I step inside. “No. I believe he’s alive.”
Her shoulders drop slightly as she whispers, “Thank God.”
She leads me into a wide, luxurious living room with bookshelves, matching couches, and nicely upholstered chairs. On the near wall are a series of framed photos. I recognize Aiden Phillips in his dress military uniform, looking young, eager, supremely confident.Like we all were.
In the civilian photos, he’s posing cheerfully with his wife and young children.
“Lovely house,” I say.
Lisa ignores the compliment. She sits down on one of the sofas. “Where is he?” she asks. “Where’s my husband?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, ma’am. Has he been home recently?”
Lisa lowers her head. “No. I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
“Not even to drop in on the kids?”
She shakes her head.
I point to a chair across from her. “Okay if I sit?”
She nods. I plant myself at the edge of the cushion.
“Ma’am, I know this won’t be easy to hear, but your husband is being sought in connection with two bombings in Washington, DC. We know they weren’t suicide bombings. And your husband was identified at both scenes. He’s a definite suspect.”
Lisa hunches forward and wraps her arms around her knees. I can see her trembling. “No, not Aiden. I heard about those terrible bombings. Just awful. There’s no way he would do something so violent.”
I lean forward, folding myself down so that my eyes are level with hers. “What makes you so sure? I assume you know that your husband has a criminal record.”
“I know my husband,” she says. Her voice is firm now. She sounds defiant. Or defensive. “I know he’s made mistakes. He has a temper. But not this. No way.”
“Lisa, your husband was photographed near the scenes of both explosions. After the fact.”
“I don’t believe that.”
I take out my phone and click to the surveillance photos. Lisa leans in. I point to the first photo. “This was taken near the intersection of Thirteenth Street and N Street Northwest. The site of bomb number one.”
Lisa’s expression is blank.
I slide my finger and show her the next photo. “And this one was taken by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The site of bomb number two.”
“The pictures are blurry,” says Lisa. “You can’t really tell if it’s him.”
I pull up another photo. “Is this your husband’s military ID photo?”
She glances at it. “From the army. Yes.”
“Ma’am, the Technical and Analytical Services Bureau of DC’s Special Operations Division ran this picture through a photo identification program and compared it with the other two photos I showed you. Without getting too technical, they found multiple matching points in the facial measurements and proportions. All three of those pictures show the same man.”
“What if it’s one of those photo tricks?” asks Lisa. “AI. A deepfake.”
“Not possible. That’s your husband in those pictures. There is no doubt about it. None.”
Lisa seems to melt. She rocks back on the couch and puts her hands over her mouth. Her eyes well with tears.
I can see that the truth has just hit her—like a freight train.
CHAPTER 54
