took so much planning, he couldn’t leave anything to chance. I think there must be another delivery method for the three dead. I’ll bet that the abrin levels are much higher in their blood work than any of the people who got sick from the Metro attack.”
“Can you test for that?”
“The concentration levels will show clearly on the tox screens. Let me call Amado. He might be able to shed some light on this.”
She dialed Nocek’s number, and he answered right away.
“Samantha. It is good to hear from you. I understand you have been traveling.”
“Hello, Amado,” she said warmly. “Yes, I have. May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Has the lab returned the blood work on the victims yet?”
“It has. Are you interested in something specific?”
“Yes. What were the concentration levels of abrin in the three dead?”
She heard him flipping pages. How convenient, he had the records there on his desk, almost as if he’d known she might be calling. Then again, Nocek had always been able to interpret Sam’s next move. He was special like that. Highly focused.
“The estimated human fatal dose is 0.1–1 microgram per kilogram. The three dead had concentration levels over one microgram. Ten times the amount necessary to kill them.”
“Goodness. Were there any findings from the people sick at GW?”
“The CDC has been running tests on them. From what I’ve heard, the levels were under 0.001–0.003 micrograms.”
“Enough to sicken, but not enough to kill. Excellent.”
“Excellent?”
She heard the questioning tone in his voice. She must have sounded rather heartless.
“I don’t mean it like that. You’ve just proved my theory. I believe Leighton, Ledbetter and Conlon were all dosed separately to make sure they got enough abrin in their systems to kill them, and the Metro attack was simply to cover the killer or killers’ tracks. The question is, how were they dosed?”
“You have a keen mind, Doctor. When I saw the concentration levels today, I was wondering the same thing.”
“Ledbetter smoked. Did Conlon?”
More papers rustling. “The list of personal effects includes a pack of Camel Lights. So yes. Dr. Ledbetter does not have cigarettes within her personal items, but she was at work, so it is entirely possible the cigarettes were already in her office.”
“She was supposed to have quit, but you know how easy it is to slip up. And what’s the first thing you do after a long trip, or before you go to work, or into class?”
“As a former smoker myself, I would have to say smoke a cigarette.”
“I would suggest you get those tested, Amado. It’s entirely possible that’s the delivery method.”
“But what about the congressman? He was not a smoker—on the contrary, he would be doing all he could to make sure his lungs were not compromised.”
They said it at the same time.
“The inhaler.”
“Samantha, I will endeavor to retrieve the inhalers from the Leightons as well as the cigarettes from Conlon and Ledbetter and have them tested immediately. Thank you for this information. Would you like to share it with Detective Fletcher, or should I?”
“You feel free. I have a few
more things to work on before I check in with him.”
“I will take care of this. Be safe, Samantha.”
“Thanks, Amado. You, too.”
* * *
Sam was enjoying the adrenaline rush she was feeling. Mildly euphoric, she soldiered on.
“Okay. The pieces are starting to come together and make more sense. Back to the photos.”
“Does she have any pictures of her time with the Mountain Blue and Gray?”
Sam clicked out of the Hawaii folder and did a search for Colorado. Forty folders showed up. “Wow. Let’s see here...”
She looked at the dates, opened the folder dated 2006.
The pictures were of what seemed to be beautiful but inconsequential things—gardens, trees, flowers. Spring in the mountains.
“She set up shop with them in the winter. This could be after the first big thaw.”
“Makes sense.”
“Interesting that she got into it with them, that she was trying to stay below the radar and fit into their world.”
“They wouldn’t be likely to accept just any stranger off the street. She must have been working an angle for a while to get invited in. Usually they have specific people with specific skills, and some redundancy. Like a SEAL team. Twelve men with expertise redundancies so the group can be broken into two teams of six if necessary, or further split into four teams of three. Electronics, communications, weapons. The survivalists are similar in makeup, only twice the size. So she must have brought something to the table.”
Sam thought back to the memoir. “She was a gardener. She apparently could grow most anything.”
“That’s a useful skill, for sure. Sustainability is vital. It would be interesting to see how she made contact, though.”
“Here, read it.” Sam pulled the memoir from her bag and handed it to Xander. “I was skimming for information, I didn’t really know what to look for.”