The Medusa Stone

Fairfax, Virginia

The first break in solving the murders of Prescott Hyde and his wife came about through sheer persistence.

On the day of the fire, the Fairfax police had canvassed Hyde’s neighborhood for anyone who may have seen the arsonist, but they came up empty. The only glimmer of hope remaining for the investigation were a certain Dr. and Mrs. Grady, who lived adjacent to the Hydes. They had left town only an hour before the fire was first noticed. Dr. Grady was an oral surgeon who donated two weeks of his time and skills every year to a charity clinic in Peru. Despite repeated attempts to contact them at the remote clinic, they had not responded.

Dick Henna himself was waiting in a government car when the Gradys finally returned to the country, arriving from the airport in a boxy Mercury Mountaineer. Normally, the director of the FBI wouldn’t have been involved with an individual case, but there were two factors that demanded his personal attention. One was the president’s interest in the murder of one of his appointed sub-Cabinet level officials and the implications for the missing Medusa photographs. Henna had briefed the chief executive soon after Admiral Morrison dumped the entire mess on his lap. While much of the evidence was destroyed by the fire, the twin bullet holes in the charred skulls of both Prescott Hyde and his wife, Jacqueline, had galvanized the Administration. Henna’s other reason was his friendship with Mercer.

Soon after the story of the fire and execution-style murders reached the press, the Washington Post had reported the details of the Justice Department’s investigation into Hyde’s life, including rumors of a sale of highly classified documents to unknown parties. The Post didn’t have anything concrete on this last piece of information, but they were leaning heavily on their sources and it was only a matter of time before someone disclosed the existence of the Medusa satellite and the missing pictures.

The president wanted this solved quickly, faces put on the unknown killers and names to go with the faces. If the scandal broke, the president had already primed his pointing finger and wanted a direction in which to aim it. His Administration was still reeling over last year’s Alaska debacle, and was not yet strong enough to handle another embarrassment. The president told Henna to sew the murders up tight, deflect any inquiries away from his African Affairs secretary, and make certain this scandal wouldn’t return to bite them all on the ass.

The candy-apple red sport utility vehicle eased up the Gradys’ driveway. Both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties. His gray hair was thinning while hers was dyed blonde. They were tanned and appeared worn by their work in South America. Henna gave them a minute to gape at the blackened pit that had been the Hydes’ house before approaching the couple.

“It was arson,” Henna said bluntly. Both Gradys turned in unison and looked at him blankly. “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but Prescott and Jacqueline were shot in the head before the arsonist torched their house.” Now that he had their full attention, he introduced himself. “I’m Dick Henna, the director of the FBI, and I have a couple of questions for you.”

Five minutes later, they were seated in the Gradys’ living room. There were dozens of mementos on the walls from their children’s lives, culminating in framed diplomas from Georgetown set on a baby grand piano. Meredeth Grady was still weeping, for she and Jacqueline Hyde had been friends and golfing partners. John Grady had taken the news much more calmly, certainly not immune from the horrors of death, but as a doctor better able to hide it.

“As you can understand,” Henna said when he gauged Meredith ready to handle his questions, “the president is very interested in solving this case. He and Prescott had been close, as I’m sure Undersecretary Hyde had told you.”

“Oh, yes, Jackie was so excited when they were invited to the Inaugural Ball. I remember she talked of nothing else for months before and after.”

Henna had gone to one of the Inaugural Balls himself. He and Fay had decided after only an hour that they couldn’t tolerate the pretension and had gone to Tiny’s Bar on a lark, still in their evening wear. He remembered Harry White dancing gallantly with Fay to the tuneless music squawking from the jukebox’s blown speakers.

“The FBI and the Fairfax police have talked to everyone in the neighborhood except the two of you. We’re hoping you can shed some light on what happened.” Ballistics had come up empty on the slugs recovered with the bodies. “Did either of you see or hear anything the morning you left for your trip?”

Meredith leaned forward. “I saw a woman go into the Hydes’ house shortly before I left. I had never seen her before, but Jackie and Bill knew so many people I couldn’t keep track.”

“Could you describe her?”

“It was very early, still dark, but I remember she was young, early thirties I would say, and very pretty, dressed casually. I don’t remember what kind of car she was driving. She drove right up to the house, knocked at the door, and went in immediately. She left after just a few minutes. You don’t think she was the one? She didn’t look like a killer.”

Thank God for curious neighbors. “Would you recognize her again if I showed you some pictures?”

Meredith hesitated, and Henna knew why. In the age of political correctness, people felt obligated not to mention one thing when they described another person. “Was she black?”

“Yes, she was,” Meredith Grady breathed. “It’s not all that unusual. African-Americans showed up at the Hydes’ house all the time, you know, with his job and all.”

“Not all blacks are Americans. She could have been a real African,” Henna said. Meredith looked as if she’d never even considered a difference. “Would you recognize her?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” Meredith Grady didn’t have to say that most blacks looked the same to her. It was evident in her uncomfortable expression.

“Dr. Grady, did you see this woman?”

“No, I was at the airport already, clearing medical supplies through customs. Meredith met me just before our flight.”

Henna turned back to Mrs. Grady, “Well?”

“Maybe. I’d have to see a good picture of her. The only thing I remember distinctly was her hair. I saw it under the porch light before she entered the house. It wasn’t like most African-American women’s. It was longer and not extensions either; I can tell the difference. And it was tinted with henna to give it red highlights. Hey, your name and the dye, it’s the same word.”

Dick smiled. “Fortunately, the kids I knew growing up weren’t smart enough to make the connection.” From his briefcase he withdrew a file crammed with pictures. “I want you to take a look through these and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

Meredith took the thick stack and started going through them with a decisive flick, snapping each one facedown on the coffee table. The pictures were of female Mossad agents who had worked in the United States. A few were dark-skinned, and Henna hoped for a hit. She handed them back. “I’m sorry, but none of these women look even close.”

“That’s okay,” Henna gave her a smaller set of photographs. “How about these.”

“That’s her,” Meredith Grady cried, holding the picture for Henna to see. The photos were mostly of light-skinned black FBI employees he’d had taken to fill out the file, but one was something else entirely.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Henna pressed.

She studied the picture again. “Positive. She was the person I saw going into Jackie and Bill’s house.”

Henna’s gut gave an oily slide. Suddenly it was imperative that he reach Mercer. The picture was a blow-up from a State Department security camera. Even with poor resolution, it was unmistakably Selome Nagast.