41
S
terling walked out onto 138th Street and looked left, then right before taking deep gulps of the cool night air. His stomach was full, his body washed, and his clothes replaced with a pair of old jeans and a roomy black sweat jacket. He turned back and looked up at the old scrubbed edifice of the Abyssinian Baptist Church. If there was anyone he could trust to take good care of Veronica, it would be Reverend Briggs, the savvy and popular senior pastor of the famed Harlem church. Sterling considered Reverend Briggs a savior and it had little to do with his starched white pastor's collar. Along with Dr. Lieteau, Reverend Coleman Briggs had pulled him from the steel claws of depression and depravity. The determined minister never gave up on Sterling, visiting him daily in the hospital after the beating at the Hotel DeWitt, then bringing him into his own home once he was well enough to leave the hospital. Mrs. Briggs, a strong and colorful disciple with a spiritual fervor that rivaled her husband's, nursed Sterling back to physical health, promising him that she wouldn't let him out until he was steady enough on his own two feet not just to walk but to run. Even after that experience, Sterling never became a deeply religious man, but he still found himself making a small sign of the cross in front of the towering granite statue of Christ. He thanked the sacred walls of Abyssinian for once again providing the safety and comfort he desperately needed.
At the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, known outside of Harlem as Seventh Avenue, Sterling stopped one of the black gypsy cabs and bargained a fare all the way down to Penn Station. He sat behind the driver, hoping to discourage conversation, but it wasn't until he had delivered several one-word answers that the spirited young Haitian man got the message. He turned on one of the hip-hop stations and sang along as Sterling mapped out a plan.
It was only seven in the evening and he would dedicate the remainder of the night to looking through Wilson's papers. He was counting on something in the e-mails or printed documents that would give him the snag he could pull to unravel a deeper connection between Wilson and Heidi Vorscht. It still bothered him that Wilson had confided in a graduate student yet explicitly told Mandryka they should keep their discoveries a secret until the case report had been finished and published. What was it about Heidi? What was she up to? Vivian Sinclair had said Heidi possessed unbelievable charm, but Sterling now wondered if it was charm or powerful abilities of manipulation.
Sterling had the taxi driver drop him off on Eighth Avenue, a couple of blocks south of Madison Square Garden. He checked the entrance for uniforms or agents, then joined the heavy flow of people walking down into the belly of Penn Station. This was a perfect time for him to slip in as the last of the evening rush hour commuters filled the station, waiting under the big board for the announcement of their gates. He looked into the faces of the exhausted men and women lugging briefcases and bags, some of them chomping on pretzels because it would be too late to eat dinner by the time they arrived home in the suburbs. Sterling made his way down the east corridor of the station, avoiding the National Guard booth before slipping into the locker hallway. He inserted the key into the locker, grabbed the box, then headed with all the others rushing to the subway lines. He pulled down his skullcap before passing through the subway turnstile and waited just seconds on the elevated platform before jumping onto the uptown 9 train.
Riding the cramped, dirty subway for the third time in one day made Sterling long for his Porsche. He wondered if they had already impounded it, claiming they were searching for clues but mostly trying to irritate him, knowing how careful he was with it. The thought of Skip Dumars gripping the steering wheel nauseated him. By now they had turned both of his apartments, the one down in Virginia and the one here in the city, upside down looking for evidence. Dumars probably had been thrilled searching through his personal belongings. Sterling prayed that they hadn't found his psychiatry bills.
The train made numerous local stops before Sterling exited at 116th Street/Columbia University. Just inside the school's gate, he found a campus phone and asked the operator for Bettie Hill, Department of Adolescent Psychology.
Bettie was one of Sterling's old flings, but unlike his others, their relationship had dissolved amicably and both had walked away feeling fulfilled. They had spent one hot, lustful summer together, but both knew that it would never amount to anything more than that. She was serious about her graduate studies and he was serious about not being serious. Without either of them having to utter the words, they both knew when it was over.
“Extension 2498,” the operator came back on. “Can I connect you?”
“Please.” Sterling waited as the phone rang. If Bettie wasn't teaching a class, she could almost always be found in her office. Ever the ambitious academic, she had earned her doctorate early and found her way onto the Columbia faculty, where sometimes she taught students twice her age.
“Hill,” a woman's voice curtly answered. It was obvious the phone had distracted her from something more important.
“Blinky, it's me.” That was the nickname Sterling had given her that summer. It had something to do with a pair of hot-pink shorts she liked to wear.
“Sterling Bledsoe?”
“In the flesh.”
“Where in the hell have you been?” She perked up now.
“I've been around,” Sterling said. “Same drill. Trying to catch the bad guys and still looking for a rich wife who'll support my golfing addiction when I retire.”
“I see you're still delusional. The more things change, the more they stay the same.” That had always been one of his lines.
“And how are you, Blinky? Let me guess. Right now you're hunched over a bunch of term papers marking them up in red.”
“About right. Semester's over in a month and I'm way behind. Vacation can't come fast enough. So to what do I owe the pleasure? I'm sure you're not calling to talk about my teaching woes.”
“I'll cut to the chase, Blinky. I need your help. And I need it right away.”
“Uh-oh. The last time I helped you I found myself on my back looking up at the stars in Central Park.”
“You enjoyed it just as much as I did.”
“Never said I didn't. I just fell behind an entire summer's worth of research.”
Sterling thought about that first night. They had met in front of Butler Library. She was on her way to the movies, alone, and he was looking for Fayweather Hall. He asked her for directions and after a short exchange, neither made it to their planned destination. He remembered how her hair had been tucked under a Yankees cap, and she'd worn just enough lipstick to make him want to kiss her for days.
“No directions this time,” Sterling laughed. “I need to borrow your computer for a little while.”
The request surprised her. “My computer? For what?”
“I have some disks here with documents I need to print out. But I need to do it soon.”
“How soon?”
“Right now.”
“Doesn't the FBI provide you guys with basic computer equipment?”
It was a fair question. “It's not that simple,” Sterling said. “I don't need just your computer and printer. I also need your discretion.”
“Discretion? Sterling, are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Not exactly. Just a temporary jam. Don't worry, everything will be worked out in a couple of days. So will you help an old friend?”
“I don't know, Sterling. I still have twenty papers sitting on my desk that need to be graded by tomorrow morning.”
“I promise I'll be quick.” There was a long pause. Sterling knew she was struggling not to say yes.
“Do you remember how to find my office?” she said, relenting.
“How could I ever forget?”
Y
ou didn't say you had all of that to print.” Bettie Hill stood with her hands on her hips looking down at the box of disks. “That could take all night.”
“I'll be done in a couple of hours,” Sterling said. He planted a long kiss on her cheek before pushing his way past her to the computer. A meditation candle burning on the corner of her desk made the room smell like jasmine. In typical fashion everything was in perfect order, including the pens on her desk, which had been arranged on the glass top with all the caps lined up in the same direction.
“Are you gonna at least tell me what's going on?”
“I can't.” Sterling inserted the first disk into the drive tower and moved the mouse on the screen, clicking the documents ready to be printed.
“Is helping you going to get me in trouble?” Bettie was now seated across the desk. It had been five years since they'd last seen each other, but to Sterling she seemed unchanged. The black rectangular glasses and long ponytail made her look more like a schoolgirl than a professor. He looked away from her, knowing how easy it would be to get distracted.
“Blinky, I'd never involve you in my cases in a way that would get you in trouble,” he said. “That's why I won't share with you the details of what I'm doing. We have to agree that you won't ask any questions related to this. That way you can't be held accountable for something you don't know.”
Bettie grabbed the papers off her desk and began marking them, occasionally looking up as Sterling hammered away at the keys and sent the printer into overdrive. In the next two hours she changed the toner cartridge once and reloaded the paper tray four times. She attempted to keep her mind focused on her work, but couldn't stop herself from looking up at the computer screen and wondering why Sterling was printing out so many e-mails. But she knew well enough not to ask any questions.
Sterling moved methodically through the disks, printing out the e-mails and at the same time scanning the screen for any correspondence that had Heidi Vorscht's name on it. He was down to the last disk and hadn't yet seen her name in the address line or in the body of a message. Then he realized that he had been looking for the wrong name. The computer had arranged the sender and recipient names in alphabetical order. The name now flashing on his screen brought him back to the conversation he had had with Kanti. It read simply:
WOGAN
.
42
S
terling found an empty table in the corner of the fifth floor of Columbia's Butler Library. He slung his jacket over the back of a chair, then arranged the e-mails by sender. The largest packet turned out to be from Wogan. The first fifty were standard, no different than what other students might have sent. Though Vorscht was a graduate student in the school of engineering, she seemed sincere in her interest in Wilson's research. She mentioned how she had always been intrigued by matters of wildlife and while her mother shared her interests, she had insisted that if Heidi were to be taken seriously and earn a decent living, she needed a degree in one of the hard sciences. Sterling analyzed the e-mails not only for their content but also for their tone. The exchanges had been cordial at first, but then they took on a personal character. Heidi mentioned that she was lonely living in Mrs. Potter's big farmhouse and was having trouble making friends. All of the other students wanted to talk about engineering or their research, and she wanted to talk about movies and music. Wilson reacted like any concerned faculty member would, suggesting she visit the student activities center or participate in some of the intramural sports that were also open to graduate students. At the height of their correspondence, there had been as many as two or three e-mails a day. But then they suddenly stopped.
Sterling checked the dates and counted the e-mails. Over a span of two months, Heidi and Wilson had exchanged over two hundred e-mails, excessive by any standards, but more so considering she wasn't even one of his students.
The next e-mail didn't come for several more months. It was addressed as usual to “PB,” for Professor Bledsoe:
How is your investigation going? I've been doing some research on my own, but don't worry, I haven't mentioned you or your discovery. I think this is a problem in other parts of the Upper Valley. I've been in touch with someone who knows of a blackbird problem in another area in the mountains. I'll let you know what I find. I miss our talks. Hope to see you soon.
HV
Sterling reread the note several times. This was the first mention of the blackbirds. He picked apart every sentence, breaking it down to each word. He searched for Wilson's reply.
The same date, several hours later, almost nine o'clock that night.
HV,
I'd very much like to hear what you've learned about the birds. I think it's better to discuss this in person rather than blitzmail. I found another fifty this past week, all of them looking the same, no physical evidence of what might have killed them. At first I thought these deaths could be some strange coincidence or freak of nature, but I'm now convinced these deaths are purposeful. I've enlisted the help of Professor Mandryka to help me sort through all of this. Your continued privacy in this matter is essential as we've already discussed. I really look forward to seeing you soon. I miss our chats.
PB
Sterling detected an urgency in Wilson's desire not only regarding the birds but regarding Vorscht herself. There was an unmistakable feeling of attachment in the letter's closing. Sterling wondered if Mandryka knew about Vorscht.
Heidi's next e-mail arrived a couple of days later.
PB,
Thanks for taking me on your walk this morning. I've lived on this property for almost two years and never realized how close I was to such environmental perfection. The innocence of the wildlife in these vast mountains reminds me of the walks I took with my mother as a little girl. For hours, we'd discover flowers and animals and play games naming them. Finding those dead birds this morning made me realize how cruel and arrogant man can be. Sometimes I'm ashamed for our people. Seeing those birds has convinced me that evil is lurking in these great mountains. I want to help you figure this out. You can definitely trust me. And thanks for listening to me ramble this morning about my loneliness. You are a sweet man.
HV
Wilson's response was brief, echoing her pleasure in their walk that morning and expressing his willingness to see her any time that afternoon to discuss the birds. He had an hourlong grant meeting to attend at three o'clock, but after that he'd be free for the rest of the day.
Sterling continued to read through the e-mails, tracking Heidi and Wilson's conversations about the birds but also recognizing the increasingly affectionate tones in their messages. Nothing explicit, but it was there. Some of the e-mails had nothing to do with the birds, but spoke of movies they'd seen or books they'd read. They e-mailed at all hours, late at night, first thing in the morning. Sometimes they rambled, at other times they were brief.
Sterling found an e-mail that Heidi sent at 1:30
AM
.
PB,
Thank you.
HV
Sterling turned away from the e-mail and looked down the empty aisle, almost afraid that someone else had read the message. A strange combination of sadness, anger, and confusion swirled in his chest, and he rubbed his eyes hard as if that would erase the words on the page. But he looked down again and read what she had written, then whispered to himself so that he would believe what his mind already knew—Wilson had had an affair. Only two words, but it all started to make sense. Kelton had recalled the many closed-door visits. And now it was clear why Heidi had spent so much time in the lab when she served no official research capacity like the other students. Sterling played back the image of that picture. She stood next to Wilson, her hand resting on his shoulder, almost as if daring the world to discover that they were lovers.
Sterling checked the date of the e-mail. Less than three weeks ago, only two days before Wilson was murdered. He looked for Wilson's response. There wasn't one. That was the last e-mail either of them had written to each other.
An overhead bell rang briefly, startling Sterling. He looked at his watch. Eleven thirty. The library would be closing in half an hour. A student bounced down the aisles, pushing in chairs, reshelving volumes that had been left on tables. In a voice that could only be meant to annoy, she reminded everyone that it was time to check out any books they planned on taking home overnight.
Sterling dug back into the e-mails. He scanned them quickly, casting aside the mundane correspondence—appointments with students, collegial banter with other faculty. Even in e-mails, Wilson came across as thoroughly self-confident, at times writing with a flash of levity and biting sarcasm that Sterling had never appreciated.
Sterling noticed patterns to the correspondence. Those Wilson seemed most familiar with, such as Yuri Mandryka, were addressed by the initials of their first and last names—YM. Only when he wanted to maintain a formal tone did he sign off “Professor Bledsoe”; otherwise, it was simply PB. Almost everyone called him Professor, and some of his students would send him chain e-mail jokes, which surprisingly, instead of deleting, he'd send on to others.
The e-mails also demonstrated Wilson's willingness to do anything to help his students. They were like his children, and even when he needed to reprimand a student for not completing an assignment or for turning in a poorly written project, he did it in a way calculated not to embarrass or upset them. With the finesse and cheerful encouragement of a skilled coach, he not only pointed out their shortcomings but gave equal attention to what they did well.
Sterling reread the correspondence between Wilson and Mandryka. In the early part of last year, Wilson made his first inquiry of Mandryka, seeking counsel in the study of blackbirds. His e-mail was vague, but his tone was serious. Over the span of five months, the two exchanged as many as fifty e-mails, but they wrote almost in code. Only once did Sterling actually mention the blackbird deaths, and when Mandryka sent back detailed information about the anatomy of the birds, Sterling suggested they speak in person. After that, the trail went cold. The last month of e-mail exchanges never mentioned blackbirds or death or any of their suspicions.
Sterling then tackled a series of e-mails from President Mortimer. The first twenty, brief and formal, held no surprises. They were perfunctory, an invitation to a meeting of the president's advisory council, a reminder that one of the department chairs was to be feted at a luncheon at the faculty club. Occasionally Mortimer would include a line at the end of his short missives asking about Kay, but his words were as flat in print as they were when spoken. The rest of the e-mails weren't sent by Mortimer, but by his office staff. The typical presidential spam mail, announcing the appointment of a new professor, or a spirited bulletin rolling out yet another program to enhance the continued excellence of the Dartmouth tradition.
Sterling turned to a fresh page in his book and jotted notes, trying to fill in some of the holes. Suddenly, he winced from the high-pitched, screeching sound of metal on tile. He looked up to find the library warden staring in his direction. She looked like a softball player, wide shoulders, dirty-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, her shirt and jeans oversized despite her large frame. She was transfixed not on him but on something near his table. Her mouth was open as if she were about to speak. He followed the direction of her stare and looked at his jacket. She still stood there. He leaned over and pulled out the chair, then he saw what had paralyzed her. The Glock was in full view. He quickly closed the jacket, but by the time he looked up, she had disappeared down one of the aisles.
Sterling knew he had to get out of there in a hurry. He quickly went to work stacking the e-mails in chronological order, but was distracted by the jingling of keys echoing from the other end of the hall. He looked up and saw the library warden pointing in his direction, talking to two rent-a-cops in matching gray uniforms. One of them spoke into his radio, while the other gripped his club. They picked up their pace as Sterling threw the e-mails into the box and grabbed his coat. He ran down an aisle and flung open the door to the back stairwell. Practically jumping an entire flight of stairs, he turned to descend the next flight when he heard loud footsteps charging up from several floors below. Radio transmissions echoed up the stairwell as well. He made out the words “gun” and “careful.”
The door above him opened and he heard the library warden's voice.
Sterling turned back and entered the fourth floor. He ran through a small passageway that led to a more desolate part of the library housing small offices and intersecting rows of tall, dusty bookshelves. He spotted an exit sign and ran down the dark, narrow aisles. Two quick lefts and along a short hallway and he was in another stairwell. He took the steps two, three at a time, the adrenaline rushing too fast in his arteries for him to feel the burn in his muscles. He jumped the last five steps and banged his way against an emergency exit door whose alarm screamed as the crisp night air welcomed him.
He looked right toward the sirens and flashing lights that had strangled the corner of Broadway and 114th Street. Officers ran through the gates on the west side of the campus, screaming into their radios, their guns drawn. Sterling ran in the opposite direction, toward Amsterdam Avenue. He dodged the cars as he ran against the green light and behind St. Luke's Hospital. Two medics were lifting an old woman from the back of an ambulance. She had all sorts of wires and tubes connected to her emaciated body. Sterling ran as hard as he could while carrying a box and wearing stiff new boots. At the end of the block he jumped a small fence and landed in a dark, deserted park, the wail of sirens dying away behind him.
He slowed to a jog, keeping himself in the shadows rather than the dimly lit walkways. A cluster of homeless people had constructed a small village of cardboard-box houses along the paths. He could hear them roll from one uncomfortable position to another. He even heard the plaintive cry of a hungry baby and a woman's sleepy voice begging for quiet.
This was not the kind of park where children picked flowers and chased bright balloons. Used condoms and cracked syringes littered the uncut grass. The glass of broken beer bottles formed a dangerous trail that sparkled under the flickering lamps. Sterling kept his hand near his pocket, making it easier to draw the gun if the need arose.
He finally made it out of the park and onto Manhattan Avenue, where he quickly hailed a battered gypsy cab cruising the neighborhood for fares. He gave the address for Abyssinian, then fell back into the seat and tried to catch his breath. His heart pounded against his chest and his thigh muscles were cramped in tiny knots. He cursed himself for being so careless with the gun. If they hadn't identified him yet, it wouldn't be long before they checked the security cameras and got a confirmation.
Sterling paid the cab as it pulled up to Abyssinian, but before scaling the back stairwell he got a sudden idea. It was a long shot, but with time running out, at least worth a try. He went to the corner pay phone and punched in the home number of ex–field office director Agent Martin Gilden.
“Hello.” It was an old woman's voice, weak and full of sleep.
“Professor Gilden, please,” Sterling said. He had always called him Professor, even after he joined the Bureau.
“He's sleeping right now,” the old woman said. “Is it possible you can call back in the morning?”
“I'm sorry to call this late, ma'am, but can you tell him that it's Agent Sterling Bledsoe? I'm sure he'll take my call.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Hold on.”
Sterling heard shuffling in the background, then a voice he hadn't heard in almost ten years. “Bledsoe, my boy. Don't you have any clocks in your damn house?”
“Apologies, Professor, but I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn't an emergency.”
Sterling could hear muffling over the phone, then Gilden say, “Don't worry, hon, go on back to bed.” Gilden must've waited for her to leave before speaking. “Are you all right?” he whispered.