by Jake Aaron
Ralph’s journey out of youthful idealism was furthered by reading John Grisham’s novels. Brought up to believe in the red-white-and-blue, apple pie, and the “System,” Ralph was shaken to the core by the fallibilities of the cornerstone judicial system. That such a sacrosanct building block of a just nation could be tampered with or tainted pushed Ralph farther into the real world. Grisham’s fiction had more than a germ of truth, Ralph realized. It was painful. Thanks, though, John, for making me want to write and explore the real world, he reflected.
Ralph became more convinced he could write a best-seller that could spring from this plum that had just fallen in his lap. More worldly now, he knew it would be just like Norm Higgenbotham in the next cubicle at the Log to get a big yuck out of making him look ridiculous. Talk about a setback to his ambitions, he could visualize how silly he would appear acting grandiose while being pranked. He did not want to mishandle this potential opportunity, which seemed pure serendipity.
What to do? What to do? Ralph drank some more stale black coffee. He paced the floor, then sat down and enumerated all foreseeable options. He had to do something. His previous editor had counseled: “Work hard. Be first. Be Brilliant. But don’t screw up!”
Four cups of coffee and a double-shot of Grey Goose vodka later, he decided his most tenable course. He wrote down the message verbatim on a yellow legal pad. He debated whether he needed to reveal his mysterious source — “Custos.” Then marched to the editor to tell him about the text and his tentative plan not to surrender his phone. Martyrdom over refusing to reveal a source could be the capstone to capitalizing on his good fortune. Going to jail for not revealing a source, he knew, was the Heisman Trophy for a reporter.
If the source was real, Custos was clever, Ralph reflected. Not only was the recorded phone number likely from a throwaway cell, but he Custos also knew Ralph would not reveal the source in any way. Double insulation for the perpetrator of Congressman Zimmer’s demise, Ralph analyzed. Between the caffeine and the excitement of the moment, he knew it would be a sleepless night. Wow, what a buzz! He didn’t even experience the usual butterflies in his belly as he entered the editor’s room.
_______________
“Well done, Ralph!” The editor beamed at the prospect of an inevitable boost to circulation. “It’s not a headliner yet. Page one under the fold it is, but still could be a hoax… I take that back. We’ll headline it.” The almost universal decline in newspaper circulation caused everyone in the fourth estate to push the envelope to keep a job. Don’t even look for additional verification. Just get a jump on the competition. Currently employed editors with journalistic standards would soon join the unemployed.
“I’ve got a contact at the FBI,” the editor boasted. “I’ll vet it with him just as we’re about to go to press. Civic duty.” Civic duty and priming the pump for future favors, he grinned to himself. It’ll be too late to stop the presses, he calculated. “Can you hammer out the story in half an hour?”
_______________
Ralph was back in 23 minutes with his best writing ever, or so he thought. He exuded confidence and self-satisfaction. His editor’s smile became a frown as he read Ralph’s work. “Ralph, where’s the sizzle? Where’s the edge in this? Forget whatever you think about objectivity. We need to sell newspapers! Here, let me help you.” After a total rewrite, the editor said, “Okay, now we can go to press!”
As the newspaper was about to start its presses, the editor called the FBI. The editor had FBI Director Sam Vincent on speed dial.
Chapter 4
September 16
District of Columbia
FBI Director Sam Vincent rose early in his tony Georgetown home. It had been hard to get back to sleep after setting the Bureau in motion in response to the call from the editor of the Log. After an hour of tossing and turning, he surrendered to the adrenaline. He enjoyed an artificial egg omelette stuffed with veggies and cheese, topped with Sadie’s hot salsa. Next he savored a sliced orange, topped with sour cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. Then he carried his black coffee back to the bathroom to sip while he shaved. Post shave, he spread sunscreen over his face, ear tops, and neck. Morning ritual almost complete, he donned his two Widex hearing aids.
A passion for all things gun had left him with high-frequency hearing loss and annoying tinnitus. He wished, on one hand, that he hadn’t indulged in firing pistols and rifles sans ear protection as a kid, just as he wished he’d spent less time in the sun without a hat. On the other hand, the enjoyment of guns and the Colorado sun were the bedrock of his life. Not for naught, the guns had been a gateway to his cherished profession.
Besides helping him hear at least a semblance of the otherwise-missed f,s, and th speech sounds, the hearing aids paced his day. He liked the optional background rhythms of the three zen tinnitus programs that he could summon up one at a time with the click of a small button on either left or right hearing aid. Two adagio fractal chimes helped reign in his constant personal drive and aggressiveness. The fastest chime program took him up a notch to be ready for action. Sam tried to stay positive about the benefits of technology to offset his resentment of his dependence on it.
_______________
Sitting down at his desk at FBI headquarters an hour later, Sam selected the fastest chime mode of his hearing aids. He put artificial tears in his green eyes before replacing his gold Silhouette wire-framed glasses. The call from the editor of the Washington Log several hours earlier about Congressman Zimmer’s death set the stage for his Sunday. He prepared his mind for the day. In minutes, FBI Special Agent Zach Bridger and Special Agent Barbara Symanski of the Secret Service would arrive.
Both agents had been shaken out of bed several hours prior to their normal get-up time — definitely early for a Sunday morning. The Director of the Secret Service had approved Barbara’s being on loan as long as needed.
The meeting was at 6 A.M., on the heels of the Log’s headline: “Congressman Assassinated!” Careful reading of the accompanying story in the Log revealed the exclamation point in the headline should have been a question mark.
“You both probably know why you’re here,” the Director started. “It’s my pleasure to see you this fine morning — not so much under these circumstances. I know Zach. Barbara, you also come highly recommended. Zach, you’re the lead agent on this. Barbara, you are on loan to us as long as we need you in this matter. And, Barbara, don’t believe all that stuff about the FBI’s not playing well with others… You both will cooperate and report to me. Call me directly whenever you need help or if anyone gets in your way. We’re going to get to the bottom of this — find out what happened to Congressman Zimmer, see if our legislators are really in any danger.
“You can expect to see the FBI and the Secret Service working together in protection details if this threat pans out. As you know, all it takes to swing the Secret Service into this mode is a presidential executive order. Barb, you’re the vanguard from the Secret Service in any case. Take notes for your Secret Service colleagues who may work with us in the future. You’re sharp. Highlight differences in procedure, jargon, and whatever else you see needed.
“At this point, you know as much as I do. I don’t need to tell you both that we need to move out smartly on this. Was Congressman Mortimer Zimmer killed? Who is claiming credit for it? And if Zimmer was killed, is there a clear and present danger to other representatives? You can imagine the heat that I’m feeling… You’re not here for my therapy, but I just want you to understand the dynamics of the now-534 congressmen breathing down our necks for starters.
“One thing you should know. When the Log editor gave me a heads up, I asked him to contain the name of the sender and not publish it. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me the source, other than a text. In addition, I want a Chinese Wall around your investigation. No leaks. For now, nothing outside of us three with the overall picture. Need to know only, otherwise. Compartmentalize! Am I clear?”
Both investigators g
ave an immediate no-nonsense, “Yes, sir!” Zach felt simultaneously like the grown man he was and the young plebe at Annapolis he had been. Zach had deeply internalized obedience to legitimate authority; Barb less so. She was more inclined to challenge authority, but she knew how to play the game. Her Air Force Academy background gave her more license. She sensed, there’s something he’s not telling us.
“Now, get out there and keep the world safe for democracy!” the furrow-browed Director nearly cracked a sardonic smile. For all the life-and-death pressure he dealt with every day, there had to be some emotional outlet. Known for his stoicism and hard-nosed devotion to duty, he reluctantly allowed a glint of humanity that made him tolerable. His close staff loved him. The rest of the world, not so much. That was fine with the Director; he just wanted respect from his agents.
Chapter 5
September 16
FBI Headquarters
The two agents adjourned to a conference room in the Hoover building dedicated to their use. They walked into an austere room with blank white boards spanning the three walls away from the door. New blank legal pads, pens, pencils, markers, erasers, and scotch tape showed the efficiency of the executive staff and priority being given to this investigation. Four new computers were set up on the two end-to-end tables. Some functions of government work extremely fast and efficiently, even on Sunday.
“Very impressive!” remarked Barb. “The FBI could teach the DMV a thing or two.”
Ignoring the comment, thirty-four-year old Zach straightened his athletic six-foot-two frame. “I’ll be the lead agent. Is that clear?”
“So the Director said. That does seem logical. But so much for the FBI’s warm-and-fuzzy tact.”
“Look, Barbie, I’m all for getting along. I’m also for getting it done,” he glared at his attractive thirty-three-year old, five-foot-seven counterpart.
“Just for the record, Zach, I was first in my class at the Air Force Academy twelve years ago; so you can drop that condescending male-chauvinist-pig attitude with me… And I know you were near the bottom of your class at Annapolis.”
Zach dug in his heels, “You know what they call the last man in his class at the Naval Academy?”
Not backing down, Barb replied, “My first guess would be ‘Zach.’ My second guess would be ‘Ensign.’”
Zach smiled, “So I guess you and I won’t be doing drinks tonight?”
“You were quick on that one, Z-man,” Barb responded.
Zach grimaced, “For the record, I took my commission in the Marines, not the Navy. I started as a second lieutenant, not an ensign.”
Barb confidently offered an olive branch, “Maybe I got us off on the wrong foot. In my leadership classes at the Academy, they taught us to treat our people as peers until we needed to make a decision. That seemed to work well. What do you think?”
Zach asserted his authority, “I think this is the FBI, not the Air Force Academy. Don’t worry, I’ll listen to you. We’ve got a case to solve. I’m sure you’ll be a great asset to our team. Are you on board?”
“Of course… I’m here to make you look good. I want your feedback whenever I fall short. I want to improve — everyday,” Barb replied. Her words were compliant, but her tone was anything but.
Zach experienced deja vu of his Naval Academy years in numerous leadership positions. When in command, getting difficult classmates to respect his authority had been an ongoing challenge. He knew he had to give a little ground to Barb. His words softened his steadfast manner, “It’s all about solving the case, but we’ll make each other look good.”
There was a long silence overlaid with steely-eyed stares. Then each cracked a small smile. Barb was first because she knew she could lead this relationship. Zach was second because he knew he was in charge of the situation.
“Just so you know, Barb, the last man in my class is now a physician. US News & World Report named him among the top 9 family practice doctors in the country… Let’s get to work. There’s the Log headline on the white board:
TELL CONGRESS/SENATE: NO MORE BIG SPENDING. SPONSORS/FAMILIES OF UNFUNDED BILLS WILL JOIN ZIMMER.
“Appears to me the sender is claiming credit for doing Zimmer in,” Zach began. We’re awaiting autopsy results now. Mrs. Zimmer is a Reform Jew. With counsel from her rabbi, she okayed the autopsy to possibly prevent a similar fate for her children. Of course, she did that assuming natural causes before the newspaper headline. The autopsy was to be very thorough. My guess is that if she were Orthodox, there’d be a legal battle going on now over exhumation of an unautopsied body.
Anyway, we’ll also get DNA trace evidence from the bedroom and body. Let CODIS (Combined DNA Index System) do a little footwork for us. If someone has a criminal record or military service, they’re in the database. The problem with turning up the dial on tracing DNA with the latest technology is too many false positives. That bedroom, I bet, is a virtual potpourri of genetic material. We might find traces of the home builder, the carpet layers, and anyone else who’s ever been in the room.”
“The postman?” Barb offered, proud of her wit.
Zach looked at her as if she were a light-weight, secretly jealous that he hadn’t said it.
“I follow, Zach… We need to interview the reporter at the Log. What’s his name — Ralph Betzold? Expect him to clam up on the source. We can get that off his cell.”
“As you pointed out, Barb, I’m no rocket scientist — and ‘specially no poly sci guru, but it strikes me that the warning in the text is not very specific. I mean, what about all the routine legislative bills that run through Congress just to keep this juggernaut of a government in slow motion? Congress is the home of wiggle room. I can see that body proclaiming unfunded items as funded, moving fungible dollars around like peas in a shell game. Am I making sense? By the way, thanks for teaching me what fungible means.”
“Zach, I’d say there was a lot of wisdom in the terseness, putting myself in the texter's shoes. Kind of a shot across the bow, Sailor Boy, to warn a congresswoman in very simple terms she should not get cute — no kibitzing. Specificity might invite hair splitting and cuteness from legalistic-minded legislators. A broad warning creates anxiety and fear of action. A form of terrorism to paralyze Congress.”
“So, you want to go out with me?” Zach said tangentially. He laughed to himself. He knew his comment was wrong on so many levels: timing, compatibility, and all the perils of an office romance. In fact, he told himself, it’s just a joke — a pretty good one, in fact. Besides, its was a good counter-punch to her reprehensible superior attitude. Before she could reply, he cringed, if she says yes, I’ll have to back off. I need something clever for that. She is just quick enough to box me in. I hope…
“I’d rather be keelhauled, Matey.” She referred to the historic brutal naval punishment of dragging a sailor attached to a rope underwater across or along the keel of a ship. “And that’s worse than water boarding.”
“I’ll ignore that pleasant prospect. And for the record… again, these allusions you make about my naval career are way off base. I took my commission in the Marine Corps. Semper Fi, baby!”
“Look at the ring on your finger, Zach. You’ll aways be a swabby to me.” She referred to the slang term for a seaman. Said in her flip way, it sounded derogatory.
Zach rolled his eyes, “In any case, let’s move on to the sender of the message.”
Chapter 6
September 16
District of Columbia
Ralph Betzold was about to go out for his usual Sunday lunch gyro when the two agents arrived. The male agent was clean shaven and chiseled. The female agent looked like a model. Their good posture and crisp suits were a giveaway that the government was present. They made casual Ralph feel like a dishrag in his rolled up sleeves, wrinkled khaki chinos, loosened tie, and trendy stubble.
Barb wore a gray Ann Taylor pantsuit with an ecru button-up blouse and black Ecco pumps. She had a short but feminine hairdo. She wore
little jewelry: no earrings, no necklace, no wristlet, only a platinum US Air Force Academy class ring with a ruby star sapphire. Zach wore a charcoal Jos. A. Bank suit with blue necktie and black Johnson & Murphy dress shoes. Zach’s haircut was like that of a military officer. Zach had a gold US Naval Academy class ring with an aquamarine stone. Poster boy and girl for their professions.
Followed by curt introductions, Ralph recounted his timeline from receipt of the text to newspaper publication.
Zach posed, “So why you, Ralph?”
“I can’t think of any particular reason I’d be chosen over someone else. Probably my series of articles on the electric bus bill. Why the paper was chosen, likely the wide circulation… I would have made a joke about my fame in the industry. That’s not true, and you two don’t look like you want any humorous excursions.”
A stoic Barbara followed, “I’m glad you are aware of the gravity of the situation, Mr. Betzold. Can you think of anyone you know who would do this?”
“Not a soul.”
“Any chance someone is putting you on?” Zach quizzed.
“I frankly have racked my brain over that. Having been pranked before, I’m twice shy. I really don’t believe that’s a possibility here.”
Without hesitation, Zach came back, “I have to ask, did you make this story up?”
“No, I’m ambitious, but not enough to risk federal prosecution.”
“Will you take a polygraph, Mr. Betzold?” Barb shot.
“I have nothing to hide, but I need legal advice on that. Might give me insight into government tactics… Unlike a lot of my colleagues, I respect what you do for the country.”
“So, Ralph, how did you get the text? A cell phone, I’d suppose.” Zach chimed in.
“Yeah, my iPhone.”
“We’re going to need that, Mr. Betzold,” Barb followed rapidly. Alternating interviewers in quick succession was meant to keep the interviewee off-balance.
