by David Pepper
But another development did.
The morning after talking with Stanton, a dark gray Suburban with tinted windows idled a half-block down from my home. Definitely not from the neighborhood.
Then it was parked 100 feet from the Vindicator as I walked to lunch a few hours later. The rest of the day, it remained there.
Inside the safety of the newsroom, I went about my business like any other day. Given my sudden journalistic fame, my editors gave me a long leash to probe deeper. Time to find out everything possible about Majority Leader Stanton.
He lived large in the early years, rapidly rose through Congress, and enjoyed a growing reputation as a national star. Stanton’s name emerged on the short list of potential vice presidential nominees when President Johnson conducted her search. But in the end, the low perch of minority whip sealed his fate—compared to the senators and governors in the mix, it was not substantial enough to make the leap to the national ticket. A few Roll Call articles speculated that until Marshall retired, or the Republicans took over the House, Stanton had reached his ceiling despite his talent and ambition.
Stanton and his wife, Irene, raised three kids back in Philadelphia—one daughter now at Haverford, two sons who went west to college and never returned after graduating. But despite what looked to be an intact family, the gossip columns buzzed about Stanton’s reputation for womanizing, including preying on younger Hill staffers. A common trait in the cesspool of modern-day Washington, but rarely displayed so publicly by a man of his stature and ambition.
Overall, nothing about Stanton stuck out much.
Until two years ago, when two things changed.
While he always played the role of aggressive partisan, Stanton treated this past November election as his own personal crusade to win the majority. Just as he visited eastern Ohio several times to stump for Gibbs, dozens of headlines from around the country documented similar visits.
“Stanton Back to Tucson for Third Time.”
“Minority Whip Back in Peoria, Attacks Mayor.”
“Stanton Stumps in Colorado Districts . . . Again”
And so on.
My Toledo Blade contact confirmed that Stanton had dropped into northwest Ohio multiple times.
“Yeah, he came through a bunch. Spoke at the campaign kickoff in June, campaigned at Toledo’s Polish Festival in July, and then shook hands at the Defiance GM plant two weeks before Election Day. Absolutely ripped Tucker every time. Nasty stuff.”
In total, news clippings showed that Stanton campaigned in thirty-four districts over the fall, traveling to twenty-six of them at least twice. But as in Toledo, he started way before that. Stanton had proactively recruited a number of the candidates in the first place and had begun steering dollars their way before anyone else was even paying attention. A check from his leadership PAC had been the first contribution that twenty-four of the thirty-four candidates received.
On closer inspection, all but three districts Stanton visited were Abacus districts. (The others were a pair of districts neighboring his in Pennsylvania, and one in New Jersey, right across the river from Philly.) This was not a complete surprise, as Abacus occupied the same contested turf that any strategist would target for pick-up opportunities. Still, the overlap was uncanny. Especially since House tradition frowned upon blitzing fellow members in their own districts. But at least in the Abacus districts, Stanton ferociously attacked long-time colleagues. Outside of those districts, he left his colleagues alone.
After the election surprise, several newspapers credited Stanton’s effort as the key to the November surprise. The Arizona Daily Sun wrote that not since Newt Gingrich’s “Contract with America” campaign did one House member so aggressively campaign for his colleagues across the country. And the conservative Washington Times, echoing the spin of the minority whip’s press shop, ran front-page photos of twelve of the freshman winners. The headline above the beaming faces declared: “Team Stanton.”
The step up from minority whip to majority leader, and the pivotal role he played in helping so many win their races, now fueled growing Stanton presidential hype. He would be one of the front-runners, the talking heads all predicted. And he was already traveling to Iowa and New Hampshire.
Add it all up, and Stanton had enjoyed one hell of a year—politically.
But that was offset by a terrible run of luck personally.
A Washington Post obituary quoted Stanton praising the famed lobbyist Oliver Ariens after his fatal heart attack two years ago. An article a few days later described how shaken the usually stolid whip had appeared as he delivered the eulogy for his closest confidant.
And of course, Stanton’s name appeared in numerous articles following the brutal murder of his young research aide in Rock Creek Park. I remembered the crime but I had forgotten the victim worked for Stanton.
Some inside-the-beltway columnists connected Stanton’s run of personal tragedy to his spirited campaign for the House, which began not long after the Simpson killing. The close-up view of mortality energized him to make his mark, they speculated.
Psychobabble.
Snyder. Kelly. Untimely and mysterious deaths of those who had stumbled across the Abacus plot.
Now two more odd deaths. Both connected to a man who also was connected to Kelly’s demise.
With all this information to chew on, giving Stanton a reason not to talk to me again had been a mistake.
* * *
I dialed Scott as I left work, walking from the Vindicator building to my car, parked in a surface lot a block away
“Hey Dad, how’s the story going?”
Having seen or heard a number of my interviews, Scott had been warming up to my breakthrough. For the first time I could remember, he was watching his dad do something that felt important.
“Going fine. Amazing that the politicians are willing to ignore the fact that the election was basically stolen.”
“I know. People are even talking about it . . . Dad?”
I hadn’t heard anything else he said.
As I approached the parking lot, the Suburban from earlier in the day sat about sixty feet away, up a side street. I kept walking at the same pace, pretending I didn’t see it.
“Dad?”
“Scott, this may be starting to get serious. I don’t want to worry you, but I think I’m being watched by someone.”
“Shit. Be careful. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing for now. Gotta go.”
I opened the car door and eased into the seat. I drove the fifteen-minute route home, checking the rear-view mirror every thirty seconds. The Suburban trailed the entire way, careful never to close within 100 feet, but also never letting me out of sight.
I pulled into the garage and walked into the kitchen. Through a translucent curtain that covered the kitchen window, I looked both left and right. The Suburban never appeared.
“All good,” I texted Scott. Although it wasn’t.
Chapter 37
PENNSYLVANIA: 90 days after the election
Lee Kelly sped due east about twenty miles south of the hilly outskirts of Pittsburgh. An orange sun rose up from the horizon, straight ahead, almost blinding him as it morphed from a shiny thin line to a dim half circle, to a full and beaming sphere. He pulled down the driver-side visor and squinted uncomfortably as he cruised along I-70.
Having taken this route as a congressman so many times, he almost forgot to stay left when I-76 split away to the east, while I-70 cut down through Maryland and on to Washington. But he swerved at the last minute to stay on course. An hour later, he passed just south of Harrisburg, and by 11:15, the imposing Philadelphia skyline rose in the distance.
Kelly didn’t know what he would find but was determined to take a close look. Having served on the Government Operations Committee of the House, Kelly had mastered America’s
voting infrastructure over the years. That’s why what he learned in Monroe County piqued his curiosity, and why last night’s online research further raised his suspicion about Abacus and its recent activity. Might as well visit in person.
And if he had time, he’d see if his old friend Stanton was in town. He shouldn’t have let the campaign get so personal. Time to make amends. So along with catching up with a few ex-aides while he drove, he had checked in with Stanton’s office as he drove. He had chatted with the congressman’s assistant for a few minutes, who mentioned that Stanton was in the Philly office that day and might be available later.
Kelly arrived at the city’s run-down warehouse district a few minutes before noon and pulled into Abacus’ headquarters. The lot bustled with activity. A steady stream of workers walked back and forth from the main entrance, carrying what looked to be personal effects to and from cars and vans in the parking lot. Larger trucks and vans sat outside, and even more personnel lugged equipment and boxes into the building.
Never shy, Kelly parked his Escape in one of the few empty spaces and walked into the main entrance. Once inside, more of the same: boxes everywhere, people scurrying about. The lobby he entered looked to be a typical reception area, a desk at its center. But behind the desk, a large sign that said “Abacus” lay sideways on the floor. Another, emblazoned with the familiar logo for the Diebold company, hung on the wall.
“May I help you?” a woman asked from behind the front desk, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.
“I’m former Congressman Lee Kelly. . . .” She wouldn’t recognize his name, but maybe the title would intimidate her.
“I’m curious as to what is happening here,” Kelly said. Only a few months removed from Congress, he made the statement as if at a hearing, entitled to answers.
“This company has been sold,” she said.
“Abacus has been sold?” he asked.
“Yes, it has.”
“So Diebold bought Abacus?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you. This is private property; please leave,” she said. As she spoke, she reached down below the desk.
Kelly ignored her. He casually sauntered about ten feet to the left, past her desk, toward an open hallway. Two men carrying boxes walked past him as he did so. He shot a quick glance down the hallway, trying to get a better feel for the place.
To the right of the reception desk, a tall man appeared from another hallway. Dressed casually—jeans, sweatshirt, baseball cap—he and the woman whispered back and forth for five seconds.
“Excuse me, Congressman. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.” The man spoke with a foreign accent.
Kelly turned back to both of them, ignoring the demand.
“Exactly what is going on here?” Kelly asked. He slowly walked back to the desk.
The man responded.
“Abacus was sold. The old staff is moving out, and the new staff is moving in. You will have to leave now.”
“I’m sorry, I have some more questions.”
“Sir, you have asked your questions. We have answered the ones we will answer. It is time for you to go. If you do not leave, I will be forced to call security.”
This was as far as he was going to get. Not wanting a confrontation, he turned to the exit doors and walked out. But he didn’t go to his car. Instead, he walked to the side of the building, and then to the back.
The whole scene looked like an escape, only confirming his suspicions. He snapped about a dozen photos with his phone.
After another fifteen minutes of looking around, he again picked up his cell phone. But this time, he made a phone call. No one picked up, so he left a message.
He’d have to fill him in, in person, back in Ohio.
The former congressman walked back to his car.
Chapter 38
YOUNGSTOWN: 153 days after the election
The damp grass seeped through every part of my sweatpants and windbreaker, but I still didn’t move. For twenty minutes.
After a quiet weekend, the neighborhood was starting to get up. Outside of four cars, two joggers and a woman walking her dog, there was no sound but that of my own heavy breathing. And no one had noticed as I snuck through neighboring backyards to get to the spot where I now lay.
The Suburban sat only thirty yards in front of me.
As darkness gave way to early dawn, I crawled out from behind some bushes and removed my phone. I lifted it, zoomed in on the license plate, and pressed the button.
Damn!
A sudden bright light flashed, blinding me for a few seconds. The dim morning light had triggered the phone’s flash as the picture snapped.
Seconds later, the passenger-side door opened, with the driver-side door following suit. Two men—both tall, one thin, one stocky—scrambled out of the car and jogged my way.
I was gone before they got close. Five minutes later, I was back home.
The Suburban trailed me once again all the way to work. When I pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts, it drove past and around the block. As I drove away, coffee in hand, it pulled around and once again followed from behind.
Once at my desk, I dialed Bill Santini.
“Chief here.”
Santini was now chief of the Youngstown Police Department, but I had first met him in his early days on the force. Bill had been a great source over the years, and I had generously rewarded that with glowing coverage as he rose through the ranks. Building mutually beneficial relationships is the heart of a reporter’s trade.
“Billy, it’s Sharpe. I need to ask for your help. I’ve got myself deep into a story, and am being followed.”
“Want us to come and talk to whoever it is?” Santini asked.
“No need for that. Yet. But I have the license plate, and would love to know who it is.”
“Sure thing. Go ahead and give it to me.”
* * *
As far as deaths go, the demise of Ariens and Simpson appeared perfectly straightforward on the surface. After all, heart attacks and violent muggings occur on a regular basis in any major city.
But so do car accidents, and both Kelly’s and Snyder’s were highly suspicious.
So I took a closer look at the researcher and the lobbyist who had died only months apart.
Finding anything on Simpson proved difficult. A bright young woman. Intellectual with a hard edge. Attractive. Well-liked. At least that’s what the obituaries in Washington and St. Louis said. But other than that, a scant paper trail of information.
But then I remembered a trick a young reporter had taught me a few years back. Eerily, Facebook and LinkedIn pages remain online years after someone passes away. Twitter posts as well. And since millennials record everything they do online, those social media platforms leave a daily journal of their activity to be scrutinized, even after death—an information-packed online graveyard.
While I didn’t have my own account on either LinkedIn or Twitter, I knew how to search the former, and signed onto Twitter under the Vindicator’s account. Nothing resembling or mentioning Simpson appeared on either platform.
I did have my own Facebook account. Signed up years ago, mainly to keep up with Scott when he moved away. When I first joined, old friends from high school and college had reached out with great excitement. But the flurry of conversations died down after a few months, and those rekindled relationships returned to their prior status—completely dormant. So I rarely access Facebook anymore.
Still, I kept my account and now logged on. In the search box, I typed in the words “Joanie Simpson.”
Dozens of entries popped up on his screen. Photos of Joanie Simpsons of all shapes, sizes, hues and ages, from all over the country, were stacked one on top of the other. For pages.
On the fourth page, the fifty-second Joanie Simpson looked like the photo from the Post obi
tuary. So I linked to her page. And there she was: Joanie Simpson. Hometown, St. Louis, Missouri. Born April 18, 1992. Single. Worked on Capitol Hill.
The most recent entry on her wall was seven months old. A dozen posts on the same day. Remembrances: “We miss you, Joanie.” “We love you.” “I think of you every day.” “We know you are with the Lord.” And a few shared images of flowers. It was the first anniversary of her death.
A year of spam followed below. Exactly why I had stopped using Facebook.
I scrolled past those, all the way down to the next frenzy of activity—the week of Simpson’s death. Hundreds of entries captured a network of friends and colleagues responding in collective shock, in reverse chronological order, to the investigation and brutal murder that preceded it. An emotional mix of heartbreak and anger on full display.
“Glad that scumbag got what he deserved.”
“He’ll rot in hell.”
“Great job D.C. police. Glad that motherfucker’s dead!”
“Joanie, they got him. RIP!”
All those posts appeared the Wednesday and Thursday after she died and after the papers detailed the Rutherford shoot out.
Below those messages came two days and two hundred posts of condolences and regrets.
“Joanie, we will miss you forever.”
“I loved every moment we had together.”
“Best friends forever!”
I scrolled through six pages of these messages, back to the moment when the outpouring began: the Monday afternoon when her colleagues and closest friends first learned that she was the Rock Creek victim.
Before that Monday, her wall was quiet all weekend. A single post mid-day Saturday asked Simpson if she was heading out that night; the friend, of course, was unaware that at that very moment, she lay lifeless in the bushes of Rock Creek Park.
And right below that came Simpson’s final post. A photo posted on Friday at 9:48 p.m. Her arms draped widely over two other girlfriends’ shoulders at what looked like a dance club.
