Phillip Margolin - Lost Lake

“Probably?”

Hobson hesitated.

“The director instructed you to cooperate fully, did he not?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Then please answer my question. Do you have any reservations about your conclusion that Rice is responsible for these murders?”

Hobson felt uncomfortable. “There was no physical evidence connecting Carl Rice to the murder at Lost Lake. Everyone is looking for Rice because Vanessa Wingate said he killed the congressman.”

“Go on.”

“No one saw Rice at the lake, except Vanessa. There are no fingerprints or other physical evidence connecting him to the murder scene. If Vanessa Wingate hadn’t given us his name he wouldn’t be a suspect.”

“I’m not following you,” Jennings said, though it was obvious that he did and just wanted Hobson to commit himself.

“The Lost Lake police decided that Vanessa didn’t murder the congressman because the murder weapon couldn’t be found and Vanessa had no blood on her. But what if she got rid of the knife and whatever she was wearing? Maybe she was naked when she killed him. She could have dumped the knife in the lake and showered.”

Hobson’s theory clearly intrigued Jennings. “What’s led you down this path?”

Hobson shook his head. He looked troubled. “Why did General Wingate rush his daughter into a private sanatorium before I could question her? Why wouldn’t the doctors at Serenity Manor let me talk to her? Maybe they were just being protective; maybe reliving what happened at the lake would have damaged her psychologically. But I get the impression that the General and his daughter are hiding something. Only I have no proof that they are and no idea what it might be, unless she killed Glass.”

“What about General Rivera?” Jennings asked.

“There’s nothing connecting Vanessa to his murder.”

“And Rice?”

“The MO is the same as the Lost Lake murder; there were cuts on his chest and damage to his face, throat slit. Rice’s hair and blood was found at the scene… ”

“Were there signs of a struggle?”

“No.”

“Interesting. If there was no struggle, where did the blood come from?”

Hobson shrugged.

Jennings asked Hobson to send him copies of the files of both cases. Then he ordered the driver to return Hobson to his car. They rode in silence until the limousine stopped.

“You have my card. I want to know any new developments as soon as they happen,” Jennings said. “Most important, I want to be notified the minute Carl Rice is located, captured, or killed, day or night. That’s a major priority.”

Just before Hobson got out, Jennings said, “You’ll be doing your career a favor by giving me your complete cooperation. I’m not the only person interested in these cases. There are very important people who want to know the truth about Lost Lake.”

Hobson had sent a copy of the case files to CIA headquarters, but there had been no new developments. Carl Rice had disappeared as if he had never existed. As far as Hobson could tell, Vanessa and Rice never made contact after Lost Lake.

Hobson had kept tabs on Vanessa. He learned that she was living on a hefty trust fund that had been established by her mother and that she’d broken off all contact with her father. During the year and a half after her discharge from Serenity Manor Vanessa lived like a hermit. A move to her current, less expensive digs had followed her hiring by Exposed after attempts at employment at more reputable newspapers and magazines had all failed.

After their conversation in the black limousine, Hobson had not talked with Charles Jennings again, but that wasn’t the last he heard of Jennings. A few years after their brief meeting, Jennings was appointed director of the CIA. When the administration changed, Jennings returned to Pennsylvania and served two terms as a United States senator. Four years ago, Charles Jennings had been elected to the presidency of the United States.

Over the years, Hobson had risen steadily through the ranks until his recent appointment as executive assistant director for law enforcement services. There were others as deserving of promotion, some more deserving. Hobson always wondered how important to his career the short car ride from Vanessa Wingate’s apartment house had been.

The intercom buzzed, and Hobson’s secretary informed him that Sam Cutler was in his reception area. After the agent brought the photographer into his office he dismissed her. Cutler looked around warily. Hobson smiled to put him at ease.

“Sit down, Mr. Cutler. You’re not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why am I here?” Cutler demanded.

“Vanessa Kohler thinks you’re in danger.”

Cutler’s shoulders sagged. “You’re kidding? This is because of Vanessa?”

“She asked me to have you picked up and offered protective custody.”

Cutler looked furious. “I don’t believe this. Don’t you know Vanessa is nuts? I just went through this with the D.C. police. She called 911 last night and said I was being murdered.” Cutler tapped his temple angrily with his index finger. “She’s crazy.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, it’s embarrassing. First, there were the cops last night. I have no idea what our neighbors think. Then an FBI agent drags me out of my office.”

“I apologize, but Vanessa has gone somewhere and I need to know where she went. I was hoping you could help me. Believe me, it is important.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with her father, does it? She’s not making threats against him, is she? She went ballistic when he announced that he was running for president. That’s what set off this recent round of insanity. She was fine before that.”

“She hasn’t made any threats against General Wingate.”

Cutler looked as if he was at his wit’s end. “I like Vanessa. I do, and I’ve tried very hard to deal with her problems, but it’s getting to be too much. She’s a brilliant woman, a terrific reporter. If it weren’t for her mental problems she’d be going for the Pulitzer. But she has trouble separating reality and fantasy, and it’s getting worse instead of better. What I don’t understand is why the FBI is talking to her, much less giving credence to anything she says.”

“I can’t explain, but it is in connection with a case.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not from us. Tell me, Mr. Cutler, has she ever mentioned a man named Carl Rice to you?”

“That sounds familiar.” Cutler snapped his fingers. “He’s in the book. Aw, no. Don’t tell me it’s about her book. I mean that’s a total fantasy. I’ve read it. She doesn’t have a shred of evidence to back up anything she says.”

“What book is that?” Hobson asked, although he had read a copy that had been made from a manuscript that had been surreptitiously copied by an employee at a publishing house who was paid under the table by the FBI.

“She’s written this expose of her father. She claims that he ran a secret army unit during Vietnam that committed all sorts of crimes. Only she doesn’t have a shred of proof.”

“What does she say about Rice?”

“He was supposed to be one of Wingate’s assassins.”

Cutler took a deep breath. “You can’t put any stock in these wild accusations, Mr. Hobson. When Vanessa was in her twenties she saw a very gruesome torture murder. She was staying at a congressman’s house in California. I think that’s what started her problems, because she was hospitalized for a year after that at some private sanatorium for the shock of seeing this guy killed. She says this old boyfriend of hers, Carl Rice, killed the congressman to get evidence he had about this army thing her father was supposed to be running. But you can’t believe anything she says about General Wingate. She hates him. I mean, really hates him. Vanessa blames him for everything that’s gone wrong in her life: her mother’s death; being in that psychiatric hospital. She even thinks that he was involved in the Kennedy assassination.”