The Third Rail Read Online Free PDF Page A

that?"
    I shrugged. "I assume he was just making conversation."
    Lawson caught her boss's eye. Rudolph seemed to be watching the exchange closely, but kept quiet.
    "And why would you assume that?"
    The last question came from a black man with white tufts of hair planted on either side of his head and a trim white goatee. He was sitting at the far end of the table, his chair turned to face the nearest wall.
    "This is Dr. James Supple," Lawson said. "He works with our Profiling Section out of Quantico."
    I nodded, but Supple continued to study the wall. Fuck him. Fuck profilers.
    "He didn't pull the trigger," I said. "What else should I assume?"
    Supple turned a fraction in his chair. A smile licked at the corner of his lips. "So the suspect was playing with you?"
    "You mean suspects," I said.
    Supple sat up a bit. "Excuse me?"
    "Suspects," I said. "There were two suspects in that alley. Not at the same time, but they were there."
    I went on to explain the theory Rodriguez and I had worked out.
    Supple shook his head and glanced at Rudolph. "Doubtful."
    "Why?" the deputy director said.
    "A killer like this almost always operates alone." Supple plucked his glasses off his nose and wiped them down as he spoke. "I know, everyone cites the DC sniper. But that was a unique set of facts. A man and a boy. Student and teacher. The exception, rather than the rule. I can tell you, without any doubt, this suspect almost certainly works without an accomplice."
    If they hadn't taken my gun at the door, I would have considered shooting the profiler where he sat. Instead, I took a sip of bad coffee and worked on summoning my reflective self.
    "The phone call you took, Mr. Kelly. About how long did it last?" That was Agent Lawson, dutifully picking up the ball and trying to move it forward.
    "Less than a minute."
    "And the voice on the phone, was it the same as the voice in the alley?"
    "The voice on the phone was disguised. Electronically altered. Must have had some sort of device tapped onto the line."
    "And why would he do that, do you suspect?" Supple was back again, laying out his piece of cheese and waiting to pounce. Fuck it. Let him pounce.
    "I have no idea," I said. "Why?"
    "You had heard his voice once in the alley, and he wanted to make sure you didn't hear it a second time, especially if there was a possibility you might record it."
    "Let me guess," I said. "That supports your theory of a single shooter?"
    "The facts speak for themselves, Mr. Kelly."
    "Really? Because it seems to me if he'd let me hear his voice in the alley, why would he go to the trouble of disguising it the second time around? And why would he think my cell would be set up to record a call I had no reason to suspect I was even receiving?"
    Lawson intervened again. "What's your point, Mr. Kelly?"
    "My point is pretty simple. This guy disguised his voice because he was afraid I might recognize it. Not from this morning, but from some other time."
    "So you think this is someone you know?" Lawson said.
    "Like I said, we have two people working together here. The one I met in the alley and had never come into contact with before. And the second, the one who disguised his voice and called me out by name. Even referenced my background in the classics."
    Lawson consulted her notes again. "You mean his mention of Homer?"
    "That's right."
    Supple was shaking his head slowly and chuckling. "Mr. Kelly doesn't understand the pathology of the crime. He suspects himself to be the focus of our killer's attention when, in fact, he's a smoke screen. Our killer does a little research into his background. Easy enough to obtain. Then he plays on the private investigator's ego, draws him into the case to distract us. Meanwhile, the actual target, as we all can see from today's events, is much bigger. The intent, far more subtle."
    I was reconsidering the many different ways to render my profiler friend unconscious when the deputy director cleared his throat at the end of the table.