Blind Side
Page 70
“Is the guy crazy?”
Savich stared thoughtfully at Martha Stockton of the Washington Post, who had the reputation of being something of a ditz, but this time she had stripped away the nonessentials really fast. “No, I don’t think he’s crazy in the sense that he’s frothing at the mouth and out of control. He seems to have planned these killings well enough that so far there are no witnesses. Why he’s doing this, we don’t know yet, but I will tell you this: We will find him. We are spending hundreds of man-hours speaking to fellow teachers and former students. We are leaving nothing to chance.
“Now, I would like to introduce to you some of the family members affected by these tragic killings. These are the widowers of the murdered teachers, Mr. Ward, Mr. Fowler, and Mr. Maddox, whose wife was found just this morning. I believe Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler wish to make a brief statement.”
Mr. Eli Dobbs of CNN yelled out, “Excuse me, Mr. Maddox, but your wife was just murdered. How do you feel about standing up there with Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler?”
That show of crassness was par for the course, Savich thought. He raised his hand. “We will take a few questions later. This is a time of grief and shock for these gentlemen. You might consider their circumstances before you ask your questions.”
Troy Ward stepped forward and grabbed the edges of the podium. “I want to thank all those who have sent me cards and e-mails. The police are doing their best, I know, and I just want to thank everyone for their support and their thoughtfulness to me and my wife’s family at this terrible time.” With that, he stood back from the podium, his eyes on his shoes.
“You didn’t call this Sunday’s Ravens game, Mr. Ward,” Eli Dobbs said. “What are your plans?”
Troy answered, but without the microphone in front of him, the reporters had to strain to hear him. “I’m planning to announce the game this Sunday. My wife would have wanted life to go on.”
Gifford Fowler took his turn at the podium. He said simply, “My wife was the love of my life. I miss her every moment,” and he also thanked the public. He didn’t step back, though, and looked like he wanted questions.
“Mr. Fowler, we’ve been told you’re going to speak at the Rotary Club this Wednesday.”
Gifford Fowler said, “They said they wanted to show their support, to share their time with me for an evening. I am very grateful to them for inviting me.”
Savich cut it off, stepping back to the podium. He wasn’t about to have Mr. Maddox in front of this group. His loss was too new, his control too tenuous. Besides, the world had seen them up close and personal. It was enough.
“Have your computers been of any help yet, Agent Savich?”
“Is MAX going to stand up there and announce the killer?”
There was laughter.
Savich smiled. “MAX is a tremendous tool. But here’s the truth: Crimes are solved by good old-fashioned police work. And that’s what we’re doing, as fast and as hard as we can. Thank you for coming.”
When it was all over, Savich gave Sherlock a small salute, then turned to speak to the three widowers. “I thank you for coming. I think it makes a difference. Of course there’ll be more questions. I will be in touch with each of you. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”
He shook hands with all of the men, then watched them closely as they trailed out, following an agent through the rear door.
Sherlock took his hand and said in a whisper, “That was quite a performance. Do you think it was worth it?”
He turned, cupped her face in his hands, and said, “I think so. We’ll see.”
Later that night, back home in Georgetown, Sean was asleep on his father’s shoulder after helping his parents eat a late dinner of his father’s pesto pasta. Sherlock said while she heated some hot water for tea, “Miles called. Dr. Raines is still seeing Sam. Miles thinks it’s best to keep him with her for a while longer. Also, he can’t imagine separating Sam and Keely just yet.”
“I can’t imagine it either,” Savich said. “Sam is probably as safe there as at home, and Katie has a couple of deputies around him whenever she or Miles can’t be with them. I’ll bet he’ll get Katie to take him to see the McCamys.”
Sherlock nodded. “You’re probably right. And right now, I can’t imagine Sam being away from Keely either.”
“Yeah,” Savich said slowly, as he watched her pour his tea into his favorite Redskins mug, “and I was wondering how Miles would do away from the sheriff.”
Savich stared thoughtfully at Martha Stockton of the Washington Post, who had the reputation of being something of a ditz, but this time she had stripped away the nonessentials really fast. “No, I don’t think he’s crazy in the sense that he’s frothing at the mouth and out of control. He seems to have planned these killings well enough that so far there are no witnesses. Why he’s doing this, we don’t know yet, but I will tell you this: We will find him. We are spending hundreds of man-hours speaking to fellow teachers and former students. We are leaving nothing to chance.
“Now, I would like to introduce to you some of the family members affected by these tragic killings. These are the widowers of the murdered teachers, Mr. Ward, Mr. Fowler, and Mr. Maddox, whose wife was found just this morning. I believe Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler wish to make a brief statement.”
Mr. Eli Dobbs of CNN yelled out, “Excuse me, Mr. Maddox, but your wife was just murdered. How do you feel about standing up there with Mr. Ward and Mr. Fowler?”
That show of crassness was par for the course, Savich thought. He raised his hand. “We will take a few questions later. This is a time of grief and shock for these gentlemen. You might consider their circumstances before you ask your questions.”
Troy Ward stepped forward and grabbed the edges of the podium. “I want to thank all those who have sent me cards and e-mails. The police are doing their best, I know, and I just want to thank everyone for their support and their thoughtfulness to me and my wife’s family at this terrible time.” With that, he stood back from the podium, his eyes on his shoes.
“You didn’t call this Sunday’s Ravens game, Mr. Ward,” Eli Dobbs said. “What are your plans?”
Troy answered, but without the microphone in front of him, the reporters had to strain to hear him. “I’m planning to announce the game this Sunday. My wife would have wanted life to go on.”
Gifford Fowler took his turn at the podium. He said simply, “My wife was the love of my life. I miss her every moment,” and he also thanked the public. He didn’t step back, though, and looked like he wanted questions.
“Mr. Fowler, we’ve been told you’re going to speak at the Rotary Club this Wednesday.”
Gifford Fowler said, “They said they wanted to show their support, to share their time with me for an evening. I am very grateful to them for inviting me.”
Savich cut it off, stepping back to the podium. He wasn’t about to have Mr. Maddox in front of this group. His loss was too new, his control too tenuous. Besides, the world had seen them up close and personal. It was enough.
“Have your computers been of any help yet, Agent Savich?”
“Is MAX going to stand up there and announce the killer?”
There was laughter.
Savich smiled. “MAX is a tremendous tool. But here’s the truth: Crimes are solved by good old-fashioned police work. And that’s what we’re doing, as fast and as hard as we can. Thank you for coming.”
When it was all over, Savich gave Sherlock a small salute, then turned to speak to the three widowers. “I thank you for coming. I think it makes a difference. Of course there’ll be more questions. I will be in touch with each of you. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”
He shook hands with all of the men, then watched them closely as they trailed out, following an agent through the rear door.
Sherlock took his hand and said in a whisper, “That was quite a performance. Do you think it was worth it?”
He turned, cupped her face in his hands, and said, “I think so. We’ll see.”
Later that night, back home in Georgetown, Sean was asleep on his father’s shoulder after helping his parents eat a late dinner of his father’s pesto pasta. Sherlock said while she heated some hot water for tea, “Miles called. Dr. Raines is still seeing Sam. Miles thinks it’s best to keep him with her for a while longer. Also, he can’t imagine separating Sam and Keely just yet.”
“I can’t imagine it either,” Savich said. “Sam is probably as safe there as at home, and Katie has a couple of deputies around him whenever she or Miles can’t be with them. I’ll bet he’ll get Katie to take him to see the McCamys.”
Sherlock nodded. “You’re probably right. And right now, I can’t imagine Sam being away from Keely either.”
“Yeah,” Savich said slowly, as he watched her pour his tea into his favorite Redskins mug, “and I was wondering how Miles would do away from the sheriff.”
