Murder at Union Station

FORTY-FOUR

FOUR MONTHS LATER

I have an announcement to make,” Mackensie Smith said to the thirty guests gathered in his apartment. A blue spruce Christmas tree festooned with colorful decorations from their single days, augmented by more recent joint purchases, took up a corner of the living room. Other judiciously selected and placed representations of the Christmas season that was only a week away added to the party’s festive spirit. Annabel had arranged an array of food on the dining room table.

“I don’t have permission to make this announcement, but somehow I don’t think the subjects of it will mind,” Mac said. He raised his champagne glass: “To Rich and Kathryn, who informed me only today that they’ve decided to tie the knot, tie one to the other for life. Here’s to them and to many blissful years together-close together.”

There was applause and “Here! Here!” and a few inevitable but funny comments about the perils of married life. A man raised his glass and said, “I have a toast to propose, too. To another four years with President Adam Parmele.”

Smith said, “I know this is Washington, but there’ll be no politics spoken in this house, not at this time of year.”

“What else is there to talk about in Washington?” someone quipped.

“The Redskins, the new season at the Washington Opera and Kennedy Center, anything but politics,” Annabel proclaimed with enough force to indicate she meant it.

Rich and Kathryn were the last to leave.

“A wonderful party,” Kathryn said. “I feel as though it was to celebrate us.”

“It was,” said Smith. “You deserve it. Set a date yet?”

“The spring,” Rich said. “In Kansas. I called Mom and Dad this morning to break the news. Actually, I put Kathryn on the phone and she made the announcement.”

“His mom cried,” Kathryn said, shedding her own tears. “She sounded really happy.”

“And your dad?” Mac asked.

“He congratulated me and said they’d come out to Kansas for the wedding. For him to volunteer to go to Kansas is the coup of the year.”

“As it should be,” said Annabel.

“How’s the new job?” Mac asked Marienthal.

“Good. I mean, grinding out press releases for the Department of Agriculture doesn’t represent my life’s goal, but it’ll do until I finish the new book I’m working on and it gets published. By the way, it is a novel.”

The call to fill a position in the agriculture department’s public information office had come out of the blue from one of the president’s appointees. Had destroying tapes that might have thwarted the president’s quest for a second term played a role in the job offer? Follow-up articles about Rich’s book mentioned that he’d destroyed the tapes because, as he’d been quoted, “I seriously question whether what Louis Russo claimed in my book actually happened. That’s why the tapes are gone.” He added with a chuckle, “But I still think it makes for a good read.”

Unfortunately, the negative publicity surrounding the book seriously eroded its sales. Of the 30,000 copies in the initial printing, more than half would be returned to Hobbes House for full credit or end up on remainder tables at the sale price of a dollar.

“Whatever happened to your buddy, Mr. Lowe?” Smith asked as the young couple prepared to leave.

“Last I heard, he left Senator Widmer’s staff and was going to work for some Texas congressman.”

“His choice to leave?” Annabel asked, “or was he asked to leave?”

“We don’t know,” Kathryn said. “His girlfriend, Ellen Kelly, broke up with him and left town. I’ve lost touch with her. And with Senator Widmer announcing his retirement after canceling the hearings, there wouldn’t be a job for Geoff anyway.”

“As shrewd as old Senator Widmer is, he put too much faith in Lowe where the tapes were concerned,” Smith said, helping Kathryn on with her coat. “If the subcommittee had subpoenaed the tapes, putting a torch to them like you did would have landed you in some legal hot water.”

“That’s all in your past,” Annabel offered, kissing them on the cheek as they went through the door, a paper plate of Christmas cookies nestled in Marienthal’s arms. “It’s all future for you now.”

There were many holiday parties going on in Washington on that day, including one in full swing at an Irish pub near MPD’s First District headquarters. A large banner strung across the back bar read: HAPPY RETIREMENT, BRET.

Two dozen of Bret’s colleagues and a smattering of their wives and girlfriends had joined the big, beefy detective to celebrate his leaving the force. Many of his buddies had taken full advantage of the free drinks and were on their way to a serious headache the next morning.

Mullin held a glass of ginger ale in his hand as he accepted their congratulations and a stream of wisecracks from fellow cops. Vinnie Accurso stood next to him, his arm around his former partner’s shoulder.

“Where’s Leshin?” Mullin asked. “He didn’t come.”

“He’ll be here, Bret,” Accurso said, punching Mullin on the arm. “You think the chief would miss the chance to celebrate getting rid of you?”

“I wasn’t that bad,” said Mullin, sipping his drink.

“What are you gonna do retired?” someone asked.

“I thought I’d do some traveling,” Mullin replied. “You know, see the world. My daughter wants me to come out to Colorado and spend some time with her.” He pulled a letter from his pocket that he’d received the previous week in which she suggested they spend some time together-now that he no longer drank.

“I also figured I’d go overseas,” he said. “I’ve been reading a lot about the problem in the Middle East. You know, Israelis and Palestinians killing each other. I thought maybe I’d go over and see for myself what’s going on.”

“What are you going to do, Bret, solve their problems all by yourself?”

“Yeah, maybe I will. I’ll go over there and bust heads and get them to start getting along.”

There were hoots and hollers at that, which caused him to laugh and order another ginger ale from the redheaded, freckle-faced barmaid.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that lady you squired around town, would it?” Accurso said into Mullin’s ear.

“What? Who? Sasha? Don’t be stupid, Vinnie, I mean, maybe I’ll look her up when I’m there, have her show me around or something. I don’t speak Jewish and-”

Heads turned as Chief of Detectives Phil Leshin came through the door. He went directly to Mullin, placed both hands on his shoulders, and said, “You won’t believe this, Bret, but I am going to miss you.”

“Come on,” Mullin said. “You don’t have to say that.”

“No, I mean it,” Leshin said. “But you have to answer one question for me.”

“Shoot.”

“What got you to finally go to AA?”

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to get sober. It’s like, I didn’t mind being drunk on the job, but I sure as hell don’t want to be drunk in my retirement.”

There would be no party this holiday season at one home.

A jogger running through Rock Creek Park in the first day of December stumbled upon a lifeless body, which was partially obscured by brush and low bushes. Chet Fletcher had died of a single gunshot to his right temple. The remaining bullets in the revolver gripped in his right hand matched the shot that had taken his life. His were the only fingerprints on the weapon.

The police thoroughly searched the area surrounding his body and found little in the way of useful evidence-a discarded jogger’s shoe, a hiker’s map of the park, a ballpoint pen, a discarded fresh Good Humor toasted almond ice cream wrapper, a used condom, an earring of the costume jewelry variety, and a Washington Redskins T-shirt that had obviously been there for a very long time.

His wife, Gail, told the police that her husband had become increasingly depressed since resigning from his White House position, particularly after rumors found their way into second-tier media that he’d resigned after having ordered the murder of Louis Russo and the killing of Russo’s assailant, Leon LeClaire.

“The people circulating these vicious rumors, and the irresponsible media that reported them, killed my husband,” Mrs. Fletcher said in the only press conference she gave before packing up their home and moving away. She characterized the city she left behind as “a place where the only thing that matters is personal gain and greed, winning and losing, and where the lives of decent people like my husband mean nothing. He was driven to take his life, and those who drove him to it should rot in hell.”

The president called Chet Fletcher a brilliant man, whose contributions to the political process and to the nation were incalculable. “He was my friend,” said the president, now about to begin a second term. “I shall miss him, and so shall this wonderful nation. God bless America!”