“Don’t swear!” she said, playfully swatting her notebook in his direction. “Maybe the victims are connected and maybe they’re not. Each crime is different. It’s almost like they’re deliberately random. Maybe he chooses the victims randomly too. He sends postcards to let us know the crimes are connected and that he’s the one who decides if someone’s going to die. He reads about the Doomsday Killer in the papers, watches the wall-to-wall cable coverage, it’s a real power trip for him. He’s very clever and very twisted. That’s our man.”
She waited for his approbation, but instead he stuck a pin in her balloon.
“Well, you’re a real hotshot, Special Agent Lipinski, aren’t you?” He stood up and marveled how fine it was to have a clear head and a stomach that could take food. “There’s only one thing wrong with your synthesis,” he said. “I don’t believe a word of it. The only archcriminal I know who’s capable of all this evil brilliance is Lex Luthor, and last time I checked, he was in a comic book. Take a break for lunch. Come get me for the press conference.”
He shooed her away with a wink and studied her as she retreated. She’s definitely looking better, he thought.
As the case dragged into the summer, the Doomsday press updates had been stretched to weekly. Originally there were daily briefings, but that level of newsworthiness was not sustainable. Yet, the story had legs, strong legs, and was proving to be a bigger ratings draw than O.J., Jon Benet, and Anna Nicole put together. Every night on cable the case was dissected down to a molecular level by talking heads and a legion of ex-FBI and law enforcement officers, lawyers, and pundits who weighed in breathlessly with their pet theories. Of late, a common theme was emerging: The FBI was not making progress, ergo the FBI was inept.
The news conference was in the New York Hilton ballroom. By the time Will and Nancy took their positions near a service entrance, the room was three-quarters full with press and photographers and the bigwigs were settling in up on the dais. On signal, the TV lights switched on and the live feed went out.
The mayor, a natty and imperturbable man, took the podium. “We are six weeks into this investigation,” he began. “On a positive note, there have been no new victims in ten days. While there have been no arrests at this time, law enforcement professionals from New York City, New York State, and federal agencies have been working diligently, and I believe productively, in running down multiple leads and theories. However, we cannot deny that there have been eight related murders in this city, and our citizens will not feel entirely safe until the perpetrator is caught and brought to justice. Benjamin Wright, Assistant in Charge of the New York Office of the FBI, will take your questions.”
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?
