The Catskills
December 3, 1.14 p.m.
Two black and chrome Federal vehicles sped up the last stretch of the hillside track towards the small fishing cabin. The wildlife hadn’t heard noise like that for a long time. The big tyres and wide vehicles ripped the path apart in their wake.
They found the cabin quiet and still. The two cars screeched to a halt and six black-suited FBI special agents got out in unison. The sight was strangely out of keeping with the romance of the small rural retreat. Tom Harper emerged from one of the cars in his long black overcoat. He instinctively looked into the woods and listened out for birdsong.
Special Agent Baines stared at the cabin. He hoped to God he was right. The heart of every investigation was detailed groundwork, nothing else, and they’d done the work on this one. After the kidnap of Denise Levene, they’d gone back to the phone call that tipped them off about the threat to Rose Stanhope.
The recording was clear enough. Baines could tell it was a male and not much else, but the techies at voice analysis could tell a whole lot more. ‘What you got, guys?’ Baines had asked. ‘This is our one and only lead, so it better be good.’
The two guys staring hard at the green EQ on the screen hadn’t even looked up. ‘Okay, it’s a male, in his late thirties to early fifties, probably mid-forties, but this isn’t exact. He’s a smoker, there’s a definite nodule or two in his vocal cords. You can hear it, right? The gruff throaty tone? Well, he’s a New Yorker through and through. Probably from Brooklyn. His parents, at least, are from Brooklyn and he’s educated. His vocabulary scores high. Degree and postgrad level study. He works with his voice too, by the sound of it. He’s got a high score on evaluative language. He’s probably science trained, so as he says he’s treating a patient, I’d tend to think of him as a psychiatrist or therapist.’
This agreed with what the guy had said on the phone. Baines had been pleased, but it was still a whole lot of nothing. A native New York therapist in his forties who smoked. They still had to find the guy.
Baines decided on a search on foot. Get into every practice, speak to the receptionist, play the tape. Meanwhile, if the guys looking through the professional databases scored a hit, they’d lost nothing.
Earlier that morning, two special agents entered Marty Fox’s practice and were told he was still on extended vacation. They played the tape and the receptionist smiled. That was Marty. In a few minutes they had the records of his meetings with a guy called Nick Smith. Dates, times and psychological analysis. He was treating this killer for Dissociative Identity Disorder. It didn’t take them long to find out that Nick Smith was another false name, just like John Sebastian.
They still had to find Marty and see if he had more information. That took only forty minutes. He had a cabin registered in his tax records. At that point, the hawks flew from the field office out to the cabin in the hills.
Tom Harper smelled the wood smoke rising from the stack. It was a beautiful place to hide out. They stood for a moment until the door opened and Marty Fox and his wife stood there, like the happy couple.
‘Martin Fox?’ called out Baines.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marty.
‘Special Agent Baines of the FBI. We’re investigating the homicide of Senator John Stanhope and Rose Stanhope. We’d like to talk to you.’
Marty’s face crumpled. ‘Christ, no, really? They’re dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He said it wasn’t real!’ said Mrs Fox. ‘He said he was just being cautious.’
‘You didn’t leave your name, sir. You could’ve helped us on this.’
‘I thought I had. I thought you’d be able to protect them. I didn’t know he was a killer.’
‘Sir, we’re taking you back to your offices,’ said Baines. ‘We need to know everything you got on this guy. This is Detective Harper, part of the task force. He’ll be in the car with you. You happy to talk to us, sir?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Marty. ‘I gotta say, I’m sorry. Jesus. I didn’t know. I didn’t know he’d hurt anyone else. He threatened us, my wife, that’s why I left a message and came up here. I’ve got nothing here. No phone, no TV. Good God. Dead?’
‘Dead.’