The Chessman (2 page)

“I collect coins, sir. In fact, this trip of yours is costing me a little something that I’ve been tracking for three months.”

“Let me get dinner tonight. I’ll let you sort through the change I get back from the cashier.”

“Good one.”

Cady suddenly remembered why he both loved and hated the assistant director. The polished marble charisma not only allowed Jund to navigate smoothly in the tumultuous waters of the bureau, but to rise to a position of such power in a relatively short timeframe. Cady had also seen Jund’s rough edges, sandy and jagged, where all polish had worn thin. He’d hoped not to see those edges again.

“My poison’s golf, Drew. Can’t play it nearly enough.” And with a hushed cough, Jund sat down, signifying that the witty banter segment of the meeting had ended. He opened his case and took out a manila file folder and pen. “I sincerely apologize for rattling your cage and making you fly out here, Drew, but I think you’ll soon understand the reason, as well as why all the cloak-and-dagger.” Jund flipped open the folder and scanned the summary page, leaving small checkmarks in the margins as he cruised past each paragraph.

“As you are no doubt aware, late last night a commissioner on the Securities and Exchange Commission, C. Kenneth Gottlieb, was found murdered in the master bedroom of his own residence. Shot once in the center of his forehead. Due to Gottlieb’s stature, this case is political dynamite.”

“CNN was sketchy at the airport. Any suspects or arrests at this time?”

“No arrests, but let me take a moment before we discuss suspects.” The assistant director leaned forward in his chair. “The crime scene was immaculate, no sign of a struggle, no sign of burglary or vandalism; frankly, nothing appears to have been taken, though his home contained jewelry, high-value artwork on the walls, and a safe or two.”

“Perhaps Gottlieb got less from an escort service than he bargained for and the hookup went sour.”

“Of course we’re looking at all scenarios, but in light of what I’m about to tell you, a sex crime appears highly unlikely. You see, although nothing seems to have been taken, Drew, something was left behind—something left specifically for us to find.” Jund prompted the forensics expert: “Fen.”

“A chess piece was inserted into the killing wound in—”

“Jesus.” Cady looked down at the scars crisscrossing the top of his right hand.

“I second that emotion,” Jund said.

Three years earlier Cady had spent the aftermath of the Chessman case in a hospital undergoing a string of surgeries, and then another month at home tapering off the opiates. “What type of chess piece was it, Agent Evans?”

“A clear glass queen. The same make that the Chessman utilized in the previous homicides.”

“If the Chessman is not dead,” Cady said, thinking aloud, “and a new game is beginning, everything we thought we knew about the original case needs to be reexamined in a new light.”

“Look, anyone who only follows the headlines will recall all that ugliness from back then.” The assistant director continued, “It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to steal his M.O. Gottlieb’s a copycat killing.”

“We went ‘no comment’ on the chess pieces.”

“We did, Drew, but this town’s a sieve. You know that. Rich and famous cadavers tend to have that effect. And once the leaking began it turned into a three-ring media circus. The press ran all sorts of bullshit back then.”

“I remember.”

“A double lobotomy appears a pre-req for J-school these days. We did the best we could to keep our trump card silent. But everything came out eventually. Hacks wrote books.”

“Remember that discussion we had, sir? Back when I left the bureau?”

Jund nodded. “That’s one of the reasons you’re here, Drew. Your
nightmare scenario
. How it ended too tidily and all that…but let’s not jump ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s for me to jump ahead of, sir? I’m retired.”

The room sat in silence for several seconds.

“With your experience on the original case,” Liz Preston spoke for the first time, “we were hoping to utilize your services on a strictly consulting basis.”

Cady laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be putting me on, right?”

“We could use your
unique
insight.”

“You’ve got agents far brighter than me lining up around the block.”

“No one knows the Chessman case better than you, Drew. You lived it. For better or worse, you’re our SME—subject matter expert. Help us prove it’s a copycat.”

“But what if it’s not a copycat killing?”

“Well, if he’s truly alive—and that’s a pretty big
if
at this point—you got within kissing distance of the bastard once before.”

“If I did so well, sir, how come his last victim’s brains wound up all over my suit jacket?”

“You put us on the right track from your hospital bed.”

“That was a process of elimination.” Cady looked at the assistant director. “And from what you’ve just shared with me, I likely screwed that up as well.”

“I don’t buy that,” the AD said softly. “Occam’s Razor—think horses, not zebras.”

“With all due respect, sir, when it came to the Chessman, the simple solution was never the best.”

“The Chessman is dead.” Jund began counting his fingers. “We got his body, for Christ’s sake; we’ve got a body of evidence—fingerprints, the murder weapon, even the leftover chess pieces; and we’ve got motive and opportunity. It was a slam dunk. Now, until we get hard proof to suggest otherwise, Gottlieb’s murder is a copycat.”

“But if it’s not a copycat, if it turns out to be the Chessman—why should he return?” Cady asked. “He achieved the perfect checkmate, did it in such a manner that guaranteed we end the manhunt, because you and I would have moved heaven and earth to find him. So why should he return now?”

“Arrogance,” said Jund.

“Perhaps he wants back in the limelight. An encore performance. You know these sadists never get enough,” volunteered Agent Preston.

“He’s anything but your garden variety sadist. The SOB was playing three-dimensional chess while we were playing checkers.”

“Perhaps the game never really ended,” Agent Evans hypothesized. “You said yourself that everything from the original case must be reexamined.”

Cady nodded, lost in thought.

“I’m confused, Drew,” Preston spoke again. “According to your nightmare scenario, the Chessman tricked us all into believing that he was dead. So even if we assume he’s still alive somewhere out there, you refuse to credit him with Gottlieb’s murder?”

“I have no idea what to think right now. All I’m saying is that if he went to such great lengths to stage his own death, to throw us off the scent, then his resurfacing doesn’t make any sense.”

“Then help us prove it’s a copycat, and then you can be on your merry way,” Jund said, a pleading look in his eyes. “But if your nightmare scenario turns out to be the case, Drew, we’ll need you to smoke him out.”

“Quite frankly, sir, you should have fired me three years ago.”

“Admittedly, the investigation went dramatically south. But we’re neck deep in a situation here and we need your help to—”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said no.”

Assistant Director Jund dropped his pen onto the open folder. “Liz, could you and Agent Evans be so kind as to take a fiver?”

It was impossible to tell which agent made more haste to exit the conference room, leaving the two men alone to gawk at each other.

“What’s the matter with you,
Agent Cady
?” The job title slid thickly off the assistant director’s tongue, as though addressing Cady like he was still with the bureau would make it true. “You used to be my prize bloodhound. Tough as nails.”

“I was never tough as nails, sir.”

“The hell you weren’t.”

“Senator Farris came to see me that first night in the hospital…at George Washington.”

“That so?” Jund replied. “The good senator was all over my ass that week, calling for my resignation. Had an ‘off the record’ with him to make it stop. Never knew he visited you in the hospital.”

“Visit might not be the right word. I had my hand elevated, my jaw wired shut, a Grade 1 concussion, and a knee the size of Mount St. Helens, and even with the morphine drip, my head throbbed. I felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck and I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

“I’ve seen road kill look more chipper than you did that night.”

“About four a.m. there’s a commotion outside in the hallway. A second later Arlen Farris storms in, glares at me for an eternity and says, ‘I wish to hell it were you down there in the morgue instead.’”

“Senator Arlen Farris is a bully and a jackass.”

“I’d gotten his son killed.”

“No you didn’t, Drew.” The assistant director took a thicker file from his briefcase and placed it on top of the open folder in front of him. “The only reason you were at Patrick Farris’s home that night was because of their bullshit.”

“However deceptive the senator and congressman were, I should have seen through the smokescreen.”

“Clairvoyance is not part of the job description.”

“Remember, sir, they came to us for help.”

Jund looked at the file he had just set on the tabletop and then abruptly switched subjects. “How’s Laura? You two work through it?”

“I guess,” Cady said. “She got remarried in June. Some guy who owns a car dealership in Akron.”

“I hadn’t heard.” Jund’s face reddened. “I’m sorry.”

“A mutual friend set them up on a blind date. I guess they clicked.”

The assistant director looked at Cady’s left hand. “You’re still wearing the ring.”

“Guess I’m living the lie.” Cady paused, searching for the right words, and then said, “Look, sir, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. I appreciate your confidence in me, I truly do, but I’m not cut out for this. Not anymore. If anyone wants to pick my brain on what happened back then, I’m a phone call away.”

“I’m beyond spent, Agent Cady. I’ve not slept in nearly thirty hours, so please forgive me if I give you the Cliff Notes version of the pep talk. You’re like a broken pop machine, son, with an ‘Out of Order’ sign hung on the front.”

“Or perhaps all I want is to be left alone.”

“The pointy heads in Behavioral would mumble something about you being in
dire
need of redemption. And closure.”

Cady began shaking his head.

“Hear me out,” Jund said, leaning back. “I was raised by a couple of atheists and I imagine my soul is flapping in the breeze like a busted box kite, so I can’t speak for redemption. However, Agent Cady, I can speak fully to the closure I suspect you crave. It’s private and personal—different flavors for everyone—but for me closure is when I sit behind the defendant in the courtroom and burn a hole in the back of their head with my eyes. After a while, they’ll sense it and turn around. They always do. And that’s when I give them my best Stan Laurel impersonation.”

“From Laurel and Hardy?” Cady asked, confused.

“I do a picture perfect Stan Laurel, Agent Cady. Picture perfect. It tells them that they got caught by someone with the IQ of a dead hamster. Remember the Dog Kennel Killer from ten years ago? At the trial he kept looking back at me, could not believe his eyes. I even let my mouth hang open for the complete village idiot look. When they brought him back to his cell that afternoon, he tried to chew through the veins in his wrist. I like to think that was on me. I realize that may sound certifiable to most, Agent Cady, but that’s how I get my closure. That’s how I sleep at night.”

Cady digested what the assistant director had said, certain the man was joking, and shook his head again. “It’s not about closure, sir.”

“It has everything to do with closure.” The AD leaned forward and slapped the new file folder for emphasis. “You told me more than once that you thought he’d slipped away, that the final act had been staged like some Off-Broadway production. That’s three years of second guesses and hesitations percolating beneath the surface—driving you round the bend. If it turns out not to be a copycat, then you can help us nail the bastard’s hide to my wall, Agent Cady, and that will give you all the closure that you will ever need to move on with your life.”

“Sir—”

“No, Agent Cady. Please let me finish. I’m not asking you to be the SAC. You will not be leading this investigation. That’s Preston, for now anyway. This is backseat only. You won’t be near the headlines.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Some light lifting. Liaison with Liz and review the Gottlieb file. It won’t take long, as it’s about the size of your fingernail. See if it screams copycat.”

“Somehow I don’t think you flew me out here for that.”

“I need you to cover home plate.”

“What does that mean?”

“If it’s not a copycat—if the Chessman is genuinely alive and hiding in the weeds after having fucked us over big time—nobody knows more about what happened three years ago than you do. So I need you to travel back in time and find me a loose thread. Then I want you to bring me that loose thread so we can both yank on that son of a bitch for all its worth, right on up to his lethal injection.”

“You want me to cold case the original investigation?”

“Everything came to an abrupt end after Patrick Farris. The Chessman was dead, so for all practical purposes the investigation ceased in its tracks. But if we were wrong…if we were wrong…” The AD let silence fill the void.

“A cold case,” Cady said, chewing it over in his mind.

Jund stood, picking up the FBI file. “Solve the case in the past and we can catch the murdering prick in the present.”

Assistant Director Jund held out the Chessman folder.

Cady took it from him.

Jund didn’t get a chance to respond before there was a light knock and the door opened to reveal Miss Somber.

“Sorry to disturb you, Director, but the
Washington Post
has connected Gottlieb’s death to the Chessman. One of their reporters is calling for a comment.”

Chapter 2

C
ady sat at the chair in his Embassy Suites hotel room and continued to marvel at how Assistant Director Jund could play him like a cheap toy out of a kid’s meal box. Within seconds of tap dancing the Woodward wannabe off the line empty-handed, Jund had Cady signing a contractor agreement, multiple confidentiality forms, and then had pawned him off on a blonde Admin named Penny Decker, who made quick work of providing him with proper ID and computer access to the bureau’s network so he could send Jund his status reports.