Why was Thomas Pierce killing all of these people?
He was “impeccable,” wasn’t he.
Chapter 115
PIERCE STOLE a forest green BMW convertible in the expensive, quaint, quite lovely shore town of Bay Head, New Jersey. On the corner of East Avenue and Harris Street, a prime location, he hot-wired and grabbed the vehicle as slickly as a pickpocket working the boardwalks down at Point Pleasant Beach. He was so good at this, overqualified for the scut work.
He drove west through Brick Town at moderate speeds, to the Garden State Parkway. He played music all the way-Talking Heads, Alanis Morissette, Melissa Etheridge, Blind Faith. Music helped him to feel something. It always had, from the time he’d been a boy. An hour and a quarter later he entered Atlantic City.
He sighed with pleasure. He loved it instantly-the shameless tawdriness, the grubbiness, the tattered sinfulness, the soullessness of the place. He felt as if he were “home,” and he wondered if the FBI geniuses had linked the Jersey Shore to Laguna Beach yet?
Entering Atlantic City, he had half expected to see a beautifully maintained expanse of lawn sloping down to the ocean. Surfers with peroxided, gnarly hair; volleyball played around the clock.
But no, no, this was New Jersey. Southern California, his real home, was thousands of miles away. He mustn’t get confused now.
He checked into Bally’s Park Place. Up in his room, he started to make phone calls. He wanted to “order in.” He stood at a picture window and watched the ghostly waves of the Atlantic punish the beach again and again. Far down the beach he could see Trump Plaza. The audacious and ridiculous penthouse apartments were perched on the main building, like a space shuttle ready to take off.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, of course there was a pattern. Why couldn’t anyone figure it out? Why did he always have to be misunderstood?
At two in the morning, Thomas Pierce sent the trackers another voice-mail message: Inez in Atlantic City.
Chapter 116
GODDAMN HIM! Half a day after we recovered the body of Anthony Bruno, we got the next message from Pierce. He had taken another one already.
We were on the move immediately. Two dozen of us rushed to Atlantic City and prayed he was still there, that someone named Inez hadn’t already been butchered and “studied” by Mr. Smith and discarded like the evening trash.
Giant billboards screamed all along the Atlantic City Expressway. Caesars Atlantic City, Harrah’s, Merv Griffin ’s Resorts Casino Hotel, Trump’s Castle, Trump Taj Mahal. Call 1-800-GAMBLER. Now that was funny.
Inez, Atlantic city, I kept hearing inside my head. Sounds like Isabella.
We set up shop in the FBI field office, which was only a few blocks from the old Stell Pier and the so-called “ Great Wooden Way.” There were usually only four agents in the small office. Their expertise was organized crime and gambling, and they weren’t considered movers and shakers inside the Bureau. They weren’t prepared for a savage, unpredictable killer who had once been a very good agent.
Someone had bought a stack of newspapers and they were piled high on the conference table. The New York, Philly, and Jersey headline writers were having a field day with this one.
ALIEN KILLER VISITS JERSEY SHORE…
FBI KILLER-DILLER IN ATLANTIC CITY…
MR. SMITH MANHUNT: Hundreds of Federal agents flock to New Jersey Shore…
MONSTER ON THE LOOSE IN NEW JERSEY!
Sampson came up to the beach from Washington. He wanted Pierce as badly as any of us. He, Kyle, and I worked together, brainstorming over what Pierce-Mr. Smith might do next. Sondra Greenberg from Interpol worked with us, too. She was seriously jet-lagged, and had deep circles under her eyes, but she knew Pierce and had been at most of the European murder sites.
“He’s not a goddamn split personality?” Sampson asked. “Smith and Pierce?”
I shook my head. “He seems to be in control of his faculties at all times. He created ‘Smith’ to serve some other purpose.”
“I agree with Alex,” Sondra Greenberg said from across the table, “but what is the sodding purpose?”
“Whatever it was, it worked,” Kyle joined in. “He had us chasing Mr. Smith halfway around the world. We’re still chasing. No one has ever jerked around the Bureau like this.”
“Not even the great J. Edgar Hoover?” Sondra said and winked.
“Well.” Kyle softened, “as a pure psychopath, Hoover was in a class by himself.”
I was up and pacing again. My side was hurting, but I didn’t want anyone to know about it. They would try to send me home, make me miss the fun. I let myself ramble-sometimes it works.
“He’s trying to tell us something. He’s communicating in some strange way. Inez? The name reminds us of Isabella. He’s obsessed with Isabella. You should see the apartment in Cambridge. Is Inez a substitute for Isabella? Is Atlantic City a substitute for Laguna Beach? Has he thought Isabella home? Why bring Isabella home?”
It went on and on like that: wild hunches, free association, insecurity, fear, unbearable frustration. As far as I could tell nothing worthwhile was said all day and late into the night, but who could really tell.
Pierce didn’t try to make further contact. There were no more voice-mail messages. That surprised us a little. Kyle was afraid he’d moved on, and that he would keep moving until he drove us completely insane. Six of us stayed in the field office throughout the night and into the early morning. We slept in our clothes, on chairs, tables, and the floor.
I paced inside the office, and occasionally outside on the glittery, fog-laden boardwalk. As a last desperate resort, I bought a bag of Fralinger’s salt water taffy and tried to get sick to my stomach.
What kind of logic system is he using? Mr. Smith is his creation, his Mr. Hyde. What is Smith’s mission? Why is he here? I wondered, occasionally talking to myself as I strolled the mostly deserted boardwalk.
Inez is Isabella?
It couldn’t be that simple. Pierce wouldn’t make it simple for us.
Inez is not Isabella. There was only one Isabella. So why does pierce keep killing again and again?
I found myself at the corner of Park Place and Boardwalk, and that finally brought a smile. Monopoly. Another kind of game? Is that it?
I wandered back to the FBI field office and got some sleep. But not nearly enough. A few hours at most.
Pierce was here.
So was Mr. Smith.
Chapter 117
A FLAT, still sandy, still meadowy region…a superb range of ocean beach-miles and miles of it. The bright sun, the sparkling waves, the foam, the view-a sail here and there in the distance. Walt Whitman had written that about Atlantic City a hundred years before. His words were inscribed on the wall of a pizza and hot-dog stand now. Whitman would have been stricken to see his words on such a backdrop.
I went by myself for another stroll on the Atlantic City boardwalk around ten o’clock. It was Saturday, and so hot and sunny that the eroding beach was already dotted with swimmers and sunbathers.
We still hadn’t found Inez. We didn’t have a single clue. We didn’t even know who she was.
