Forte called Lucas two minutes after he finished talking to the cops.
“Bad news, man,” Forte said when Lucas picked up.
“What is it?” Lucas asked. He, Bob, and Rae were ambling along M Street in Georgetown because they didn’t know of a more interesting place to go.
“Somebody murdered James Harold Ritter and threw his body in a dumpster. The body was found by chance. At a landfill. There’s an autopsy going on right now, but the cops say he was shot twice, in the chest. Best guess right now is, he was killed last night.”
“Oh, no. Ah, man.” Bob and Rae stopped when they heard Lucas’s tone. He turned to them, and said, “Somebody killed Ritter.”
“The killer cut off Ritter’s fingertips to prevent printing, but he was identified by a tattoo from his Special Forces group and then by matching photos with his license,” Forte said. “There’s not a hell of a lot more unless the autopsy comes up with something. That looks like a long shot.”
“We better get over there—we’ll need an address for wherever the autopsy is.”
“Got that for you,” Forte said. “And the cops want to talk to you.”
“Listen, call the cops back and ask them to stay quiet about the murder... a couple of days. Ask for cooperation. It’d be best if this didn’t make it in the papers until we’ve figured out what to do.”
“I can do that,” Forte said.
—
“WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM?”Rae asked.
“Somebody shot him to death,” Lucas said. He told them therest of it, and they stood there, shaking their heads, as they heard the story.
When Lucas was done, Bob looked at Rae, and said, “Heavy-duty, girlie.”
The three of them had been waiting for something to happen; they’d talked about pushing things harder but decided in the end to wait until they had the lab results from West Virginia, which were due any minute. They had spent the previous afternoon and that morning reading everything the FBI, the Marshals Service, and the Army could produce on Ritter, Parrish, and other employees of Heracles.
As they walked out to Lucas’s Evoque, Forte messaged the address where the autopsy was going on.
“Manassas,” Lucas said. “I don’t know where that is.”
“Over in Virginia,” Bob said. “I think there was a big Civil War battle around there.”
Rae: “I thought it was something white people kept in a jar, in the refrigerator.”
—
THE DRIVE TO MANASSAStook an hour. The Medical Examiner’s facility looked like an elementary school, and a detective named Roger Clark from the Frederick County Sheriff’s Department met them at the front entrance. He said that the autopsy was nearly over.
“Whoever did it probably didn’t know about the tattoo, because that got us an ID faster than fingerprints would have,” he said.
“Do you know the time of death yet?” Lucas asked.
“Not yet, but we should know in the next few minutes. If youhave the time, there’s a conference room down the hall. I’d like to get a statement from you guys to put in my report.”
“Sure,” Lucas said. “We’d like to know the details of the discovery. In a landfill? Any idea where the truck came from?”
Clark filled them in on what they’d learned and asked to record Lucas’s statement. Lucas agreed, and started with the accident that had killed Whitehead, and nearly killed Smalls, on through to the attack on Weather and the murder of Douglas Last. He also described Ritter’s background and involvement with Heracles.
“Wow. You think that Ritter was in on it all?” Clark asked.
Lucas nodded. “This killing confirms it, as far as I’m concerned. The people who set this up knew we were getting close to him and couldn’t take the chance that he might roll over on them.”
“You have suspects...”
“Yes. A number of people associated with Heracles. They are professionals, and I doubt you’d get much from them, but I can give you names if you want to go talk to them.”
