We pulled up to the Washington Monument stop, and I watched Kate studying each person who came on the bus. When they’d all paid their fares and taken their seats, I said, “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Their faces.”
As we drove on, making a few stops over the next ten or fifteen minutes, Kate explained her innate skill. I’d heard of super-recognizing and its opposite—some people could remember every face they’d ever seen, and others could not remember even familiar faces.
“Any interesting faces so far?” I asked as we left the US Capitol stop.
“They’re all interesting.”
“No duplicates?”
“A few times, but they’re usually tourists coming on and off, and I’ll remember them from a few hours before.”
“How about stand-outs? Someone who really hit you between the eyes?”
“You mean like my spider-sense?”
“Sure.”
Kate tilted her head, thinking. “There was one, earlier today. But he wasn’t on the bus. He was this homeless guy in Army fatigues, big crazy beard, pushing this grocery cart piled with his stuff in plastic bags, and he looked so…vacant…so…I don’t know. More than drugs. Like he was unplugged. I mean, a cop lit up his siren maybe fifty feet from him, and the guy didn’t startle, didn’t even flinch. For some reason, seeing that, every alarm in my head started ringing.”
Every alarm in my head started ringing as well. I asked her to describe the homeless guy in detail. As we pulled into the bus depot at Union Station, the end and beginning of the Circulator line, there was little doubt in my mind she was talking about Tim Chorey, the deaf vet who’d dismantled his Glock and submerged himself in the reflecting pool the day of the first bombing.
I didn’t tell that to Kate, though. She said, “I’ve had enough for today. Think I’ll catch a cab, head home from here.”
“I’ll get off here, too,” I said, glancing at my watch. “A walk over the hill will do me some good.”
Night had fallen during our ride. As we exited, a bus lumbered and sighed into the parking bay beside ours. The digital sign above the windshield blinked from D8—HOSPITAL CENTER LINE SOUTHBOUND to UNION STATION.
“Good night, Dr. Cross,” Kate said, shaking my hand. “I appreciate you thinking enough of my theory to check it out.”
“A good idea is a good idea,” I said, and happened to glance over her shoulder at the sign on the other bus, now emptying of riders. The direction had changed.
D8—HOSPITAL CENTER LINE NORTHBOUND, it blinked. VETERANS AFFAIRS MEDICAL CENTER.
Chapter 25
I wished Kate Williams a good night and watched her walk off. Then I climbed on the empty Hospital Line bus. The driver, who looked to be in his fifties, was drinking coffee from a thermos, an egg-salad sandwich in cellophane in his lap. I noted his name, Gordon Light, posted at the front of the bus.
I identified myself as a consultant with the FBI, which he met with skepticism. “And how do I know you’re not messing with me?”
“I can give you the private phone number of the special agent in charge of the bombing investigation,” I said. “His name’s Ned Mahoney.”
He shifted in his seat. “I gotta be out of here in ten minutes. What do you want?”
Light turned out to be a nice guy. Asked about the people who rode the Hospital Center Line, Light said that during the day, in addition to the folks who lived along the route, you had sick people.
“Lots of them. Four big hospitals and a bunch of clinics on the line. That’s why we got the wheelchair lift.”
“Veterans?”
“Lots of them, too. You know, lost their arms and legs. Or their eyes. Or worse, their…you know.”
I got it. “How do you know that?”
“It’s in everything about them, man,” Light said quietly. “They look so damn humiliated. Can’t even pick their heads up. I feel so bad for those boys. And for the families, you know?”
“Lot of family members with them? The patients, I mean.”
“You know, with all the non-vets stopping at Children’s or Washington Hospital and the National Rehab, half and half maybe? Some relatives are very loyal, and you recognize them. There’s this one couple. He’s in a wheelchair, and there’s his sister right behind him every time they get on.”
“So you got regulars?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, taking a bite of the sandwich. “But they’ll come and go. Very few stick around forever.”
“Sure,” I said. “You must hear things driving.”
Light swallowed before letting out a laugh. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve heard! What people say out loud in public, as if I wasn’t even there. Make my mother blush.”
“Ever hear any of the vets talking trash about the government? Congress?”
His laugh this time sounded bitter. “All the damn time.”
“Anyone in particular?”
He thought about that. “Well, they all do it. One snafu after another for the vets, you know. But there’s this one guy rides once or twice a week. He’s got nothing but piss and venom to say about the whole lot of them at the VA and up on the Hill. How the Capitol should explode.”
“He said that?”
“Yup, a week, maybe two ago. You bet.”
“You got a name for him?”
Light pursed his lips, shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard.”
“But you’d recognize him?”
“He stands out. Half his face got chewed up by an IED.”
Chapter 26
At 8:30 the next morning, Bree and I were at the front entrance of Veterans Affairs Medical Center. We went straight to the plastic surgery unit, asked for the chief resident, and soon found ourselves in the office of Dr. Richard Stetson.
We explained who we were looking for. Stetson began to explain the various reasons he couldn’t help us, starting with doctor-patient privilege, not to mention the HIPAA laws.
“We have reason to believe he may be involved in the Mall bombings,” Bree interrupted. “We have reason to believe that he is doing this because of Congressional gridlock over the veterans’ bill.”
Stetson frowned. “If it’s the man I’m thinking of, this is surprising. Stunning even. As for the gridlock, I condemn the bomber’s tactics, obviously, but the fact is that most of the programs in this building will shut down if that bill doesn’t cross the President’s desk. He’s not the only one with a grudge.”
“And if his next bomb kills someone?” I said. “Isn’t that against the Hippocratic oath—first do no harm? We need your help.”
Bree said, “We’ll find him sooner or later. If we find him sooner, we save lives.”
The doctor thought for a beat, then said, “You didn’t hear this from me.”
“Of course not.”
“I think the angry vet you’re talking about is named Juan Nico Vincente.”
Stetson would not give us Vincente’s address or any of his records without a subpoena, but he did say the veteran had survived a brutal IED explosion in Afghanistan, and suffered from head trauma and post-traumatic stress.
“He come to see you often?” I asked.