Triple Homicide

It was 7:36 a.m. when the elevator doors opened.

Bree rushed out onto the observation platform of the Washington Monument, some five hundred and fifty-four feet above the National Mall. She carried a chattering US Park Service Police radio, tuned to a frequency being used by all FBI, US Capitol Police, and DC Metro Police personnel rapidly responding to the situation.

She had a pair of binoculars lent to her by the officers guarding the closed monument. Balking at her initial demand to be let in, they had given her a hard time while checking her story.

Then the sirens had started wailing from all angles, and their commander came back with direct orders to open the monument and let her ride to the top. Bree had lost eight minutes in the process, but pushed that frustration to the back of her mind. They had fifty minutes to find the bomb.

Bree went straight to the high slit windows cut in the west wall of the monument, and peered through the binoculars toward the Lincoln Memorial and the long, rectangular pool that reflected its image and that of the Washington Monument. When she'd started to run toward the towering limestone obelisk, she'd hoped to get high enough to catch sight of someone fleeing the Mall or acting strangely.

But too much time had passed. The bomber would have beat feet, gotten as far away as possible, wouldn't he? That was the logical thought, but Bree wondered if he might be the kind of sicko to stick around, admire his explosive handiwork.

Even at this early hour there were scores of people running, walking, and riding on the paths that crisscrossed the Mall and paralleled the reflecting pool. Others were standing as if transfixed by the chorus of sirens coming closer and closer.

Bree pivoted, strode across the observation deck to the east wall where she could look out toward the US Capitol, and triggered the radio mic.

"This is Metro CoD Stone," she said, scanning the open park between the Smithsonian museums. "I can see hundreds of people still on the Mall, and who knows how many more that I can't see because of the trees. Move officers to 17th, 15th, Madison Drive Northwest, Jefferson Drive Southwest, Ohio Drive Southwest, and 7th Northwest, 4th Northwest, and 3rd Northwest. Work civilian evacuation from the middle of the Mall to the north and south. Keep it quick and orderly. We don't want to cause panic."

"Roger that, Chief," the dispatcher came back.

Bree waited until she heard the dispatcher call out her orders, then said, "Block all traffic through the Mall north and south and Constitution and Independence Avenues from 3rd to Ohio."

"That's already been ordered, Chief," the dispatcher said.

"Status of K-9 and bomb squads?"

"FBI, Metro, and Park Police K-9s en route, but traffic's snarling. Metro's ETA on 15th is two minutes. Bomb squads say five minutes out, but could be longer."

Longer? She cursed inwardly. Looked down at the flags fluttering and noted their direction and stiffness.

She triggered the mic again. "Tell all K-9 patrols that the wind here is south-southwest, maybe ten miles an hour. They'll want to work from northeast angles."

"Roger that," the dispatcher said.

Bree checked her watch. 7:41. They had forty-five minutes to find and defuse the IED.

Gazing out, her mind racing, Bree realized she knew something about the bomber. He or she had used the term IED, Improvised Explosive Device, not bomb. IED was a US military term. Was the bomber ex-military? Current military?

Then again, Bree had seen and heard the term often enough on news and media reports. But why would a civilian use that term instead of bomb? Why be so specific?

Her phone rang. Chief Michaels.

"Because of your unique location and perspective, we're giving you overall command of the situation, Chief," he said by way of greeting. "K-9, bomb, and tactical squads will operate at your call after advising you of the options."

Bree didn't miss a beat. "FBI and Capitol Hill?"

"Waiting on your orders."

"Thank you for the confidence, sir."

"Prove it," he said, and hung up.

For the next six minutes, as she monitored radio chatter, Bree roamed back and forth, looking east and west, seeing cruiser after cruiser turn sideways to block access to Constitution and Independence Avenues where they ran parallel to the Mall.

At 7:49, twenty-one minutes after the bomber's phone call, mounted police appeared and cantered their horses the length of the Mall, shouting to everyone to leave the quickest way possible. Other patrol cars cruised Independence, Constitution, and Madison, using their bullhorns to spur the evacuation.

Despite Bree's hope for calm, the police horses and bullhorns were clearly seeding panic. Joggers turned and sprinted north and south off the Mall. Fathers grabbed their kids and ran. Moms pushed baby carriages helter-skelter. Tourists poured like ants out of the Lincoln Memorial and left the Vietnam and World War II Memorials in droves.

Bree kept the binoculars pressed tight to her eyes, looking for someone lingering, someone wanting a last look at the spot where the bomb was stashed, or positioned to remotely detonate the device.

But she saw no one that set off alarm bells.

The son of a bitch is gone, she thought. Long gone.

When Kate Williams left my office twenty minutes later, I was wondering if my tactics had done any good. She'd opened up, and that was positive. But right after she called herself a coward, she clammed up tight again, said she hated thinking about those times—they made her cravings for the pipe and the bottle more intense.

"See you at our next appointment?" I asked before she went out the basement door.

Kate hesitated, but then nodded. "Got no choice, right?"

"Judge wants it, but I hope you come to want it. This is a safe place, Kate, no judgments. Opinion only if you ask for it."

Her eyes roamed to my face, saw I was sincere. "Okay then, next time."

I'd no sooner shut the door than my cell phone buzzed in my office. I ran and grabbed it on the fourth buzz, seeing Bree was calling for a second time.

"You already showered and off to work?" I said.

"I never made it home," she said in a strained voice. "You haven't heard?"

"No. I've been in a session the past—"

"Someone put two bombs on the National Mall, Alex. Michaels put me in command up on the Washington Monument where I could see everything. We got one neutralized before it exploded at 8:26. But I made a decision to send a bomb team to neutralize the second IED versus checking it first with a robot. When they were close, at 8:23, it went off. They're okay because of the mats and the suits, but it's a wonder they weren't killed."

"Jesus," I said. "How are you?"

"Shaken," she said. "I haven't sent men in to get bombed before."

I winced. "I can't imagine, baby. What's Michaels saying?"

"He has my back. Denton recommended the attempt. We had seven minutes, so I accepted her recommendation."

"How did you know you had seven minutes?"

"The bomber told me. He called my cell to warn me that an IED was supposed to go off at 8:26 a.m."

"Why you?"

"No idea. But he had my private number."

"No suspects?"

"We have a suspect in custody," she said, and told me about a man who'd waded into the reflecting pool before dismantling his pistol. "We want you to come in and talk to him ASAP."

"Uh, I'm suspended pending trial."

"Mahoney's taken the lead. He wants you there, and Michaels will never know."

"Okay," I said uncertainly. "But I'm stacked with patients until two."

There was a pause before Bree said, "Two bombs on the National Mall, Alex?"

Even though she wasn't there with me, I held up my free hand in surrender. "You're right. No argument. Where do you want me and when?"

"FBI building, ASAP. Bring me a change of clothes?"

"Absolutely," I said, grabbing a pen to scribble notes on what she wanted.

So much for my suspension.