Chapter 10

The Washington Post

It was December 21/22, near midnight, and the Hot Tip line at the Post's Public Communications room rang. It was answered by Marlee Thelms, a young woman who was working on the obit of a former Senator. She was working on a degree at George Washington University in journalism, and working weekend nights at the Post. The caller was an obviously disguised male voice. All calls on this line were automatically recorded.

Thelms: "Hello. Post Hot Tip line."

Caller: "I have news for you."

Thelms: "Yes, sir. Your name please?"

Caller: "You can call me Forseti. The FBI is going to take the Patriot Sniper into custody. It's going to take place about 5 p.m."

Thelms: "And where exactly is this going to take place?"

Marlee was pretty bored. They got a tip about the Patriot Sniper about once a week, and that was only on the weekends, when she was on. God alone knew how many fake tips came in on the other nights.

Caller: "It's going to be at an office building across from the ZNN broadcast offices. Hopefully they'll get him before he can shoot Alison Hartnet."

That woke Marlee up. She placed her coffee cup on the table. Hartnet was an up and coming media star. If she was targeted, that would be news. Real news.

Caller: "But you can't tell anybody until after they have him. It'll spook the whole operation if you do. That's all I have to say. Goodbye."

And there was a click on the line.

Marlee called Gloria Swindon, who was the night editor. Gloria was just reading some copy about the Redskins that was going to run in the Sunday paper. Marlee played the taped conversation over the phone for Swindon.

"Okay," said Swindon, "it's partly your story, so get going on writing it up. Keep it on the Q.T. No word of this gets out to anybody. I'll go wake up Horowitz."

Sheldon Horowitz was the investigative star of the Post these days; he had broken the story on the Patriot Sniper back after the Orlando incident, using his source at DHS – the number two at Homeland Security. He was not pleased to be woken, having just finished getting his column in for the Sunday Post earlier this evening. It was a follow-up piece about the Governor of New Jersey and the half-substantiated rumors of graft swirling around him. Graft and New Jersey – who would have guessed? Right now, Horowitz wanted nothing more than some sleep.

He grabbed his cell, the distinctive ring telling him that it was the Post – not the Senior Editor, Dave Abrams, but someone in the office. "What?" he half-mumbled into the phone.

"This is Swindon, Night Editor. We just got a tip that the FBI is taking down the Patriot Sniper later today."

"'S probly some crackpot."

"It's specific about time and place. I don't think it's fake. He's targeting Alison Hartnet. You're our Patriot Sniper guy, but if you don't want the by-line..." She left it hanging.

He was coming awake slowly. Horowitz looked across the bed at the brunette who had propped her head on her hand, and was giving him 'the look.'

"No, no. I'll take it. Let me get to the other room."

"Goddam fucking Washington Post," mumbled Mrs. Sarah Horowitz, who pulled a pillow over her head and tried to get back to sleep. Becca, their six year old daughter, would be awake soon enough, and it looked like Sarah would have to be a solo parent again tomorrow.

"Okay," said Horowitz some moments later. He was in the spare bedroom of the condo in Georgetown. The one he converted into an office. The one his wife had insisted that they put in extra sound-proofing so he wouldn't wake up other family members when he got his middle-of-the-night phone calls from the Goddam fucking Washington Post.

Swindon played the taped conversation.

"Hmm," Horowitz said. "Forseti is a funny name for an alias." He was clicking away on his computer before the call was over. "Well, depending on how you spell it, there are 103,158 Forseti's in the search engine. One of interest though. Forseti is the Norse god of Truth, Justice, and Peace. Or it could be a Wyoming Supreme Court Justice, Alfonse Forsetti." He was rambling on, talking to himself.

"You awake and on this?" Swindon asked. She always asked, when she had to prod someone out of the arms of Morpheus.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll be in – soon as I get a shower. Keep this quiet, okay? No leaks."

"This isn't my first rodeo, cowboy. I know what to do," Swindon said.

Rodeo? Cowboy? Who ever heard of a Jewish cowboy, Horowitz mused. He looked at his wristwatch: 12:19.

Eight hours later at 8:19, Sheldon Horowitz put down the copy he was working on. Actually, it had mostly been written by Marlee Thelms. It wasn't bad. The story was mostly background on the Patriot Sniper – mostly rehash of his original and followup stories.

He picked up the phone. "Marlee, still awake?"

"Yeah, I'm on my tenth Red Bull, but I'm awake. What's up?"

"Get to the files and pull the stuff on an FBI agent named Toni Cashell. Toni with an 'i.' C.a.s.h.e.l.l. She was the lead on the hunt for the Patriot Sniper. If there's gonna be a takedown of the Sniper, then she'll be heading it."

"Cashell. Toni. Right." Marlee Thelms scrubbed her face with her hands and began typing into her computer.

Horowitz pulled his cell phone and looked up a number. He dialed FBI headquarters from his desk phone. "Agent Cashell, please," he told the FBI switchboard operator.

"I'll see if she's in. Who's calling?"

"Tell her it's her buddy from The Post, Shel."

Twelve rings later: "Cashell here. Horowitz?" came the carefully modulated tones of the most diminutive package that the FBI could fit into a small but lethal investigator's body.

"Yeah, this is Shel. How you doin' Toni?"

"Agent Cashell, if you please."

He laughed. He'd call her Toni, she'd insist on Agent Cashell. She'd call him Horowitz, he'd offer Shel. "Well, Agent Cashell, the Post has information that you have a lead on the Patriot Sniper and you're planning on taking him down at 5 this afternoon. Care to comment?"

"I won't comment on an ongoing investigation. Certainly not on any possible action by the FBI, today or any other day," she parried.

"Right. So we can run with the story for today's paper? Just saying that there's been another tip, and nothing is happening outside the ZNN offices this afternoon."

"Uhm ... Can we go off the record? No background. Nothing you can use?"

"Wait 'til I've turned off my recorder ... Okay. No recording on my end. How 'bout on yours?"

"Funny, Horowitz. Very funny ... Look. You can't run anything at all until after we take him. We've got a reliable tip that A sniper is going to take a shot at a ZNN personality..."

"Alison Hartnet?"

"Yeah. Hartnet. The sniper is supposed to hit her when she comes out of the building. We've got a protection detail on her and she's wearing a flak jacket. But with a sniper, she still vulnerable. Where'd you get the info that it was the Patriot Sniper? We don't have that."

"The tipster said we could call him Forseti. You got that name?"

"No. Actually our tip came from the Patriot Sniper. We vetted it and it's genuine."

Horowitz thought for a long second. "Vetted it? How'd you know it was from him?"

"I'd like to say 'no comment' and keep you guessing, but the information came from way above my pay grade. That's all I can say ... So it's not the Patriort Sniper we're going after. You gonna sit on the story 'til afterwards?"

"Do I get an exclusive?"

"Unless some other hack calls and asks about it. We're not telling anybody. Anything leaks, we're looking at you," she said.

"Yeah. We'll sit on it. Can I be there? Pictures?"

"So long as you don't get in the way. No 'Castle' stuff," she said, referring to the popular TV show that had a writer 'helping' a police detective. "You're at the back of the back."

"Sure. Where do you want me? And when?" he agreed.

After her answer, they hung up the call. Cashell cursed silently to herself. It was always a mess when the press found out about something ahead of time. But Horowitz would keep his word; he'd sit on the story for awhile. She wondered if the Patrior Sniper was this Forseti tipster. With a mental shrug, she decided there was no way to know.

Sheldon Horowitz called Marlee Thelms. "Come upstairs and use the desk next to me," he said. Then he proceeded to update Gloria Swindon and Dave Abrams; one just leaving the editor's post for the day, the other just coming in.

"It's not the Patriot Sniper. I have that direct from the FBI. He was their source about a sniper. It didn't make sense anyway ... Patriot wouldn't go after a media guy – gal – not his thing," he told them. "He hits bad guys ... at least he has, up to now."

"Well," said Abrams, "I'll have two headlines laid out for tomorrow's paper. One Patriot Sniper; one just a shooter." Abrams didn't usually come in for the Sunday shift. But he was here today.

Thelms came in, saw Horowitz and the editors clustered around, and walked over – sort of close but not in hearing range. Horowitz saw her and waved her over.

"There are exactly four people who know about this. Four." Abrams pointed at the four people seated and standing around his desk. He addressed Marlee. "Did you tell anybody? Boyfriend? Twitter? Facebook? Anything at all?" She shook her head. "All right ... Horowitz, you take over the Patriot Sniper story. Thelms, you can stay on this story. Rewrite everything, without the Patriot, as Horowitz got information it may not be the Patriot Sniper. Focus on Alison Hartnet, mystery gunman, et cetera. No matter which version we go with, it'll have both your names on it. Write it up and give it to Horowitz before submitting it. Okay? Any problems with that?" Both Horowitz and Thelms shook their heads, 'no.'

Marlee Thelms, a 22-year old working on her journalism degree, was so excited she needed to pee. She was going to share a byline with Sheldon Horowitz? Horowitz just plunked down at his desk and looked at her.

"First story, kid?" he asked. Like he was so much older ... he was only 29, but he'd already written several investigative pieces for the Post.

She nodded.

"It's okay to talk ... I started writing filler for advertisers who didn't know exactly what they wanted to say. What are you doing?"

"Obits. Most exciting thing I did was the aneurism of the Secretary of Agriculture, four months ago."

"That's a start," he said. "You write pretty good ... You know how to use a camera?"

"Yes," she said. It was talking. She was concentrating on not answering with a nod.