Capitol Threat

60

Loving practically had to promise his firstborn child before Trudy would let him leave the hospital. All that talk about his delicate condition—it was almost as if they were married. Which wasn’t likely to happen, at least not in this universe. Still, Loving had to admit, his association with her—him—had loosened him up a little bit. Made him perhaps a little more accepting. Helped him see the value in people very different from himself. Trudy had saved his life. After that, minor details such as gender and wardrobe choice seemed pretty minor.

Loving was waiting covertly in Haskins’s front yard when his Cadillac came careening around the corner and down the circular cul-de-sac. Haskins’s eyes were wild; his movements were frenetic. Sweat dripped from his face.

As soon as he left his car, Loving stepped out of the bushes.

“Evenin’, Judge.”

Haskins froze as if he had hit an invisible wall. “Who—who are you?”

“Name’s Loving. I’m here to make sure you don’t do nothin’ you shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” Haskins snapped.

“Like destroyin’ evidence.”

“What makes you think there’s any evidence here?”

“Well, you were drivin’ in an awful big hurry.”

“You have no proof. You just came because that damned Kincaid said all those horrible lies about me.”

“The Skipper has been wrong, once or twice. And if he’s wrong today, fine. But I think I’ll keep an eye on you, just the same.”

“You can’t do that. You’re not with the police.”

“No, I’m not. But the police have obtained a search warrant and they’re on their way. I’m just babysittin’. Till they get here.”

Haskins tried to push past him. Loving blocked his way.

“You have no right to be here.”

“You know, I ’spect you know a heck of a lot more about rights and stuff than I do, bein’ a judge and all.” He looked at the man levelly. “But I’m still not gonna let you destroy evidence.”

Haskins rushed forward, tackling Loving. Loving’s feet hit the porch steps and he tripped, falling backward. Haskins caught him with a punch to the jaw on his way down, then rushed past him.

Ow! Loving wasn’t sure which hurt more—the slug to his face or his head thudding against the concrete sidewalk. As if he hadn’t taken enough pounding lately. For an old geezer, Haskins had a darn good right arm.

He pulled himself up and rushed to the front door. Haskins had locked it, but hadn’t had the time to secure the dead bolt. Two good body slams with Loving’s strong right shoulder and the door began to crack. Two more and he was inside.

He found Haskins in the living room, crouched by the sofa, clutching a gun in both hands.

“Don’t make me shoot,” the judge said, his voice trembling.

Loving held his place, barely five feet in front of Haskins. The man shook from head to toe. Judging from his wild-eyed expression, he had taken complete leave of his senses. Loving had no confidence that he was in control of his trigger finger.

“You don’t wanna do that,” Loving said, holding out one arm.

“Stay back!” Haskins cried, shaking the gun back and forth. “I will shoot! Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“Lemme tell you somethin’, friend—everyone’s got something left to lose.”

“Not anymore. I’m ruined. I’ve lost my job, my reputation. My freedom.”

“You still got a wife who loves you, right?”

Haskins hesitated, his gun wavering.

“How’s she gonna feel when she comes home and finds out you plugged someone in the living room? What’s she gonna think about you then?”

Haskins’s face contorted with pain and desperation. His hands quivered even more wildly than before.

“Margaret…always believed in me,” he said, his voice choking. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.” He stared at the gun in his hands. “Like now.”

Loving took a step forward. “Look, just gimme the gun. We can work out all the details later. I’m sure—”

Outside, they both heard the sound of sirens approaching.

“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Haskins’s voice was barely a whisper. “They really are coming. They’re going to lock me up and humiliate me and—and—”

“Whoa,” Loving said, taking another step closer. “Let’s stay calm here. The police are just comin’ to help.”

“No one can help me now. My life is over.”

Loving watched as Haskins slowly turned the gun barrel away, toward his own face.

“Hang on there,” Loving said. “You don’t wanna do that. Think about your wife. Think about—”

“Prison,” he muttered, staring at the gun. “Instead of the Supreme Court. Prison. Public disgrace. Margaret.” His eyes grew even wider. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t!” Loving shot forward, but he wasn’t fast enough. Haskins put the gun inside his mouth and pulled the trigger.

“No!” Loving turned away just before he fired. The scattered remains of Haskins’s head rained down, blood and brain tissue showering the room like a filthy rain.

The front door opened and two police officers rushed inside, their weapons drawn. “What the hell happened?” one of them asked.

“A tragedy,” Loving muttered. “A damned tragedy. Or maybe the end of one.”

Loving sat on the front porch of Haskins’s rented home, hands on his chin, disgusted with himself.

“Don’t take it so hard.”

Loving turned and saw Lieutenant Albertson standing behind him.

“There was nothing more you could have done. The man thought his life was over, ruined. So he took the easy way out.” Albertson frowned. “Hard thing for a good Catholic boy to say, but I’m not so sure he did the wrong thing.”

Loving didn’t attempt a response. “What’s in the Baggie?”

Albertson held up the plastic evidence bag he was carrying. “A pair of garden gloves. Found them hidden in the bedroom closet. They’ve been washed, but a luminol bath has already revealed microscopic traces of blood, and my expert says it’s the victim’s type. We’ll do DNA typing on the blood, if there’s enough, but there’s no real doubt in my mind. He must’ve found the gloves in Roush’s garden and put them on to avoid leaving prints when he killed the woman. When you wouldn’t let him get to them, he knew the game was up. He was going down for murder.”

“So he shot himself in the face.” Loving felt a mixture of disgust at the thought of what Haskins had done, and disgust at himself for not preventing it.

At the far end of the driveway, Loving saw another patrol car silently pull up, lights swirling. A moment later, a plainclothes police officer helped Margaret Haskins out of the car.

“Man, I do not want to be here for this,” Loving said, pushing himself to his feet. “Do you need me for anythin’ more?”

Albertson shook his head. “I know where we can find you. Thanks for your help.”

Loving took a deep breath, then marched down the driveway, his head hung low. “Yeah. Anytime.”