Quinn — Hinsdale, IL
When Margaret Quinn opened her heavy-laden eyes after several hours of deep sleep, there was a man standing over her. At first she thought it was Dr. Drury, but as her eyes slowly focused she realized he was a stranger. “Who are you?” she asked in an alarmed but groggy voice. Her body felt like cement.
“I work for Dr. Drury,” Marco said. He had entered the house at five o’clock in the morning, when the FBI’s surveillance expanded from two agents in an unmarked car to a team of surveillance specialists in a delivery van. The switch had provided enough distraction for Marco to momentarily disable the security system and enter the basement, where he spent the next several hours assessing the FBI’s surveillance. Once the van of surveillance specialists had set up, the perimeter of the house became virtually impregnable. Sophisticated sound and movement surveillance equipment monitored every inch of space outside the home; however, the FBI was relying on wall penetrating listening devices and outside cameras to monitor activity inside the house. As long as the FBI didn’t upgrade their internal surveillance equipment, Marco’s handheld jamming device would keep all movements and speech within a radius of twenty feet of the device masked from detection. Getting out of the house, on the other hand, would pose a challenge.
“He was called into emergency surgery,” Marco said. “He asked me to come over and check on you.”
“Where’s my husband?” she asked, feeling more and more nervous about the pleasant-looking young man standing next to her.
“He had to go to the office for a few minutes. Said he’d be back soon.”
“I’ve never seen you in Dr. Drury’s office,” she said, trying to move away from him but barely able to lift an arm.
“I’m a registered nurse in my third year of medical school. I started working part-time for Dr. Drury about a month ago, when my wife had to quit her job to keep the baby. She’s seven months pregnant but started having preterm labor. It’s our first. This job is allowing me to stay in medical school. Dr. Drury has been a life saver,” Marco said, enthusiastically.
The young man’s pleasant manner seemed to make Margaret feel better, until she remembered why she was lying in bed sedated. She began crying all over again, replaying her husband’s confession in her mind.
Marco leaned over and gently raised her up to drink from the cup he held in his other hand. “Drink this, Mrs. Quinn, it will taste a little like alcohol but it’s only a mild sedative to help you sleep.”
It tasted like gin and cough syrup mixed together as she drank it. “Dr. Drury gave me an injection before.”
“I know,” Marco said. “I’m going to give you another one now, so you can sleep without interruption.”
She was already beginning to feel woozy. “Why do I need…” but she was unable to complete her sentence. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was the young man removing a needle from her arm.
Marco placed the used needle in his bag and returned to his hiding place in the basement. Thanks to Wayland Tate, his recent string of assignments had made him a lot of money. He liked Tate, not merely because he paid well, but because he saw the world the same way Marco did. Dominate or be dominated.
Quinn felt relieved to find his wife sleeping soundly in their bed when he returned home. But when he spotted the Sapphire Gin and Tonic on the nightstand, he checked her more closely. She wasn’t breathing. Frantically, he grabbed her in his arms, trying to find a pulse. It was barely discernable. He called 911 and then gave her mouth- to-mouth resuscitation. The FBI agents arrived within seconds of his 911 call, followed by the Hinsdale paramedics minutes later. Efforts to revive her en route to Adventist Hospital a few blocks away gave way to frenzied procedures in the emergency room. But it was all in vain. Margaret Emory Quinn was pronounced dead from an overdose of barbiturates and alcohol, at twenty-seven minutes past five in the evening.
When Dr. Drury arrived a few minutes later, he immediately contacted the Quinn children and then attempted to comfort their grieving father. Quinn, however, was already well beyond Dr. Drury’s reach.
“Was she alone when she woke up?” Dr. Drury asked.
“I don’t know,” Quinn said, coldly.
“Was she conscious when you found her?”
“No.”
“I’m so sorry, David. I never expected…”
“It’s okay, Doctor. You’re not to blame for this. I am.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“Nothing,” Quinn said.
Dr. Drury began questioning one of the ER physicians who had attended Margaret, but Quinn had no desire to relive the tragedy. He excused himself to the restroom. Three undercover FBI agents and a fourth man hired by Bob Swatling watched as Quinn entered the restroom. One of the FBI agents followed him.
“Mr. Quinn,” the FBI agent said once inside. “I’m Agent Sylvester, FBI. I’m very sorry about your wife.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we have received instructions to move you and your children to a secure location, immediately.”
“Go to hell,” Quinn said defiantly. “Protect my children when they get here. I’ll be at the Lake House until I have to testify. Supposedly your people have secured it. Tell Wiseman I’ll be expecting his visit.” Quinn turned from the urinal and began walking out of the restroom.
Agent Sylvester grabbed his arm, but Quinn jerked it away. “Don’t touch me. I’m a protected witness not a fucking criminal,” Quinn said without breaking stride. Sylvester spoke into a small microphone attached to his suit sleeve. “He’s coming your way. Defiant and going to the Lake House. Stay with him. I’ll advise Wiseman and Kohl. Wait until I arrive.”
Quinn walked out of the emergency room at Adventist Hospital and got into a taxicab that took him to the end of Illinois Road in Lake Forest. When he entered the Lake House property, he spoke briefly to Jackson Ebbs before going to the library. Once inside, he pushed the power button on the stereo system and inserted a Mozart Exsultate CD, selecting the last number, “Benedictus from Requiem K 626.” Five minutes and fourteen seconds long. It wouldn’t take longer than that, he said to himself.
Sitting down behind the antique Chippendale desk, he removed a yellow pad of lined paper and a Waterman fountain pen before unlocking the thin center drawer to remove a Springfield Super 38. He placed the pistol on top of the desk and began writing his note.
At twelve minutes past six in the evening, David Albright Quinn placed the five-inch barrel of the Super 38 in his mouth-moments away from blowing his brains out. Everything had become corrupted because he wanted more. It was a common disease among prosperous men. He tried to pull the trigger, but couldn’t. After removing the gun from his mouth, he began sobbing like a child. He deserved to die for killing his wife, but killing himself wouldn’t fix things. It would never bring her back. But there were other things he could fix.
As he opened the drawer and replaced the 38, a man he’d never seen before entered the library and walked toward him with a gun in his hand. He was a Latin-looking man of average height in his early thirties, striking facial features, broad shoulders, extremely fit, and dressed in a jogging suit. His moves were fluid like an athlete’s. “Who are you?” Quinn cried in a loud voice, hoping to alert Ebbs, but the Requiem was just beginning its finale, masking his plea.
“Push your chair away from the desk, slowly,” Marco said, having arrived at the Lake House only minutes before Quinn. After the paramedics had arrived at the Quinn home in Hinsdale, Marco had gambled on the FBI surveillance specialists leaving the scene with the two ambulance vehicles, which is exactly what they did. As soon as they were gone, he walked three blocks to his car in a nearby church parking lot, and drove to Adventist Hospital where he waited in the parking lot, listening carefully for updates from his contact inside.
When Quinn had announced he was going to the Lake House, Bob Swatling’s man quickly conveyed the
