Tuesday, February 19

From the time she’d been old enough to understand what it was, she was afraid of it. All women were. It was brutal, invasive, destructive, and too horrible to wrap your mind around.

Rape was all these things, but it was not a federal crime. Something didn’t feel right here. KEY News Justice Correspondent Cassie Sheridan waited for the press conference to begin, already knowing from her FBI sources that a rapist was being added to the Fugitives List.

Strange, thought Cassie as she watched Pamela Lynch, clad in a severe gray business suit, take the platform at the front of the crowded pressroom at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. While the director was known to announce additions to the infamous Ten Most Wanted List, the Fugitives List didn’t warrant the same attention. Why was the FBI’s first female director facing the press herself on this one?

Pamela Lynch ran her fingers through her cropped gray hair and cleared her throat as the din of the press people subsided.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she began, looking directly out into the audience. “The FBI realizes the value of public assistance in tracking down fugitives. Since the establishment of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Ten Most Wanted List over fifty years ago, we are approaching five hundred fugitives listed. Almost a quarter of those individuals have subsequently been apprehended as a direct result of citizen cooperation.”

Cassie scribbled on her notepad as the director continued. “The criteria for selection are fairly straightforward. First, the individual must have a lengthy record of committing serious crimes and/or be considered a particularly dangerous menace to society due to current criminal charges. Second, the FBI must believe that the nationwide publicity can be of assistance in apprehending the fugitive.”

Lynch stopped to reach beneath the podium for the glass of water waiting there. As the director lifted the glass to her mouth, Cassie, sitting in the front row, noticed that Lynch’s hand was quivering. She can’t possibly be anxious about this, can she? Pamela Lynch was known to have nerves of steel. Cassie had watched her many times as she faced tough questioning about terrorism and unflinchingly defended attacks on FBI conduct. Why would Pamela Lynch be unnerved by a fairly routine news conference on domestic wrongdoing?

“We have no picture of the individual that we are looking for. When we get one, if he isn’t apprehended first, I can assure you he will be elevated to the Ten Most Wanted List. As you know, no individual is placed on the Ten Most Wanted List without a picture.”

I didn’t know that, thought Cassie.

“Today we ask for national cooperation to help the FBI track down a new, as yet unnamed, member on the FBI’s Fugitives List. We are calling him Emmett Doe. The composite drawings you see here are based on the descriptions given by some of the victims of his crimes.”

Flashbulbs popped and cameras whirred as Lynch gestured toward two blown-up images arrayed on easels. One was an artist’s rendition of a man’s face, the other was a drawing of the face of a frowning clown. The reporters murmured among themselves as they studied the grotesque, exaggerated features of the second drawing.

“Emmett Doe is being sought for car theft and rape in Louisiana and Florida. These crimes occurred within the past six months. Doe is considered armed and extremely dangerous. We are asking anyone who has any information about this individual to, please, contact your local FBI office or, if outside the country, the nearest U.S. embassy or consulate.” Hands shot up in the audience.

“Yes,” said Lynch, pointing to the CBS correspondent sitting beside Cassie. “Is there a reward being posted?” The director nodded. “The FBI is offering a reward of up to fifty thousand dollars for information leading directly to the arrest of this individual.” “You have the eye color listed as blue and brown. What does that mean?” asked another reporter.

“Two of the victims say their attacker had blue eyes. The other victim reported brown. We’re not sure of the man’s true eye color.” Cassie raised her reporter’s notepad into the air. Pamela Lynch looked directly into her eyes.

“What details can you give us about the rapes?” Lynch fumbled with her papers on the podium.

“This individual raped a young woman from the Miami area last November. He struck again in New Orleans earlier this month. As you know, rape is a crime, but it is not a federal offense. So, technically, the rapes are not what earned Doe a place on this list. The fact is that Doe is a menace to society and we think the public can help us catch him.” Cassie had a follow-up. It seemed like the obvious question. “Will you explain to us the derivation of these artist sketches?”

The director cleared her throat. “Ah, yes,” she answered. “The victims describe a man of medium height and build, who wore a grease-painted mask in the image you see here.” Lynch pointed to the clown poster. “FBI artists then tried to estimate what the man looked like beneath the makeup. This is what they’ve come up with.” She gestured toward the other easel.

In the audience, the CBS correspondent leaned over and whispered to Cassie. “Pretty nondescript-looking face.” Cassie agreed. There was nothing distinctive about the face that glowered from the poster board.

“Can you describe for us his M.O.?” The director took another drink of water before answering. “All three women were attacked where they lived, at night, after they had gone to sleep. The attacker tied them up and gagged them with their own undergarments. Then he”—Lynch stopped to swallow—“then he raped them at knifepoint. Afterward, he took their car keys. The abandoned vehicles were later found at city airports.”

A new question: “How common is it for a rapist to disguise himself?” “It’s not common. Our Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico has found that the majority of serial rapists don’t dress in any special way. We’re trying to figure out what the significance of making himself up as a clown might have for this vicious individual.”

It was after five o’clock when New York finally gave script approval, leaving Washington less than an hour and a half to get Cassie’s piece edited. Cassie recorded her track and left her producer and videotape editor in the editing booth to finish putting the story together while she went back to her office and made another call to the press information office at the FBI.

“You’re on his list, Ms. Sheridan,” said the secretary, weariness in her voice. “This is the third time I’ve called. Please, have him get back to me. I need to speak to him before we air.”

“I understand, Ms. Sheridan. I’ll be sure to give him your message.” At six o’clock, Cassie sat in the makeup chair, being touched up for her live studio appearance scheduled at the end of her story. The stylist was spraying Cassie’s black hair when Yelena Gregory’s large frame appeared in the doorway. “I found someone else to have lunch with,” the news president said, smiling.

“I’m so sorry, Yelena,” she apologized, totally bummed out that the press conference had forced her to cancel their third meeting to discuss the possibility of Cassie’s being elevated to the network’s premier newsmagazine show. “I hope we can reschedule something.”

Yelena walked into the room and over to Cassie’s chair. “I have to fly back to New York right after the broadcast.”

At the look of disappointment on Cassie’s face, Yelena reached out and patted the correspondent’s wrist. “Don’t worry, Cassie. Everything is a go. Business Affairs will be contacting your agent. We want you on Hourglass.”

Cassie strode to the editing room and viewed the completed piece. It was well constructed, covering all the apparent bases. But over fifteen years of journalistic experience told Cassie that there was something else to this story. She had learned to trust her gut.

The story was scheduled for the second news block, after the first commercial break. At six-fifteen, as Eliza Blake mounted the Evening Headlines anchor platform in New York, Cassie tried the FBI again. She didn’t call the bureau’s press office this time but instead called her friend Special Agent Will Clayton. “I’m on deadline, Will, and the press office isn’t returning my calls. I need to know, what was with Pamela Lynch this afternoon?”

“What do you mean?” “Come on, Will. I have to go on air. The director doesn’t normally make these announcements. And she was shaking like a leaf.”

“She’s personally invested in this one, Cassie.”

“Meaning?” There was silence on the line. “Will? Come on. What gives?”

“I guess it will come out sooner or later. I’m surprised none of the other networks picked up on this.” Clayton hesitated.

“What? What will come out?” Cassie urged.

“You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Fine. I didn’t hear it from you. What is it?”

  Prologue continued...>>

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