11
In the main conference room of the New Orleans field office, a strategy meeting is deciding what direction the NOKIDS case will take from here. I am not at that meeting. I’ve been banished to SAC Bowles’s office. Once again, exclusion defines my status as an outsider. The meeting is being chaired by a deputy director of the FBI, and includes the U.S. Attorney for New Orleans, the New Orleans chief of police, the sheriff of Jefferson Parish, and various other big shots. It’s amazing how they come out of the woodwork when there’s a whiff of success in the air.
While I wait, my mind whirls with memories of Marcel de Becque, his paintings, his beautiful Vietnamese servant, and the photo of my father on his wall. But these memories are only static crackling around the electric knowledge that, if Daniel Baxter’s plan is not overruled, I will soon be facing suspects – men who may have killed my sister – in the hope of rattling them into betraying themselves. This prospect does more to settle my soul than anything I’ve tried in the past year.
Agent Wendy, my bodyguard, has walked in twice and tried to make small talk, but I couldn’t concentrate, and she took the hint. This time when Bowles’s door opens, John Kaiser walks in, his face all business. As the door closes behind him, I catch sight of Wendy looking in from the hall.
“You ready?” he asks.
“What’s happened so far?”
“Lots of nothing. The bureaucrats had to weigh in. Beaucoup jurisdictional asses to kiss on this one. The Deputy Director and the U.S. Attorney are gone. They wanted to meet you, but I told them you weren’t a big fan of the Justice Department.”
“There are certain elements I like better than others.”
Kaiser smiles. “The big news is, we have four suspects. And all of them were here in town the day Wingate died in New York. We’ll both hear the details in there. When we get done, I’d like to talk to you alone. We never got dinner. Maybe we can have a late meal, if you’re up for it.”
“Sure. Wendy, too?”
He blows air from his cheeks. “I’ll handle that. Let’s go.”
It’s a quick walk to the conference room, which is stunning in size and decor. I expected a ten-foot table and some doctor’s office chairs. What I find is a forty-foot-long room with a window running the length of it, giving a panoramic view of Lake Pontchartrain, recognizable in the dark by the receding lights of the causeway. The conference table is thirty feet long and surrounded by massive blue plush executive chairs with the FBI crest embroidered in the upholstery, where a tall man’s head would rest. At the near end of the table sit the usual suspects: Daniel Baxter, SAC Bowles, Dr. Lenz, and Bill Granger, the head of the Violent Crimes Squad. Piles of paper and files are spread out between Styrofoam coffee cups, half-empty water bottles, and a triangular speaker phone. Kaiser takes a seat beside Granger, opposite Bowles and Lenz, and I sit beside him.
Baxter looks tired but resolute at the head of the table, like a sea captain who has spent days riding out a hurricane but has now come within sight of his home port. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“Ms. Glass, we’ve made phenomenal progress in the past eight hours. The sable brush hairs led us to the Tulane University art department. With the help of the president of the university, we’ve determined that this particular order was placed by one Roger Wheaton, the artist-in-residence at Newcomb College, which is part of Tulane.”
“The name sounds familiar.”
“Wheaton is one of the most highly regarded artists in America. He’s fifty-eight years old, and he came to Tulane just two years ago.”
“About the time the disappearances started,” says Bill Granger.
“Wheaton was raised in Vermont,” Baxter continues, “and except for four years spent in the marine corps, lived his life between Vermont and New York City. For the past ten years he’s been besieged by offers like the one that brought him to Tulane, but he’s something of a recluse, and he always rejected such offers before. But two years ago, he accepted the position at Tulane.”
“Why?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. The main point is that Wheaton didn’t order the special sable brushes only for himself. He has three graduate students taking studio classes for full credit, and they’ve been studying under him since he arrived. Two are male, and followed him down from New York. The other is a woman, a Louisiana native.”
“One of your suspects is a woman?”
“She has access to the sable brushes, and the taser used in the snatch of the Dorignac’s victim makes a female perpetrator possible.”
As unlikely as this sounds to me, I go right to my next question. “Wheaton brought his own students with him?”
“Tulane hired Roger Wheaton for his reputation. It’s a feather in their cap to have him, and he was given absolute. discretion over whom he would select for his program. Wheaton also teaches a lecture class – fifty-one students -and any of them could conceivably have got hold of these brushes. But we’re not going to use you in that phase of the investigation. Wheaton and the three graduate students will be our targets.”
“When are we talking to them?”
“Tomorrow. All of them, no matter how long it takes. I want to minimize any chance of interaction between them prior to questioning. Before we go into details, though, you should understand our position in the present climate. The Investigative Support Unit normally works in an advisory capacity for state or local police agencies. We provide expertise relating to serial offenders, but the police do the legwork. They conduct the interviews, make the arrests, and get the credit. However, in a long-running case like this one, where we have knowledge that crimes will likely be committed in the future, we become heavily involved in all aspects of the investigation.”
“I understand.”
“We have a unique situation here in New Orleans. The spread-out nature of the city has created a jurisdictional nightmare. There are seven separate police departments involved in these disappearances. And though not all of them have homicide detectives, there are over two dozen detectives working this case. We’re presently leading the joint task force, but all these police detectives would like to interview Wheaton and his students. However, the most potent weapon anyone could have in such an interview, Ms. Glass, is you. And to put it bluntly, you’re on our team.”
“For the moment.”
Baxter gives Kaiser a quick glance, but Kaiser remains expressionless. “We’ve also managed to gather many of the Sleeping Women at the National Gallery in Washington, something metropolitan police agencies could never have managed. Because of this, and because of jurisdictional rivalry, we’re going to be given the first shot at these suspects. All four have been under surveillance from the time they were identified, but they won’t be approached until after we go in tomorrow. The pressure on this investigation is enormous. The victims in this case come from affluent families. One of the Tulane students was – is – the daughter of a federal judge in New York. So, while we interview Roger Wheaton at the university, NOPD will be searching his residence from top to bottom. We’re already turning his life inside out, insofar as it exists on paper. His three students get the same treatment, though I’m not optimistic in two cases. Investigating art students is like investigating waiters; they almost don’t exist on paper. Right now none of the four has a paper alibi for the Dorignac’s snatch. All four were at an opening at the New Orleans Museum of Art until seven-thirty p.m. The chancellor verified that. Beyond that we know nothing.” Baxter’s dark eyes burn into mine. “Tomorrow, Ms. Glass, we are the point of a very bulky spear. We have to hit our target. If we miss, we lose the best chance we’ll ever have to surprise our UNSUB into a confession.”
“I get it. Let’s have the details.”
Baxter shuffles a stack of papers. “I’m going to give you a quick sketch of each,” says Baxter. “This is for John’s benefit, too.”
