Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,88
into Nora Connolley,” I say. “But otherwise, you’re correct.”
“Our top forensic pathologist doesn’t think this Mayday individual was murdered,” she says. “And his death is similar to other deaths across the country that, to date, have not been called murders either.”
“Well, that may be true, but—”
“You can’t prove any of these were murders, Ms. Dockery. And you have no proof whatsoever that remotely ties Lieutenant Wagner to the Chicago bombing other than the fact that he was one of three or four million people in Chicago that weekend. And, oh yes, that he had…what was it? A moon on his face, which is a description we received from one homeless man’s account of what another homeless man said. It’s…” She sits back in her chair. “How am I supposed to take this to a judge?”
“You can take this to a judge,” I say. I punch the remote to display the close-up image Pully got of Wagner’s wheelchair. “A man with an American-flag decal on the arm of his wheelchair placed something under Nora Connolley’s car only hours before she died.” I punch the remote again. “And here—from Wagner’s website—here he is, Martin Charleston Wagner, posing for a photo with a group of wounded war veterans. With the same American-flag decal on his wheelchair.”
I wait for a reaction but get only a blank stare from the prosecutor.
“While in New Orleans,” I summarize, “ostensibly to give one of his motivational speeches, Wagner went out of his way to park his vehicle a good three blocks down the street from a grocery store, by a pawnshop, and then wheeled himself all that way—nearly half a mile—to the parking lot of the grocery store, for no apparent reason other than to place something under the fender of a car owned by Nora Connolley. Then he went straight back to his vehicle and drove away. He could’ve easily parked his vehicle in that grocery-store parking lot, but he didn’t. He had one and only one goal—to put something under the fender of a car owned by a woman who died a few hours later and do it without detection. Does that seem the least bit odd to you?”
The prosecutor allows that it does, then plays with her pen, tapping it against a notepad. “Books, I understand you were just assigned to the case. What’s your take?”
Books hadn’t planned on speaking tonight, being new to the case and given our relationship. He straightens. “Yes, I was just assigned. There hadn’t been an agent assigned so far; it was just analytics. I’ve had only a bit longer than you with this information, but I’m convinced by what I’ve seen.”
Amee Czernak’s eyes drift to the ceiling. “How fast could you serve this warrant?”
“Tonight,” he says. “I’ll walk the application over to the emergency judge if you green-light it. If the judge signs off, I can have a team in Annandale by two, three a.m.”
“You think this would satisfy a judge?” she asks him. The ultimate compliment, a lawyer asking an agent for his legal opinion.
“I do,” he says. “Get us that warrant, Amee, and we’ll prove it. We’ll have this guy in custody before dawn.”
88
QUARTER TO ELEVEN. His mind is ready, his body is ready, but he must wait. He’s going to wait until the target is asleep. And the target is a night owl.
A target, yes. Not a person.
If it’s someone you know, he was taught, forget that. It isn’t a mother or a father, a daughter or a son, a wife or a husband. It’s not someone you know. It’s a target. An obstacle to your goals. Eliminate the obstacle.
And that’s exactly what the target is—an obstacle. If the FBI finds this person, it’s all over for him.
He moves the wheelchair into a closet. He grabs the plastic bag of clothes that he’s never worn inside the apartment, that have never touched a surface in here, never collected a single fiber. Long-sleeved shirt, long pants. Rubber gloves. Flat shoes, no treads. A skin cap for his head.
In his garage, he walks over to the side wall, where various gardening items hang from pegs—extension cords, a hose, a shovel, a water sprinkler.
And a small loop-knot of nylon cord. A vestige from his time in the service. It’s a bit frayed on the ends, showing some wear. But it’s still the most effective garrote he knows.
Quieter than a gun. No blood. Strong enough to withstand any resistance. Easy to grip. Victims are immediately silenced.