Guilty Minds

8

Whether he was a real cop or not, the guy with the blond brush cut who’d so politely guided me to my locker — even providing the quarter — was obviously the one who’d emptied it. He’d picked out my locker in advance, which meant he had a copy of the key. He didn’t need to take one of the spares. He’d just waited for me to leave and then removed my laptop and iPhone. Had I been on alert, and had I known what to look for, I’d have noticed that he was wearing the uniform of a DC city cop. It had been a simple if brazen move, and the only reason it worked was that I hadn’t been operating with my usual wariness.

The question was, who was he and how did he know I’d be here?

This I couldn’t yet figure out.

I stopped mid-stride. I had a strong feeling that I was being watched. That the guy was somewhere nearby, within eyesight.

It was more than a feeling, of course. It was the result of “situational awareness,” which is the military’s fancy term for knowing what’s going on around you. In combat, your life can depend on whether you notice anomalies: the scuff of a boot, the glint of a weapon. I sensed a stillness at my eleven o’clock and turned. There, at the head of the staircase at the other end of the great hall, was a familiar blond crewcut. A man in a policeman’s uniform.

I walked casually in that direction, as if I hadn’t seen anything, but the man began going down the stairs, so I accelerated my pace until I was almost running. He must have realized he’d been spotted. By the time I reached the steep marble stairs, he was nowhere in sight. These were stairs meant for dignified procession, not hot pursuit. They were also not stairs you’d want to take a header down.

The problem was that I didn’t know the building’s layout at all. I’d had no reason to acquaint myself with the exits, not when I was just having a discreet private meeting with a Supreme Court justice. I hadn’t expected trouble because I figured no one knew I’d be here.

But obviously someone knew.

At the ground floor, I stopped, oriented myself. To my left was the visitors’ entrance. It wasn’t an exit, just an entrance. Maybe someone in a policeman’s uniform could slip out that way. The long, broad corridor was sparsely decorated with display cases. Down at the other end I saw a cafeteria and a gift shop. There seemed to be only two exits for the general public. One was upstairs, outside the courtroom, through the huge bronze doors. You couldn’t enter that way, but you could leave. The other exit was on this level, straight ahead of me. It appeared to lead to the plaza behind the court building, on Second Street. There was no security here. People were strolling out casually.

I had to make a decision. Try to force my way out the entrance, race for the exit onto Second Street, or stay inside the building and look for him here. It was possible he hadn’t left.

I went out the Second Street exit, looking in all directions, but it was no use. He wasn’t there.

That was all right. I didn’t have time to look anymore. I had far more urgent business to get to.