by Sydney Bauer
The ever-present heaviness of the constant demand to perform was a permanent fixture on the faces of his fellow first year law students; the workload, the expectations, the quest for top grades. Will they survive? Will they excel? Will they make Law Review? In short, it was all consuming. The competition, the tension, the panic, the fear, and in Tom Bradshaw’s case – above and beyond all else – the pain.
Most days he could ignore it, or at least control it, or better still use it, to focus his train of thought. However, not long before final exams of that first year, the searing sensation changed, leaving the familiar hub of his shoulder and radiating throughout his body, clouding his thoughts and jeopardising his so far exceptional progress.
It would come without warning, travelling up past his collarbone, pinching the nerves in his neck and kicking back down his arms like a magic bullet determined to hit as many targets as possible along its way. It would usually settle deep inside his rib cage, restricting his breathing and slowing his heart. There it would hold until at last deciding to dissipate, shrinking to the confines of his armpits leaving him cold with sweat and unsure as to where the last few minutes had disappeared.
Something had to be done and, when several return visits to Dr Irving and other pain management specialists failed to provide relief, there seemed no other alternative.
The solution came to him in the form of a young woman named Della, or Stella or Adele . . . if you asked him ten years later he would not have been sure. She was a short, pretty, green-eyed, red head, who despite her slightly dippy persona, always seemed to be on top of her game.
Della nailed assignments and cruised through exams with an ease which baffled Bradshaw and his fellow struggling law school buddies. His best friend, the Alabama-born Dick Ryan, who was never one to beat around the bush, said the girl was ‘crazy as a fire ant’ which was Alabaman for ‘trouble’. Dick also figured the bohemian Della, who did her best to hide her clipped Connecticut brogue, had either discovered the meaning of life or the campus dealer – and as Bradshaw soon found out, it was the former, achieved after meeting the latter.
It started with the Ritalin – a drug normally prescribed for the kids with ADHD – but when administered to a ‘normal’ brain, fired it with an energy and acceleration which, at least in the beginning, translated to a heightened level of focus and concentration and consequent straight As and distinctions.
Of course, it wasn’t long before the sleeplessness and headaches became more than just an inconvenient side effect, after which Della (or Stella, or was it Adele?) suggested a little Valium to bring him down. At least the downer dulled the pain and enabled him to sleep on the weekends, which he started to do – a lot.
Soon it became a pattern, except before long the Ritalin just didn’t seem to do the trick. That was when Stella recommended mixing it up with some Benzedrine, Dexedrine and Methedrine, and not long after that, suggested he just ‘cut to the chase and kick some serious neuron butt’.
‘It’s called methamphetamine,’ she had said. ‘But it will cost you. This stuff shits all over your average amphetamine, because it releases high levels of the neurotransmitter, dopamine, which stimulates your brain cells.’ She promised the methamphetamine would take him to a new level of awareness and, once again, she was right.
What she failed to mention at the time, was that it was also likely the methamphetamine – better known beyond the hallowed intellectual walls of Harvard as ‘speed’ – could send young Tom Bradshaw into a spiral of addiction from which he might never recover. Before long he was skipping classes, too tired or scared or sick or paranoid to leave his dorm – or to even find the energy to eat before noon.
His days became bogged in a quagmire of uppers and downers, sweats and memory lapses, fatigue and insomnia, irritability and confusion. By the end of his second year he was a mere shadow of his former self – pale and unfit, ill-tempered and paranoid with his grades falling beyond mediocre to poor. He stopped playing basketball, hadn’t been home for months and was on the precipice of dropping out and giving up on it all when, one awful, endless, hot and humid night, a man with a shotgun came to his door, and handed him death on a platter.
7
It was Homicide Detective Susan Leigh who saw it first.
Boston FBI Field Office Special Agent in Charge Leo ‘Simba’ King was standing at the northernmost entrance to the Grand Ballroom next to a man Leigh recognised as Hunter Scully, the head of the Vice President’s Secret Service detail. King was in mid-conversation when he held his hand to his ear. He was receiving a communication, and despite his efforts to conceal his surprise, Leigh could tell what he was hearing was serious.
He spoke quickly to Scully, who seemed to be receiving a communication of his own and in that split second their eyes met in disbelief. Then King raised his arm, made a circular motion around the room and quickly slipped through the entranceway.
Scully responded by communicating a command into his discreetly hidden mouthpiece. This triggered a synchronised movement by a series of Secret Service agents, responding to a simultaneous directive that was obviously not part of the original plan. They moved towards the exits, shutting the various glass-panelled doors and standing sentry beside them.
They are securing the space, thought Leigh. Something was going down.
‘McKay,’ she said, interrupting her partner who was sucking down hors d’oeuvres of sautéed mushrooms and goat cheese. ‘Wait here, I need to find Mannix.’
She found her boss and his wife at the back of the ballroom talking to their friends – Cavanaugh, his lawyer girlfriend and his boss, Arthur Wright.
She felt a little awkward interrupting them like this, but Susan was not one to allow the annoying intricacies of social graces to interfere with her work, and she had a feeling this was going to be worth the discomfort of intrusion. Who knows, it may even win her some points for her heightened sense of observation, it may even fast-track a promotion.
‘Lieutenant.’
‘What is it, Susan?’
‘I need a word.’
‘Excuse us, will you?’ Joe pulled himself away.
‘Something’s up,’ she said, explaining her observations.
‘Susan, you know what the Feebs are like, if there was a security problem I would have been alerted.’
‘Forgive me, Chief, but I got a feeling about this one. Agent King received a surprise communication. I am sure of it. Just look around. The Secret Service are moving towards the exits. Which means one of two things; they either want to keep someone out or in. Like I said, Lieu, something is going down.’
Mannix looked around him and she could tell by his expression that he sensed it too. The Secret Service were trained to keep poker expressions but something had definitely unnerved them.
‘Follow me,’ he said to Leigh, walking the length of the room where he stood on the first step of the stage as if trying to get a feel for what might or might not be about to happen.
She stepped up to view the room from his perspective and then she saw him – the man she knew to be Karl Jankowski, the Vice President’s personal secretary, moving quickly across the room, a sense of controlled urgency in his step, an expression of pure panic on his face.
Jankowski stopped beside a tall, distinguished, peppered-haired gentleman, pulling him politely from his stunning, dark-haired partner to whisper something in his ear. The man’s expression said it all, his face drained of colour. He turned to his beautiful companion, uttered a brief comment and followed Jankowski back across the room and out of the western exit.
Leigh turned to her boss.
‘Wait, isn’t he . . . ?’
‘Montgomery, the bigwig surgeon,’ said Mannix.
‘Jesus,’ said Leigh, now sure she was onto something big. ‘So what do we do? Whatever it is, they’re trying to keep a lid on it. The Feebs have taken over the joint, the Secret Service won’t tell us anything.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Leigh
. They are in Boston and this is our town. Come on,’ he said, stepping from the stage. ‘Let me show you how not to take “no” for an answer.’
‘We don’t have much time,’ said US Chief of Staff Maxine Bryant closing the door of her executive room. ‘I have a call into the President. We need a strategy now.’
FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Bryant, but the Vice President took his own life. This isn’t about strategy, it’s about damage control.’
Boston FBI Field Office Special Agent Leo King could not believe his ears. Tom Bradshaw was dead and rather than consider the possibility of criminal activity, they were standing here talking aesthetics.
‘Mrs Bryant,’ said King, determined to cover all bases. ‘First up, allow me to say I am sorry for your loss, and I apologise in advance for being blunt, but regardless of the fact that the Vice President’s death appears to be self-inflicted – either accidentally or intentionally – we have to at least consider foul play. We may be time deprived from an . . . ah . . . image point of view, but from a crime analysis perspective, this is a gift.’
King, who up until now had been standing a few feet away from the other two, stepped forward towards the fireplace, forcing their duet into a threesome.
‘Think about it,’ he said, now that he had their attention. ‘The crime scene is fresh, the building is contained, the evidence has not been compromised. For once we actually have the advantage. My Evidence Response Team is on the way and we have enough staff on site to question every guest and worker in the building. We . . .’
‘Foul play . . . ?’ said Bryant, her frustration obvious. ‘Foul play?’ she repeated, looking from King to Ramirez and back to King again, her crystal blue eyes now cold with contempt.
‘Special Agent King, don’t you read the newspapers? My son-in-law was a recovering drug addict. Wittingly or unwittingly the man took his own life, and selfishly chose to do so on the most inappropriate of nights. There was no foul play here, Special Agent King. The Vice President has left us with a serious public relations catastrophe mere months from a national election and our job now is to contain it.’
‘Forgive me, Ma’am, but from what I am told, your son-in-law has not touched a narcotic in almost two decades, and that in itself is enough to raise suspicions. I am sorry, but as a senior agent for the FBI . . .’ King turned towards Ramirez, his Washington superior, expecting his back-up. ‘. . . I would not be doing my job if I did not, in the very least, initiate an investigation into the possibility of a serious federal felony.’
Ramirez said nothing . . . nothing . . . just glared, chiselled chin up, dark eyes down, at the Boston Special Agent with an expression that suggested a disdain at having to tolerate the naïvety of the inexperienced local boy.
‘Mrs Bryant,’ King took a breath and went on, ‘I understand the sensitivity of the situation but I cannot stress enough how important it is to cover all bases now. Any delay at this point will result in the loss of potentially vital information. I have already initiated a basic crime scene containment strategy. I have liaised with the Secret Service regarding their securing of the ballroom, I have ordered the manager to detain all staff, I have directed my men to guard all exits and entrances and I am about to talk to the Boston PD about setting up some roadblocks so that we can . . .’
‘No,’ said Bryant, turning on King with a new vigour of determination. ‘How dare you presume such liberties, Special Agent King. Assistant Director Ramirez is your superior and you will refer to him for instructions. Your orders must be reversed immediately. You will create a publicity nightmare if you have not already. The last thing we need is to have one thousand contributors caged like a bunch of animals in a . . .’
‘Order the men to stand down,’ interrupted Ramirez, happy to pull rank. ‘Chief of Staff Bryant is right. We cannot start a panic.’
King looked at him. ‘I don’t believe this. Won’t you at least . . .’
‘Right now the situation is controllable,’ Ramirez went on. ‘You create mass hysteria and we have a riot on our hands. Don’t worry, King, we will pull all the security cameras and investigate all movement on these upper floors. We are not going to miss anything,’ he said. ‘Not that, in all likelihood, there is anything to miss.’
‘Fine. But do not harass the guests,’ finished Bryant, her point made before looking at her watch in a gesture which King took to indicate the subject was closed and it was time to move on.
‘Who were the last people to see him?’ she asked.
‘Stuart Montgomery, and before that Dick Ryan,’ said Ramirez.
‘Ryan?’ she said with obvious distaste. ‘What did he want?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Ramirez, obviously sharing her aversion to the CIA chief. ‘It is not like the spooks invite us to their strategy meetings.’
‘I’ll need to speak with them,’ she said.
‘Both men are accompanying the Vice President to Massachusetts General. I’ll have them brought back here ASAP,’ replied Ramirez with a thinly disguised half smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to fill you in.’
‘What about the police?’ asked King, tiring of the Washington chief’s sarcasm, and set on gaining some ground for the locals.
‘What about them?’ said Ramirez. ‘This is a Federal matter. It’s none of their business.’
‘Maybe so,’ said King deciding to try another angle – appealing to the Chief of Staff’s priority for ‘damage control’. ‘But didn’t the Vice President push for policy changes enabling local authorities to investigate drug-related issues? It seems to me, if we follow a directive from the man who all these people are here to support in the first place, then it will only gain us the respect of . . .’
‘He’s right,’ said Bryant, turning back to Ramirez, her blunt-cut ash blonde bob tipping slightly before falling back into its perfect, pre-ordained place. ‘It could work in our favour.’
King stole a sideways glance at Ramirez. It was obvious his superior was not pleased.
‘Who’s on the ground?’ asked Bryant.
‘Well, everyone that matters from the Commissioner down,’ answered King. ‘But if you’re asking for their best man, it’s Mannix, Joe Mannix. He’s good, he’s discreet, he’s . . .’
‘. . . homicide,’ finished Ramirez. ‘How is that going to look? The last thing we need is the local death detective sniffing about in areas over which he has no jurisdiction. We have it covered.’
‘Let him in,’ said Bryant, pushing her silky smooth hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured finger. ‘You can watch him, Antonio. You know the drill, you’ve played nursemaid before.’
Ramirez was an interesting beast, thought King, willing to acknowledge the rituals of rank but unable to cower to anyone, including the US Chief of Staff. There was part of King that admired him for it, but King also knew his boss’s arrogance was grounded in a power that came only with the favour endowed upon him by people like Maxine Bryant – a power few in the White House were willing to challenge.
It was no secret Ramirez was next in line for the top job of FBI Director – the current Director Delgado being considered indecisive, jaded and weak. By all accounts Ramirez would be the first major appointment following the expected return of the Latham administration in November. In fact, it was as if the job was already his and, in King’s opinion, this made him dangerous.
Still, Bryant’s concession to let the cops in was a small victory. Boston was his city and he liked the idea of having Mannix as confidant on this one. Ramirez would be in control, no doubt about it, but at the very least King had managed to secure himself an ally who was not obsessed with ‘appearances’.
‘We need to discuss the formalities,’ said Ramirez, making no attempt to hide his displeasure.
‘Yes,’ said Bryant. ‘First things first. I’ll speak with the President and then with the Bradshaws. The last thing we need is a leak before his parents
are informed. Then I’ll need to brief Lindsay Carmichael.’ Carmichael was the Vice President’s press secretary. ‘Prepare a statement.’
‘Do you want Ms Carmichael to address the crowd downstairs?’ asked King.
Bryant stole a quick glance at Ramirez, her eyebrows slightly raised. King could see these two were tight, but he did not appreciate their treating him like an idiot.
‘Special Agent King, in case you have forgotten, the Vice President was my son-in-law.’
‘I have not forgotten that, Ma’am.’
The intensity of her glare told him she had noted his intonation, and as she turned towards him, her seemingly calm demeanour did nothing to hide her obvious disapproval.
‘Good. Then you will understand why it is best that I make the announcement myself. The man was family after all, and this . . . this fucking crap that my son-in-law has so kindly dumped us in will look a hell of a lot better coming from the heart.’
8
The same evening, Los Angeles
‘No!’
‘Rita, listen to me.’
‘No, Robert, I mean Kevin. For God’s sake, look what this is doing to me. It’s been a year and I still can’t get your name right.’
‘Rita, you don’t seem to understand. We have to . . .’
‘Mommm.’
Rita Walker looked at her husband and saw him cringe. It was no surprise Kevin thought their one and only offspring was a coddled, demanding, self-obsessed, pain-in-the-ass brat, but as far as she was concerned his right to criticise went out the window with his years of work-obsessed absences. If he had been around instead of off fighting ‘the bad guys’ for the government, he would know that saying ‘yes’ was a whole lot easier than dealing with the drudgeries of discipline.
‘Mommm. Where is my iPod?’
Chase Walker trudged into the living room from the back patio, his low-slung khaki chinos revealing Calvin Klein boxers at his rather ample waist.
