Think Twice

Sadie Fisher turned and faced the camera straight on, adjusted her glasses, and drove hard to the ending salvo.

“If you want to deny what I am saying, please go ahead. Your excuses won’t hold water. Not anymore. The public has the right to know that there is an odious serial killer working across this country who not only kills people but then frames others for his crimes. My guess is, you will claim that you were holding back on the serial killer revelation to prevent public panic or to somehow help facilitate their capture. That’s nonsense.”

Her anger grew now, feeling on the edge.

“I might have been somewhat sympathetic to such a phony PR move if it wasn’t for the fact that you are knowingly — knowingly — keeping innocent people behind bars to mitigate the embarrassment of prosecutorial mistakes. Sorry, that’s criminal conduct and for that, I will not stay silent. I will not let innocent people spend even one more moment behind bars. Free them. Free them now. And shame. Shame on all of you who allowed this. You are the serial killer’s co-conspirators, and I will not rest until the truth comes out and all who are truly guilty are brought to justice.”

On that note, Sadie stormed off stage.

“Wow.” Terese leaned back. “I think I need a cigarette.”

The reporters on hand started shouting questions in her wake. Bo didn’t move at first, looking like the classic “deer in the headlights” before bolting away, to keep within the metaphor, like a deer who finally realizes the headlights signal that a car is indeed heading toward them.

“Will there be much blowback?” Terese asked.

“On me?”

“Yes.”

Myron shrugged. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter.”

“She’s telling the truth, right?”

“As far as we know it.”

“What was Sadie’s goal here?” Terese asked.

“To get her client released.”

“Greg Downing?”

“Yes.”

“Still,” Terese said, “she’s not in the wrong.”

“No,” Myron agreed, “she’s not.”

“Greg will be kicked free,” Terese said.

“Probably.”

“And Jackie Newton too.”

“I hope so, yes.”

“Then it’s over, isn’t it?”

Myron said nothing.

“You got involved in this to help Greg.”

“Yes.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“True.”

“So I repeat: It’s over, isn’t it?”

Myron thought about that. “Would it sound arch if I say, ‘There’s still a serial killer out there’?”

“It would,” Terese said. “The entire FBI is on this now. The public will be on the lookout. It isn’t on you to capture this guy.”

“True.”

“You don’t have the resources they do.”

“True.”

“And it would be dangerous.”

“True again.”

Terese looked at him. “It’s not over for you, is it?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Myron kissed Terese. “I have to head back,” he said.

“And here I got a late checkout at the hotel.”

“Or I can stay a little longer.”

“No, you can’t.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You have to go back to New York and, I don’t know, catch a serial killer or something.”

“Even though you don’t like it.”

Terese put her arms around his neck. “You tilt at windmills, my love. I’ve been the beneficiary of that. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

“The other being my prowess in the sack?”

“Or your susceptibility to self-delusion.”

“Ouch.”

She kissed him again. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Same.”

“Please be careful.”

“I will.”

Myron got in his car and crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge into New Jersey. To people outside the area, New Jersey is a mystery; to people inside the area, New Jersey is an enigma. In truth, New Jersey is a dense, jigsaw-puzzle, defined-by-being-undefined mass squeezed between two large cities. The top half — northeast New Jersey — is the suburbs of New York. The bottom half — southwestern New Jersey — is the suburbs of Philadelphia. Sure, there are edgy beach towns and proof that despite the industrial, postmodern hideousness or the maze of crumbling factories and dilapidated warehouses, New Jersey still earns the moniker “The Garden State.” It’s all there. But most travelers are passing through and really, what are you going to put on your major interstates — ugly oil refineries or pretty farmland?

Myron hit a number he almost never hit. PT answered on the third ring.

“Are you calling to apologize for that press conference?” PT asked.

“No, not really. Something occurred to me.”

“Like an epiphany?”

“Just like an epiphany.”

“And you’ve deigned to share your epiphany with me?”

“And only you. For now.”

“So tell me what it is.”

“You set this up,” Myron said.

“That’s your epiphany?”

“It is.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Sure,” Myron said. “The FBI realized that a serial killer was at work, but someone — probably the new director you don’t like — wanted to keep it quiet. He knew that it would be a huge brouhaha, what with all the innocent people falsely convicted and serving time in jail.”

PT asked, “Did you just use the word ‘brouhaha’?”

“You hang around Win long enough...” Myron replied. “Anyway, you told Win and me. You didn’t swear us to secrecy. You gave us enough information to figure out a few of the other cases. You knew we would act on it, and it would get out into the world, just like this.”