by Stuart Woods
“Do you have any comment on the death of your Republican opponent?”
Will thought he had misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sir, perhaps you haven’t heard that Jim Winslow suffered a heart attack and died while jogging early this morning.”
Will stood speechless before the cameras.
“Will,” a young man said, elbowing the woman out of the way, “you obviously haven’t heard. To bring you up to date, just after six this morning a jogger was discovered, unconscious, on a North Atlanta street by another jogger and a motorist. An ambulance was called, and he was DOA at Grady Hospital. There was no identification on the body. Mr. Winslow’s wife went out looking for him at seven o’clock and reported him missing at seven-thirty, but there was some foul-up at the morgue, and his body wasn’t identified until just over an hour ago.”
“Well, I’m shocked,” Will said truthfully. “I didn’t know Jim Winslow well, but from all I knew of him he was a fine man. I was looking forward to facing him in the general election, if, of course, I win today. I can only extend my sympathy to his family and friends. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get inside and vote.” He made his way through the maze of equipment and up the steps of the Community Building, pausing to shake a hand or two along the way. Inside, he greeted a few locals who were there to vote, voted himself, and left the building. The cameras were on him again immediately.
“Mr. Lee, how do you feel about all the events of the past few days?”
“Well, frankly, I’m a little dazed. Sunday and yesterday were, of course, very crowded days for me—I think we made something like a couple of dozen stops yesterday in the Atlanta area—and that sort of schedule doesn’t afford much time for reflection. Of course, I’m very shocked to hear about Mr. Winslow’s death. I just hope that folks won’t forget that there’s a very important election today, and that everybody will get out and vote. Thank you very much.” He made his way back to the car and pointed it toward the airport at Warm Springs.
*
Will arrived at midafternoon at the Omni Hotel in Atlanta, where a suite had been reserved for Election Day. His parents were already there, manning phone lines to headquarters, where Tom Black was in touch with precinct captains all over the state.
“The turnout is low,” Tom said on the phone. “We might have expected that, I guess, but I thought it would be better, even with the news about Mack. Scattered exit polling gives us better than sixty-five percent so far, and it could get better when our people start to vote after work. Any way you slice it, Will, it looks like a milk run.”
“Yeah,” Will replied, “I wish I could enjoy it more. To tell you the truth, I’d rather have had Mack on his feet at the end and taken my chances with the vote.”
“The last polling we did, which was on Friday, had you three points ahead, with an error margin of four points, and that was a gain on early in the week. If it’s any consolation, I think you would have won anyway.”
“Well, thanks for that, Tom.”
“Word is, the Republican State Executive Committee is meeting this afternoon, but I expect it’ll be later in the week before we know who the candidate is going to be. Winslow’s death must have thrown them for a bad loop, but I can’t imagine they’d choose that clown Calhoun.”
“But he was their second choice last time.”
“Yeah, he was their last choice, too. They couldn’t be that crazy.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later. I’m going to try to take a nap; I’m still pretty bushed.”
*
Will surprised himself by sleeping until he was awakened by his mother at dinnertime. They ate well from room service, and his mood improved. It began to sink in that he was going to be the Democratic nominee.
At eight-fifteen, Tom called. “I’ve had all three television stations on the phone. They’d planned full election coverage from nine o’clock, but now, with the returns so one-sided, they’re badgering us for an early statement.”
“Suits me,” Will said, “but I think we ought to hear from Mack first.”
“You come on over here now, and I’ll get hold of his campaign manager.”
*
Will arrived at campaign headquarters to find a party in full swing. Nobody was even chalking up precinct returns anymore. He made his way through the crowd of campaign workers and supporters to the front of the room. Tom thrust a yellow sheet of paper at him.
“Call this a telegram. Mack himself dictated it to me five minutes ago. He sounded awful.”
Will read the concession statement.
“TV wants to go on at eight-fifty, so they can resume the network schedule at nine. I told them okay.”
“Good,” Will said. He passed the next few minutes accepting congratulations; then, on signal from a television man, he climbed onto a desk. “Thank you for being here,” he called out, quieting them. “First of all, I know you all join me in extending to the family of Jim Winslow our sincere sympathy.” He paused for a beat. “Now, I want to read something to you.” He held up the yellow sheet of paper. “I have a telegram here; it says: ‘I want to extend my congratulations to you, your mother and father, and all your campaign workers this evening. You have fought a fine and clean campaign and have won the right to represent all Democrats in the general election. Come November, you will have my full and unstinting support.’ It’s signed ‘Governor Mack Dean.’ ”
Will paused for a moment of pandemonium from the campaign workers, and as he did, he saw Kitty Conroy come out of her office and take Tom Black aside. Tom turned toward Will and drew a finger across his throat. “Cut,” he mimed.
“I want to thank you all here for working so hard during this campaign,” Will continued, wondering what was up, “and all the people across the state who have worked hard and contributed their hard-earned dollars to this victory.” He looked at Tom, who was giving him the “cut” sign again. “And finally, I just want to say that about this time on that Tuesday in November, I’m going to throw you a much bigger party than this!”
Will hopped down from the desk, embraced his mother and father, and, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, made his way through the television cameras and celebrants toward his office. Tom and Kitty were waiting for him there. Tom closed the door.
“Kitty just got a call from a friend of hers,” he said. “The Republican State Executive Committee has already agreed on their nominee for the Senate.”
Will was surprised. “They’re not even waiting until Jim Winslow’s body is cold?”
“Nope,” Tom said. “They don’t plan to announce it until after the funeral, but their nominee is the Reverend Don Beverly Calhoun.”
“Oh, shit,” Will said.
“There’s more,” Kitty said. “They’ve already scheduled his first campaign appearance. He’s conducting Jim Winslow’s funeral.”
BOOK THREE
1
When Will arrived at St. Philip’s Cathedral for the funeral of Jim Winslow, he could see why Tom and Kitty had persuaded him to come. As Will and his father got out of the car, it was immediately apparent that half the politicians in the state were there. Billy introduced him to a dozen people before they had left the parking lot, and in the vestibule of the cathedral, business was being done. Inside, the church contained a dozen members of the Winslow family, four television crews, and what appeared to be a joint session of the Georgia State Senate and House of Representatives. Seated next to the widow and her two daughters was Governor Mack Dean, looking frail.
Billy Lee broke away from a knot of legislators in the vestibule in time to accompany his son to a pew. “The word is,” he whispered to Will, “that Dr. Don is not going to conduct the service after all.”
“No? What happened?”
“Apparently, the Bishop took the chairman of the Republican party aside and explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that a self-ordained minister in the so-called Pentecostal Baptist Church, with a dubious doctorate from a re
dneck Bible college, is not entitled to conduct a High Episcopal religious service.”
Will tried not to laugh. “No kidding?”
“However,” Billy continued, “the party principals, over the initial objections of the widow, have prevailed upon the Bishop to allow Calhoun to do the eulogy.”
“Too bad.”
“If he promises not to come to the graveside.”
The service was glorious. There was pomp, pageantry, and incense; the Atlanta Boy Choir sang their hearts out; the Bishop contributed his personal reminiscences of Jim Winslow’s character, then introduced the Reverend Don Beverly Calhoun, representing the Republican party of Georgia, he added, dryly.
Will had never seen Calhoun in person, only on various talk shows, and he was interested to see that Dr. Don, unlike some public figures, was actually taller than he seemed on television. He was dressed in a very correct, severely cut black suit, a black necktie, and a gleaming-white shirt. Even the cuff links were muted. This was the man, Will remembered, who had been described by one columnist as having “the brains of a Pat Robertson, the preaching skills of a Jimmy Swaggart, the charm of a Jim Bakker, and the ruthlessness of a Jerry Falwell.”
Calhoun gripped the sides of the pulpit and took in his audience with one lingering sweep of the cathedral. “My friends,” he began, in a deceptively soft voice that ricocheted around the stone walls, “the task falls to me today to tell you not what Jim Winslow meant to his family and friends—that has already been beautifully done this morning. I have been asked to tell you what he meant to his party, his state, and his country—and I have been asked to be brief. That is difficult, when a man’s life has meant so much, but I will try.”
Calhoun shifted his weight and subtly intensified his voice. “Jim Winslow recognized better than most people the trouble our country is in today, after a succession of too many godless leaders, too many battles fought and lost, too many innocent children’s lives snuffed out in the abortion mills that disgrace our nation, too many inroads made by the Communists and the liberals and the so-called secular humanists, too many children’s prayers banned in our schools, while murderers and rapists and drug dealers are set loose upon our society by weak laws and liberal judges.” Calhoun paused.
God, what a sentence! Will thought. He noticed the Bishop squirming in his seat.
“And,” Calhoun continued, “if Jim Winslow had lived, he would have done something about it in the United States Senate!”
From somewhere in the back of the cathedral, a few people began to applaud, but were quickly shushed by others. The Bishop looked miserable.
Calhoun looked down at the pulpit until order had been restored, then went on. “And so it is left for those of us who remain on this earth to pick up that fallen torch and carry it on to glory! And so it is left for us to take Jim Winslow’s fight to every corner of this state! And so it is left for us to lead America into the light of a new day—under God!” Calhoun bowed his head for a moment of silence, then stepped backward and returned to his seat.
The boys’ choir burst into an anthem, and the pallbearers began carrying the coffin down the aisle and out of the church to the waiting hearse, followed by the Winslow family and Governor Mack Dean. From the front of the cathedral, legislators streamed down the aisle until the building was empty. By the time Will and Billy were outside, the hearse and the family had departed for the cemetery and a private graveside service.
“I’ve never heard anything like that in my life,” Billy said.
“Neither has anybody else,” Will replied.
A television crew materialized before them, and a reporter pointed a microphone at Billy. “Governor Lee, what did you think of today’s service?”
“I thought the Episcopal service was a fine tribute to a good man, but I must say, I thought Mr. Calhoun’s eulogy sounded more like a political oration, maybe even a campaign speech. You have to wonder if there’s something he isn’t telling us just yet.”
The reporter turned to Will. “Will Lee, you’re the Democratic nominee for the Senate. Do you think Dr. Don is going to be your Republican opponent?”
“That’s a matter for the Republican State Executive Committee, and I’m sure they’ll wait a decent time before choosing a nominee. After all, today is hardly a day for politics,” Will said, not too piously, he hoped.
They excused themselves and walked toward the car.
“This is going to be one hell of a campaign,” Billy said. “I’m not sure I envy you the experience.”
“I’m not sure I do, either,” Will replied.
2
Mickey Keane entered a steakhouse on Peachtree Road and found his lunch date waiting for him. “Hey, Dave,” he said, sticking out a hand.
Homicide Detective Dave Haynes shook hands. “How y’doin’, Mickey?”
They got a table near the bar. “I’m doin’ good,” Keane said.
“How you liking the work?” Haynes asked.
“Better than you might think. Pearl’s a decent guy. I’ve worked for a lot worse.”
“Why, I hope you aren’t referring to our beloved captain,” Haynes said.
“Nah,” Keane replied. “I never refer to him at all.”
“How are you spending your time?”
“Running leads.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the ads. Bet you’re getting a lot of trash.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. That was predictable. So what’s going on down there?”
Haynes looked around and lowered his voice. “Funny stuff,” he said. “Oh, nothing too funny, everything within bounds, just a teeny bit funny now and then.”
“So, tell me something funny.”
“Jim Winslow had a heart attack jogging,” Haynes said.
Keane stopped eating his salad. “What’s funny about that?” he asked, playing the straight man. “Guys drop dead jogging all the time, guys in perfect health and great shape.”
“Yeah, but those guys turn out to have clogged-up veins. Winslow’s veins were clean as a whistle.”
“So what does the medical examiner say?”
“He says some jargon that means every now and then a guy pops off because of some sort of freak electrical thing with the heart.”
“Why would a person think different, then?”
“Nothing big. Just too many little things.”
“Like?”
“Like, Winslow goes jogging every morning of his life at dawn, winter and summer. He’s well-known for it. Now, if you were going to hit Winslow, when would you do it? I’ll tell you; at dawn, when the paper boy has already been, and nobody else is up and about yet.”
“Tell me more.”
“Okay, there’s two guys find him. One is a neighbor, has to make an early plane at Hartsfield. But when this guy comes around the bend, there’s another guy there, with his ear to Winslow’s chest.”
“The jogger. A natural-enough thing to do. I’ve done it myself.”
“Okay, sure, but the jogger is wearing a hood and dark glasses. It’s a warm, humid morning. And then the jogger takes off in the neighbor’s car, calls an ambulance, and disappears.”
“So he doesn’t want to get involved. It happens.”
“I canvassed the neighborhood myself. The jogger doesn’t live there. Nobody around there jogs at dawn but Winslow. Joggers don’t go to other people’s neighborhoods to jog. They do it around home.”
“Did the neighbor give you a description of the other jogger?”
“Not much. He thinks, tall; the guy had a mustache. That’s about it; the guy was covered from head to toe in gray sweat clothes. Remember the hood and the dark glasses?”
“What was on the 911 tape?”
“The minimum. Man down, the address, ambulance. He hung up before the operator could get anything else. His accent is Southern, country Southern, but he enunciates clearly, like he’s been practicing a long time.”
“Like Southerners in the army, career guys, learn to do?”
Keane looked at Haynes with mock solemnity. “Course, you know, this is the wildest kind of supposition.”
“Funny, that’s what our beloved captain said.” Haynes put down his fork. “Oh, hell, I know it’s not enough to go on. I know it’s a political hot potato, that the department doesn’t want stories in the paper like this without some hard facts. But it ought to be enough for something more than a routine autopsy, for a top-notch forensic pathologist to be brought in. I mean, our loveable old ME ain’t no hotshot.”
“That would prick up the ears of the press,” Keane said.
“Yeah, I know, I’m just burned. It’s not the first time I’ve been warned off something because it’s too much trouble for everybody. Hell, I know a little about the allocation of resources and all that. But it burns me anyway.” Haynes looked at Keane, who didn’t appear to be listening, then followed his gaze to the television set over the bar. The noon news was on, and a group of men stood surrounding a lectern, from where the Reverend Don Beverly Calhoun was speaking.
“There he is again,” Keane said.
“Oh, yeah, they picked him for the Republican nominee. I heard about it in the car on the way over here.”
“Yeah,” Keane said, and repeated, “there he is again.”
“He’s always on TV about something or other,” Haynes said.
“That’s not what I mean,” Keane replied. “It’s just that for the past few months, every time I get interested in something, he’s around. His people had been picketing Manny Pearl’s bookstore right before Perkerson tried to wax Manny; then there were some of his people at the abortion clinic that day, demonstrating, when the doctor and his nurse caught it; and now you’re telling me that Jim Winslow just maybe got hit, and here’s Dr. Don again, popping up right on cue.”
“Why, Mickey.” Haynes grinned. “That’s the wildest kind of supposition.”
“Ain’t it?” Keane laughed. “But I’ll tell you something, Dave: I sure hate coincidences.”
“I know what you mean,” Haynes said, wiping his face and tossing his napkin onto his plate. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Keane, I’m going to get just as far away as I can from you and your far-fetched ideas.” He rose, and as he walked past Keane, he clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, Mickey,” he said. “We won’t be talking again.”
