Supreme Justice (11 page)

Reeder took a step closer to the apparent motion detector. Right into its sight.

There was an explosive sound, but not from a shotgun. Grogan, shouting within the shed: “
Son of a bitch
!
”

As Reeder figured, no live round in the chamber.

Moments later the CSI burst from the shed, wide-eyed, sweat flying like tears. The day was heating up in more ways than one, but Grogan’s perspiration wasn’t due entirely to the small, airless building he’d been in.

“Something happen in there?” Rogers blandly asked the swiftly approaching CSI. Reeder knew she’d put two and two together already.

Grogan pointed back toward the second floor. “God-
damnedest
thing—that frickin’ gun just tried to
fire
itself!”

“Really,” she said.

“The light came on and the cam rotated, but then nothing. Trigger had already been pulled.”

Reeder said, “It didn’t try to fire itself. I tried to fire it.”

“You?”

“Well, anyway . . . this did.” He indicated the motion detector on the ground tucked under a bush.

Squatting, Grogan pulled back branches to get a better look. “Motion detector . . .”

“That would be a very safe bet,” Reeder said.

The CSI stood. “You’re saying the Justice killed himself—when he unwittingly triggered this gimmick.”

Reeder nodded. “The assassin watched the Justice from the woods, maybe for weeks or even months. Either knowing or figuring out that Gutierrez was OCD or damn close to it. Came up with this plan and not only pulled it off, left us no fingerprints on the motion detector, the shotgun, or even the damn shell. Or if so, I’d be very damn surprised.”

Rogers said, “How often do you suppose Gutierrez filled that bird feeder?”

“Possibly daily, part of his routine. We’ll ask Mrs. Gutierrez. But it’s likely this motion-control murder wasn’t rigged till last night.”

She was studying him, as if noticing for the first time that Reeder really existed. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, it’s clear Venter was meant to be the first to go, with the kill misread as a holdup gone bad. This kill, however, is obviously assassination. Like we said before, if it had occurred first, all the other judges—including Venter—would’ve been on high security.”

She was thinking so hard a vein stuck out in her forehead. “And you figure these two judges were targeted because they’re archconservatives, and somebody wants to restack the Court?”

Reeder shrugged. “That’s my read, yes. Doesn’t mean we don’t keep pursuing other avenues.”

The CSI didn’t seem to be listening to any of this. He was down having a closer look at the motion detector. He glanced up at them. “Listen, uh . . . I have to get started with the evidence gathering.”

“Go ahead,” Reeder said. “But I’d keep my expectations low. And be sure to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

Frowning, Grogan got to his feet. “Hey, my team and I’ll come up with anything else worth finding—believe it.”

“I do. But this is a federal matter and an FBI crime scene crew will be here sooner than later. They will second-guess every damn move you make.”

Grogan sighed, nodded. Somewhat defensively, he said, “You know, we would have found this motion detector
and
that rig in the shed.”

“I’m sure you would.”

The two men endured a brief awkward silence, then nodded at each other, trading respectful smiles.

Reeder walked Rogers away from the CSI, found a pocket of the backyard all their own. Too much had already been said in front of someone not on the task force.

He asked her, “How’s your rapport with Mrs. Gutierrez?”

“Decent, I think.”

“Go back in and get the names and info on her yard-work men. See if any of them, or anybody else, might have been around the shed yesterday. And send Sloan out here so I can bring him up to speed.”

Rogers said, “You got it,” and went off to do that.

Soon Reeder had not only filled Sloan in but given him a tour including the second floor of the shed with its rigged shotgun and the tucked-away-in-the-bushes motion detector. They stood near the latter and talked.

Reeder said, “This is way past anything Brooks and Granger might cook up, much less pull off.”

The SAIC frowned in thought. “But we’ve got a match on Brooks’s gun.”

“If they were hired,” Reeder said, “it was with the Venter kill
only
in mind . . . and with the intention that they provide a distraction. And get caught.”

“Two Supreme Court justices in three days,” Sloan said, shaking his head. “At least Fisk has security in place for the other justices.”

“May not matter. There’s a possibility this is over before it started.”

“Huh?”

“If I’m right, Gabe, and this is about reconfiguring the Court, the conspiracy has already done its job. Two very conservative members will be replaced by the President.”

Sloan’s blue eyes flared. “You’re not suggesting the security is
pointless
—”

“Hell no! We can’t be sure of their agenda. Maybe I’m wrong. Hate crime is still a possibility, and jihadists are, too. If you were going to thumb your nose at America, killing Supreme Court justices would be a fine goddamn way to do it.”

“Not to mention,” Sloan said dryly, “outsmarting the FBI, Homeland Security, and Secret Service.”

A mild breeze blew in, cutting the morning heat, ruffling leaves in woods where an assassin had likely not long ago approached, tools at the ready.

“
Somewhere out there, beyond the walls of the courthouse, run currents and tides of public opinion which lap at the courtroom door.
”

William H. Rehnquist, Associate Justice, then Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States of America, 1994–2005, fourth-longest tenure of any Supreme Court Chief Justice.
Section 5, Lot 7049, Grid W-36, Arlington National Cemetery.

ELEVEN

The gates of Arlington National Cemetery locked at 7:00 p.m. Reeder arrived at sunset, just before eight—while he preferred early-morning visits, Reeder sometimes came at night, seeking a quiet place to reflect. But for the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns, Reeder would have the place to himself.

He entered through the service complex at the south end of the grounds, then walked north on Eisenhower Drive. Despite the lack of streetlights, there was illumination enough, thanks to half a moon. Traffic sounds barely carried into the cemetery, as if out of respect.

Most of today had been spent at the Gutierrez home. The search for evidence had been profitless with even footprints in the woods eluding them—this had been a dry spring by DC standards, the ground hard. Pairs of agents interviewed neighbors on Chain Bridge Road, then talked to others on Merrie Ridge and Bent Twig Roads, two streets with access to Fort Marcy Park. Sloan even sent agents up to the George Washington Memorial Parkway. By the time all this was done, what they had was what they’d started with: a second slain Supreme Court justice.

Reeder kept a steady pace north, letting silence wash over him and carry his stress away.
The ghosts here couldn’t stop giving
,
he thought. Whenever Reeder came, they scrubbed him clean.

West on Bradley Drive, back north on Roosevelt, eventually he found himself close to the Tomb of the Unknowns near the amphitheater, and he stayed in the shadows. To the east, a spotlight shone on the tomb of the remains of an unknown soldier from World War I. Three marble slabs laid into the plaza marked the unknowns of World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. Out front, a guard from the Army’s Third Infantry Regiment, the designated sentinels of the tomb, “walked the mat.”

The ritual never failed to touch Reeder. On a long black mat laid on the plaza, the guard—wearing no sign of insignia, not wanting to outrank the unknowns—strode twenty-one paces south, more or less toward Reeder’s spot in the shadows.

At his stopping point, the guard turned, faced east toward the tomb, and stood silent for twenty-one seconds before turning north, switching his weapon to his outside shoulder, counting off another twenty-one seconds before marching twenty-one paces north. After stopping, he turned east, waited another twenty-one, then performed a shoulder-arms to his outside shoulder and paused a final twenty-one seconds before starting his southernly stride.

The switching of the weapon symbolized that a guard always stood between the tomb and any threat, the twenty-one steps and seconds representing a twenty-one gun salute. It all meant something, and that gave Reeder comfort. Ritual, tradition, doing things the right way, was important.

This mirrored a thought that had nagged Reeder at the home of Justice Gutierrez, almost immediately upon his arrival. When he and Sloan were alone just outside the shed, he had shared his thoughts with the SAIC.

“The conspiracy behind these murders,” Reeder said, “has us reacting reflexively.”

Sloan frowned a little, perhaps taking that as criticism of his leadership. “Well, reacting, yes. But I wouldn’t say
reflexively
. . .”

“Gabe, we’re one big knee getting slammed with a hammer. Come on. You know how to run a murder investigation—you’ve done it enough times.”

“Of course.”

“And it’s nothing like this, is it?”

That stopped Sloan like a punch. Then he admitted, “No. It isn’t.”

“If our victims were ordinary citizens, we’d be interviewing witnesses, talking to coworkers to see if the victims had anything in common other than their jobs, on through the proper procedure. Right?”

“Well . . . yeah. But our victims are Supreme Court justices.”

“Whoever is behind these crimes is counting on that. If this conspiracy involves people who know how the government works, maybe they even
planned
on it. And this is DC, Gabe—fucking
everybody
works for the government.”

Sloan couldn’t argue with that.

Reeder went on: “They have us so busy chasing our tails, getting organized . . . trying to navigate all this interdepartmental bullshit, viewing this as terrorism, maybe international, maybe domestic . . . that it’ll take weeks to get properly on our feet.”

“We’re doing all right.”

“Are we? Consider this. Suppose just one of the two justices is the intended victim, and the other was killed only to send us riding off in every direction but the right one.”

Sloan’s chin lifted, the blue eyes narrowing. “Is that how you read this?”

“It’s just one possibility. But whatever is going on, we need to get out in front of this.”

Sloan mulled that.

“Gabe, getting a task force up and running and working right is like turning the
Titanic
. You may eventually change directions, but not until you hit the iceberg.”

Sloan grunted a laugh. “Okay. Point well taken. We keep in mind these are murder investigations.”

“Good.”

“I’ll make some calls. Won’t be a picnic getting Supreme Court justices to sit still for interviews . . .”

“Oh, they’ll cooperate,” Reeder said. “Two of their brethren are dead. We need Venter’s clerk, too—Blount.”

Sloan nodded. “We’ll make both those things happen before we wrap up here.”

But no real progress had been made. Reeder watched the guard walking the mat come back toward him now. Somehow seeing that young man on duty chased away his frustration. He saw in this soldier’s face what John Updike, speaking of Ted Williams, had called “the hard blue glow of high purpose.”

His cell vibrated and he moved away from the Tomb of the Unknowns, into the darkness.

“Reeder.”

“Me,” Sloan said. “Patti’s on her way to pick you up.”

“Yeah?”

“You wanted to interview colleagues. Well, you’re going to meet Chief Justice Whitaker Jackson at his home. At eleven.”

“Why not go over there right now?”

“You’d find an empty house. All the justices are at a private memorial service for Justice Venter. CJ Jackson won’t be home until at least then.”

Reeder glared into the cell. “All the surviving justices in one place. Jesus, Gabe, what security is in place?”

“Plenty. But teams to sweep the justices’ homes won’t be able to go in till tomorrow morning, at the earliest.”

“We’re still a step behind. I better call Patti and tell her I’m not at home . . .”

“She’ll pick you up outside the Arlington service complex. Already told her.”

“Maybe you are a detective.”

“Peep,” Sloan said with a smile in his voice, “we’re the FBI—we know everything. You’ve got twenty minutes or so to get there.”

Reeder clicked off, wondering if he should fling the cell into the darkness—damn GPS, anyway. He walked briskly back toward the service complex, enjoying the coolness of the night, a small breeze from the north chasing him down Eisenhower Drive.

Rogers and her unmarked Ford were waiting in the parking space adjacent to Reeder’s Toyota Prius. On the passenger side of the unmarked, the door clicked unlocked. He got in.

Fastening his seat belt, he asked her, “How do a couple of second-stringers rate Chief Justice Jackson?”

She smirked. “Everybody from the big-people table is pitching in on security at the memorial service. Look at the bright side—if they blow up the place, we’ll
be
the first string.”

They were in traffic before Reeder asked, “So where does the CJ live, anyway?”

“McLean—not far from Gutierrez, in fact. Turkey Run Road, off 193.”

“Money.”

“Lots,” she said. “The Chief Justice’s shack is appraised at just a shade over five million.”

“How do you happen to know that?”

“Real estate records. They’re public—all you gotta do is go to the assessor’s website.”

He just looked at her.

She shrugged, both hands on the wheel. “So I’m interested in real estate. It’s a hobby.”

“Sounds like you date about as much as I do.”

A laugh burbled out of her and he smiled.

Chief Justice Jackson’s house dominated a wooded area off Turkey Run Road. Langley High School wasn’t far west, and wandering through the woods to the east would eventually put you smack in the middle of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Rogers parked in front of a mostly darkened, looming house, a stone central section with wood-sided wings on either side. On the first floor, nine windows and two doors. Porch light going over the front door. Overwhelming its short hill, the almost mansion spoke success, wealth, and isolation.

She said, “Looks like the CJ isn’t back yet.”

They sat in silence for a while, Reeder fighting fatigue. Despite himself, he nodded off, and Rogers elbowed him in the ribs.

She was pointing to the far left side of the house.

At first he saw nothing and shook his head, but then he caught it: a shifting beam of light in the woods near the house.

“Call for backup,” he said, “then go around the other side in case our friend with the flashlight gets by me.”

Reeder was out of the car before she could express an opinion—he wasn’t technically in charge, after all—and he trotted at a half crouch across the yard toward the beam, which had disappeared again.

That half-moon was hiding behind a cloud, making it dark enough that maybe the intruder wouldn’t see Reeder along the side of the house, moving toward the surrounding woods. When he got there, he made his way in a few steps and froze. No wonder the intruder had risked giving himself away with that flashlight—the uneven ground past the yard was a spooky black world of shadows, exposed roots, uneven holes, and God knew what else, the woods themselves dense.

Reeder backed out of this horror show. He would stay in the yard, move up behind the house, and let this bastard come to him. He could move faster on the grass than the intruder in the woods, flashlight or not.

Straining to hear, scanning the darkness like a searchlight, he did his best to determine if the attacker was alone. But nothing, no sound, no movement.

The intruder might figure the lights were out because CJ Jackson was in bed.

Of course, this assassin most likely knew damn well where Jackson was, and would wait inside for his return from the memorial service. With the nearest neighbor a quarter mile away, the assassin should have it made. A security system would be about it. He or she would already have checked the property for FBI watchdogs, seeing nothing—Reeder and Rogers propitiously arriving
after
that precaution . . .

Reeder kept low, moving as silently as possible, getting the lay of the land on the fly. The backyard sloped gently to the woods, which formed a black wall in the night. Reeder picked the spot where the intruder would emerge, were he the one trekking through that ominous space.

In a fleeting thought, Reeder remembered Sloan’s comment that a security sweep of the justices’ residences would wait till tomorrow.
Might he run into another motion-detector trap?

The ASP came off his belt and into his hand as if the weapon had willed the action. Still, he did not extend the baton—the sound might alert the intruder. He didn’t hear Rogers but assumed she would be coming along soon.

He came down the lawn low till he reached the dead-center spot where the intruder might likely emerge, staying back a few yards so he could maneuver if he was wrong. He slowed his breathing, tried hard to melt into the shadows.

Rustling in the woods.

The flashlight was off now, but the assassin was moving his way, closer, closer—Reeder could hear the man’s labored breathing. He held his. He’d guessed right about where to position . . .

Far off, sirens wailed—help on the way, but like the old movies, this cavalry would arrive much later than needed, and right now served only a negative purpose, a distant siren song that reached the intruder just as the figure in black made it to the edges of the woods, nosing the air like a nervous deer.

Reeder crouched lower, made himself small, screaming in his mind at Rogers, willing her not to step out into the backyard. Risking a glance at the house, Reeder at first saw nothing, then caught Rogers peeking around a corner, then ducking back. Smart woman, not giving anything away.

With the moon tucked behind a dark cloud, the stars a universe away, even the barest whisper of a breeze now seemed on Reeder’s side, downwind of his quarry as he was. Everything slowed, including Reeder’s breathing, a hunter in his element now.

The sirens stopped. Not the cavalry after all—probably just an ambulance. Or maybe a smart cop who decided not to help a bad guy.

At any rate, this false sense of security inspired the intruder to take one slow step out of the woods, and then another. Tall, skinny, dark long-sleeved shirt, black jeans, white eye circles in a black ski mask, something metallic in his right hand—
a gun?

Reeder snapped the ASP to its full length, and the snick alerted the intruder, who spent a startled millisecond considering a return to that snarl of woods but instead emitted an animal howl, of dismay more than anything, and charged, throwing himself at Reeder, swinging the metallic object—the flashlight, unlit, not a gun—catching the edge of the ASP shaft as Reeder swung it.

Then the man was on him, clutching Reeder around the shoulders and taking him down on the grass, and he landed hard on the flashlight in the intruder’s hand beneath him. The gangly shape on top of him reared back, eyes in the ski-mask holes dark and wild, pulling his arm free from under Reeder and whapping him alongside the head with the flash, not a hard blow but damn distracting, and then the guy scrambled onto his feet, reconsidering those woods, turning that direction. Only the intruder hadn’t taken a step before Reeder, on his back, lashed out with the ASP.

“
Shit
!
” the intruder cried.

The sickening crack of the baton against the man’s shin got swallowed in a scream, and the intruder was on the grass, his hands gripping his broken tibia as shrieks shredded the night.