A Simple Act of Violence

by R.J. Ellory

  It was an hour before Miller called the police from his cell phone. He sat with Robey throughout Sarah Bishop’s entire training routine. As she skated away toward the exit she waved again. Miller waved in return. They did not speak. There was nothing to say.

  The police department came, as did Tom Alexander. They bagged Robey’s body and put him on a stretcher. Miller sat and watched as they made their careful and circuitous way along the aisles and between the seats.

  After a little while Alexander returned, asked Miller if he was okay, did he need a ride somewhere?

  Miller shook his head. ‘I’m okay Tom . . . I’m okay . . .’

  Alexander smiled. ‘Gonna give you a citation for getting this guy, eh? Cop killer, you know?’

  ‘Sure they will . . . sure they will . . .’

  ‘You really don’t need a ride somewhere? I can take you back into the city.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve got my car. Just want to be alone for a little while.’

  Alexander nodded understandingly. ‘You take care.’

  Miller didn’t reply, merely smiled an exhausted smile, watched as Tom Alexander turned and made his way down toward the exit.

  Miller closed his eyes.

  He breathed deeply.

  He thought of the highway, of driving somewhere and not stopping. Highways were all the same. White lights came toward you, red lights went away. Just get on the highway and keep going . . . didn’t matter where, anywhere but here . . . horizon ahead, as far as the eye could see, as close to forever as he could imagine . . .

  FIFTY-NINE

  On the morning of Tuesday, 21st November 2006, ten days after the death of Catherine Sheridan, one week after the murder of Natasha Joyce, a Crime Scene Unit headed by Greg Reid accessed an office on Sixth Street, an office with windows that overlooked Judiciary Square. Beneath the floorboards of the office a canvas bag was found, within it a lightweight AR7 rifle. Ballistics confirmed that the bullet recovered from the cranium of Judge Walter Thorne carried the same land and groove markings as the test shot fired from the AR7 in laboratory conditions.

  There were prints on the gun. They were not John Robey’s.

  Despite the fact that gun oil present in the chamber and along the bolt indicated that the weapon had remained unused for many years, it was nevertheless confirmed that it had been fired the previous day. One shot was fired, from a fourth-floor office. The shot passed through the left-hand section of the French window in Judge Thorne’s office, entered his head behind the right ear, ricocheted repeatedly through his brain, and killed him instantly.

  They printed the gun and ran those prints through AFIS. There was no match.

  At ten-eighteen a.m. a FedEx courier appeared at the offices of the Washington district attorney. The D.A.’s secretary signed for receipt of a package of documents approximately five inches thick. Within the subsequent two hours the same package was delivered to the offices and chambers of the United States Chief Justice, eight associate justices, the chairmen of the House subcommittees on Foreign Affairs, Government Operations and Intelligence, eighteen further Congressman, twelve members of the Senate, the Secretaries of State for Defense and Justice, the head of the National Security Council, and the White House press office. Packages were also delivered to the senior editorial directors of the Washington Post, the International Herald Tribune, the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, and at the personal residences of the Washington section chiefs of Central Intelligence Agency directorates for Overseas Operations, Intelligence Production and Support Activities.

  It was said later that the central Washington secure network telephone exchange serving the federal triangle, Congress, the Senate, and much of the intelligence community, collapsed beneath the overload of calls. It was a rumor never reported, left unsubstantiated.

  At one-eighteen p.m. the body of an FBI agent named James Killarney was found in the car park overlooking G Place near Union Station. He appeared to have committed suicide: a single shot through the roof of the mouth, an exit wound the size of a fist and much of the contents of his head across the roof of his car. Undergoing standard identity confirmation procedure at the coroner’s office, he was found to possess the same fingerprints as those lifted from the AR7 that killed Walter Thorne. There was no powder residue on either of Killarney’s hands, nothing to suggest he had held either the .38 handgun that ended his own life, or the rifle that ended Thorne’s. Nevertheless, they had probative confirmation that Killarney had fired the gun that killed Walter Thorne. Both Thorne’s assassination and Killarney’s suicide were pursued no further.

  It was Tom Alexander who called Miller. Called him at home.

  ‘Atropine,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He poisoned himself with atropine.’

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘Comes from belladonna, you’ve heard of that?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it yes.’

  ‘Different variations of the same thing . . . they even give a combination of atropine and something called obidoxime to the military as an antidote to nerve agents.’

  ‘Tell me something, Tom,’ Miller said.

  Alexander paused, Miller could hear his hesitation in the silence.

  ‘How bad was it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How bad did he hurt?’

  ‘He took a serious amount, detective . . . a very serious amount. He knew he’d die. There was no coming back from this one. Speeded his heart up . . . that’s what it does, speeds the heart up. Basically his heart would have gone at eight, ten times the normal speed and then just collapsed. I can’t tell you how much he would’ve hurt . . . a great deal, I should think, but I don’t know for sure.’

  Miller didn’t reply.

  ‘You know why it’s called that?’ Alexander asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Atropine . . . why it’s called that.’

  ‘No,’ Miller said. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Named after Atropos, one of the three Fates. It’s Greek mythology. Atropos was the Fate who had the job of deciding how someone would die.’

  Miller closed his eyes. He could hear his own breathing.

  ‘I’ll see you sometime,’ Alexander said. ‘Figured you’d wanna know . . . about Robey, you know? That’s why I called.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom . . . I appreciate it.’

  The line went dead.

  Miller hung up the phone.

  Late Wednesday afternoon. Washington Second Precinct briefing room. Lassiter was present, as was ADA Cohen. Miller had not seen Al Roth until half an hour before the meeting. They shared few words. There were few words to share. Miller asked after Amanda and the kids. They were good. Happy to have him home.

  ‘John Robey did not exist,’ Lassiter said quietly.

  Miller looked at Nanci Cohen, then at Roth.

  Lassiter shrugged, tried to smile. ‘Of course, he did exist . . . he was a real person . . .’ He stopped, looked at Cohen.

  ‘That is the official line,’ Cohen said. ‘He sent some things . . . he sent documents to the entire fucking government. He sent papers to congressmen, senators, newspapers . . .’ Cohen paused, glanced at Lassiter. ‘And the United States Supreme Court—’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Miller asked. ‘The United States Supreme Court has barred the newspapers from reporting on any of this.’

  Cohen didn’t reply.

  ‘There will be a congressional inquiry—’ Lassiter began.

  Miller cut in. ‘It’s okay . . . I don’t need any explanations.’

  Lassiter and Cohen fell silent.

  ‘I’m going to take a week off,’ Miller said. ‘I want to take a week’s leave if that’s okay.’

  Lassiter was nodding. ‘Sure, sure . . . take a week, two if you want.’

  Miller stood up.

  Nanci Cohen rose with him. ‘The bigger the lie . . .’

  Miller smiled. ‘The more easily it will be believed.’

 
‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘About what? This case? Robey?’ Miller shook his head. ‘Nothing . . . that’s what I’m going to do. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t think it’s worth throwing any more lives away for this thing.’

  ‘I’d have to agree with you on that point,’ she replied. She reached out, touched Miller’s arm. ‘You take care, eh?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said. He turned, opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  SIXTY

  ‘As well as anyone who knew him,’ Miller said.

  Sarah Bishop shook her head. ‘It’s so sad,’ she said quietly. They were seated at the same table in the same gymnasium canteen where they’d first met.

  She looked different to Miller this time. She looked like someone with a past.

  ‘He was so young . . . I mean, he was so . . . he seemed fine, you know?’

  ‘Hereditary I think,’ Miller said. ‘Weak heart. I don’t know what to say. He was a good man . . . and he thought a lot of you.’

  Sarah nodded, didn’t speak. She looked down at the white envelope on the table, her name printed neatly across the front. The edge of the check protruded from the uppermost corner.

  Miller took a card from his pocket. ‘Three numbers on there. The precinct, my home, my cell phone. Anything you need, you call me. John asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you were okay.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense . . . I mean, in all the years I’ve known him I can’t think of ten times we’ve spoken. Never really had much to say for himself. I don’t even know what my parents are going to think.’

  ‘You can tell them he was a generous man with no family who wanted to support your hopes for the Olympics.’

  ‘You really think that’s the truth? I mean, I cannot think of any reason he’d want to leave me so much money.’

  Miller shrugged. ‘I don’t know . . . he didn’t tell me.’

  Sarah picked up the envelope. ‘Will you come with me?’ she said. ‘Will you come and tell my parents what happened? They didn’t know him. They are going to . . . like freak out, you know? They’re going to freak out completely when they see this.’

  Miller reached out and held her hand for a moment.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll come see your parents.’

  She smiled, looked away for a moment, and when she looked back at Miller there was something in her eyes, a moment of understanding perhaps, a moment of recognition.

  And then suddenly - like a ghost - it was gone.

  SIXTY-ONE

  ‘Hard work,’ Harriet said. ‘He’s hard work . . . but I think he will be worth it.’ She smiled, reached out her hand and closed it over Marilyn Hemmings’.

  ‘Tell me a man who isn’t,’ Marilyn replied. ‘They’re all long-term investments, doubtful returns.’

  ‘Take Zalman,’ she said. ‘Fifty-two years we are married and still . . . ach, I don’t know what to say. We do what we can, eh?’

  Miller appeared in the doorway at the bottom of the stairwell. ‘What is this?’ he said.

  Marilyn Hemmings raised her eyebrows.

  ‘See . . . he cleans up good doesn’t he?’ Harriet said.

  ‘What’s going on here . . . is this some sort of conspiracy . . .’

  ‘Enough already,’ Harriet said. She rose to her feet, walked towards Miller.

  ‘She’s a good girl this one,’ she whispered. ‘You have to be very stupid to mess this up.’

  Miller frowned disapprovingly.

  Marilyn Hemmings got up, straightened her skirt. ‘You ready?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s as ready as he’s ever gonna be,’ Harriet said. ‘So off with you . . . go have a good time, okay? I’ll be gone when you come back . . . if you come back.’

  ‘Harriet,’ Miller said.

  Marilyn smiled, held out her hand. ‘It was wonderful to meet you.’

  Harriet took Marilyn’s hand, held it for a moment. ‘The feeling’s mutual, my dear. Now away and enjoy yourselves . . . I have things to do.’

  Miller stepped forward, extended his hand to show Marilyn Hemmings the door, and walked her out to the car.

  ‘Nice people,’ she said.

  Miller nodded. ‘They are.’

  ‘She cares a lot about you.’

  Miller smiled, unlocked the passenger door and held it open.

  He walked around the front and got inside.

  ‘So where are we going?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘Going to eat, but I want to make a brief stop,’ Miller said. ‘If you don’t mind, there’s someone I want to see. It won’t take a moment.’

  Marilyn nodded. ‘Sure, of course.’

  They drove in near silence. It didn’t concern Marilyn Hemmings that Miller didn’t speak. It felt comfortable. That was all she could say. Being around him seemed to be comfortable all of a sudden.

  The death of John Robey was behind them, the better part of two weeks back, and things had happened, life-things, and work had continued, and the world had gone on without Miller for a little while, and he was due back soon. Miller had earned breathing space, and she had not called him for fear of intruding.

  He had called her that morning, almost perfunctory in his manner, but it was okay.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey back.’

  ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Okay . . . they’re okay. You?’

  A moment’s hesitation. ‘I’ve slept a lot.’

  That had made her smile.

  ‘I called . . .’

  Silence, but not awkward. Like he’d thought of what to say and then it hadn’t sounded right.

  ‘You did,’ she prompted.

  ‘Tonight. I wondered, you know?’

  ‘What I’m doing?’

  ‘Sure, what you’re doing.’

  ‘Why . . . you wanna go out or something?’

  ‘Yes . . . figured it would be good . . . you know, if you wanted to and everything.’

  She smiled again. It was like being asked to a prom.

  ‘I’d like that, Robert.’

  ‘You want to come here, or you want me to come get you?’

  ‘I’ll meet you . . . give me your address.’

  She wrote it down.

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Give or take.’

  ‘Give or take . . . okay. Later then.’

  ‘Later, Robert.’

  The call had ended.

  Now he sat beside her, driving the car, going someplace she didn’t know. Made a left, another left, three or four blocks and then slowed to a halt outside a large three-storey brownstone walk-up.

  ‘You want to wait here, or you want to come with me?’ he asked. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll wait here if that’s okay.’

  He left the car, keys still in the ignition.

  He closed the door and walked toward the steps of the house.

  Marilyn turned the key, got power for the radio, switched it on. She found a jazz station. Norah Jones. Someone like that.

  She watched as Robert Miller went up to the door. He rang the bell, waited, rang it again.

  A light came on back of the frosted pane centering the door.

  Words were exchanged before the door was opened. Middle-aged woman, in her arms a small child, couldn’t have been more than eighteen months old. The woman seemed puzzled, and then she smiled and nodded, and she turned and seemed to call back into the house.

  A child appeared - ten, eleven years old. Black girl, her hair tied back in symmetrical pigtails. She carried a Polly Petal doll. She held out her hand and shook with Miller.

  The child disappeared back into the house.

  Miller said something else, took an envelope from his pocket and gave it to the woman. The woman said nothing, looked like she didn’t know what to say.

  Miller reached out and touched the toddler’s cheek, a gentle moment, and then he turned and walked back towards the car.

  The woma
n watched him from the stoop.

  Miller got into the car, started the engine, pulled away.

  Marilyn Hemmings turned and watched the woman as she stood looking down the street, watching the car until they turned the corner at the end and disappeared from view.

  ‘Who was that?’ Marilyn asked.

  ‘She’s taking care of someone.’

  ‘You gave her what . . . some money?’

  Miller nodded.

  ‘How much?’

  Miller smiled, shrugged his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Who was the girl . . . the one with the pigtails?’

  ‘Just a girl.’

  ‘Natasha Joyce’s kid?’

  Miller turned and looked at Marilyn Hemmings. ‘Now how would I know where to find Natasha Joyce’s kid . . . that’s confidential, you know? Child Services an’ all that.’

  Marilyn Hemmings said nothing in response.

  Miller looked back at the road.

  ‘You are a strange man, Robert Miller,’ she said after some little while.

  ‘Strange is as strange does,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Sure, of course . . . now you sound like Forrest Gump.’

  ‘Life is like a box of chocolates . . .’

  She swung her hand sideways, thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t even start that shit,’ she said, but she was laughing, and then he was laughing too, and whatever had happened back there with the little girl and the woman on the doorstep, however much money Miller might have given her, it didn’t matter any more.

  After a while she asked him, ‘You wanna talk about what happened?’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘With Robey?’

  ‘Sure, with Robey.’

  Miller smiled. His expression was one of philosophical resignation. ‘That’s the point, Marilyn . . . nothing did happen.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’ll be there soon,’ he said. ‘Italian okay with you?’

  She hesitated, and then she said, ‘Yes, of course. Italian is fine.’

  He parked up ahead of a small trattoria with burgundy awnings, and through the wide front window she could see small tables and candlelit booths.

  He opened the door for her, and as she came out she looked up at him.