Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

I arrived in Kalorama at 12:25. EMS ambulances, squad cars, TV news trucks were parked all over the street.

Several neighbors of the Shafers’ were up and had come outside their large, expensive houses to observe the nightmare scene. They couldn’t believe this was happening in their upscale enclave.

The chatter and buzz of several police radios filled the night air. A news helicopter was already hovering overhead. A truck marked CNN arrived and parked right behind me.

I joined a detective named Malcolm Ainsley on the front lawn. We knew each other from other homicide scenes, even a few parties. Suddenly, the front door of the Shafer house opened.

Two EMTs were carrying a stretcher outside. Dozens of cameras were flashing.

“It’s Shafer,” Ainsley told me. “Son of a bitch tried to kill himself, Alex. Slit his wrist and took a lot of drugs. There were open prescription packets everywhere. Must’ve had second thoughts, though. Called for help.”

I had enough information about Shafer from the discovery interviews preceding the trial, and from my own working profile on him, to begin to make some very educated guesses about what might have happened. My first thought was that he suffered from some kind of bipolar disorder that caused both manic and depressive episodes. A second possibility was cyclohymia, which can manifest itself in numerous hypomanic episodes as well as depressive symptoms. Its associated symptoms could include inflated self-esteem, a decreased need for sleep, excessive involvement in “pleasurable” activities, and an increase in goal-directed activity—in Shafer’s case, maybe, an intensified effort to win his game.

I moved forward as if I were floating in a very bad dream, the worst I could imagine. I recognized one of the EMS techies, Nina Disesa. I’d worked with her a few times before in Georgetown.

“We got to the bastard just in time,” Nina said, and narrowed her dark eyes. “Too bad, huh?”

“Serious attempt?” I asked her.

Nina shrugged. “Hard to tell for sure. He hacked up his wrist pretty good. Just the left one, though. Then the drugs, lots of drugs—doctors’ samples.”

I shook my head in utter disbelief. “But he definitely called out for help?”

“According to the wife and son, they heard him call out from his den, ‘Daddy needs help. Daddy is dying. Daddy is sick.’”

“Well, he got that part right. Daddy is incredibly sick. Daddy is a monumental sicko.”

I went over to the red and white ambulance. News cameras were still flashing all over the street. My mind was unhinged, reeling. Everything is a game to him. The victims in Southeast, Patsy Hampton, Christine. Now this. He’s even playing with his own life.

“His pulse is still strong,” I heard as I got close to the ambulance. I could see one of the EMT workers checking the EKG inside the van. I could even hear beeps from the machine.

Then I saw Shafer’s face. His hair was drenched with perspiration, and his face was as pale as a sheet of white paper. He stared into my eyes, trying to focus. Then he recognized me.

“You did this to me,” he said, mustering strength, suddenly trying to sit up on the stretcher. “You ruined my life for your career. You did this! You’re responsible! Oh, God, oh, God. My poor family! Why is this happening to us?”

The TV cameras were rolling film, and they got his entire Academy Award-quality performance. Just as Geoffrey Shafer knew they would.

Chapter 88

THE TRIAL HAD TO BE RECESSED due to Shafer’s suicide attempt. The courtroom shenanigans probably wouldn’t resume until the following week.

Meanwhile, the media had another feeding frenzy, including banner headlines in the Washington Post, the New York Times, USA Today. At least it gave me time to work on a few more angles. Shafer was good—God, he was good at this.

I had been talking with Sandy Greenberg nearly every night. She was helping me collect information on the other game players. She had even gone and talked with Conqueror. She said she doubted that Oliver Highsmith was a killer. He was late-sixties, seriously overweight, and wheelchair-bound.

Sandy called the house at seven that night. She’s a good friend. Obviously, she was burning the midnight oil for me. I took the call in the sanctuary of my attic office.

“Andrew Jones of the Security Service will see you,” she announced in her usual perky and aggressive manner. “Isn’t that great news? I’ll tell you: it is. Actually, he’s eager to meet with you, Alex. He didn’t say it to me directly, but I don’t think he’s too keen on Colonel Shafer. Wouldn’t say why. Even more fortuitous, he’s in Washington. He’s a top man. He matters in the intelligence arena. He’s very good, Alex, a straight shooter.”

I thanked Sandy and then immediately called Jones at his hotel. He answered the call in his room. “Yes. Hello. It’s Andrew Jones. Who is this, please?”

“It’s Detective Alex Cross of the Washington police. I just got off the line with Sandy Greenberg. How are you?”

“Good, very good. Well, hell, not really. I’ve had better weeks, months. Actually, I stayed here in my room hoping that you’d call. Would you like to meet, Alex? Is there someplace where we wouldn’t stand out too much?”

I suggested a bar on M Street in half an hour, and I arrived there a minute or two early. I recognized Jones from his description on the phone: “Broad, beefy, red-faced. Just your average ex-rugby type—though I never bloody played, don’t even watch the drivel. Oh, yes, flaming red hair and matching mustache. That should help, no?”

It did. We sat in a dark booth in back and got to know each other. For the next forty-five minutes, Jones filled me in on several important things, not the least of which was politics and decorum within the English intelligence and police communities; Lucy Shafer’s father’s good name and standing in the army, and the concern for his reputation; and the desire of the government to avoid an even dicier scandal than the current mess.