Seven Grams of Lead (9 page)

Stabbing at the van, whose logo matched the patches on the driver’s uniform, Thornton exclaimed, “AT&T.”

“What about it?”

“A Verizon van followed Catherine and me from Chinatown.”

“Telephone services vans aren’t exactly rare.” O’Clair dropped onto a stool.

“What do you know about F6?”

“I take it you don’t mean the function key on my computer.”

“It’s the code name for a CIA program, known by everyone involved as the Special Collection Service.”

“How do you know about it?”

“I probably shouldn’t, but a few years ago, I had a source who ran the New York bureau. The Special Collection Service’s sole responsibility is bugging places that are almost impossible to access. My source used to use telephone and utility company service vans for cover all the time.”

“So do other surveillants,” O’Clair said. “And,
mostly, telephone and utility company employees. With respect to your source, nowadays those trucks are almost a cliché—anyone who’s ever seen a cop show would be wary. Our people pose as cable TV or Internet providers. Cut the service, the residents beg you to come in. Sometimes they go as a tree-trimming company: gets them access to high floors. Or plumbers or exterminators, which gets them access anywhere—people want those sort of problems taken care of stat.”

Thornton had figured as much. “The thing is, the same source invited me to a black-tie charity ball that’s this weekend. I’d been looking forward to not going.”

Traffic clogged the
Jersey Turnpike. Hard rain and sleet hammered the Cadillac. As Musseridge drove, he grumbled about the latest round of nonessential home renovations that his wife considered vital. Next to him, Lamont couldn’t have been happier. Just three days after receiving the ad from the Au Bon Pain, Quantico had a result: COLD HIT. The blood matched nine of the thirteen chromosome locations, or loci, on an FBI database specimen from a white forty-one-year-old named Ralph Brackman. In 1996, the failed academic had served a month for cocaine possession and distribution. The Bureau put the odds of unrelated people sharing so many genetic markers at approximately one in 113 billion.

An hour later, Musseridge parked the Escalade
across from Brackman’s house, a run-down 1960s ranch, similar to half of the homes on the suburban block in Teaneck, New Jersey. The rest of the houses were undergoing major renovations or had already been expanded into residences that dwarfed their tenth-of-an-acre lots. Brackman’s place sat between a three-story Tudor replete with turret and a sprawling yellow Mediterranean villa.

The backup team from the Newark field office radioed their readiness from a white cargo van parked at the far end of the block. Lamont received a similar message from one of the Teaneck PD patrol cars, the cops reporting that Brackman’s wife had left home an hour ago, driving the couple’s two young children to a local Catholic school, before proceeding to her secretarial job at a commercial construction company.

Getting out of the Cadillac, Lamont hoped the Teaneck PD also had eyes on Brackman, given the suspect’s skill as a marksman. Alleged skill. The record offered nothing to suggest he was a hit man. Ralph Gerard Brackman was the only surviving child of Arthur and Penny Flaherty Brackman, who had been lifelong residents of Brooklyn. After graduating from City College in 1994, Ralph Brackman bounced around the tristate area in a series of career false starts and extensive stretches of unemployment. Now he worked out of his house as an “Internet consultant.” There was no hint of criminal activity since the coke bust, no visits to pistol ranges, not even a
parking ticket—though assassins took pains to avoid leaving such trails.

Lamont pressed the buzzer, and he and Musseridge waited on the stoop for twelve seconds, the average time span from ringing a bell to an open door. Converting his excitement into hyperawareness, Lamont noticed for the first time the cold drizzle, and, on the two neighboring houses, flames swaying in unison in lanterns suspended above the front doors. Then he heard hurried footfalls inside. Maybe the suspect had been in the can. Or readying a weapon. Lamont inched a hand closer to his holster.

Brackman cracked the front door. Unlike the shooter described by witnesses at the St. George Ferry Terminal, he was thin. Of course, he might have used padding as part of his disguise that night, or worn Kevlar. He also looked remarkably cheerful: His eyes sparkled, and his wide mouth seemed set in a smile, even as he peered out, circumspect, from beneath the bill of a Phillies cap. Rosy cheeks added to a youthfulness that made it easy to overlook the gray in his curly black hair. He wore only an undershirt, sweatpants, and socks. No sign of a concealed weapon.

“You guys from the FBI?” he asked.

If this surprised Musseridge, he didn’t show it. “You expecting the FBI?”

“No, but the local detectives don’t wear suits, and, all due respect, you guys look too old to be Mormon missionaries.”

“So you were expecting detectives?”

“I’m the only person in the neighborhood who’s been convicted of anything heavier than a DUI, so I get plenty of opportunities to ‘assist’ local law enforcement.” Brackman pulled open the door. “Why don’t you come in out of the rain? Tell me what I’ve done this time.”

He was too cool, thought Lamont, joining Musseridge in the small foyer. The space opened to a living room lined with stain-them-yourself wooden shelves filled with books. The combination of a futon, a pair of worn Naugahyde recliners, and a large TV suggested the room was the hub of Brackman family life. A sleek MacBook sat on a coffee table alongside a chess game in progress. Although cramped, the room had the ordered quality of a ship.

Brackman waved at the computer. “Please, have a seat in my office.” He sank onto the futon, the coffee table blocking the lower half of his body from the agents’ view. Lamont wondered if the maneuver had been the calculated action of a veteran suspect. FBI researchers estimated that two-thirds of human communication is nonverbal. When a subject shifts uncomfortably in his seat, for instance, it’s often an autonomic way of dissipating tension, indicative of deception. Ideally, your subject sits in a swivel chair that amplifies such behavior.

Musseridge smiled as he dropped into one of the recliners. “Phils fan, huh?” he asked Brackman.

It was a textbook opening to develop rapport. Musseridge could have gone straight for the jugular with, “Brackman, did you kill Catherine Peretti?” But casual conversation created a nonthreatening atmosphere. People tended to trust other people—law enforcement officers included—who were like them. And if you could get them going on neutral topics, like sports, kids, or yard care, it made it easier to tell when they began lying.

Lamont suspected Brackman knew how to game the system when he answered Musseridge by hesitating before asking, “Am I fan of the Phils?” Then he took off his cap and studied the logo. To buy time, a person bent on deception often repeats your question or pauses inordinately long before answering. People think ten times faster than they speak, so a pause of just five seconds can net nearly a minute’s worth of material. Finally, Brackman said, “Two seasons ago, my son’s little league team was called the Phillies. This past season, we were the Padres, which bummed the kids out—because of our proximity to Philadelphia, a lot of them are true Phillies fans. As a volunteer coach, I felt bad for the kids. I do enjoy the major leagues, but because I spend so much time with my family, I don’t have time to follow the actual Phillies.”

Overly specific answers also signaled deception. The subject inundates you with unrelated facts intended to influence your perception of his character. In this case, Brackman conveyed that he sympathized
with the kids, volunteered to coach them, and sacrificed his enjoyment of major league baseball for family. When Musseridge veered to the topic of the murder, Lamont thought, Brackman could delay with impunity and provide all the superfluous details he wanted.

Musseridge sat forward. “Mr. Brackman, first of all, thank you for talking to us. We understand you’re a busy guy, so I’ll get right to the point. We’re working the Catherine Peretti case.”

Brackman squared a throw pillow beside him—tidying up surroundings was another classic means of dissipating anxiety. “The politician who was killed in the city?” he said. “Is
that
what this is about?”

“What do you know about the assassin?” Musseridge asked.

Nice play, Lamont thought, because the question carried the presumption that Brackman knew the killer was an assassin, a fact that hadn’t been made public. If Brackman were innocent, he would say, simply, that all he knew was that Peretti had been killed.

Brackman cleared his throat. Another red flag—anxiety spikes can cause dryness in the throat. “It’s news to me that it was an
assassination
,” he said.

“Is there any reason you would have been at the ferry terminal in Staten Island at the time of the murder?” Musseridge countered, weighting his question with “bait,” intended to deluge the suspect with new concerns: a witness who’d seen him leaving the
terminal, security camera tape, or bio evidence the crime scene unit had recovered. If he were innocent, he wouldn’t take the bait, but simply answer,
No.

“It’s been three, four years since the last time I was on Staten Island,” Brackman said. “Some friends and I lucked into a box at a Staten Island Yankees game, but I had to leave after the fifth inning to pick up my kids. I swear to God, I haven’t been to Staten Island since.”

More points toward Dad of the Century. Plus he’d invoked God, at once asserting piety and calling on the best witness in the universe. In sum, textbook dressing up of a lie.

Musseridge leaned closer to Brackman, invading his personal space. “How do you explain your appearance on the surveillance video at the crime scene?”

Lamont questioned the bluff. Because their evidence was inadmissible in court, they needed cooperation from Brackman. At Quantico, Lamont had studied reams of cases in which murderers confessed. If Brackman thought Musseridge was lying, he would clam up.

Without swallowing hard, blushing, twitching, running his hand through his hair, or anything else on the list of mendacity telltales, Brackman replied, “I have two explanations for that. The first is, you’ve got it plumb wrong. The second is, the surveillance video was somehow altered, which would be fine by me because I would get rich suing whoever it was who did
it. All things considered, though, I’d prefer to put this matter to rest, so let me show you—”

“Just hang on,” Musseridge cut him off. Allowing a suspect to deny guilt increases his confidence. “We have one other problem, which is that you left some of your blood at the crime scene.”

“Some of my blood was at the crime scene?” Brackman repeated the statement as a question.

Musseridge said nothing.

“When exactly was the crime?” Brackman asked.

“A week ago Tuesday.”

Brackman appeared to mull it over. “Tuesdays my daughter has gymnastics, then my son has Boy Scouts.” He shut his eyes, sometimes a subconscious reaction by a subject reluctant to see the reaction to the lie he’d just told. Opening his eyes, Brackman added, “After gymnastics last Tuesday, Scouts was a double feature—a den meeting followed by the monthly pack meeting. Then, at six o’clock, we had the annual Pinewood Derby. That’s where you whittle blocks of wood into cars and race them down chutes. It’s broadcast live on local cable. I’m not particularly proud of how our car did, but I’d be happy to show you the video if it means I can stop being a murder suspect and get back to work.”

He snapped open his MacBook, clicked to a YouTube page, and spun the monitor toward them, showing video of him with a boy who appeared delighted even when race cars that looked to have been assembled by NASA blew past his rolling doorstop.

“When did you get home?” Musseridge left unsaid that the Pinewood Derby timeline might still have permitted Brackman to drop his son and then drive to Staten Island by 9:13, when Peretti was shot.

“Let’s see.” Brackman hummed for a moment. “We left Scouts at around seven thirty or seven forty-five, then grabbed dinner at the Olive Garden in Secaucus. I guess we got back here around nine thirty. Pretty late for a school night.”

Twenty minutes later, Lamont and Musseridge waited while the manager of the Secaucus Olive Garden cued up security camera video taken three minutes after the Peretti shooting. In it, Brackman appeared at the cash register desk, handed over his credit card, and helped himself to a mint.

“This fucking guy ever do anything that’s not videotaped?” Musseridge said to Lamont on the way out of the restaurant.

Although the sky had cleared and the traffic was light, the return to New York seemed to take longer than the ride out. Even Musseridge was quiet. What was there to say? A DNA false-positive was a one-in-379 occurrence. The big game, the one for which Lamont had been jacked up all season, had been abruptly canceled.

Musseridge finally broke the silence at the Lincoln Tunnel. “Good news is it wouldn’t have been admissible evidence anyway.”

The Connecticut coast
flew past the BMW 2002’s passenger side, a sapphire Long Island Sound making appearances in Morse code bursts in and around clusters of trees at peak autumn splendor. Thornton paid the scenery no more than a passing glance. He was absorbed in trying to find a connection beyond telephone company service vans between the charity ball’s host, onetime Special Collection Service agent Andrew Nolend, and Catherine Peretti. Three days of discreet digging—quiet use of public computers and print sources so as not to leave a digital trail—had provided no evidence that Nolend had known Peretti, had even been in the same city as her at the same time, or was in any way associated with her. More significantly, the Andy Nolend who
Thornton knew would never intentionally engage in impropriety, if only because it risked besmirching the “record,” as he regarded not only his career but his life. Five years had passed, however, since Thornton had spent time with Nolend for anything more than an annual beer.