I had enough information about Shafer from the discovery interviews preceding the trial, and from my own working profile on him, to begin to make some very educated guesses about what might have happened. My first thought was that he suffered from some kind of bipolar disorder that caused both manic and depressive episodes. A second possibility was cyclohymia, which can manifest itself in numerous hypomanic episodes as well as depressive symptoms. Its associated symptoms could include inflated self-esteem, a decreased need for sleep, excessive involvement in “pleasurable” activities, and an increase in goal-directed activity — in Shafer’s case, maybe, an intensified effort to win his game.

I moved forward as if I were floating in a very bad dream, the worst I could imagine. I recognized one of the EMS techies, Nina Disesa. I’d worked with her a few times before in Georgetown.

“We got to the bastard just in time,” Nina said, and narrowed her dark eyes. “Too bad, huh?”

“Serious attempt?” I asked her.

Nina shrugged. “Hard to tell for sure. He hacked up his wrist pretty good. Just the left one, though. Then the drugs, lots of drugs — doctors’ samples.”

I shook my head in utter disbelief. “But he definitely called out for help?”

“According to the wife and son, they heard him call out from his den, ‘Daddy needs help. Daddy is dying. Daddy is sick.’”

“Well, he got that part right. Daddy is incredibly sick. Daddy is a monumental sicko.”

I went over to the red and white ambulance. News cameras were still flashing all over the street. My mind was unhinged, reeling. Everything is a game to him. The victims in Southeast, Patsy Hampton, Christine. Now this. He’s even playing with his own life.

“His pulse is still strong,” I heard as I got close to the ambulance. I could see one of the EMT workers checking the EKG inside the van. I could even hear beeps from the machine.

Then I saw Shafer’s face. His hair was drenched with perspiration, and his face was as pale as a sheet of white paper. He stared into my eyes, trying to focus. Then he recognized me.

“You did this to me,” he said, mustering strength, suddenly trying to sit up on the stretcher. “You ruined my life for your career. You did this! You’re responsible! Oh, God, oh, God. My poor family! Why is this happening to us?”

The TV cameras were rolling film, and they got his entire Academy Award-quality performance. Just as Geoffrey Shafer knew they would.

Chapter 88

THE TRIAL HAD TO BE RECESSED due to Shafer’s suicide attempt. The courtroom shenanigans probably wouldn’t resume until the following week.

Meanwhile, the media had another feeding frenzy, including banner headlines in the Washington Post, the New York Times, USA Today. At least it gave me time to work on a few more angles. Shafer was good — God, he was good at this.