Savich said, “Thomas Malcolm Cronin was twenty years old, a student at Magdalene College in Boonton, Virginia, about an hour’s drive from the Beltway. As you probably know, Magdalene is a small, prestigious, liberal-arts school with an outstanding academic reputation. Most of its endowments come from its wealthy alumni, leaders in both the business world and in politics, in roughly the same percentage as Harvard or Yale. It’s very private and very expensive.
“Thomas declared a business major at the beginning of the fall semester, junior year, with an emphasis in international banking.”
“Like his granddaddy,” Agent Lucy Carlyle said, “following in the steps of the Big Buddha.”
Jimmy Maitland shook his head. “Not anymore, sadly. That nickname, though, it sure fits Cronin, even though he’s skinny as a bicycle spoke. It’s that placid all-knowing smile, the way he sits with his hands folded in front of him. Too bad he wasn’t enlightened enough to try to head off a worldwide banking collapse.”
Savich said, “Coop, tell us about Palmer Cronin’s son and wife.”
Coop said, “Cronin’s only son, Palmer Cronin Jr., was a big muckety-muck partner at Pearlman Lock. I’m sure some of you remember he was killed last year when his Ferrari skidded off an embankment, through a railing, and into the Potomac. His wife, Barbara, died two years ago, a purported suicide with a bottle of pills.”
Lucy said, “I remember the son’s death was huge news. It was ruled an accident.”
Coop said, “Yes, it was. You know his son’s tragic death had to hit Cronin Senior hard. First Barbara, his daughter-in-law, then his son, both dead within two years.”
Savich said, “Cronin Junior left three children, two daughters and a son, Tommy. Barbara Cronin’s sister, Marian Lodge, had moved in with the family after her sister’s death to take over the care of the kids. After Cronin Junior’s death, she applied for guardianship, and it was made official a couple of months ago.”
Lucy said, “So much tragedy in one family, and now this.”
Savich thought of Sean, and closed it off.
He said, “Okay, that’s the background. Now let’s get back to the grandson. Thomas Malcolm Cronin—Tommy—had a three-point-eight GPA, quite an achievement at Magdalene. His father and his grandfather were both alumni, and both were big contributors. There’s a big new business administration building on campus called Cronin Hall, after the grandfather, who, as you know, retired as chairman of the Federal Reserve Banking System right after the investment banking debacle came to light.”
Ollie Hamish snorted. “Talk about a retirement coming way too late. It still frosts me that Palmer Cronin claimed he never expected the bankers’ shenanigans, that his philosophy of self-regulation turned out to be simply wrong. How incompetent does that make him?”
Coop said, “I think you’re expressing only one side of the anger and frustration that’s out there, Ollie. What about the politicians who said they were willing to take the risk and then pressed the banks to finance home loans for people who obviously couldn’t pay the mortgage?”
Mr. Maitland said, “There was predatory lending, for sure, but don’t forget the people determined to cash in on the real estate bubble, willing to sign anything to get their share of the pie. There’s surely enough blame to go around.”
“Maybe so,” Ollie said, “but most of the anger out there is at the bankers and Wall Street. That’s where it all started, with their packaging crap derivatives and worthless home loans and selling them to pension funds and municipalities and other banks—hey, to anyone who trusted them.”
As if to agree, Ollie’s small daughter burped in her sleep, making everyone laugh.
Ollie patted her small head. “I wonder if she’ll agree with me when she’s a teenager. So there’s rage out there, and there’s been some violence. There may even be justification for thinking some of the bloody bankers and some of our precious lawmakers ought to be in a criminal institution. Where does that leave us?”
Lucy and Coop were sitting side by side on the sofa, both in sweats. She said, “It leaves us with the fact that Palmer Cronin wasn’t the one who was murdered. It was Tommy, a twenty-year-old, who for all we know never did anything wrong in his short life. If Tommy was targeted by some kind of deluded out-there anarchist to make a statement, that isn’t a reflection of any justified anger still circulating in society, it’s a Timothy McVeigh kind of insanity.”
Savich said, “That’s assuming the crime was a political act, Lucy, but that’s not a trail I’m ready to commit to unless the investigation points us that way. All right, we’ve all had a chance to vent. Let’s move along to the photos of Tommy uploaded to YouTube. We’re going to treat the photos as part of the crime scene, since anyone close enough to upload a photo of Tommy may have been a witness, and we’ve been tracking those uploads to find those witnesses. Mr. Maitland?”