Murder at Union Station

NINETEEN

As Mullin and Accurso left Murry & Paul’s, Tim Stripling was arriving at the FBI Building for his second meeting with the two agents with whom he’d met the previous day. They huddled in the same secure room at the rear of the building.

“So, it looks like the hunt is off for Mr. Louis Russo,” Stripling said. He’d removed his suit jacket and sat at the end of a short conference table, flanked by the agents.

“Yeah,” one said. “Somebody found him before you did.”

“If I was being paid as a bounty hunter, I’d be unhappy,” said Stripling. “Maybe the guy who shot him collected a hefty fee.”

When there was no response, he said, “Any word on who did the deed? I read his description in the papers, saw it on TV.”

The agent to Stripling’s left consulted a paper on the table in front of him, and read from it in a monotone.

“Leon LeClaire. Age forty-three. Residence listed as New York City. Born in Haiti, French passport.”

Stripling’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve nailed him?”

“Somebody did. Literally. They discovered his body down in Kenilworth Gardens. We just got the word.”

“A positive ID?”

“That’s what we hear. We thought you’d get some info for us.”

Stripling chuckled. “Why me?” he asked. “You’re the fabled Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

His comment was confrontational, but he didn’t care. Stripling had always been distrustful of the FBI, having spent a good part of his professional life in the culture of the CIA, where the view of the Bureau was inherently less than positive. Now, as an independent operator, he was free to express what he felt without fear of retribution. But Mark Roper’s words came back to him: “Be cooperative.”

The agents ignored his remark. One said, “The case is being handled at MPD by a detective named Mullin. Bret Mullin. They should be at the scene now. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, off the Anacostia Freeway, Northeast.”

“I’ve been there,” Stripling said. “Nice place. An ex-girlfriend was a plant freak, loved the water lilies at Kenilworth.”

“That’s nice to hear,” an agent said.

The dig wasn’t lost on Stripling. “So,” he said, “just what is it you want me to find out?”

“Information about how the investigation is going.”

“The MPD investigation?”

“That’s right.”

Stripling shook his head and flashed a smile. “I know I’m going to get the same answer I got last time, but I’m asking anyway. Why have me keep tabs on what MPD is doing? Hell, you guys work with them all the time.”

“They’re not always-well, as cooperative as we’d like them to be.”

“Okay,” Stripling said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. And while you’re at it, see what you can find out about this so-called mystery man who blurted out Russo’s name to a TV reporter.”

“I saw that on TV,” Stripling said.

“We’d like to know who he is.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“Which is why they want you to do it.”

They. There was no sense asking who they were, so Stripling didn’t bother. “Anything else?” Stripling asked.

“No. We’ll keep in touch on the cell phone we gave you.”

“Okay,” Stripling said, standing and slipping on his jacket. He went to the door, turned, and asked, “What do I do if I find this mystery man? Who do I tell?”

“Let your control at the Company know you have something you want to tell us. We’ll call and set up a meeting.”

Stripling looked at him. A retired CIA agent with a control? The FBI guy was just rubbing it in. He held the man’s eyes for a long moment, then left the room and the building and walked to a Hard Rock Café at Tenth and E Streets, relatively quiet at mid-afternoon. He took a table and ordered an iced coffee from the waitress, removed his jacket to allow the AC to reach him, and thought back to the meeting.

It was never easy discerning the true meaning behind what anyone in government said or did. When the agenda said peace, it very often meant war. There were more hidden agendas in official Washington than there were bureaucrats; the challenge was to get beyond the words to figure out what was really going on.

Keep tabs on MPD’s investigation of the Russo murder and the subsequent killing of Russo’s assassin? That wouldn’t be difficult. He’d cultivated contacts within the MPD during his stint at the CIA and could call upon them. Of course, no longer being officially connected might make this a little more difficult, but he doubted it. There were always people in every organization who got a vicarious kick out of hobnobbing with spooks, even with men like Stripling, who’d spent most of his career identifying and nurturing moles within America ’s institutions, as opposed to the more swashbuckling overseas types. He didn’t know what use any of the information he developed from these sources was put to, nor did he care. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” applied to more than the military’s policy on homosexuality. Some of the dirt his informants dug up on political bigwigs presumably was passed on to provide other politicians with leverage against them. But again, it was not for him to know. The FBI’s great godfather, J. Edgar Hoover, exercised power by just having information, not necessarily using it.

There was a time not long ago that his working within the United States was against official policy, if not against the law. The CIA’s function was limited to foreign shores only. The FBI’s mission was restricted to within the borders of the United States. But that rule went by the wayside as terrorist threats from around the world, among other things, necessitated a blurring of the lines. The FBI began to set up bureaus in other countries, and the CIA practiced its counterespionage role in the States. September 11, 2001, cemented the change in missions. All bets were off after 9/11.

He sipped his coffee and thought of the second job he’d been asked to do, finding the so-called mystery man who was at Union Station either at the time of the shooting or shortly thereafter.

The final mission for the moment was to find out what the real agenda behind the request was.

“Like some dessert with the coffee?” the waitress asked. “Ice cream? Pie? Ice cream and pie?”

“Sure. Some vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce.” Everyone had to have a weakness, and ice cream was his. No apologies.

Now cool and his passion satisfied, he pulled from his small briefcase the cell phone given him by the FBI and a telephone book. He had his own cell but figured the FBI could pick up the charges. He found the number he was looking for and dialed it.

“Peck,” the man’s voice said after the first ring.

“Tim Stripling. How are you?”

“Good. Long time no see.”

“My fault. How are things at MPD?”

“Ah, come on. You want to get me started?”

Stripling laughed. “Wouldn’t want to do that. Up for a drink?”

“Sure. You buying?”

“Of course. You work with a Detective Mullin?”

Stripling detected a low laugh. “You buying him a drink, too?” the detective asked. “Cost you big-time.”

“No.”

“So why mention him?”

“No reason. What time do you get off?”

“Six.”

“Market Inn at six-thirty?”

“You got it.”

“You pick up anything on finding the Union Station shooter this afternoon?”

“There’s talk about it.”

“Fill me in when I see you. I’m interested.”

“How interested?”

“Very. I’ll take care of you.”

“Six-thirty it is.”

His next call was to WTTG-TV’s studios.

“Is Joyce Rosenberg there?”

“Hold on.”

“Hello. It’s Joyce.”

“Hello to you. Tim Stripling here.”

“Tim Stripling. I haven’t heard from you since you fed me that story about the cross-dressing congressman.What’s up?”

“I’m following the Union Station murder. You seem on top of it.”

“Not really. Nothing much new.”

“Tell you what,” Stripling said. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Is this a pitch? I’m engaged.”

“Lucky guy. They found the shooter in the Union Station murder.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Very dead. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens, off the Anacostia Freeway, Northeast. Name’s Leon LeClaire, forty-three, from New York. He’s got a French passport.”

“Okay. Thanks!”

He heard her say to someone, “Take this. The Union Station shooter. Down at Kenilworth Gardens. I’ll be with you in a second.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

“Hold on, Joyce. I get to see yours.”

“What do you want?”

“I want the big beefy guy who told you the victim’s name at the station.”

“Don’t know it.”

“Yeah, but you might have some footage, cutting-room-floor stuff, that could help. When can I come over?”

“Tomorrow. Nine.”

“See you then. Thanks.”

“Anything else?” the waitress asked.

“Thanks, no,” he said with a smile. “You make good ice cream.”

He paid his bill and left the table. On his way out, he paused to look at a display of Bo Diddley’s first homemade guitar and the bodice worn by Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Later that night, the place would be packed with people to whom such memorabilia was meaningful. They meant nothing to Stripling. But the ice cream was really good.