“So why is Drake Johnson killing them?”
“If I knew I’d tell you,” Mac answered. “If anything the man has done was understandable, I’d explain it. There’s no evidence in any investigative files I’ve seen on the death of Rena Johnson that ties the women Drake Johnson has murdered to that accident in any way, shape or form. Not one shred of evidence.”
“Do you have any theories as to what his motive would be then?”
“Theories? Sure, tons,” Mac answered and realized he was being just a bit flippant. He quickly sobered. His whole view of the case had been a theory all along, confirmed in the last twenty-four hours, but he had less proof of the victims’ involvement in the death of Rena Johnson than Drake Johnson probably had, given what he may have resorted to in interrogating and torturing some of the women. But then again, that was speculation too. Mac answered the question, somberly. “We have some ideas, but I don’t think it is yet time to engage in open speculation, not without more evidence to go on.”
“Agent McRyan,” a
Washington Times
reporter asked, “what do you think this Reaper symbolizes?”
This was not a question Mac had expected, but it was helpful nonetheless. “He’s a disgrace to good police everywhere. He’s a coward who ran from the consequences of his own actions. I think he symbolizes nothing more than a cold-blooded sociopathic killer with little regard for human life. I think the whole use of biblical verses and the symbolism of the Holy Cross are indicative of a desire for attention, for fifteen minutes of fame. Yet in the end, when this is all over, Drake Johnson will be nothing more than some nut bar the Investigation Discovery Channel dedicates an hour to some day on one of their investigation shows. He’ll be programming filler.”
“Yet,” a reporter from the
Washington Sentinel
suggested, “you’re on this investigation thanks to White House intervention. Doesn’t that provide a political element to this investigation?”
“I don’t see how,” Mac answered with a bite. “We’re after a killer, nothing more and nothing less. I see nothing political about that.” Mac answered, boring in on the reporter who had a political angle of some kind. “The president and Judge Dixon asked Dara Wire and I to help with the investigation and that’s what we’ve done.”
“Is the White House directing this investigation?” the reporter pressed, “in an effort to protect the reputation of the daughter of William Donahue?”
“No.”
“Seriously, you expect us to believe that, Agent McRyan? You live with the White House deputy director of communications.” Now Mac truly understood the reporter’s political angle, which was
partisan
politics.
• • • •
“Now I’m a little concerned,” Sally said, sitting up on the couch.
“Me too,” the Judge added.
Come on, Mac, Sally thought, don’t take the bait and blow it.
• • • •
“First, I wasn’t aware I’d been appointed as FBI director, giving me all this power over the investigation,” Mac replied. “Second, this is all I’ll say about my relationship with Sally Kennedy. It’s like one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, in this town where both people work for the federal government. Under your line of questioning, that makes all of those relationships questionable as well. Is that what you’re suggesting?” Mac didn’t give the reporter a chance to respond. “I am a
temporary
special agent of the FBI, a consultant if you will, and I report to Director Mitchell.” Mac pointed with his left hand, the cast visible to all. “I have had one mission and one mission only since I became part of this investigation and that is to help the FBI find the killer, nothing more and nothing less. I don’t give a rip about politics, about any of that stuff. All of that may be relevant to Sally Kennedy and the White House, but I don’t give a damn about it. What I care about is finding Drake Johnson and ending this.”
• • • •
“That was a good answer, Mac,” Sally exclaimed, clapping.
“That was the answer of a pro. You’re sure he’s never done this before?” the Judge asked.
Mac was knocking it out of the park.
• • • •
“There are some who don’t think these women are innocent,” another reporter blurted. Mac had seen this woman on a cable channel somewhere. “They have to be guilty of something.”
“Maybe they are,” Mac answered, “but I have to operate on the basis of evidence, not supposition. At this point in time, I have no evidence that supports that view. No evidence, beyond a picture, that these victims were involved in Drake Johnson’s sister’s death. Instead, what I have is a man who has killed every woman in this picture and I’ve yet to find a single evidentiary reason for him to have done so.” Now he was poking Drake Johnson. He didn’t believe what he was saying or was about to say; he wondered whether people in the room would believe it, but they were not his target.
“The only theory that seems to have any credence, the only thing I see them being guilty of, is that they all went to a party with Rena Johnson. They all had a good time, had too much to drink and maybe got into some drugs. As a result, things got a little out of hand and Rena Johnson wandered away, or her friends lost track of her, whatever it was, and a tragedy occurred. Is one person negligently wandering off at a party a reason to kill the other seven people she might have gone to the party with? Is that worth killing six law enforcement officers last night? Let there be no doubt, he murdered six men last night. Whatever he once might have been, Drake Johnson is now an animal, a monster, an unbalanced, irrational murderer of innocent people and we will never rest until he is caught.”
The room went silent for a moment and Mac took an opportunity to take a sip of water.
“Agent McRyan, what else can you tell us about the killer?” another reporter asked.
“Drake Johnson, in addition to being a sociopath and cold-blooded killer, is a large man and is extremely strong physically. You can’t appreciate the degree to which that is true unless you are confronting him; which I have,” Mac held up his cast again. “He is a monster in every sense of the word, an absolute animal who has the added advantage of police training. He’s as dangerous a person, a killer, as you can imagine.”
“Agent McRyan,” the ABC reporter asked, “do you have any leads on Mr. Johnson’s whereabouts?”
“We do,” Mac answered, lying just a bit. “We are pursuing them as we speak. As Director Mitchell noted, the picture of Drake Johnson is everywhere now. We know who he is. If anyone sees him, I am encouraging them to immediately call the FBI at the number people can see on their television screen. Do not, under any circumstances, engage this man on your own.” Mac held up his left hand, “He is far too dangerous.”
Mac had been answering questions for nearly thirty minutes. Director Mitchell stepped forward and whispered, “One more question.”
Mac pointed to a reporter from the Associated Press, “Last question.”
“Last night’s victim lived in Springfield, Virginia. Do you believe the killer is still in the Washington, DC, area?” the Associated Press reporter asked.
“That is possible, yes.”
“Do you believe he has identified his next potential victim?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he has another target?” Mac thought he did, but couldn’t be sure.
“We don’t know.”
“Does that concern you?”
“Yes, because he’s killed six women and tried to kill another. He killed six men last night. I want to find him, arrest him and put him on trial for his crimes. We don’t have a moment to waste in finding this killer. The clock is ticking and we need the public’s help. Thank you.”
Director Mitchell walked off the dais and Mac followed and once through the doors, the director turned around, “Not bad for a guy who claims to never have done a press conference. So do you think he’ll bite?”
“We’ll see.”
D
rake Johnson was just north of Washington, DC, on I-270, approaching the I-495 Capitol Beltway, gripping the steering wheel tight, incensed, as he weaved through traffic. He couldn’t get the press conference out of his mind.
Sociopathic killer.
Unbalanced.
Irrational murderer of innocent people.
“Unbalanced!” he growled, pounding the steering wheel.
Nut bar.
Coward.
He didn’t expect McRyan to be at the press conference, let alone be the centerpiece of it. Yet there he was and he spoke about him, belittled him, diminishing him to the entire country. He trashed Rena!
The Reaper merged his panel van into the traffic, traveling east on I-495, falling in with the thick flow of the midday traffic.
Killer of innocent women.
Monster.
Animal.
He’ll simply end up in the dust bin of history having made no impact whatsoever.
McRyan was wrong.
Rena was innocent. Rebecca Randall, Melissa Goynes, Janelle Wyland, Hannah Donahue, Helen Williams, Kelly Drew and Danica Brunner, they were the cowards, the murderers, the killers of an innocent woman.
He grabbed a new burner phone out of the bag in the passenger seat and dialed the number he now knew from memory.
• • • •
Galloway nodded, grabbed his radio from his hip, “He’s calling. Start the trace.” Then he looked to Mac, “We’re good.”
Mac took a look at his watch, 1:09
P.M.
, took a breath and answered the phone, “Hello, Drake. How are you today?”
“Nut bar!”
“Don’t forget sociopath and coward,” Mac added, walking away from Galloway and Wire, pacing. Mac’s singular goal at the press conference was to draw Johnson out.
Drake took the bait.
“You should be careful, very careful with what you say,” Johnson growled in a low sinister voice.
Mac could hear the anger in the killer’s voice. It was time to filibuster. “Or what, Drake? I mean, what could you possibly do that’s worse than what you’ve already done? You’ve killed six women and the seventh is hanging on by a thread unlikely to ever regain consciousness. You killed six innocent men last night, police officers; you killed six of your own last night. So what could you do that’s worse than what you’ve already done?”
“There’s a lot, McRyan. You have people you care about, that care for you, love you, that are not out of reach. I’ve proven I can get to people.”
“Making this a bit personal, are we?” Mac replied, instantly thinking of Sally.
“You made it that way with the press conference this morning, talking about Rena like that, making all these women out to be innocent when they’re not. So you’re damn right it’s fucking personal.”
Wire signaled string the call out with her hands —and mouthed: we need a couple of minutes. Mac nodded, looked at his watch, 1:10 pm., and responded: “What? That I told the entire country that your sister went to a party, got drunk and high? That she was irresponsible? That she was stupid and immature? That she contributed to her own death?”
“Killer of innocent women! You called me a killer of innocent women. They’re the killers, McRyan. They’re the ones who took an innocent life. They’re murderers, not me. I’m administering justice. Justice you wouldn’t dare dispense, that you wouldn’t deign to mete out. Justice those six men last night would never dare administer.”
Mac laughed on purpose and strung it out before turning serious, “Drake, you call this justice? You call this reaping what you sow? Listen, Drake, and I am being completely serious with you here. You can look it up, I’m Irish Catholic. I went to Catholic school. I was an altar boy. I go to mass. I believe in what we don’t answer for in this life, we answer for at the Gates of St. Peter. I believe there is a hell.”
“So?”
“If these women committed a crime, prove it. If you can’t prove it, then they won’t answer in this life, they’ll answer in the next.”
• • • •
“They committed a crime in God’s eyes, McRyan. They did in God’s eyes,” the Reaper raged. “They sinned! They murdered.”
“And so have you!!!” McRyan barked at him. “Eye for an eye doesn’t make it right. You’ve committed the ultimate sin, premeditated murder of twelve people.
Twelve!
There can be no greater sin.”
“People like you failed, McRyan. The cops in Auburn, they failed. Me? I failed. I failed when I tried it the so-called right and honorable way. It didn’t work, it wouldn’t work. These women could hide behind the law, it would not punish them. There would be no justice, not
your
way. But
my
way, justice has been nearly and fully achieved. Those responsible have answered,
in this life
. I’m not waiting for the next.”
• • • •
“People sin every day, Drake, should they
all
be killed?’ Mac asked, checking his watch, Wire hovering nearby on her cell. “What about the bible verses about forgiveness? What about atoning for your sins? What about redemption?”
“Not for this!” he growled. “This is a life for a life, McRyan, a life for a fucking life!”
“What did they do, Drake? Tell me what they did, because from where I’m sitting I don’t see it. They maybe went to a party with your sister. For that they should die?”
“They killed my sister.”
“How? How did they kill your sister, Drake?”
“They were in the van. They hit Rena with that van and sent her flying into that ditch. Rebecca, Melissa, Janelle and Hannah all confirmed it. You know it’s true, McRyan. And do you think one of them went to check on her? That one of them would have called 911 when she was down in that ditch?”
“You’re saying she could have been saved?” Mac asked, checking his watch.
“She could have been saved, that’s right. She could have been saved.”
“But they left her there?”
“They left her there to die.”
“Is that what Rebecca Randall told you? Is that what she told you when you tortured her?”
“Torture, hah,” Johnson mocked.
“Are you an expert at administering it?”
“What I did to her was nothing. Like you’ve never used some enhanced interrogation techniques? Give me break.”
“I play by the rules,” Mac lied. He’d used Riley and Rockford to issue a tune-up on occasion, particularly to save the chief a few years ago. “I don’t need to cheat.”
• • • •
“You’re so full of yourself, McRyan,” Drake raged, grabbing the steering wheel. “I don’t need to cheat, give me a fucking break.”
“I don’t,” McRyan answered. “Drake, there is no evidence that these women were involved in your sister’s death. Did you ever stop to wonder if Rebecca Randall just told you what you wanted to hear so that you wouldn’t kill her? So that you’d stop beating and torturing her? Did that ever occur to you as you’ve gone on this killing spree?”
“I got the truth.”
“If you did, you cheated,” McRyan answered arrogantly.
“So what?”
• • • •
“Cheating is for the weak,” Mac pushed, looking at his watch. He was digging under Johnson’s skin, under the Reaper’s skin. “You’re weak, Drake. Rena was weak.”
“No, no she wasn’t. She was murdered!”
“She got drunk, she got high, she did X, she wandered off and stumbled along impaired on the narrow shoulder of a county road on a dark, humid, foggy night. What do you expect?”
“She made mistake. She didn’t deserve to die.”
“Nor did the victims, Drake, they didn’t deserve to die either. Maybe they made a mistake too.”
Mac heard Galloway mutter, “He’s north of DC somewhere. Get the Maryland State Police in the loop.”
• • • •
The anger returned. “Rena paid for her mistake with her life, McRyan. What price did those women pay? Those incompetent fools in Auburn didn’t even have Randall, Donahue, Wyland, Williams or any of those women in their file anywhere. They weren’t going to be found. I found them by accident.”
“Accident, exactly,” McRyan replied. “We keep coming back to that term, Drake. It was an accident. The whole thing was an accident.”
“Where was the accountability, McRyan? Where was the one person in that group with the courage to step up and be accountable? Not one did.
NOT ONE!”
he screamed.
• • • •
“So you snapped, didn’t you? You couldn’t live with the fact that they got away with it.”
“No, so I got justice,” Johnson answered darkly. “I got justice on them all,” and Mac thought he’d made the case against Johnson on all six murders.
“You know what this call tells me, Drake?”
“What?”
“You’re ill. You’re mentally ill.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. You need help. There’s something wrong, your brain chemistry is off, it happens to people all the time. There’s no other explanation for this, Drake. It’s mental illness. It is no sin. It’s not your fault, it just happens. There was a trigger that set your illness off, that made you go crazy, Drake. It was finding that picture with your sister and those women. It made you go crazy. It made you do things you’d never otherwise do. You’re a danger to yourself and others, Drake.”
“Only to those who were responsible for Rena’s death, McRyan,” Johnson answered, “and to those who would stand in my way for justice for her.”
“Drake, you have to stop. You need to turn yourself in and let us help. Let me help. Let me help you with your pain, the pain that is eating at you. Drake, it’s why I spoke to you at the press conference this morning. I wanted to talk to you, to tell you there is help available, that there’s something wrong and we can help you. I want to help you but this has to stop and you have to turn yourself in. Otherwise the killing will never stop, Drake. Now that you’ve started killing, you’ll never be able to stop. These women will not be enough. You have a taste for it now. You’ll find others, you’ll find some reason justifiable to you and you’ll kill others. You may not think you will, but you will. We need to make this stop.”
“Fifteen seconds,” Wire whispered.
• • • •
He looked straight ahead in silence. McRyan was right. He knew his brain chemistry was wrong, that he’d changed, but he shook his head, “No, you can’t help me, McRyan. You can’t.”
“You’re murdering people, Drake.”
“They’re the murderers, McRyan.”
“No, Drake. You’re the only murderer here.”
“No! No! No!”
• • • •
“Drake, all you’ll be remembered as is a crazy killer. Is that what you want? Nobody will ever remember Rena. Her negligence, her carelessness, will simply be part of the story.”
“We got him,” Galloway exclaimed quietly. “He’s on I-495, Capitol Beltway, north side somewhere between Georgia Avenue and New Hampshire.” Then into the radio he said, “Flood the area. Everything we got and shut down the Interstate.” To Mac, he said, “Longer the better, we can zero in.”
• • • •
“No, McRyan, you’re wrong. Rena …”
He slowed down, the traffic slowing down dramatically in front of him. He had to quick move a lane to the right to avoid hitting the car in front of him. He looked in his rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t going to get hit and in the distance he saw flashing lights. The Reaper looked straight ahead and saw more flashing lights in the distance on the eastbound side. The dashboard clock read 1:13
P.M.
He’d been on the phone four minutes, maybe more.
“You son of a bitch,” the Reaper railed and then threw the burner phone out the window.
He needed to get off the interstate but he was stopped in traffic, two lanes from the right shoulder. The lights were approaching from both directions.
“Screw it,” he muttered, hitting the gas, turning the wheel hard right, caving in the front driver’s side of the compact car to his right. As he crossed the first lane, he took out the rear quarter panel and pushed the Ford Explorer into the far right lane and then turned hard left around the Explorer and accelerated down the shoulder, the exit five hundred yards ahead.
• • • •
“Drake! Johnson!” Johnson was gone. “Shit, I lost him,” Mac said, putting his phone into his pocket and going to Wire, who had a laptop up with a map of the Capitol Beltway.
“He’s in this area,” Dara pointed on a map she was holding, “between Georgia Avenue and New Hampshire Avenue.”
“Still in DC,” Mac stated with a pensive look as he examined the map, thinking one thing but seeing another. “There are two exits, Colesville Road and University Avenue. We need a chopper!”
“On the way, almost over the area,” Galloway reported. “Maryland State Police chopper.”
“We need to get cars on those off-ramps, shut them down. We need to lock everyone on the interstate!”
• • • •
The Reaper accelerated down the shoulder, pushing the needle on the panel van past sixty miles per hour. The exit lane was a hundred yards ahead. A car started sticking its nose out and he clipped the front right quarter panel, shoving the car back into the rest of the cars. The collision pushed the van into the concrete barrier on the right of the shoulder but he powered through the impact. He hit the accelerator again and kept going, speeding to the exit ramp to southbound University Avenue.
He could see two squad cars were coming up northbound University Avenue from the south as he floored it down the exit ramp.
There wasn’t much time. He had to ditch the van.
• • • •
“Exit ramps are shut down,” Galloway reported as they rushed down the hall to the communications center. “We’ve got troopers and the local cops closing in, Mac. The chopper is over the area. If he’s on the interstate, we’ll get him.”
“Traffic cameras, get us hooked into the traffic cameras for that area,” Mac ordered as they burst into the communications center.
“On it,” an agent said, hitting a number of key strokes and pulling the cameras up on his computer screen. “This is Colesville Road on the left and University Avenue on the right.”
“Traffic is stopped cold on Colesville,” Wire noted.
“On University as well, but … what is that?” There was smoke billowing from a car and a jumble of cars in the two left lanes. “Where is that camera pointing?” Mac asked.