Primary Storm

by Brendan DuBois

  "All right, D-one."

  She tossed the microphone back in its cradle, shifted the cruiser into drive, and in a matter of seconds, we were on Atlantic Avenue, heading south. Six months earlier or six months from now, the roadway would be packed, each parking space would be filled, and the sands of Tyler Beach would be packed with almost as many people who were set to vote here the following week.

  But this was January. The road was nearly empty, and the temperature inside the car seemed to match the temperature outside.

  After a few minutes I said, "Anything else you want to say?"

  She looked troubled. "No, I'm afraid not."

  "You know why the Secret Service wants to talk to me?"

  "No," she said.

  I stayed quiet for a little bit, and said, 'Well, didn't you ask them?"

  She turned to me for a quick second, exasperated. "Hell, yes, Lewis. I asked them. Over and over again. And all I got was polite and federal push back. The attempt on the senator's life is a matter for the Secret Service, and the state police are assisting. I've been told by my own chief to cooperate, and that's what I'm doing. Getting your cheerful butt from your house to the station with a minimum of fuss. All right?"

  I thought for a moment and said, "The Secret Service has already talked to me. Two days ago."

  "Really?"

  "Truly," I said. "Came by on what he called a routine check. Thing is, I seem to be on a list of 'persons of interest,' to be interviewed before the arrival of a president or presidential candidate. He came by, made sure I didn't have a bomb factory in the cellar, and left. Ten, fifteen-minute visit, tops."

  Diane said, "Might be a routine visit then. Just to check your name off a list."

  "Sure," I said. "Routine."

  "Routine," she repeated, and as we pulled into the police station's parking lot, I was sure that neither of us believed that at all.

  Chapter Four

  At the Tyler police station, she parked in the rear of the fenced-in parking lot, reserved for police and other official vehicles, and she led me through the back door, where the on-duty dispatcher buzzed open the rear inner door after seeing Diane through a closed-circuit television. The building was the usual one-story concrete style of decades earlier, and one of these days, if the chief could convince three-fifths of the eligible voters in Tyler, he would get a new station built nearby.

  Sure. One of these days.

  We went through the booking room, past the empty holding cells, and through an open door marked INTERVIEW. A tired looking man with wavy black hair in a fine dark gray suit was sitting there. He stood up when Diane and I entered. There was a battered conference room table and four chairs, and the usual one-way glass mirror on the near wall. Diane reached over, squeezed my hand. "See you later, Lewis."

  "Sure, Diane."

  "Thank you, Detective," the man said in a quiet and firm voice. "Please close the door on your way out, will you?"

  She said nothing, but did as she was requested. I sat down. The man said, "Mr. Cole, I'm Glen Reynolds, Secret Service."

  "Nice to meet you."

  "Sure," he said, opening up a file folder. No hand was offered, and I wasn't offended. I had an idea of where this was going.

  "Mr. Cole, I'm looking for your cooperation."

  "All right."

  "You can imagine what we're up to, trying to determine who shot at Senator Hale yesterday, and why."

  "Yeah."

  "So I'm going to ask you a series of questions. All right?"

  I looked behind him, at the mirrored glass. I wondered how many people were back there watching us, and how many recording devices were listening to us.

  "Sure. That'd be fine."

  He grinned. "Nice to have a cooperative witness, for once in my life. All right. Mr. Cole, were you at the campaign rally yesterday for Senator Hale?"

  "I was."

  "And why were you there?"

  "As a favor."

  "For whom?"

  I gave him points for grammatical precision and said, "A lady friend. Who works for the senator's campaign."

  That brought a knowing nod from him. "Right. One Annie Wynn of Boston, Massachusetts. So. You have no particular political interest in the senator or his political positions."

  "Not particularly."

  That brought a smile. "If you're a New Hampshire resident who doesn't have much interest in politics, then you're one of the few I've met in my time here."

  "I'm sure."

  "So you don't have any grudge against the senator, or the United States government, am I right?"

  A brief snippet of memory of when I was with the Department of Defense, younger and less cynical, until a moment in the high Nevada desert, a training accident that took everyone's life save mine.

  "Fifty percent right," I said. "No grudge against the senator. Perhaps a grudge against the government."

  A knowing nod. "Your time in the Department of Defense. I understand."

  "I'm sorry, I'm not allowed to say anything about my time of service in the Department of Defense."

  He smiled again. "Really, I'm not interested in that particular part of your past. I'm interested in other things."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as your enrollment in Indiana University in Bloomington. When you were romantically involved with one Barbara Scott, a classmate of yours. Who later became the senator's wife."

  "And what's your interest?"

  He shrugged. "Just wondering... if you're jealous of the senator. For being with the woman you were once intimate with."

  "No. I'm not jealous."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. Agent Reynolds, may I ask you a question?"

  "Sure," he said, grinning. "I've been monopolizing the conversation since you've gotten here. Go ahead. Ask away."

  'Why am I here? I thought I had been cleared by the Secret Service agent who saw me two days ago. Agent Harris."

  "Agent Harris?"

  "Yes. Agent Spenser Harris. From your Boston office. He came to see me two days ago, since I'm on one of your lists... persons of interest, he said. He talked with me for a while and left. Said that everything was just fine."

  "Mr. Cole, like I said, I'm not much interested in your past. It's your present time that interests me. Especially what you were doing at the rally yesterday."

  "Again, why me? You're interested in me as a witness? Because to tell you the truth, I didn't see much when I was at the rally yesterday. I was there for most of the speeches and then I got sick to my stomach and went outside. Where I then promptly threw up."

  "Point noted," he said.

  "So why am I here?" I asked.

  "You're here because your presence at the campaign rally was reconfirmed, leading us to a few questions."

  "Reconfirmed? By whom?"

  Agent Reynolds's voice seemed to sharpen. "By our very dear and closest friend in the agency. Mr. Forensics."

  "Sorry, I don't understand. What do you mean, Mr. Forensics?"

  He went back to his folder. "Mr. Cole, do you own a stainless steel Ruger .357 revolver, serial number 468723698?"

  Something cold started touching the back of my neck and the back of my hands. "I do own a Ruger .357 revolver. I don't have the serial number memorized."

  "They never do. Well, let's get right to it, shall we?"

  "Let's," I said, now deeply regretting I hadn't called anybody before coming here.

  "Mr. Cole, have you lent or given away this revolver recently?"

  "No."

  "Have you sold it?"

  "No."

  "Then can you tell us why your revolver, with your fingerprints and your fingerprints only, was found on the floor of the Tyler Conference Center yesterday? With three unfired and two fired cartridges?"

  I said not a word.

  "Two rounds were removed from the stage wall at the conference center. Ballistics conclusively show that they were fired from your revolver. And you were there."

&
nbsp; "But I wasn't in the room when the shots were fired. I was out in the parking lot, puking up my guts."

  "You see anybody in the parking lot? Anybody at all while you were out there conveniently being sick?"

  “No."

  Agent Reynolds carefully closed the folder. "Are you sure you don't want to change any of your previous answers?"

  "Positive."

  "Because there's an opportunity you have, right now, to make everything right."

  "How?"

  "By telling me why you brought your revolver to the campaign rally yesterday, and why you tried to shoot Senator Hale."

  My hands were underneath the table, clasped tightly together. "I was at the rally, but I wasn't armed. And I didn't try to kill the senator."

  "And that is going to be your story?"

  "No."

  "Good," he said. "Now we're getting somewhere."

  "No, we're not, because you're not understanding what I'm trying to say. That's not my story. Those are the facts."

  He stared at me and then made a crisp nod. "Mr. Cole; in a few minutes we're going to place you under arrest for the attempted murder of Senator Hale. You're going to be transported from this police station to the county jail nearby, and from there, I imagine the nearest federal facility, which will be in Boston. It's your choice as to whether you will then wish to have representation. I imagine you will."

  "You imagine right," I said. "And you'll find out in a very short while that I had nothing to do with that shooting."

  "Why? Because you're telling the truth?"

  "Of course I am," I said.

  "Interesting thought," he said, standing up. "Especially since I'm stationed in the Boston office, and I've never heard of a Spenser Harris."

  Some hours later, I was in a cell at the Wentworth County jail, staring at the stainless steel toilet in the corner of my new little universe. While the processing in was efficient and proper, the ride over was anything but. After formally being placed under arrest and being handcuffed, I was quickly led out of the Tyler police station ---- not seeing Diane Woods in the process ---- and was taken to a dark blue van, pulled up to the entrance where I had earlier walked in as a free man. I was placed inside the van by two other agents, who carefully seat belted me in. We then left in a little convoy; the van was led and followed by dark blue Ford LTDs, similar to the one Diane drove.

  When we turned the corner of the police station parking lot, we drove through a phalanx of television cameras, reporters, and news photographers, all flashing their cameras, all taking notes, all sucking in bits of information. One of the Secret Service agents said, "Hey, you're famous."

  "Lucky me," I said.

  "Too bad the windows are tinted. Your face would be seen by half the planet in an hour or so."

  I didn't say anything more, and the agents also kept quiet on the drive west. We got out to Route 101, and along the way, I could see that the media interest was chasing us all the way along the state road. Other camera crews were stationed along the side of the road, and there was a moment, hearing the steady thrumming of an overhead helicopter, that I knew that live camera shots of this little procession were being beamed out to the insatiable cable news networks. Some people dream all their lives to achieve such fame.

  I've never been one of those people.

  At the county jail --- an old brick edifice, stuck out in the middle of a field in the small town of Brennan --- another group of journalists were waiting as we pulled in. Getting in was a challenge, as Wentworth County deputy sheriffs did their best to push aside the reporters in a manner that allowed an opening, but didn't allow the trusty guardians of press freedom to charge police brutality. Still, some got close enough that I could see their cold faces, almost pressed up to the tinted glass, as they tried for more photos and shouted more questions in my general direction.

  I said, "What are they thinking? That you're going to open up the door and hold a press conference?"

  An agent sitting next to the van driver laughed. "The nature of the beast. It demands to be fed. Doesn't mean it's logical. It just means it's a beast."

  And from there we went into a garage, and then through the booking area, and it was pleasurable to be standing up, handcuffs off, right up to the point where I was in my cell, alone, staring at the stainless steel toilet, just after making that always promised one phone call to someone far away.

  I got up from the bunk, walked around, and then sat down again. My belt was off and my footwear had been confiscated, leaving me with prison-issued paper slippers. My feet were cold. I stretched out on the plastic-covered mattress and waited, feeling okay, except that damn cold or whatever seemed to be coming back. Stress and lack of food, no doubt, but all in all, I had this serene sense of confidence while being held there. I guess I didn't expect to be in jail for long, for even if Agent Reynolds didn't believe me, I had been telling the truth. I hadn't tried to kill the senator. End of story.

  I put my hands behind my head. All right. End of one story.

  There was another story, about Spenser Harris, or the man who claimed to be Spenser Harris. Who in hell was he, and what had been his purpose in questioning me?

  So I stared up at the cement ceiling-almost as attractive a view as the stainless steel toilet-when a uniformed corrections officer came by.

  "Cole?" he asked.

  "That's right," I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over to the side.

  "Your lawyer's here," he said. "Want to go see him?"

  "Since I called him, yes, I would."

  I knew that the tide had turned when I was let out of the cell, for handcuffs weren't placed on me, and the walk was a short one. I was led into an office area and then a meeting room --- much better than the one at the Tyler police station- --- and I was pleased to see Attorney Raymond Drake was there, from Boston, a friend of Felix's and a mentor to Annie Wynn, and I was less pleased to see someone else in the room: Agent Reynolds.

  But Agent Reynolds didn't look so happy, so that improved my mood.

  I shook hands with Raymond and sat down. Raymond was smiling widely, I guess, at the thought and challenge of actually having an innocent client to represent, and a gold bracelet on his tanned wrist jangled a bit as he leaned forward. He was in his mid-fifties and owed a lot to Felix, back when he had ticked off one of Felix's relatives and was going on the usual and customary one-way trip out to Boston Harbor, before Felix had interceded. The conference room was warm, had no windows, but the chairs and table were almost brand-new, and there was a television with a VCR unit on a stand in the corner.

  Raymond said, "Just to bring everyone up to speed, I'd like to show this news footage again."

  Reynolds said, "There's no need for that. We can already stipulate that ---"

  It was like being in a courtroom, for Raymond had that demeanor, a man in his role and enjoying it fully. From the tabletop he picked up a remote for the television and switched it on, and once the blue screen came into being, he pressed another switch and up on the screen was the parking lot of the Tyler Conference Center.

  I'll be damned, I thought, and leaned forward to get a better view.

  The tape had a running digital readout on the bottom of the screen, denoting date and time. Besides the vehicles in the parking lot, it showed the side entrance to the conference center. I had no doubt what I was going to see next.

  There. A figure, stumbling out of the doorway. Looked familiar, though pathetic, and I watched the digital avatar of Lewis Cole come out a few steps, lean over and ---

  Well. Perhaps it's embarrassing to see oneself on a secretly recorded sex tape, but I would guess seeing oneself become violently ill for eternity ranks right up there in the embarrassment department. Still, I was happy to see it.

  Raymond held up the remote again, froze the image. "I know I've said it before, Agent Reynolds, but I still love saying it. Check the time stamp of the recording from this Boston television station. A full two minutes before the shots we
re fired inside the conference center. My client did not attempt to shoot the senator."

  Reynolds said, "Fairly obvious, but it doesn't explain how his revolver was used in the shooting."

  My lawyer turned to me. "Lewis, do you have any idea who shot at the senator?"

  "Nope."

  "Do you know how your Ruger .357 ended up at the conference center?"

  "Obviously, it was stolen."

  "Any idea when?"

  "No," I said.

  "Any idea by whom?" he asked.

  "No," I said, lying for the first time that day, which I was sure would disappoint the good agent, but I didn't care right then.

  Raymond turned back to Agent Reynolds. "There you have it, Agent Reynolds."

  He said, "We still plan to ask him more questions. Especially about that so-called Secret Service agent he claims visited him."

  "I'm sure," Raymond said, reaching into his coat pocket and removing a business card, which he slid across the polished conference room table. "And if you desire to do so, please contact me directly. You're not to contact my client without my say-so."

  Agent Reynolds picked up the card delicately, as if it had contagious defense attorney germs on it, and said, "I guess we're through here."

  Raymond shook his head. "No, we're not."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Agent Reynolds, I expect that within the next several minutes, you're going to hold a press conference out there to the main entrance of the county jail. You're going to announce to the world that the arrest of my client was made in haste, that he is not a suspect in the attempted assassination of Senator Hale, that all charges have been dropped, and that the United States government and the Treasury Department offer their deep apologies to Mr. Cole for putting him through this terrible ordeal."

  The Secret Service agent's face reddened. "That's not my call."

  "It better be, or we'll take action."

  Reynolds said, "What? A lawsuit? Go ahead and try. You won't succeed. Nobody ever succeeds in suing the federal government."

  My attorney said, "Who mentioned anything about a lawsuit? Here's a hint, Agent Reynolds. Look at my business card. Look at my firm's name. Consider I'm based in Boston, consider the contacts we have in the United States Senate and the House of Representatives. Wouldn't it be a marvelous coincidence if during the next budget cycle, your offices are slated for renovation, and that you have to spend the next two or three years in temporary offices ... say, modular trailers at the old Charleston Navy Yard? Wouldn't that be an amazing coincidence."