There was nothing I could do about it now. The Bureau wanted me there. So I put it out of my mind. I tried to anyway. I was performing my job. The same as Dr. Cross would have done for me under comparably unfortunate circumstances.
I was certain of one thing, though, from the moment I arrived. I knew I looked as shocked and outraged as anyone else standing senti
nel in the crowd gathered at the house of Fifth street. I probably looked angry to some of them. I was angry. My mind was full of chaos, fear of the unknown, fear of failure, too. I was close to the state of mind described as “toast.” Too many days, weeks, months in a row with Mr. Smith. Now this new bit of blasphemy.
I had listened to Alex Cross speak once at a profiler seminar at the University of Chicago. He had made an impression. I hoped that he would live, but the reports were all bad. Nothing I’d heard so far left room for hope.
I figured that was why they’d brought me in on the case right away. The vicious attack on Cross would mean major headings, and put intense pressure on both the Washington police and the Bureau. I was there on Fifth Street for the simplest of reasons — to relieve the pressure.
I felt an unpleasant aura, residue from the recent violence, as I approached the tidy, white-shingled Cross house. Some policemen I passed were red-eyed and a few seemed almost to be in shock. It was all very strange and disquieting.
I wondered if Alex Cross had died since I had left Quantico. I already had a sixth sense for the terrible and unexpected violence that had taken place inside the modest, peaceful-looking house. I wished that none of the others were at the crime scene, So I could absorb everything without all these distractions.
That was what I had been brought here to do. Observe the scene of unbelievable mayhem. Get a gut feeling for what might have happened in the early hours of the morning. Figure everything out quickly and efficiently.
Out of the corner of my eye, I say Kyle Craig coming out of the house. He was in a hurry, as he always is. I sighed. Now it begins, now it begins
Kyle crossed Fifth Street in a quick job. He came up to me and we shook hands. I was glad to see him. Kyle is smart and very organized, and also supportive of those he works with. He’s famous for getting things done.
“They just moved Alex,” he said, “He’s hanging on.”
“What’s the prognosis? Tell me, Kyle.” I needed to know everything. I was there to collect facts. This was the start of it.
Kyle averted his eyes. “Not good. They say he won’t live. They’re sure he won’t live.”
Chapter 73
THE PRESS CORPS intercepted Kyle and me as we headed toward the Cross house. There were already a couple dozen reporters and cameramen at the scene. The vultures effectively blocked our way, wouldn’t let us pass. They knew who Kyle was and possibly they knew about me, too.
“Why is the FBI already involved?” one of them shouted above the street noise and general commotion. Two news helicopters fluttered overhead. They loved this sort of disaster. “We hear this is connected to the Soneji case. Is that true?”
“Let me talk to them,” Kyle whispered close to my ear.
I shook my head. “They’ll want to talk to me about it anyway. They’ll find out who I am. Let’s get the silly shit over with.”
Kyle frowned, but then he nodded slowly. I tried to control my impatience as I walked toward the horde of reporters.
I waved my hands over my head and that quieted some of them. The media is extremely visual, I’ve learned the hard way, even the print journalists, the so-called wordsmiths. They all watch far too many movies. Visual signals work best with them.
“I’ll answer your questions,” I volunteered and served up a thin smile, “as best I can anyway.”
“First question, who are you?” a man with a scraggly red beard and Salvation Army store taste in clothes hollered from the front of the pack. He looked like the reclusive novelist Thomas Harris, and maybe he was.
“That’s an easy one,” I answered, “I’m Thomas Pierce. I’m with BSU.”
That quieted the reporters for a moment. Those who didn’t recognize my face knew the name. The fact that I’d been brought in on the Cross case was news in itself. Camera flashes exploded in front of me, but I was used to them by now.
“Is Alex Cross still alive?” Someone called out. I had expected that to be the first question, but there’s no way to predict with the press corps.
“Dr. Cross is alive. As you can see, I just got here, so I don’t know much. So far, we have no suspects, no theories, no leads, nothing particularly interesting to talk about,” I said.
“What about the Mr. Smith case,” a woman reporter shouted at me. She was a dark-haired anchorperson type, perky as a chipmunk. “Are you putting Mr. Smith on hold now? How can you work two big cases? What’s up, Doc?” the reporter said and smiled. She was obviously smarter and wittier than she looked.
I winced, rolled my eyes, and smiled back at her. “No suspects, no theories, no leads, nothing interesting to talk about,” I repeated. “I have to go inside. The interview’s over. Thanks for your concern. I know it’s genuine is this god-awful case. I admire Alex Cross, too.”
“Did you say admire or admired?” another reporter shouted at me from the back.
“Why did they bring you in on this, Mr. Pierce? Is Mr. Smith involved?”