“Judge Berenthal, can I trouble you for a copy of that footage?” I ask.
He nods numbly. “Yeah. I can send it to you. I just ask that you keep me in the loop—that you tell me what you find as you continue your investigation.”
“You have my word,” I say.
I slide one of my cards across the desk, giving him my email address so he can send me the video. Maybe Rick and Nina, when they analyze the footage, can find something we didn’t see the first time we ran through it. Given just how good our guy is, I’m skeptical, but it’s not impossible. It wouldn’t be the first time they found something hidden deep in the details, and all I can hope is that this is one of those instances.
We say our goodbyes to the judge and promise again to keep him apprised of the investigation. And since he could blow up a lot of things for a lot of people with just one phone call, we have no choice but to make good on that promise. I don’t like it. I don’t like giving reports while working a case, especially to a civilian. But I’ve got no choice.
As we climb back into the SUV, Astra turns to me, her face aghast. Her expression perfectly encapsulates the chaotic thoughts and feelings coursing through me right now.
“What in the hell is going on?” she asks.
“I have no idea,” I reply as I start the engine. “No idea whatsoever.”
And that is one of the many things creating a deep pang in my gut about this whole case right now. I hate not knowing.
FBI Operational Black Site, Foggy Bottom District; Washington DC
“You are not going to believe this,” Paige exclaims as we walk through the door.
“I might. But judging by the tone of your voice, I’m already sure I’m not going to like it… whatever it is,” I reply.
“Watch,” Mo says.
The monitor at the foot of the table is showing a live local news station. Behind the reporter on the scene is a hive of activity. Uniformed cops and suited detectives, as well as people in dark blue windbreakers with “FBI” stenciled in yellow, are going in and out of a large house. The chyron at the bottom of the screen reads: “Breaking News: Son of Federal Prosecutor Abducted in Broad Daylight.” I stare at the screen in stunned silence for a long minute, just listening to the reporter going on.
“Seventeen-year-old Justin Moore, a popular student at Holy Rosary High School, and the son of Denise Moore, a federal prosecutor, has been abducted from the parking lot of his school this afternoon…”
A school photo of Justin Moore flashes on the screen. His long, pale face is framed by shaggy hair the color of sand. He’s got dark eyes behind round, silver glasses that sit on an aquiline nose, prominent dimples, and a cleft in his chin. The screen splits with the picture of Justin on one side and the reporter who’s wearing a well-rehearsed expression of concern on the other.
“Once again, the seventeen-year-old son of famed federal prosecutor Denise Moore has been kidnapped from the parking lot of Holy Rosary High School by a man wearing black clothing and a yellow mask…”
The picture of Justin is replaced by a still from the school’s surveillance camera showing the man in black with the yellow smiley-face mask we’re all so familiar with by now. A moment later, the video plays, and we watch the man in the mask jump out of the black panel van, which is parked next to Justin’s car, and follow his well-choreographed routine. Smiley-face man pulls the Taser from his pocket and fires it at Justin, and the kid goes down immediately. He scoops Justin’s limp form off the ground, throws him into the van, quickly zip ties him, then gets in and drives off. And all that happened in less than two minutes.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask.
“He’s getting more efficient,” Astra notes.
“Look at all the kids in the background just standing there watching,” Mo says, her tone thick with disgust. “They’re filming it.”
“Such is the state of our world today, my friend. It’s all about the clicks and social media clout these days,” Paige says.
“In all fairness, what did you want them to do?” Rick asks. “Jumping in to help might have only gotten them hurt too. Or worse.”
Paige shrugs. “It just seems that somebody could have done something other than stand there filming just to post on their IG page. But yeah, I see your point, I guess.”
As the reporter starts to interview some of those same students who’d stood around filming, I shake my head.
“Turn it off,” I say.
Mo does, plunging the room into a silence that’s saturated with tension. Folding my arms over my chest, I start pacing that familiar track again, my mind racing. That’s two in the same day. And overall, that makes four kids from prominent families taken in the most audacious ways I’ve ever seen. In all my years on the job, I’ve never heard of—let alone chased somebody—so brazen in the commission of their crimes.
“Bold doesn’t even begin to describe this guy,” Astra says, echoing my thoughts.
Her voice breaks the silence in the room and helps pull me out of my head. I stop pacing, planting my hands on the back of my chair, and lean down. We need to get inside this guy’s head. We need a profile. But he’s given us so little to work with that coming up with even the basics is proving to be a daunting task. Closing my eyes, I silently count to ten, trying to get my head on straight. When all else fails, you go back to the basics. And the most basic thing when you’re profiling an offender is the victims. What can this guy’s victims tell us about him?
“Okay, let’s look at this from a different angle,” I start. “What do the children of a Fortune 500 company’s CEO, a US Senator, a federal prosecutor, and a federal judge have in common?”
“They all come from wealthy, high-profile families,” Mo says.
“True. But I think this goes deeper than socioeconomics,” I say. “What else?”
“They’re all educated, motivated, driven,” Paige offers. “They’ve all got bright futures.”
“They’re all in roughly the same geographical area,” Mo says. “They all live less than an hour from each other.”
“That might support the trafficking theory with the Beltway area serving as a kind of one-stop shop,” Astra says.
I listen to all the ideas they’re throwing at me, and although everything they’re saying is true and accurate, I don’t feel like they hit the target. I can’t explain why or what it is, but there just seems to be more to these abductions than that. Those facts don’t quite fit the frame in my mind. They’re border pieces, but the broader picture in the center of the puzzle remains incomplete.
I shake my head. “There’s something we’re missing. Something we’re not seeing,” I say. “There’s information we don’t have—critical information that’s going to help us figure out not only why this is happening, but who this guy is.”
“What is it?” Astra asks.
