chin hit his chest as he fought back the tears.
They flowed slowly at first, then like never before. In a matter of moments he was sobbing cathartically, releasing emotions that had been swelling for years.
A hundred yards away, from the front seat of a Ford Taurus parked at the dark end of the grassy campus quadrangle, a photographer focused his telephoto lens. The infrared camera cut through the darkness, zeroing in on the general’s face as if it were daylight. Howe looked haggard and beaten, much older than his years. Tears were plainly visible.
The shutter clicked. A perfect shot.
The limousine pulled away from the chapel.
The old Ford raced in the opposite direction, picking up speed with each passing second.
13
The Nashville skyline was alight across the river, stretching from the traditional old State Capitol dome to the modern BellSouth Tower that resembled an ice palace. Police had roped off a stretch of the Cumberland River’s east bank, north of the Victory Memorial Bridge that fed into downtown and south of the Jefferson Street Bridge—the exact area Harley Abrams had ordered divers to search.
Allison had been alerted immediately to the discovery of a body. She arrived in an FBI sedan at 10:20 P.M. , just as divers were pulling the body from the moving water.
In less than five hours, the temperature had dropped even further to a brisk twenty degrees. Lights from emergency vehicles bathed the law enforcement crowd in orange and yellow swirls. Swarms of helicopters—some media, some law enforcement—buzzed overhead. Divers struggled to maintain their footing as they climbed out of the river. Search and rescue team members stood ankle-deep in cold mud, guiding the polypropylene line that reeled in the catch.
Allison was thirty feet from the river when the body bag broke the surface. Water gushed from the bag’s mesh openings. It looked large for a little girl, though she knew bodies could bloat after a day in the river.
“It’s the bus driver,” said Abrams.
Allison started. He had seemingly come out of nowhere.
“Any sign of Kristen?” she asked.
“No.”
She felt relief and sadness at the very same time. “I want a top-notch forensic pathologist doing the autopsy. The locals can watch.”
He gave her a funny look, as if she were stating the obvious. “I’ve already called Walter Reed Hospital.”
“What kind of shape is the body in?”
“Water’s pretty cold, so there’s not much decomposition. But he’s pretty banged up.”
“Rivers can do that.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “So can thugs. I’ll be curious to see what our pathologist thinks.”
In the distance, Allison noticed a black limousine racing down a street that ran parallel to the river. It rocked to a quick halt in the parking lot above them, twenty yards away. The door flew open. Out stepped Lincoln Howe. His movement was erratic, almost spastic. An FBI agent approached him. Allison could see them talking. The general leaned against the car, apparently relieved. Allison presumed he’d just been informed that the body wasn’t Kristen’s.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said to Abrams. She started up the embankment, toward the limousine. It was a steep climb, and she was slightly winded when she reached the top.
The general was still talking to the FBI agent, but he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Allison.
“Lincoln,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “Can I talk to you for a minute, please?”
He seemed surprised to see her. “Sure,” hesaid. He thanked the FBI agent, then opened his car door, inviting her in with a jerk of the head. “It’s warmer in here.”
He held the door as she slid into the backseat, then he slid in beside her and closed the door. He signaled with his eyes, and the driver and Secret Service escort emptied the front seat to give them privacy.
Allison swallowed hard, finding it difficult to speak. “I just wanted to say how very sorry I am that this horrible thing had to
They flowed slowly at first, then like never before. In a matter of moments he was sobbing cathartically, releasing emotions that had been swelling for years.
A hundred yards away, from the front seat of a Ford Taurus parked at the dark end of the grassy campus quadrangle, a photographer focused his telephoto lens. The infrared camera cut through the darkness, zeroing in on the general’s face as if it were daylight. Howe looked haggard and beaten, much older than his years. Tears were plainly visible.
The shutter clicked. A perfect shot.
The limousine pulled away from the chapel.
The old Ford raced in the opposite direction, picking up speed with each passing second.
13
The Nashville skyline was alight across the river, stretching from the traditional old State Capitol dome to the modern BellSouth Tower that resembled an ice palace. Police had roped off a stretch of the Cumberland River’s east bank, north of the Victory Memorial Bridge that fed into downtown and south of the Jefferson Street Bridge—the exact area Harley Abrams had ordered divers to search.
Allison had been alerted immediately to the discovery of a body. She arrived in an FBI sedan at 10:20 P.M. , just as divers were pulling the body from the moving water.
In less than five hours, the temperature had dropped even further to a brisk twenty degrees. Lights from emergency vehicles bathed the law enforcement crowd in orange and yellow swirls. Swarms of helicopters—some media, some law enforcement—buzzed overhead. Divers struggled to maintain their footing as they climbed out of the river. Search and rescue team members stood ankle-deep in cold mud, guiding the polypropylene line that reeled in the catch.
Allison was thirty feet from the river when the body bag broke the surface. Water gushed from the bag’s mesh openings. It looked large for a little girl, though she knew bodies could bloat after a day in the river.
“It’s the bus driver,” said Abrams.
Allison started. He had seemingly come out of nowhere.
“Any sign of Kristen?” she asked.
“No.”
She felt relief and sadness at the very same time. “I want a top-notch forensic pathologist doing the autopsy. The locals can watch.”
He gave her a funny look, as if she were stating the obvious. “I’ve already called Walter Reed Hospital.”
“What kind of shape is the body in?”
“Water’s pretty cold, so there’s not much decomposition. But he’s pretty banged up.”
“Rivers can do that.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “So can thugs. I’ll be curious to see what our pathologist thinks.”
In the distance, Allison noticed a black limousine racing down a street that ran parallel to the river. It rocked to a quick halt in the parking lot above them, twenty yards away. The door flew open. Out stepped Lincoln Howe. His movement was erratic, almost spastic. An FBI agent approached him. Allison could see them talking. The general leaned against the car, apparently relieved. Allison presumed he’d just been informed that the body wasn’t Kristen’s.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said to Abrams. She started up the embankment, toward the limousine. It was a steep climb, and she was slightly winded when she reached the top.
The general was still talking to the FBI agent, but he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Allison.
“Lincoln,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “Can I talk to you for a minute, please?”
He seemed surprised to see her. “Sure,” hesaid. He thanked the FBI agent, then opened his car door, inviting her in with a jerk of the head. “It’s warmer in here.”
He held the door as she slid into the backseat, then he slid in beside her and closed the door. He signaled with his eyes, and the driver and Secret Service escort emptied the front seat to give them privacy.
Allison swallowed hard, finding it difficult to speak. “I just wanted to say how very sorry I am that this horrible thing had to
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