Heart of a Killer (24 page)

Camby continued. “We were overloaded, and put on some temporary help, I think it was fourteen people. Just for about three weeks.”

“I remember,” Seibert said.

“One of them was a guy who came highly recommended from Bill Sherman over at Cyber-Systems. Had a terrific résumé, completely knew what he was doing, so we put him on. We were just using him to assist an exec engineer, Collins, and he was overqualified for that.”

Seibert wanted to hear all of it; he needed to know every aspect of what Camby was about to tell him. He just wished Camby were telling it faster. “What was the guy’s name?”

“Murray. Nolan Murray,” Seibert said. “Anyway, things were so crazed that we were putting these temps on, and rechecking their background on the fly. It turned out that Murray’s résumé didn’t check out; we couldn’t find any trace of him when we tried. And the Sherman reco was a fake; Sherman said he never heard of the guy.”

“So we fired him, or at least we would have if he hadn’t stopped showing up. I wasn’t privy to all of this at the time, but Collins figured he had learned that we were on to him and split. And that was that.”

“That wasn’t that,” Seibert said.

“I’m afraid it may not have been,” Camby said. “He was on two pieces of business in the week he was here. Southern Airlines and Disney.”

Camby had placed the bomb on the desk, and now Seibert had to decide whether to detonate it. There was a chance, in fact a reasonable one, that this was just a coincidence. Certainly there was no evidence that this Murray guy was the killer, or that he had access to the computers that were invaded.

ITC could do some investigating on their own, hire outside investigators and counsel, and dig deeply into the situation and Murray’s background. Perhaps they would come up with proof that Murray was not involved in the terrorism, that he was just a guy willing to tell lies about his background to get a job.

But many people had already died, and many more could die in the future if the terrorists were not caught. It was a situation that was being referred to as the greatest threat to national security since World War II, and it was already swallowing the economy.

If there was any chance at all that Murray was responsible, and if Seibert had kept the information secret, then Seibert would stand alongside Murray as two of the greatest villains in American history. That simply could not be allowed to happen.

“We need to call the FBI,” Seibert said.

Sheryl hung on every word I said. I was telling her about the trip to Maine, and what we were learning about Nolan Murray, and I could see the excitement building in her mind. She had accepted the possible way to win this thing was to prove her innocence, at least to the parole board’s standard, and we were making progress in that direction.

The big step that allowed her to finally tell the truth was the same thing that caused her to withhold that truth all those years. She had kept silent to protect Karen, but now the simple fact was that unless she left prison, Karen was going to die. So telling the truth became the only way she could protect her daughter, which was all she ever wanted to do in the first place.

I found myself getting excited as well, so much so that I hadn’t even been nervous on the plane ride back. If we had more time, I would think we really had a chance.

As always in these situations, the dynamic with Sheryl was a weird one. We were sharing the excitement; in a different setting we’d be giving each other high-fives. But at the end of the day, if our hopes were realized, she was going to die. And while I fully understood the situation intellectually, I simply did not want that to happen.

I had come to that realization when I began to understand my feelings for Sheryl. It’s stating the obvious that you don’t want someone you love to die. The irony here was that love was also the same reason that Sheryl wanted to die, since doing so would save her daughter.

As I was telling her the news, I was very careful about the emphasis I put on it. If I built up the positives, then she’d be hopeful and less inclined to preemptively take her own life, in whatever way she had alluded to. But then I might be unfairly raising those hopes, only to be dashed later.

The stakes had escalated, even if she didn’t see it that way. This had started as a woman trying to save her daughter by giving up her own life. But at that point she was giving up a life that was going to be spent behind bars. Now, if we succeeded and she went through with her plan, she’d be giving up a life that could be spent in freedom.

The difference could not be overstated.

Of course, I didn’t have the guts to state it at all.

She must have been aware of it, but if it gave her pause, she certainly didn’t show it.

I left Sheryl, after promising to keep her informed of everything on as timely a basis as I could. Once I was outside, I called Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, and asked to be connected to Dr. Bud Jenkins’s office.

Much to my surprise, I was talking to Dr. Jenkins himself within thirty seconds. “Hello, Jamie. I expected to hear from you sooner than this.”

“Why?”

“Your mother said you’d be calling.”

My parents had mentioned at dinner that Dr. Jenkins, who they described as a talented heart surgeon, would be the type to help Sheryl on the medical side of her quest. I thought it was a casual mention, but it clearly wasn’t. My mother knew I’d pick up on it, and she paved the way.

Thanks, Mom.

“Did she tell you why I’d be calling?” I asked.

“In general terms. Come on in and let’s talk about it.”

“When?”

“Now is good. Later not so good.”

I drove straight to Columbia Presbyterian, which is located on West 168th Street in Manhattan, an easy drive down from the George Washington Bridge, and not too far from my apartment.

Once again there was very little traffic; people were staying inside and hunkering down. As media outlets were falling all over themselves to list the things that were run by computer, and the disastrous things that could happen from those computers being compromised, it just seemed safer not to be out and about.

Even the hospital seemed mostly empty when I got there, and parking spaces were plentiful. When I got to Dr. Jenkins’s office, his assistant said that he was in a consultation, but would be with me shortly.

It took only ten minutes, and I was ushered in to see him. We introduced ourselves, and I said, “Seems kind of slow today.”

“Not for me,” he said. “I have my third surgery coming up.” He then explained, “Computers run everything around here, so people are putting off elective surgeries, and any procedures that aren’t completely necessary. Heart surgery doesn’t fall into that category.”

“Have you done heart transplants?” I asked.

He smiled. “Are you interviewing me?”

“I guess we’re interviewing each other.”

He nodded. “Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine tomorrow. Tell me exactly what you would want me to do.”

“The same thing you’ve done thirty-eight other times, thirty-nine tomorrow.”

“Too cryptic,” he said, and then repeated, “Tell me exactly what you would want me to do.”

I nodded. “The recipient of the transplant would be in a room in this hospital. Somewhere else in the hospital, hopefully in an adjoining room, a donor heart that is a perfect match would become available.”

“I would not assist it in becoming available,” he said. “I need to be clear about that.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” I said. “But purely as a hypothetical, I would like you to help me in some research. I would like to know what causes of death could render a heart unfit for transplant.”

He nodded. “There’s plenty of information on that on the web. I can direct you to it, to help with your hypothetical research.”

“So you’ll help, if it comes to that?”

“Where is the potential recipient now?”

“Hackensack University hospital,” I said.

“She would have to be transferred here, at least two days before the operation, sooner if possible. I will have to clear it with the hospital administration, but so far there is nothing you have said that would be illegal, and I would think that would be the standard they’d apply.”

“Thank you.”

“What are the chances this is going to happen?” he asked.

“Right now, slim. But we’re making progress.”

“I’ll be here.”

“We caught a break,” Emerson said when Novack picked up the phone. “You got a minute?”

“We’ll come to you,” Novack said, on his feet before hanging up the phone. Anders was across the room at his desk. “Let’s go.”

When they got to Emerson’s office, he was sitting with Andrew Garrett, who had papers spread out in front of him.

“I said it was a break,” Emerson said, “but it wasn’t. It was great police work. Andy?”

Garrett seemed embarrassed by the praise, and said, “I don’t know about great police work, all we did was trace the money.

“Not the money that was paid off in the deaths that Charlie Harrison was involved in, the ones that related to his fake IDs. As you know, the money didn’t go to him; he just got the fifty-grand installments from the fictitious foreign company. That was a dead end.

“So I’m talking about the money that was paid by the insurance companies. And like in everything else we’ve seen, our perpetrator was good, actually extraordinary. There were no similarities in the paths of the monies, and it all went through four different banks. This money wasn’t just laundered, it was dry cleaned and martinized.”

“So what did you come up with?” Novack asked.

“I’m getting there,” Garrett said, seeming to relish the moment.

“I checked all other settlements for negligent deaths in the year after Charlie Harrison died. I figured they wouldn’t have iced Charlie without having someone to take his place. For screening criteria I only used settlements over a million dollars, in the metropolitan area. There were seventeen such cases, but ten of them were clearly legitimate. Three others appeared to be good, but four could easily have fit the MO of our guy.”

“And?” Anders asked. He was by nature even more impatient than Novack.

“And two of them had money paths that were mostly dissimilar to each other, and to Charlie’s. But when you follow them, all four wind up in the same place.”

“In the same account?” Novack asked.

“You got it,” Emerson said, jumping in. “The names on the account are all different, and none is Nolan Murray, but guess what? We’ve got an address off the bank records.”

“It could be fake,” Novack said. “It could be a delicatessen. It could be a nursery school.”

Garrett shook his head. “No, it’s a house in Montvale. Registered to an Alan Mitchell. I’ve checked into Mitchell; I think he’s one of Murray’s creations.” He paused for effect. “I think we may know where Murray lives.”

“Good work,” Novack said grudgingly. He wasn’t prepared to believe that this was going to get them to Murray, but clearly Garrett and Emerson had accomplished more than the rest of the department, Novack and Anders included.

“I really can’t take the credit; it was mostly the state police,” Garrett said. “They have better and faster access to banking records than we do.” He held up a piece of paper. “They even e-mailed me the address.”

“Okay,” Novack said. “We’ve got work to do.”

Captain Donovan insisted on convening the meeting in which the operation would be planned. He, Novack, Anders, and Emerson were included, and all recognized the need to move cautiously but quickly. They also knew that before they could come close to finalizing a plan, they needed a lay of the land.

As the relative newcomer to the investigation, and therefore not likely to be recognized, Anders would do the reconnaissance. He would drive through the Montvale neighborhood and by the address in question, to get a sense of the area. Mounted on the car would be hidden, miniature video cameras, which would give them a clear understanding of what they were dealing with.

Within an hour, Anders was on the way to Montvale, and he was back two hours after that. Donovan, Novack, and Emerson had already seen the video fed back from the car, but Anders still described what he saw.

“It’s a tough one,” he said. “The house is on a hill, near the top, with one other house below it on one side, and two on the other side. You can get to the house from either side of the hill, but anyone in the house would see us coming. On the positive side, we could easily seal off the hill, and no one could get out.”

“Could you tell if anyone was in the house?” Novack asked.

“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. There were no cars in the driveway, and no lights on inside, at least that I could see, although it was obviously daytime. The exterior was a little shabby, the grass hadn’t been mowed in a while. I’m guessing it’s empty, but it’s just a guess.”

All of this presented a dilemma; they needed to know if there was someone in that house before they approached it. Donovan once again called on the state police capabilities. They would use a device that could sense body heat, and that way determine if there was anyone alive in the house.

By that morning they had their answer; the house was unoccupied. Sentries were placed inconspicuously near the bottom of both sides of the hill; if someone approached the house, they would know it.

The final preparatory step was securing a court order to enter and search the premises. This they obtained easily; there was well more than probable cause to believe that crimes had been committed. The operation was set for 5:00
P.M.
that afternoon; there would be at least some traffic in the area at that time, and their movements would therefore be slightly less conspicuous.

Continued surveillance indicated that no one had come to the house in the interim, and that it was still unoccupied. A SWAT team would be in position, ready to move in if called upon, an insurance policy that no one really thought would be necessary.

Once again it would be Anders who would be the point man. He would approach the house casually, map in hand, as if lost and looking for directions. He’d ring the bell, and if, as expected, no one answered, he’d call in the rest of the search team.