the murders were linked. They wouldn’t tell the press that, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out they had to be connected.
He looked down at both ends of the street and shook his head at the crowd of media and curious onlookers who were gathered on the other side of the police barricades.
Clasping the cup of coffee with both hands, he closed his eyes and blocked out the surrounding commotion. He tried to imagine exactly how Fitzgerald had been murdered.
McMahon was a strong believer in visualization. In an inexplicable way, he thought that a killer left an aura at the scene of a crime. It was not unusual for McMahon to go back to the places where people had been murdered months, even years, after the crimes had been committed and sit for hours playing scenario after scenario through his head, trying to gain the slightest insight into the mind of the murderer. Putting himself in the shoes of the killer, he thought about the different ways Fitzgerald could have been murdered. After a while he started to look for similarities in the way Koslowski, Downs, and Fitzgerald had been killed. He was making a mental checklist of the questions that needed to be answered: How many killers? Why were they killed? Why these three politicians? Who would have the motive?
McMahon was laying the foundation for his investigation. Everything he was thinking would be transferred onto a blackboard back in the tactical situation room for his team to review. His concentration was broken by a familiar voice calling his name.
McMahon looked up and saw his boss, Brian Roach, walking toward him with his always present bodyguards.
“Skip, anything new to report?” Roach had been with the Bureau for twenty-six years and had served as its director for the last four. He had been a good agent in his day, but that was all history now.
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Running the FBI meant forgetting almost everything he’d learned about law enforcement and concentrating on politics and administration.
McMahon pushed himself away from the squad and stepped toward Roach.
“The forensic teams are going over the crime scenes, and the pathologists should be starting the autopsies within the hour.”
McMahon extended his right hand. Roach shook it and grabbed the larger McMahon by the arm, walking him several steps toward the sidewalk.
Roach’s bodyguards fanned out in a circle. “It’s all set. You’re in charge of the investigation.
There are going to be some people who aren’t going to be too happy about that, but I
don’t care. The fact is you’re the best investigative agent we’ve got, and I need someone I
can trust running this thing.” Roach put one hand in his pocket and straightened his tie with the other. “Skip, the pressure to solve this mess is going to be incredible. It’s going to come from every direction, and most of it’s going to be political. I’ll do my best to screen you from it, but I’m not going to be able to block it all.” McMahon shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing we’re not used to, right?”
“Yeah, but this is gonna be different. My head hurts when I think about all the political pressure that’s going to be put on us to solve this thing. The other reason why I’m putting you in charge is because I know how much you hate dealing with the press and politicians.
We can’t have any leaks. Make sure your people know, their careers are over if they breathe a word to anyone outside the unit about the investigation.”
“Understood.” Roach looked at his watch. “I need you to come to the White House with me and give a quick briefing. It’s driving the President nuts that the only information he’s getting is from the TV.”
Roach noticed the frown on McMahon’s face and said, “All I need you to do is give them the basics on what you’ve found at the three crime scenes. Come on, let’s go.”
Roach nodded toward his limo and they walked away from the crime scene with the bodyguards in tow. McMahon and Roach had known each other for a long time. The two men had met when McMahon was a second- year agent and Roach was fresh out of the
FBI’s Academy.
Over the last twenty-some years, they’d become good friends. Roach, from the start, wanted to rise to the top of the Bureau, and McMahon never wanted to be anything more than an agent. McMahon’s lack of ambition was twofold. First and foremost, he was a
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realist. He knew himself well and understood that he would never be able to bury his pride and brownnose his way to the upper levels. The director had to be able to play the
Washington game, something the elite investigator was not well suited for. McMahon didn’t beat around the bush; if he thought you were wrong, he told you. It didn’t matter who you were.
This, of course, had not always gone over well. There’d been several politicians and at least one former director who had wanted his career with the FBI terminated.
Luckily for McMahon, he was very good at what he did. This was the second reason for his lack of ambition. He loved his job. Throughout the Bureau, McMahon was recognized as the best homicide investigator.
He was not one to follow FBI procedure like a robot. Other agents from around the country consulted with him on their investigations. He had his own unique way of doing things. During his time at the Bureau he had watched some great investigators waste away after being promoted into cushy administrative jobs. Not Skip McMahon. He had told Roach four years earlier, when his friend became director, “The day you pull me out of the field is the day I retire.” Before climbing into the director’s limo, McMahon yelled to Kathy Jennings, one of the agents who worked under his command. Jennings was talking to a group of agents, all of whom were wearing their standard crime- scene blue
