o'clock, task force press conference. Four o'clock, uptown to see Helen Swisher. You look better."
He was curt. "I was good an hour ago and I'm good now." She didn't look convinced, and he wondered if she knew he was hung over. Then it dawned on him-- she looked better. Her face was a little thinner, her body a little sleeker, her skirt didn't pinch as much at the waist. They had been constant companions for ten days and he'd only just realized she was eating like a parakeet. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Are you on a diet or something?"
She blushed instantly. "Sort of. I started jogging again too."
"Well, it looks good. Keep it up."
She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "Thanks."
He quickly changed the subject. "Okay, let's take a step back and try to see the big picture," he said foggily. "We're getting killed with details. Let's go through these, one more time, focusing on connections." He joined her at the conference table and moved the files onto other files to give them an uncluttered surface. He took a clean pad and wrote on it, Key Observations, and underlined the words twice. He willed his brain to work and loosened his tie to encourage blood flow.
There had been three deaths on May 22, three on May 25, two on June 11, and none since. "What does that tell us?" he asked. She shook her head, so he answered his own question. "They're all weekdays."
"Maybe the guy has a weekend job," she offered.
"Okay. Maybe." He entered his first key observation: Weekdays. "Find the Swisher files. I think they're on the bookcase."
Case #1: David Paul Swisher, thirty-six-year-old investment banker at HSBC. Park Avenue, wealthy, all-Ivy background. Married, nothing obvious on the side. No Enron skeletons in his closet as far as they knew. Took the family mutt for a predawn walk, found by a jogger just after 5:00 A.M. in a river of blood--watch, rings, and wallet missing, left carotid cleanly sliced. The body was still warm, about twenty feet out of range of the nearest CCTV camera located on the roof of a co-op on the south side of 82nd Street--twenty goddamned feet and they would've have had the killing on tape.
However, they did have a glimpse of a person of interest, a nine-second sequence time-coded at 5:02:23-5:02:32, shot from a security camera on the roof of a ten-story building on the west side of Park Avenue between 81st and 82nd. It showed a male walking into the frame from 82nd turning south on Park, pivoting then running back the way he came and disappearing down 82nd again. The image was poor quality but FBI techs had blown it up and enhanced it. From the suspect's hand coloration they determined he was black or Latino, and from reference calculations, they figured he was about five-ten and weighed 160 to 175 pounds. The hood of a gray sweatshirt obscured his face. The timing was promising since the 911 call came in at 5:07, but in the absence of witnesses they had no leads on his identity.
If not for the postcard, this would have been a street mugging, plain and simple, but David Swisher got a postcard. David Swisher was Doomsday victim one.
Will held up a photo of the hooded man and waved it at Nancy. "So is this our guy?"
"He may be David's killer but that doesn't make him the Doomsday Killer," she said.
"Serial murder by proxy? That'd be a first."
She tried another tack. "Okay, maybe this was a contract murder."
"Possible. An investment banker is bound to have enemies," Will said. "Every deal has a winner and a loser. But David was different from the other victims. He was the only one who wore a white collar to work. Who's going to pay to murder any of the others?" Will flipped through one of the Swisher files. "Do we have a list of David's clients?"
"His bank hasn't been helpful," Nancy said. "Every request for info has to go through their legal department and be personally signed off by their general counsel. We haven't gotten anything yet but I'm pushing."
"I've got a feeling he's the key."
He was curt. "I was good an hour ago and I'm good now." She didn't look convinced, and he wondered if she knew he was hung over. Then it dawned on him-- she looked better. Her face was a little thinner, her body a little sleeker, her skirt didn't pinch as much at the waist. They had been constant companions for ten days and he'd only just realized she was eating like a parakeet. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Are you on a diet or something?"
She blushed instantly. "Sort of. I started jogging again too."
"Well, it looks good. Keep it up."
She lowered her eyes in embarrassment. "Thanks."
He quickly changed the subject. "Okay, let's take a step back and try to see the big picture," he said foggily. "We're getting killed with details. Let's go through these, one more time, focusing on connections." He joined her at the conference table and moved the files onto other files to give them an uncluttered surface. He took a clean pad and wrote on it, Key Observations, and underlined the words twice. He willed his brain to work and loosened his tie to encourage blood flow.
There had been three deaths on May 22, three on May 25, two on June 11, and none since. "What does that tell us?" he asked. She shook her head, so he answered his own question. "They're all weekdays."
"Maybe the guy has a weekend job," she offered.
"Okay. Maybe." He entered his first key observation: Weekdays. "Find the Swisher files. I think they're on the bookcase."
Case #1: David Paul Swisher, thirty-six-year-old investment banker at HSBC. Park Avenue, wealthy, all-Ivy background. Married, nothing obvious on the side. No Enron skeletons in his closet as far as they knew. Took the family mutt for a predawn walk, found by a jogger just after 5:00 A.M. in a river of blood--watch, rings, and wallet missing, left carotid cleanly sliced. The body was still warm, about twenty feet out of range of the nearest CCTV camera located on the roof of a co-op on the south side of 82nd Street--twenty goddamned feet and they would've have had the killing on tape.
However, they did have a glimpse of a person of interest, a nine-second sequence time-coded at 5:02:23-5:02:32, shot from a security camera on the roof of a ten-story building on the west side of Park Avenue between 81st and 82nd. It showed a male walking into the frame from 82nd turning south on Park, pivoting then running back the way he came and disappearing down 82nd again. The image was poor quality but FBI techs had blown it up and enhanced it. From the suspect's hand coloration they determined he was black or Latino, and from reference calculations, they figured he was about five-ten and weighed 160 to 175 pounds. The hood of a gray sweatshirt obscured his face. The timing was promising since the 911 call came in at 5:07, but in the absence of witnesses they had no leads on his identity.
If not for the postcard, this would have been a street mugging, plain and simple, but David Swisher got a postcard. David Swisher was Doomsday victim one.
Will held up a photo of the hooded man and waved it at Nancy. "So is this our guy?"
"He may be David's killer but that doesn't make him the Doomsday Killer," she said.
"Serial murder by proxy? That'd be a first."
She tried another tack. "Okay, maybe this was a contract murder."
"Possible. An investment banker is bound to have enemies," Will said. "Every deal has a winner and a loser. But David was different from the other victims. He was the only one who wore a white collar to work. Who's going to pay to murder any of the others?" Will flipped through one of the Swisher files. "Do we have a list of David's clients?"
"His bank hasn't been helpful," Nancy said. "Every request for info has to go through their legal department and be personally signed off by their general counsel. We haven't gotten anything yet but I'm pushing."
"I've got a feeling he's the key."
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