Chapter 12: A Gaggle of Geese

Aw...

Vanessa completely stunned me with a surprise birthday present ... a spa weekend at the Mandarin Oriental in New York. She smiled, “It’s from all of us — Walker and Pilar chipped in too.”

Somehow Vanessa had sensed, intuited, exactly what I needed. And Rebecca joined us for all three days. Leaving the two of us alone at night, of course. I didn’t even consider calling Clint — this was girls-only.

Vanessa had tasked the Mandarin with organizing our three-day weekend and it was a calming, soothing, descent into a luxurious nirvana.

Ahh...

We started with the Oriental Essence massage — custom-blended oils and ancient techniques imported from the Far East. The girls plied their special magic on the neck, shoulders, and back —- and the tension just melted away.

An Aroma Stone session. Yoga one day, meditation the next. Water Lily Radiance facials. Bento box meals. Another facial — Diamond Cocoon.

A hydradermabrasion treatment — an exfoliation and extraction and cleansing system with proprietary serums filled with antioxidants, peptides and hyaluronic acid.

Reiki. And Thai foot massages.

Altogether, I would rate the Mandarin experience as being better than the Magic Fingers Bed at Motel 6. Not that I haven’t passed a good time in this motel and that one...

The deeper I got into the mess called The Restoration, the more I told myself not to develop tunnel vision. Confirmation bias can do that. But so can over-reliance on science, technology.

I’d learned at John Jay that in the early 1900s forensic techniques which had been developed as investigative tools began being touted in courtrooms as substantive evidence. ‘Expert’ witnesses, many of them having had little or no scientific training, began testifying that their conclusions reached to — and the wording was precise — ‘a reasonable degree of scientific certainty’.

A phrase that had the veneer of legal conviction to it. And one that, decades later, would be challenged by real scientists.

Defense counsels back then didn’t have widespread access to scientists and technicians to challenge the prosecution’s assertions. Juries were impressed with white lab coats, even though many of the experts were merely off-duty cops.

Then, fast-forward to the late 1980s, DNA testing was developed by qualified scientists who applied rigorous tests, independent of courtroom proceedings. DNA not only helped to convict the guilty, but thousands of accused and imprisoned men and women were found not guilty or were freed from jail.

But, along with the laboratory advances, a human set of prejudices began setting in. Police, understandably, used every tool available to track down a suspected criminal. As did prosecutors who were eager for convictions. Just as, in another field, neurosurgeons who were ‘born to cut’ were keen to operate.

During an investigation, once a suspect was identified, once ‘scientific’ evidence pointed to him, two things often occurred. The process then focused on that one individual. At the same time, other leads were back-burnered. The result was a sort of prejudicial focus that defined the remainder of the search for justice. And that narrow-scope perspective often continued through the trial and sentencing phases.

A famous West Coast case was illustrative of the ‘science-is-the-pinnacle’ mind set:

In Los Angeles, a troubled man named Jeffery Herstadt confessed to the murder of a well-regarded judge, Walter Montgomery. Herstadt had been read his rights and the entire interview was captured on video. In addition, a speck of the suspect’s blood was found under the fingernail of the slain man. DNA had proven the match beyond any doubt, reasonable or not.

Slam dunk.

Except Mickey Haller — assigned to defend the confessed killer — had his doubts. So did a retired investigator, Harry Bosch.

They were up against a rising star in the DA’s office, Susan Saldano.

First the confession. Haller called a renowned psychiatrist who had previously treated Herstadt and had diagnosed him as schizophrenic. His particular kind of psychosis would lead him to agree to anything when he was under stress. The pressure of an arrest and interrogation led to the admission of murder.

The DNA? Haller called on the EMT who had treated Herstadt for a seizure an hour before Montgomery’s killing. And part of that treatment had involved an oximeter — an instrument placed on the index finger to measure the flow of oxygen in the blood. That tells the attendant how well the heart is working.

An hour after treating and releasing Herstadt, the same EMT was called to the park where Judge Walter Montgomery’s body had been found. The technician admitted, reluctantly, that the oximeter he used on Montgomery hadn’t been cleaned, let alone sterilized, between the two emergency calls.

It was a classic case of an innocent DNA transfer.

The prosecutor agreed to drop all charges against Herstadt.

And that was one of the lessons I had to remember. Not to become so focused on Sarah Meriwether that I couldn’t see anyone else. Although, boy, could I see her.

Gertie was at our kitchen table, Tanqueray at hand, showing Vanessa some new spreadsheet software called, I believe, Airtable. Pilar was right there; the girl was a demon for sopping up new stuff on just about any topic.

Myself, I’d sooner order Chaldean sea bass than wade through the accounting gorse.

Walker was chopping onions for lunchtime tacos and Gertie looked up and smiled, “The onions are releasing a mist of Syn-Propanethial-S-Oxide. That’s a chemical irritant which causes people to tear up.”

Pilar scribbled a note to herself. She’d look it up later.

I was considering moving to Iran. Fucking kitchen table intellectuals.

I had sprung for a large Italian sausage pizza from Minsky’s. The Sullivans would be responsible for supplying beverages. It was a little after ten at night and Jessie hadn’t bothered with even one button of her white PJ top. She did sport a tiny white thong, so modesty was preserved. Somewhat.

Jesse indicated his approval in the bottom half. Throb, throb.

I not only wasn’t bothered by the increasing degrees of exposure, it pleased me. And not just in a voyeuristic manner. It meant that the twins trusted me; were gradually bringing me into their little world. Not as a participant; there wasn’t even the slightest hint of an invitation. No, they were simply opening themselves up to me. Letting me peek in on an intimate personal lifestyle that I’d long suspected.

I said, “Okay, if I’m right, the Meriwethers are behind The Restoration. Probably Sarah Meriwether. Martin Folsom is the field director for the operation. One difference between this version and previous attempts to consolidate the Nazi camps is that each unit has to be self-funding.”

Jessie leaned forward for another slice. Both breasts clearly visible. She said, “Makes sense.”

Jesse gazed at his twin and nodded, “Charles and David are in jail because the Feds traced that seed money they sent to the Gunthers and those other Nazis.”

I said, “So, it looks like a nationally coordinated project with free-standing cells. Cells that don’t know each other.”

Jessie leaned back, sipping an apricot kettle sour from City Barrel. Her top was completely open, both nipples erect. She said, “They must know about each other, those cells. Maybe not which cities or states, but that there are other groups out there.”

Jesse nodded his agreement, “They’d have been told that it’s a national movement, that they’re part of something larger.” Throb, throb.

Jessie smiled at her brother, “And they’re proud, probably honored, to be part of it.”

I said, “It’s smart, when you look at it clinically. Since each cell has to fund itself, that self-sorts for the really committed. Eliminates the hangers-on. If you’re willing to pay to be part of The Restoration, you’re self-identifying as a True Believer. Devout, almost.”

I followed Martin Folsom for three days. His office building was twelve blocks from the RightWorld office and he walked there once every morning and once again in the afternoon. However, he didn’t go into RightWorld, not even one time. He was trim and fit and that could well be simply part of his daily exercise routine.

The first night I was in town, Folsom worked until a little after eight and went on a long, meandering walk. I didn’t spot any cryptic chalk marks on fences, no dead-letter drop, no newspapers left on a bench.

As I remembered from the tennis courts, he was tall and angular and moved like a racquet-sport athlete still in his prime. In fact, with his long stride, I had to scurry a little just to keep him in sight.

He ended up sitting at an outdoor table on the terrace of a chain restaurant called Fig & Olive. It was in City Center, an upscale shopping area. I went inside where I could observe him while he ate an al fresco dinner. I sipped my G & T and watched.

His server was an African-American woman in her late 20s. The short video I shot there confirmed what I had thought at the time. He had a pleasant demeanor that gave no hint of racial bias.

But the way he watched her, studied her. It took me a moment to flash on an old recollection ... Folsom reminded me of a panther that I had once seen in the Kansas City zoo. I was watching it because the way it moved — so smooth and easy and graceful — reminded me of Vanessa. Back when I was first getting to know her.

But then it was feeding time and an attendant brought out a bucket of food. The panther gazed at him with a level look, deciding, I decided, whether to kill him. What stuck with me about the panther, and now Folsom, were their eyes —calm, almost sleepy as they evaluated the person in front of them. A zoo attendant and a black waitress.

Projection? Of course. But he still gave me the creeps.

Three days later, I retrieved the tracker and flew home.

Back in Kansas City, I thought about Martin Folsom. He worked long hours. Went on long walks all three days I was there. He lived in Georgetown; in fact, his house was just three blocks from Matt’s condo. He parked on the street — no garage.

Either skipped lunch or ate at his desk. Ate dinner at three different restaurants. Walked to, but didn’t enter, the RightWorld building twice a day.

I almost missed the one oddity. Other than ordering meals, he didn’t have any contacts with another human. I’m sure he interacted with the other attorneys and staff in his firm, but I never saw him talk to anyone other than waiters.

Once he arrived at his flat-fronted brick house in Georgetown, he didn’t leave until the next morning. I liked his block; the houses were close together and butted up against the sidewalk. No front yards. The block dated, I read, back to the Federal era — late 1790s through the 1830s.

Of course a three-day stretch is no guarantee of a pattern, certainly not a lifestyle. But Folsom lived alone — no wife, no ex, no kids. The brief snapshot I had of him tallied with research from Sullivan & Sullivan. No club memberships; he played singles with a teaching pro on public tennis courts. No church attendance, no known sexual partners.

Now I’ve probably gone three days without sex, although such a drought doesn’t spring immediately to mind. But I’ve never gone three days without any social interaction.

Odd. A hint, a clue? No idea.

Saturday afternoon around one. Pilar and I were doing laundry — a week’s worth of sheets and towels.

I said, “Unicorn?”

“Let’s.”

Being a trained detective, licensed, I noted the number of eyeballs that clocked Pilar’s little twitchy-butt in white short-shorts as we threaded our way through the dining room to the last free table in the bar area.

She was, admittedly, quite a sight. That cinnamon skin, her good posture — it looked like she was balancing a book on her head. And those painted-on shorts. It wasn’t just male eyeballs either. Women look at women ... judging, evaluating, envying.

Pilar of course was acutely aware of the attention she drew. Every girl is.

Bess Cuthbert, full of sass, said, “Where’s Walker? I was going to take him upstairs. Show him what prime pussy is really like.”

Pilar, cheerfully, “Help yourself.”

Another Hardmore tape.

Warren said, “Okay, Mike, you’re assigned to City X. Target lives and works downtown.”

Maeve said, “You have a full dossier on him. Addresses, routes, habits, friends, work colleagues, medical records.”

Warren, “He’s a city boy, urban lifestyle.”

Mike Grimes said, “Okay, I’ve tailed him. Know his routines. And I’ve driven all over town. Learned the neighborhoods, the freeways, the cop stations. I’m ready to make a move.”

Maeve, “What are you wearing?”

“Um, baseball cap, the home team. Eyeglasses to look nonthreatening. Windbreaker depending on the weather. Sneakers, double-knotted with treads for good traction. I’m walking a dog, or pushing a baby carriage. Maybe a tote bag instead. Anything to look like I belong, fit in. Seem harmless.”

Warren, “That’s right, you look like a resident, you’re blending in.”

Maeve, “Tell us about the tote bag.”

“From a local store. Real groceries with, say, a baguette poking up.”

Warren, “Weapon?”

“Shoulder holster, safety off, suppressor.”

Blending in. Just like I had told Sabbath to do when she went underground.

I wrote a text to Duke Chancellor: “When are you coming back?”

I held a finger above Send arrow, hovered a few seconds, then jabbed Cancel.

Fuck.

My fella and I were in my favorite booth; Herr Hesse having straight-marched us right to it.

Clint asked me, “What do you know about piracy?”

“Like with music? Or on the high seas?”

“Yachts.”

“I thought Claire and Charles weren’t yacht people.”

“They have friends.”

“Oh. Sure. Hmm ... let me count up how many of my friends have yachts. You mind if I take off my shoes?”

“Winter.”

“Okay, okay. So, piracy?”

“It’s a real problem. And not just in the usual places. The Gulf of Aden, Indian Ocean, along the coast of Africa. Hell, it’s almost like it’s expected there.”