President's assassin

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Like you'd expect, the case dominated the headlines for the next week. A lot of good people were dead, and a lot of important people needed to be buried with ceremonies appropriate to their fame and station in life. The city, and the entire country, had been caught in an emotional vise, and the aftershock was a huge sigh of relief, accompanied by the usual wave of prurient exposure.

So the Bureau dished out the story in dribs and drabs, a smorgasbord of the good with the bad; of course it was hard to recognize the bad after all the verbs, pronouns, and facts were adjusted and twisted a bit. It's true that knowledge is power, especially when dispensed selectively.

I tend to be cynical about these things, for some reason.

On a happier note, my name and my role in the affair were kept out of it. When you sign on with the Agency-even as a loaner-you are guaranteed complete, ironclad anonymity. This works really well if you owe a lot of people money.

As you might further expect, the White House did its part to make this thing smell less like feces and more like roses. I particularly enjoyed watching Mrs. Hooper on one of those cable news talk shows, like Fox, I think. She recounted the unremitting pressure the President was under as the murderous toll mounted, and his overwhelming sadness since several of the dead were people he knew intimately, friends and colleagues. She described in tender detail how he reached out to their families and so forth. This part was both moving and touching. Maybe this part was even true.

Then, in all sincerity, she said to the anchor, "So the President pulled me into his office. This was the morning Mrs. Townsend was murdered. I'd… well, I'd never seen the President so calm… so committed… so… presidential. He said the killers had to be stopped. The American people had to be protected, no matter how drastic the action, no matter the cost to him politically. He told me to suggest to the FBI something entirely unorthodox. He said we had to arrange a trap." And so on.

Not exactly how I remembered it. On the other hand, it sounded better than the truth.

I was a little unhappy when the President's approval rating bounced up ten points, for, as I mentioned, I'm not his biggest fan. On the other hand, the guy going after his job looked like an even bigger putz, so maybe it was a wash.

Anyway, the President never called to thank me, and Rita never bought me the promised steak dinner. See how quickly they forget.

I should add that Phyllis gave me a week off, for mental recovery, she said. In fact, her final words to me were, "But I don't mean that literally I don't really want you returning exactly the way you were. Understand?"

I understood.

So I lounged around my apartment for a week, read a few trashy novels, bought some new underpants, cheated my way through a bunch of Times crossword puzzles, threw water balloons off my porch, and got bored out of my wits. Mostly, I waited for Jennie to call. She never did.

For some reason, I didn't call her either.

Okay, I called her office, three times. Elizabeth promised to give her the messages, but Jennie never returned my calls. Maybe she failed to get my messages. Maybe not.

So there I was, at the end of the week, walking through the entrance of Ferguson Home Security, mentally rested, physically healed, emotionally a wreck.

Lila was seated behind her desk, wearing a hot pink sweater that showed great cleavage. I didn't even peek, or at least, I didn't get caught. She smiled at me and said, "Welcome back. You're late."

I wasn't in a smiley mood. "I wouldn't be here at all if I hadn't run out of coffee at home."

"Nice suit, incidentally."

"Thank you."

"No, I mean it. You look really… good in a suit."

What the…? Following her eyes to the far corner of the room, there hung a life-size blow-up of an idiot in nothing but his Hanes briefs standing beside an armored van. Attached was a banner reading, "Major Underpants Strikes Again." Somebody had a sense of humor.

I smiled at Lila.

She smiled back.

I looked Lila in the eye and said, "Get rid of that picture."

"On eBay… tonight." She added, "By the way, three guests are waiting for you in the conference room."

So off I went to the conference room, where indeed, three men in blue and gray suits and Phyllis with a pissed-off expression awaited. Phyllis tapped her watch and said, "You're late."

"Punctuality is the habit of the weak-minded."

"I think you mean punctuality is the habit of those who want to keep their jobs."

"Exactly"

She introduced me to the three gentlemen, named Larry, Moe, and Shemp. Or perhaps they were named Larry, Bob, and Bill. I wasn't in a particularly charitable mood.

Larry flashed an FBI shield and beamed a pseudo-smile. Bill and Bob shuffled their feet. Nobody mentioned it, but something in their shifty manner suggested they were from the Bureau's equivalent of internal investigations.

This was better than a congressional subcommittee, but not much.

Larry appeared to be the ringleader-he invited me to sit, and he informed me that his team was cleaning up some loose ends and probing a few unresolved matters.

Nobody read me my rights, which is always a good sign. Larry glanced at Bob, and Bob put a tape recorder on the table. Bill reached forward and turned on the recorder. I'm not making this up.

Larry informed me, "This is an official testimony Be accurate and truthful, as best you can. Speak clearly. Now recount for us your involvement in the case involving Jason Barnes."

So I did.

About two dozen times, Larry, or Bob, or Bill interrupted to ask me to clarify a certain point or elaborate on some event. Three times Bob changed tapes, and Bill turned the recorder on and off each time. Seriously, I'm not making this up. But they were good listeners, and they had done their homework and seemed to be up to speed on what occurred, because they knew the right questions to ask and didn't waste too much of my time.

They seemed particularly interested in who killed whom, so I related what MaryLou told me and I hypothesized that-by process of elimination-the rest were murdered by Clyde or Hank. I shared my view that I didn't think Jason pulled any triggers himself.

Bob confided that in fact, ballistics comparisons from the weapons found on the bodies at the townhouse confirmed this guess. Yet there remained open questions about who fired the LAW on the beltway and who pushed the button that exploded the bomb that killed Joan Townsend, as though it really mattered.

But these people wrote reports for a living, and their lives were dedicated to leaving no blank spaces on any form. So they batted around a few theories, and I listened politely, without comment, until we got down to the nutcutting, which turned out to be not an inappropriate metaphor.

Larry said to me, "So when you arrived at the townhouse, only the red pickup was present. Correct?"

"No, the yellow pickup was also present. I was driving it."

Larry didn't like being corrected and snapped, "That's what I meant."

"Then say what you mean." I didn't like Larry very much.

Bob asked me, "Do you know where the black pickup was? The one driven by Clyde Barnes?"

"Why?"

"If you don't mind, we'll ask the questions."

"Bob, I do mind. If you want me to keep answering your questions, you'll answer my questions."

Bob leaned toward me and said, "I'm not here to cure your curiosity, Major. We can always compel your testimony"

"How, Bob?"

"What?"

"I don't work at your Bureau. How will you compel my testimony?"

"We have our ways. Answer my question," Bob insisted. Incidentally, I didn't really like Bob either.

Larry again asked if I knew where the black pickup went after we departed the shopping center and before Clyde returned to the townhouse.

I replied, "Larry, I'm developing a serious memory lapse."

Bill appeared to be the designated good cop. He said, very amiably, "All right, Sean. Some of the money seems to be missing."

"Seems to be missing?"

Bill smiled unctuously. "Hey… you got me there, didn't you? All right-it is missing."

"How much is missing, Bill?"

Time for Bob, and he said, "None of your business."

"It is now."

Larry felt the need to assert himself. "Drummond, I don't like your attitude. I'll remind you again, this is an official investigation"

When that didn't seem to work, Larry turned to Phyllis and said, "Reason with him."

Phyllis smiled at Larry and replied, "I've tried from the day he started working here. The only advice I can offer is to answer his questions. He sometimes responds well to reciprocity."

Larry, Bob, and Bill looked a little baffled by this insight. I'm sure Bureau employees were scared out of their wits by these guys. I'm sure Larry, Bob, and Bill asked, and everybody popped out answers. I was just as sure I'd be an idiot to answer another question without knowing what this was about.

It was Bill's turn again. He said, "About twelve million is missing."

"About?"

He smiled again. "Twelve and a half, to be precise."

I remarked, "Precision is always good, right, Bill? I mean, what if you guys had identified yourselves as internal investigations or whatever you are, and what if I had been distrustful of you right from the start. What if I knew this was an interrogation, not a debriefing. That wouldn't have been good, would it, Bill?"

Bob said, "You'd be well-advised to can the sarcasm, Drummond."

Phyllis interjected, "He can't. It's like Tourette's syndrome. It just spills from his lips, an uncontrollable river."

I smiled at Phyllis. She smiled back. I really liked her. I think she was getting used to me.

Bob and Larry thought Bill had the best chance with me, and he took over. But I didn't really like Bill either, to be honest. He was the sneaky type. Bill said, "Help us determine where the money went. You told us it was loaded in the back of Clyde Wizner's truck when he departed the shopping center. Between our discussions with Agent Sanchez and with you, we've managed to time out approximately how long it took each pickup to arrive at the townhouse. You arrived with MaryLou Johnson, you said, perhaps ten to twelve minutes behind Hank Mercer. Correct?"

Bill examined my face for confirmation. I stared back at him, sort of blankly.

Eventually Bill said, "We know for sure that Clyde Wizner arrived at least thirty minutes later. What did you and MaryLou Johnson talk about during the nearly forty-five minutes you were alone together?"

"Mostly, Bill, we argued about where my cut was to be delivered." Obviously this was a joke. Right? I should work on my comic timing.

Bill did not laugh, or even smile. Bob examined me more closely.

Larry decided I was kidding. He was sharp. He leaned toward me and said, "When Clyde Wizner first called, he specified that you had to be the courier. Why you? And how did he know you?"

"Ask him."

After a moment, Bob also leaned forward and informed me, "The Army would not allow us to view your military records, which they said are classified and sealed. However, the Office of the Judge Advocate cooperated with our request for information. We were informed that although you were never actually stationed at Fort Hood, on three different occasions you were there on temporary duty, once for over two months. Isn't it possible that during those months you might have met Clyde Wizner?"

"Of course, Bob. It's possible."

Larry saw that Bob wasn't doing well, and said, "Here's another thing we find interesting. Agent Sanchez informed us that you initially refused to take the tracking device."

"She called it a suppository. I don't like people looking up my ass. I was joking."

"Yes. That's what she thought at first-a perfectly innocuous misunderstanding. She then assured you it was taken orally and your excuse disappeared."

"Sounds right."

Bob hit his hand on the table and pointed out, "However, a pool of vomit was found beside the van at the shopping center."

"Hank kicked me in the stomach. I blew lunch. It's in my oral statement. So what?"

"So maybe you were trying to dislodge the tracking device. Maybe you stuck your finger down your throat, initiating an involuntary gag."

"I still had the tracking device, Bob."

Larry stopped using conditionals and switched to straightforward accusations. He said, "But you didn't know that. Through the dense smoke you couldn't see whether it came out or not. And considering the hectic circumstances, you were in too much of a hurry to dig through your vomit to be sure it was gone."

Bob wanted back into the action and said, "Nor was there a bomb in the van, as you informed Sanchez and Margold. We've listened to the transcripts of all your phone conversations with the control van. You demanded they remove all coverage, and you threw a fit when you discovered the tails were still on you."

I think Bill was tired of playing the good cop, which wasn't a particularly comfortable fit for him anyway. Ticking off fingers, he said, "As we reviewed the activities of that day, Drummond, you're the sore thumb. Wizner asked for you, and you eagerly volunteered. You tried to refuse a tracking device. Later you tried to get rid of it. You lied about the bomb and tried to get the coverage eliminated." He paused and then, with half-assed melodrama, pointed a finger at my chest. "Where's the money, Drummond?"

Larry, Bob, and Bill sat back in their chairs and studied me. Now I knew what they thought, and I knew why they thought it. Nor did it escape my notice that they hadn't read me my rights or formally charged me. Ergo, they lacked evidence. They had a strong suspicion backed up by a strong circumstantial construction. Period.

Also they suspected that the moment they initiated the rights process, I would clam up and demand representation, and around and around we would go. Smart guys.

So I looked at Larry, Bob, and Bill and, speaking clearly into their recorder, I said, "Sean Drummond has the right to remain silent.." and they sat quietly and watched dumbly as I gave myself a Miranda warning.

When I finished, Bill, with a disappointed pout, said, "That's not helpful."

"It's very helpful, Bill. If I had twelve and a half million bucks salted away, would I confess?"

Bob said, "We know it's not in your possession yet."

"How?"

Nobody answered. Nobody needed to answer. They had staked out my apartment, probably tapped my phones, and surely accessed my minuscule checking and savings account. That meant they had a court order, and that meant I had at least one foot in the crapper.

No further good was going to come from this conversation, so I stood and, directing my words at Larry, announced, "Unless you have a warrant, I'm outta here."

Larry replied, "We don't have a warrant-yet."

Phyllis said to the three gentlemen, "Actually, he works here, and he's not leaving. You are."

Larry nodded. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a business card, and flipped it at me. He said, "If you rediscover your conscience, give me a call." Then Larry and Bob and Bill collected their notepads and recorder, and with nasty expressions filed out the door.

The door closed and there was a moment of silence. Phyllis finally said, "Sean, look me in the eye and tell me you don't have the money."

I looked Phyllis in the eye. "It's mine, all mine. You're not getting a dime of it."

I thought I heard a sigh of relief.

She said, "It's preposterous. I assigned you this case. How could you have arranged this when you had no intimation you would become involved?" She confessed, "I now feel a certain burden of guilt for involving you in this."

I made no reply to that. However, I did make a note in my mental chitpad that she thought she owed me one. I said, "Well… I'm not worried."

"You should worry."

"I'd be very worried if they made me meet them across the river, rather than here. I'm a lawyer, Phyllis. Trust me."

She did not comment on that oxymoron. She said, "They presented a very convincing case, Sean."

"A pile of dough's missing, and the accountants in the basement are demanding a pass from internal investigations. Standard procedure. They have to shake the bushes."

"You're missing something."

"Am I?"

"George Meany He was fired this week. Of course, 'fired' wasn't the expression used, because it seldom is. But you know how it works. A lot of people are dead, and somebody had to take the blame. It was announced that George is the new assistant to the Bureau's spokesperson."

This was news to me. "I had nothing to do with it. George was in charge, and rank and responsibility are a double-edged sword. And at the end he chose to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and ended up without any helpings of glory."

"I believe that what matters is not what you think, what matters is what Meany thinks."

Good point. She continued, "He has a vindictive streak, Sean, and he's not without connections within the Bureau." She added, "Incidentally, Mark Townsend submitted his resignation as Director this morning. The President is going to accept it.

Also, your friend Jennie is now the acting ADIC, and I hear there's a good chance that'll be made permanent."

"She earned it. I'm sorry about Townsend."

"Me too. And about Margold, yes, she did earn it. She did better on this case than anybody" After a moment she added, "As did you."

I had turned toward the door, and I spun around and faced Phyllis. Had I been seated this unexpected praise would've caused me to fall out of my chair. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." She added, "I'll give you two days to get your professional and personal affairs sorted out. The Agency doesn't need this messiness, nor do you. Fix it."

"Yes ma'am."

Actually, I did have a big problem. It was even possible I had two big problems, one personal and one professional. Worse, there was a chance my personal problems were my professional problems. But I wasn't ready to say that yet.