While Knight’s gaze darted around the table, Murphy, fiddling with an old pocket watch strung on a chain across his puffy middle, kept his eyes downcast. Also present were Chandler, Fiske, Perkins, Ron Klaus, and McKenna. Fiske and McKenna occasionally made eye contact, but Fiske had kept his temper under control.
Wright had been found in a park a half dozen blocks from his Capitol Hills apartment, with a single gunshot wound to the head. His wallet, like Michael Fiske’s, was missing. Robbery was the superficial motive, although no one in the room believed the answer could be that simple. Preliminary indications were that Wright had been killed between midnight and two in the morning.
On the ride over to the Court, Chandler had filled Fiske in on recent developments. He had had Michael Fiske’s autopsy expedited, although he was still awaiting the official report and the exact time of death. The cause of Michael Fiske’s death, however, had definitely been a single gunshot to the head. Chandler had tracked down the northern Virginia Wal-Mart where Fiske had had his car serviced, but no one there could give them any useful information.
Fiske had had one thought that prompted him and Chandler to make a short detour on the way to the Court: They had returned to the car impoundment lot to have another look at Michael’s Honda. Fiske had looked in the back pockets of the front seat.
“He kept a map in here, always did. He had this weird fear of getting lost. Had to plot out his whole trip before he set foot on the road. There’s no map here, but there is this.” He held up a couple of yellow Post-its that he had found wadded up at the bottom of the seat pocket. There was writing on them, names of interstates and roads — directions, given the faded condition of the ink, from some trip taken long ago.
Chandler looked at the pieces of yellow paper. “So why take the map book?”
“He would’ve had the directions to wherever he was going in there.”
“So the miles had something to do with his death.”
Fiske hesitated for a moment, debating whether to tell Chandler about the Harms filing. Revealing that information would open a can of worms that he didn’t want to deal with right now. “Maybe,” he finally said.
After that, he and Chandler had driven to the Court.
Now they were all in the conference room staring at each other. Without disclosing how he had come by the information, Chandler had just reported that there had been an intruder at Michael Fiske’s apartment the night before.
“We’re in your hands, Detective Chandler,” Ramsey said. “Although now I think it much more likely that we have some madman at work with a grudge against the Court, rather than it pertaining to some matter Michael was working on.”
McKenna said, “I want you to know that the Bureau has assigned a hundred agents to this matter. We’ve also arranged around-the-clock protection for the justices.”
“What about the clerks?” Fiske said. “They’re the ones getting killed.”
Chandler stepped in. “I’ve compiled the home addresses of all the clerks. I’ve beefed up patrols in those areas. Most of them live on Capitol Hill close to the Court. We’ve offered to house any clerk who so chooses at a local hotel where full-time security is available. I’ve also instructed one of our experts to talk to the clerks about ways to keep safe, be on the lookout for suspicious persons, avoid going out alone or at night, that sort of thing.” He looked around for a moment. “By the way, where is Dellasandro?”
“He’s trying to coordinate all the new security measures,” Klaus reported. “I’ve never seen him this worried. I think he’s taking it personally.”
“I’ve been on the Court for almost thirty-three years, and I never thought I would ever see the likes of this,” Justice Murphy said sadly.
“None of us did, Tommy,” Knight said forcefully. She looked pointedly at Chandler. “You have no leads at all?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. We have several things to go on. I’m talking about Michael Fiske’s death. With Wright’s murder it’s still too early to say.”