Murder in the White House

by Margaret Truman

  It was two o’clock before they removed the body. The President had asked Ron to stay while the Secret Service men and the FBI agents—joined for a while by two homicide detectives from the Metropolitan Police—did the mechanical, routine things murder investigators did. They did it all with Blaine’s body still slumping—stiffening, Ron supposed—in the chair.

  He sat now with the President, and with Gimbel in the room, talking quietly and watching.

  Blaine’s body began to turn pale. When Ron first saw the body, Blaine had looked alive, as though he might look up and laugh—as though he might put his head back on, so to speak. But after an hour, what sat in the chair was conspicuously a corpse, what remained of a man after the life was gone and much of the blood was drained out of him. The investigators worked around Blaine. They didn’t cover him. They took photographs, they dusted for fingerprints, they ran a vacuum all around the room. They worked with a self-conscious, artificial briskness—the pose of official investigators. Ron went out to the bathroom, but he still had to return.

  The President watched and said little. Gimbel said almost nothing. The investigators told the President what they learned.

  “His throat was cut, sir. Probably with a wire. Probably someone sneaked up behind him, dropped a loop of fine wire over his head, and pulled. The wire was fine enough, and strong enough, to cut through, so he couldn’t call out.”

  “Where’s the wire?”

  “Gone. Whoever did it could tuck it in his pocket and walk out, easy.”

  “Why wouldn’t a wire that cut his throat have cut the hands of the man who used it?” Ron asked.

  It was a Washington homicide detective talking… “Maybe he wore gloves, sir. Probably used a handle of some kind. All it would take would be a stick, a long bolt, even a ball-point pen.”

  “Did you ever see a murder committed that way before?” Ron asked.

  “Yes, sir—once. They teach that technique in the military. You can shut up a sentry that way.”

  Blaine had apparently been talking on the telephone—to whom, would probably be an important question. Someone had come in—or maybe someone had already been there with him. Someone could have gotten behind him if he were not paying attention. Or, maybe someone he knew had stood behind him. Killing him had taken one very determined person only a few seconds.

  “Why?” the President said. “Why?”

  “How strong a man would it take to do it?” Gimbel asked the detective.

  The man shook his head. “Not very strong, sir,” he said. “It’s a pretty easy way to kill someone. It doesn’t take much strength or much ingenuity—just the… determination to do it.”

  The President spoke quietly to Ron and to Gimbel. “It had to be someone who could come in here without being challenged by anyone. It had to be someone who could move unchallenged in the White House in the middle of the night.”

  “Or we’ve got one incredible lapse of security,” said Gimbel.

  The President shook his head. “No. It had to be someone who could come to the second floor…”

  “Another night,” said Ron, “that would be a very limited number. Tonight, with your return from Europe… some of the senior staff were here… some of Blaine’s staff too.”

  “We have got to know why,” Gimbel said grimly. “It could have been too damn many people. Until we know why…”

  “White House…” muttered the President through clenched teeth. “Someone inside. Tomorrow… goddamn newspapers, television… inside the White House, for God’s sake…”

  “We’ve got to release the story,” said Gimbel. “He’s been dead three hours…”

  The President sighed heavily, looked at Ron. “I had some kind of hope that maybe the investigation would come up with something so that when we announced it we could say we knew who did it—or at least we had a suspect. I suppose we’ll be criticized for not announcing—”

  “Not necessarily,” Ron interrupted. “It’s accepted investigative procedure to hold the story for a few hours.”

  The President stood. He seemed suddenly to have shaken off the shock that had subdued him. He nodded decisively toward the door, and Fairbanks and Gimbel followed him out of the Lincoln Sitting Room. The passageway was blocked by a knot of investigators—one scribbling in a small notebook. They jostled each other to make way for the President, but he turned abruptly into the Lincoln Bedroom. He switched on the lights and closed the door.

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation?” the President asked. He looked around the room, then chose to sit on the edge of the ornately carved Victorian bed.

  “Well, it’s a Secret Service operation first,” said Gimbel. He sat on a chair facing the President. “Of course, the FBI… And the Metropolitan Police…” He frowned. “Too damn many.”

  The President nodded.

  Ron stood uneasily beside Gimbel, resting a hand on the back of the chair Gimbel had chosen. “It needs a coordinator,” he said.

  “Right,” said the President. “Lansard Blaine is dead, and that’s reason enough for a thorough and efficient investigation… God, I don’t want to sound callous—particularly not tonight—but do you realize what this could do to us?” He shook his head. “The murder of Blaine could bring down this administration. I mean, literally. We could lose every bit of political power we have, every bit of moral authority… We could be left with congressional government. And as for reelection… This investigation has got to be complete and quick. What’s more, it’s got to look as good as it is… thorough, effective. And there can be no suggestion in it anywhere that anyone is beyond it. That anyone is being protected. Including me…”

  “Lyndon Johnson appointed the Chief Justice to head the investigation into the assassination of Kennedy,” said Gimbel. “Take a man like Judge Frost. Appoint him coordinator of the investigation—”

  “No,” said the President emphatically. “I’m not going to pass it to someone outside. It’s an executive problem. It belongs here. Unless I’m a real suspect myself, I want to command the investigation personally. But I obviously can’t give it all my time…”

  Gimbel shrugged. “I can handle it for you.”

  The President looked up at Fairbanks. “I’m thinking of Ron,” he said.

  Fritz Gimbel looked up over his shoulder at Ron Fairbanks standing behind him. “Ron doesn’t… have enough designated authority—”

  “I’ll give it to him,” said the President. “I’ll give him command over all the investigative agencies involved. I’ll give him subpoena power. He’ll coordinate the entire investigation through his office. Ron?”

  “I think the idea of a single coordinator is fine, Mr. President. I’m not sure, though, that I’m the one who should have that authority—”

  “I disagree,” said the President. “I was thinking about it… in there. You’re young. You’re a lawyer. You’ve been around here long enough to know the moves, and you’re not politically dependent on me or beholden to me. Hell, you didn’t even want the job at first. You and I know each other pretty well, Ron. I think I can trust you, you know what I want.”

  “You want a tough investigation, with some—”

  “Sensitivity,” the President finished for him.

  Fairbanks shrugged. Murder and sensitivity. An odd couple.

  The East Room, Wednesday, June 13, 10:00 AM

  It was the first news conference in the East Room, and someone had already suggested it was inappropriate for the President to face television cameras, radio microphones, and a hundred fifty excited reporters there. Ron Fairbanks knew why he had chosen it. To face the world and talk about a murder in the White House, the President needed all the dignity his office and the Mansion could provide.

  It was a subdued crowd assembled on the chairs brought into the East Room since the decision at eight o’clock to hold the news conference there. The White House News Office had issued the announcement of Blaine’s murder at 3:00 AM. Nothing since. The President’s
morning appointments had been cancelled, but only those he was to meet had been called; the News Office had not even issued a statement that the announced schedule of appointments had been cancelled, Ron Fairbanks had gone home, had a few hours sleep and a bath, and returned to the White House at eight—without receiving a single call. He waited now in the Green Room for a word with the President before they entered the East Room together—with a sense that he might be enjoying the last moments of privacy he would know for… who knew until when?…

  In his own West Wing office, in the two hours he had been there this morning, he had only begun to glean the magnitude and complexity of the job he had been given. Curtis Burke, Director of the FBI, had not concealed, during a twenty-minute meeting, his irritation at finding himself subordinated to Ronald Fairbanks in the investigation of the Blaine murder. (“I am curious, frankly, as to what you think your qualifications are.” “My principal qualification, frankly, is that my name is in the Executive Order Number 2159.”) The Attorney General had been cordial; he offered staff assistance and an office at the Justice Department. Fairbanks had accepted the assignment of two Assistant Attorneys General as his temporary assistants, and he had asked the two to set up a supplementary office for him—as the Attorney General had suggested—at the Justice Department. Fritz Gimbel had come in to pick up pending files and to tell him he could have two secretaries and an additional office in the West Wing. The Secret Service gave him a code name—“Hotshoe”—and put him under protection. Executive Order No. 2159 was signed by the President during the morning, and a signed copy was brought to him. Lynne stopped by—looking shaken; in fact, near trembling—and told him “everything” depended on him. Terrific news….

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.”

  Ron Fairbanks followed the President into the East Room and took a chair at the table where the President stood and faced the microphones. He was the only other person at the table.

  “As all of you know,” the President said—he spoke somberly and very slowly, gripping the podium as no one had ever seen him do before—“last night… about eleven-thirty, Secretary of State Lansard Blaine was found dead… in the Lincoln Sitting Room… here in the White House. The circumstances of his death compel us to conclude that he was murdered. A very thorough… investigation has been underway since the discovery of the body. The Secret Service, the FBI, and the Metropolitan Police have worked all night. At this hour they do not yet have a suspect.”

  The President’s face glistened with sweat. The strain was also obvious in his voice.

  “Before I say anything more… I want to say that Lansard Blaine was my friend. He was a man of outstanding abilities. Before he became Secretary of State he had already made an honored name for himself as a student and teacher of American foreign relations. He made an outstanding record as Secretary of State. It is no secret to you that he was under consideration for the Nobel Peace Prize. Personally, I think he should have it. The world has lost an able peacemaker. The nation has lost a great public servant. And I have lost the irreplaceable… a friend.”

  He spoke without notes. His emotion seemed wholly genuine. The news people sat in respectful silence.

  “As President—and as a friend of Lansard Blaine—I am determined that we will find out who killed him and why. For that reason I have this morning signed an executive order, creating the office of Special Investigator and giving that office extraordinary powers to direct and coordinate the investigation into the murder of the Secretary of State. I have appointed as Special Investigator the man who is sitting beside me—Ronald Y. Fairbanks.” He stopped and for a brief moment stared thoughtfully at Ron. People in the back of the room stood to look over their fellows and identify Fairbanks. “Ron Fairbanks has served in the White House as Special Counsel from the first day of this administration. He is a Californian, an honors graduate of Stanford. He was a law clerk to Justice William Friederich, and he has served in the White House while on leave from the Washington firm of Harrington & Hoy. I have complete confidence in Ron. He will direct and coordinate the work of the Secret Service, the FBI, and any other investigative agency that may become involved in the effort to solve this crime, to bring the killer to justice. I have given him full special powers, to see any file or other evidence, to question anyone, and to issue subpoenas. His instructions are to find out who killed Lansard Blaine and why—no matter where, or to whom, the investigation may lead.”

  The President paused again, glanced at Fairbanks, then at his watch. “We may be able to answer some questions.”

  “Mr. President!”

  “Mrs. Coughman.”

  “Mr. President, can you tell us why the Secretary of State was in the Lincoln Sitting Room after eleven o’clock last night?”

  “As Secretary of State, Lansard had developed a habit of using the Lincoln Sitting Room occasionally as a private, quiet place where he could make telephone calls and perhaps rest for a few minutes. He often met with me in our private quarters on the second floor, and the Lincoln Sitting Room was convenient for him. He met with me and some members of the Congress last night in the Oval Office, until a few minutes after eleven. I was not aware that he had gone upstairs then, but apparently he had gone up to the room for privacy. He was found with a telephone in his hand. Apparently he was making calls. We haven’t yet found out if he was talking to someone on the telephone when he was—”

  “Mr. President!”

  “Mr. Craig.”

  “I believe the Secretary of State was divorced and had no children. Is that right?”

  “He was divorced many years ago. He had no children. I myself called his former wife last night and informed her of his death, before we issued the official announcement. He had no other immediate family.”

  “Mr. President.”

  “Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that the Secretary of State was recently asked to resign?”

  “I never asked him to resign. I never suggested he should. He had told me, however, that he was interested in leaving public life and was making some inquiries about another professorship or a position in private business. But that was entirely voluntary on his part.”

  “Mr. President!”

  “Miss Gorman.”

  “The number of people with access to the second floor, particularly during the night, is quite limited, is it not? Doesn’t that lead to a tentative conclusion that this murder was committed by someone fairly highly placed in the White House?”

  “All I am going to say in response to that question, Miss Gorman, is that no one, absolutely no one, including myself, is beyond suspicion. And Mr. Fairbanks has plenary authority to investigate anyone.”

  Special Investigation Office, The West Wing, Wednesday, June 13, 2:00 PM

  “It’s not exactly your bag, is it?” Jill Keller laughed. “I mean, being chief White House gumshoe.”

  Ron had asked the Attorney General for her. She was a smart lawyer. Maybe forty years old, a taut-figured blonde, she had worked at the Justice Department for twelve years. He had had occasion to work with her on three or four matters, and he had learned to respect her. He knew she was divorced. He had heard her mention her children. He did not know much more than that about her until this morning when he asked for her and the Attorney General provided a file on her. Now he knew she was a graduate of the University of Virginia, had come first to the Civil Division at the Justice Department, and now worked in the Antitrust Division. The Deputy Assistant Attorney General for whom she worked had been reluctant to spare her for this assignment. She herself had been reluctant to take it, but the Attorney General had said Fairbanks was to have whom he wanted.

  “It’s very sensitive, Jill, Politically and every other way.” He was sitting behind his desk eating his lunch—a ham sandwich and a Coke. “It’s certainly unique and—”

  “Are you feeding me the same line that was fed you to get you to take the job?”
r />   “The line is original with me.”

  She slipped off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. “I’m apolitical, you know—a career Justice Department lawyer—”

  “That’s one reason why I asked for you.”

  “Who else?” she asked.

  “Gabe Haddad,” he said. “Plus Henry Ritterbush, who works for me here at the White House.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “He’s not a lawyer. He’ll do detail work. He’s good at it. He’s a Webster loyalist, was an errand-runner in the campaign.”

  “In other words we don’t tell him much.”

  “In other words we don’t tell him everything.”

  “Well, that’s a point with me, Ron,” Jill Keller said. She crossed her legs, and her short black skirt rode up—of which at the moment she was oblivious. “I won’t accept this assignment unless I know everything. I don’t want any part of it, I want all of it. If there’s going to be anything I’m not trusted to know, tell me now and I’ll get out—”

  “I’ll tell you how I want this investigation run,” said Ron. “I want a log kept. Every question, every answer, every phone call, whatever we hear, from whomever we hear it—I want it all written down. I want a complete record of everything we do. I will have access to that log. You will. And Gabe, who’s already at work at the State Department. No one else.”

  “Fritz Gimbel?”

  “No. And not the President either.”

  Gibson Dunn, chief of the White House detail, Secret Service, took a seat on the couch beside Jill Keller. Walter Locke, Special Agent, FBI—in charge of the FBI team assigned to the White House for the Blaine murder investigation—sat in the chair to the right of Ron’s desk.