Page 20 of Holmes, Margaret and Poe

CHAPTER 20

PADRAIG FILSON LIMPED ANDcaned down the sidewalk, thinking once again that he was a remarkable angler, better than his own late father.

“A fisher of men, that’s what I am,” Filson muttered to himself as he hobbled away from the school where the killing had happened.

He crossed Olson Street and entered the parking lot of the Raleigh Court Apartments. Much earlier that morning, he’d parked his blue Dodge Ram there in a section set aside for guests.

Filson almost made it to the vehicle and his medicine before the fit came, as it always did these days. He choked and fought for air, then fell into a hacking that shook his body and almost took him to his knees before the blockage loosened and came up.

He leaned hard on the cane, panting, wanting to spit out thevile stuff but knowing that could be trouble. The old man shuffled to the SUV, climbed in, and spat a gout of bloody mucus into a fresh Kleenex. He rolled it up, wrapped it in a second Kleenex, and tossed it in a paper bag on the floor of the passenger side. Old habits died hard.

Then he started the car, muttering to his reflection in the rearview mirror, “You think you got Padraig Filson’s ticket, Mr. C., but you don’t. Not by a long shot. The fisher of men here made fifty K untraceable today, just like he did yesterday. And last month.”

Filson lifted the lid on the central console and retrieved a burner phone. He thumbed to a flash photo of the dead man, Bart Masters, up against the school fence with both eyes blown out.

The old man felt nothing as he sent the pic to a number that he’d been texted two days before. He also sent a second photo taken with the sheet over Masters, the blood from his eyes coming through the fabric.

After sending the pictures, Filson texted,Pay in Bitcoin. Same account. Nice doing business with you. More to come.

CHAPTER 21

Alexandria, Virginia

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, NED MAHONEYwalked into one of the two massive tents set up on soccer fields less than five hundred yards west of Gravelly Point Park.

The tent was packed with reporters, camerapeople, and grieving family members, all of whom were watching the agent in charge of the FBI’s investigation into the crash of AA 839.

I had known Ned for many years. Though he was a deeply caring person in private, he had always been largely unflappable in his professional life. But as Mahoney climbed onto a raised stage of sorts, he looked visibly shaken. And when he spoke into the microphones in front of the lectern, his voice was thick with emotion.

“I want to talk directly to the family members, and then I’ll take limited questions from the media,” he said, and he cleared his throat. “For all of you who have lost loved ones, I am here totell you that the FBI will not rest until we’ve hunted down the perpetrator of this dastardly and cowardly act. He and anyone who helped him will pay for taking your loved ones’ lives. I promise you that.”

Sampson and I were standing off to one side. I wondered how many people caught the slight shake in Mahoney’s hands as he clutched the lectern.

“I want to confirm that the plane was shot down by what appears to be a Vietnam-era fifty-caliber machine gun. We believe the weapon was remotely controlled and that it caused significant structural damage to the wings, cockpit, and landing gear of the jet as it crossed over Gravelly Point Park.”

At the wordsremotely controlled,the media started yelling questions.

“I’m not answering questions now,” Ned said firmly. He looked straight into the cameras. “We also believe that someone out there knows who was behind this. A relative, a friend, a neighbor must know about someone with a fifty-caliber machine gun and the ability to build a system to fire it from a distance with stunning accuracy. We need your help. If you know this person or suspect that you know him, please call the number on your screen. We have agents standing by to take your calls. And now I’ll take some questions.”

Mahoney was a master for the next fifteen minutes, answering the questions he could with short, declarative sentences. When he was asked a question he could not answer, he said so and moved on.

Finally, he called on a young man in a ball cap.

“I’m Hector Johnson,” the man said, his voice shaking. “I’m not a reporter. My fiancée, Lucinda Grimes, was on the flight.Her mother and I want to know when her remains will be identified.”

Mahoney said, “We will get it done as soon as we can, Mr. Johnson. And I’m desperately sorry for your loss. Just as soon as we can.”

A few moments later, an FBI public relations officer ended the meeting with promises of another update later in the day.

John and I followed Mahoney out of the tent and across fifty yards of Astroturf to a second tent. This one had been set up as a command center and was filled with agents from six different federal law enforcement agencies.

Mahoney looked wrung out and beaten up when he got up on a table and called for quiet.

“I want to begin by telling you that the distraught families of a hundred people are grateful that you are on the hunt for the driver of this van. And I want everyone here on the same page with the same understanding of what we know for certain.”

A timeline appeared across the top of multiple screens set up around the tent. Below the military time stamp, a grainy video played, showing a tan work van with the logo of the National Park system entering the parking lot at Gravelly Point Park and pulling just out of sight.

Mahoney said, “We have to assume that the unnamed suspect knew that this parking space was in the camera’s blind spot, which suggests he had scouted the area multiple times.”

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