Think Twice

Silence. Then: “No comment.”

“I’m not a reporter,” Myron said. “There’s no need to comment.”

“I believe that my role should always be clandestine, but the Bureau itself should be transparent,” PT said. “Does that make me a hypocrite, Myron?”

“It makes you a man of principle who doesn’t like innocent people languishing in prison for the sake of optics.”

Myron drove the car past the Port of Elizabeth, which had one of those oil refineries that probably inspired the set for the Terminator movie, then past Newark Airport. A few miles later, the Manhattan skyline rose into view.

“By the way,” PT said, “I didn’t know the Ronald Prine murder was connected.”

“There hadn’t been an arrest yet.”

“Still,” PT said. “Good work on that.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you and Win going to stay on this?”

“I can’t speak for Win.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I have a question for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“We took a hard look at these cases last night,” Myron said.

“When you say ‘we’—”

“Win, Esperanza, yours truly.”

“Go on.”

“We see the patterns, of course, but what we don’t see are the connections.”

PT said, “Ah.”

“Ah what?”

“The — what did Sadie Fisher call him? — the Setup Killer?”

“The Setup Serial Killer.”

“Terrible name.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I hope the media comes up with a better one,” PT said. “Look, I despise calling serial killers ‘evil geniuses,’ but let’s face it — this guy is close. He was careful. He was smart. He took his time, not only in staking out the murder victim but more so in framing the — shall we call them second victims?”

“Ruining two lives for the price of one,” Myron said.

“Yes. It’s one thing to enjoy killing people. That’s a sickness we are somewhat familiar with at the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. But to also get a thrill out of sending an innocent person to prison? That’s a true double hit of psychotic behavior.”

“Unless it wasn’t for thrills,” Myron said.

“Meaning?”

“Unless they did the framing just to cover their tracks,” Myron said.

“Do you think that’s likely?”

“I don’t, no,” Myron said. “I think the killer enjoys that part too. It’s about power often. A kill is quick and strong, a full-on rush. Incarcerating an innocent is slow. A double whammy. But that’s not my point here.”

“What is your point?” PT asked.

The car sped past the Lautenberg Rail Station in Secaucus. Myron remembered driving this route not long after 9/11. He could still see the Twin Towers in his mind’s eye. For years he would do that — drive by this stretch of the New Jersey Turnpike, look to his right, see exactly where the towers had stood. Then one day, he couldn’t see the towers in his mind’s eye anymore. A month later, when he drove by here again, he couldn’t remember where the towers had even stood. That angered him.

“My point is,” Myron said, “we couldn’t find any connections between the cases.”

“Right.”

“So how did the FBI put together that it was the work of a serial killer?”

“They didn’t,” PT said, “until Greg Downing was caught.”

“Yes, but that would only give you a connection between the Kravat case and the Callister case.”

“Agreed.”

“So?”

“So an anonymous source dropped enough hints.”

Myron thought about that. “Someone leaked it to the FBI?”

“The new director won’t admit that. He claims it’s their clever investigating. But yes.”

“Who would do that?”

“Could be the killer himself bragging. Could be the killer wanting attention. Could be the killer wanting to get caught. Could be a lot of things.”

Myron headed through the E-ZPass lane at the Lincoln Tunnel. The traffic slowed him down. He stared at the tunnel’s opening, a mouth widening to swallow the car whole.

“Sounds like you’re staying on this,” PT said.

“My wife thinks I should stop now. I was in this for Greg, she said. The FBI has the resources. I don’t.”

“She makes a good case,” PT said. “But?”

“But something feels incomplete.”

“To me too,” PT said. “Myron?”

“What?”

“Greg Downing is connected to two of these cases.”

“I know.”

“Then you know that’s not a coincidence.”

When Myron got back to the Lock-Horne Building, he took the elevator to the fourth floor — his old one, which now houses the law firm of Fisher, Friedman and Diaz. Taft Buckingham the Whatever greeted him with a blue blazer, khaki pants, pink tie, boat loafers. Myron half expected him to don a white captain’s cap and deejay a yacht rock set.

“Esperanza is waiting for you,” Taft, son of a grown man Win called Taffy, said.

Taft led Myron into the conference room. Esperanza stood by the window and stared out. “Should I have warned you about Sadie’s press conference?”

Myron shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

“Sadie wanted to handle it this way.”

“I get it.”

“She’s in the right, you know.”

“I do.”

“She’s on her way back now. She wants to be there when they let Greg out.”

“She knows how to get her face on television.”

“For all the right reasons,” Esperanza said.

“I know. And I agree.”

“We are doing good work here.”

“I know that too.”

“But I’m not sure it’s for me.”

Myron nodded slowly. Esperanza finally turned to him to gauge his reaction. Myron tried to keep his face neutral.