Shining City

by Tom Rosenstiel

  That leaves picking up the paper in front of his house in the morning—too open. Or with the dog. On Sunday afternoons sometimes the guy walks the dog on a path along the Potomac. Too crowded.

  Some mornings he drives the black Lab to a place nearer his house. Parks, then walks, in a field near some woods. It’s part of the big narrow stretch of land that curls through the city called Rock Creek Park. Strikes him as not really much of a park. More of a road with a creek and bike path and woods. But they call it a park.

  That is his best shot. Most people with dogs stay in the field. But not Martell. His Labrador likes to run into the woods, and Martell lets him. All he has to do is get close once. Martell’s dog makes that easy. You can always walk up to someone with a dog.

  That’s the play.

  It took an hour of driving one day to find a spot where he could park and enter the woods unseen, a little turnout on a secluded street. In the last week he has walked the woods mornings and evenings.

  This whole thing looks simple. Simplest one yet.

  It’s getting on 6:30, almost light, the time Martell takes the dog out.

  If it doesn’t happen today, he can wait. Only he can’t sit out here every morning. Has to switch it up. Some days he should go to the woods and wait. Tomorrow do that.

  Movement. Front door. The big black Labrador, wagging, jumping, pulling the leash, yipping. Martell, at the other end of the leash, a tired smile, holding car keys in his left hand. Getting ready for a morning walk in the woods.

  He senses that sweet syrupy feeling he has felt twice before.

  He waits for Martell to get in his Honda, then pulls the van out and drives.

  About eight minutes later he is parking. From the back of the van he pulls out the stick. Heavy. Thick. Same idea as he had in California, the one he never got to. He spent time finding it in these woods.

  He closes the door quietly and heads into the woods, slowly making his way across the hill. Then waits.

  Nothing.

  Looks at his watch. Ten minutes. Seems like an hour.

  Maybe Martell didn’t let the dog off the leash into the woods. Or maybe they went somewhere else.

  A noise. Animal? Then nothing.

  Maybe he should go.

  “Ryan?”

  The dog’s name.

  “Ryan!”

  Martell is coming across the hill.

  “Ryan?”

  The freaking dog has disappeared.

  He starts to move. Don’t want to be just standing there waiting.

  “Ryan?”

  He begins to make his way up the hill, into Martell’s path. The lawyer is scanning the woods, looking for the dog. Martell isn’t even looking his way yet. Then the lawyer hears his footsteps and turns.

  “Morning. Is Ryan your dog?”

  Martell looks at him. “Sorry?”

  “Ryan. Is he a dog, a Lab?”

  “Yeah,” Martell says.

  “I think I saw him. Over there. By that stump.”

  Martell’s eyes move in the direction of his pointing finger.

  “Thanks,” says Martell, and starts to head that way.

  He waits until Martell’s back is to him. He lifts the stick above his shoulder.

  Then he hears the dog. Coming from behind him.

  Martell turns to the sound, facing him.

  He brings the stick down. Martell lifts his arms. The crack reports something breaking, probably an arm.

  “Ohhhh,” Martell gasps.

  With his good arm, Martell grabs the stick.

  Asshole is stronger than he looks.

  He pulls it away from Martell, but the leaves on the ground are still wet with dew, and he slips, then staggers down the hill a little. Then the fucking guy surprises him. Martell doesn’t try to run. He closes in instead and lunges for the stick.

  “Ahhhhh.” Martell groans with pain from whatever’s broken, but he gets a grip with his good hand, and the momentum and the hill stagger both of them a little farther down the slope.

  The end of this won’t be in doubt. He is stronger and bigger than the lawyer, and he has both his arms.

  But then he hears a growl. A gut sound. Vicious. Pure. And close.

  He feels the bite before he sees it. The dog’s teeth entering the fatty part of his forearm, hot, sticky, and more a tearing than a bite. The teeth feel like razors, and the real force is coming from the jaws.

  Chhhhrriiiiiiist! The pain is searing.

  He yanks his arm, but the move just lifts the big Lab without it letting go. He swings his arm back and forth. The move tears his skin.

  But it releases the dog.

  The Lab is rearing, growling. Sounds like a freaking werewolf.

  His arm is on fire.

  Where is Martell?

  He swings the stick like a baseball bat in both directions to keep the dog back.

  A mixture of slobber and blood hangs from the dog’s mouth. He can see a piece of his flesh hanging from one of the teeth.

  The Lab wants to lunge.

  He is gonna have to deal with the goddamn dog before he can do the man.

  “Who are you?” Martell hisses. The lawyer is behind him.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Do I know you?”

  God damn it. His arm is hurt. It’s bleeding everywhere. The dog is growling. Now Martell is talking. Damn it.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Keep your eye on the dog.

  “What’s your name?”

  Don’t listen. Eye on the damn dog. Wait for the lunge.

  “Attack him, Ryan. Get him, boy.”

  The dog is barking.

  The man is yelling.

  He swings the stick to keep the dog back.

  The lawyer circles so it is hard to keep the dog and the man both in view. Swing at the man and make the dog lunge, he thinks. He swings again and sees a blur, the dog jumping. He hears a strange howl. The dog has got him again; it has set its jaws on his left forearm.

  With his free arm, he swings the stick down on the dog’s head, but he makes contact with his left arm, too. The pain is incredible, but the dog, stunned, loosens its grip.

  Another blow and the dog drops to the ground.

  Pain shoots up his left arm like he injected it. He can feel it up in his gums.

  But the dog is down. He swings down on the dog’s head, two hands on the stick. Hard. He doesn’t want to kill the dog, just knock it out. One more blow should do it. In the corner of his blurry eye he sees Martell move sideways. Is he going to lunge?

  One more strike to the dog, hard but not lethal.

  Then he realizes the mistake. Martell is running.

  Straight up the hill, his broken left arm held in his right. With the slope, unable to swing his arms, Martell is stumbling, unstable.

  He closes on him fast.

  “Help! Help me. Police!”

  Shut up, asshole.

  One strike is enough. The back right of Martell’s head gives way. The lawyer takes another step and a half, diagonal, then a kind of skip. Then falls facedown.

  He raises the stick in both hands above his head and plunges it into Martell’s back just off the spine, aiming for the heart. It slides into Martell’s body easier than he would have guessed. It’s harder pulling it out.

  He hears a cursing sound in his ears, like he can hear the pain in his arm. It’s the sound of his own voice.

  He stands a moment trying to catch his breath and slow his heartbeat.

  He looks down at Martell’s body. “Yeah, you should know me,” he gasps.

  He is bleeding.

  Leaving trace all over the scene. Maybe the dew will wash it away. Or there is so much dog blood, and Martell’s, all mixed up. Nothing he can do. Except go. He turns and heads to the van at a fast walk, not a run. One shout for police is probably not enough to bring anyone. No need to hurry.

  That freakin’ dog. The thought stops him. That dog has his flesh in its mouth.


  He should go back and take the dog. That flesh could get him caught.

  Does he have time?

  Damn it. DAMN IT.

  He can’t afford not to.

  Without thinking, he pulls a hunting knife he bought in Wyoming out of his pocket. He wasn’t even sure why he bought it. He walks back to the dog.

  What is he going to do?

  He looks down at the dog; its eyes are closed but it’s breathing.

  He drops the stick. It’s got the blood of Martell and the dog on it. But his blood is at the scene, too.

  Damn it.

  He turns and walks away.

  The van seems like miles.

  Did anyone hear them? See them?

  He almost loses his footing on the wet leaves.

  Easy. Breathe.

  He fumbles for keys. No time to open the back.

  Get in. Get out of here.

  He opens the door. Slides in. Turns on the engine.

  God damn it to hell.

  The screaming in his head doesn’t stop for a long time.

  Thirty-two

  Tuesday, June 2, 9:48 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  On a table in his office Peter Rena has dossiers on all the power centers of Washington.

  Every interest group and elected official of consequence is represented by a folder, the contents compiled by Wiley and Lupsa, each one describing the group and its leader. Rena is gradually digesting them, trying to understand each major interest group as he might study suspects in an investigation.

  There is a folder for every member of the Senate Judiciary Committee, and dozens of so-called public interest groups, People for the American Way on the left, and Citizens for Tax Relief on the right. One for Fair Chance for America, another for Citizens for Freedom. The Common Sense movement groups, the Family Research Council, the New America Foundation. And more.

  “Finally trying to find out who matters in this town?” Brooks teased when he began a few days ago.

  “I only care if they matter for Roland Madison’s nomination,” Rena answered.

  “They do.”

  “I should have boned up on them when we started this in April. Not in June.”

  “We’re doing fine.”

  “Are we?”

  She is sitting in his office again, talking about a meeting this afternoon with Senator William Stevens’s staff.

  Walt Smolonsky, six feet six inches and 230 pounds of him, appears in Rena’s doorway with Hallie Jobe, who at 125 pounds and five nine makes a striking contrast. Smolonsky, who has spent his life trying to avoid intimidating people with his bulk, rarely exercises. Jobe, a woman who feels she constantly has to prove her physical and intellectual abilities, is a gym rat.

  Jobe has a grim look on her face and is holding a copy of the Washington Tribune.

  “You see this?” Jobe says. It isn’t clear what “this” means until she points to the paper and hands it to Brooks. It is folded to a small story on page B-4:

  Lawyer found dead in Rock Creek.

  Police say Justice employee murdered.

  There are nearly four murders a week in D.C., but most of them are drug-related crimes that don’t make much news. A white lawyer in Northwest D.C.—what people called Upper Caucasia—that makes news.

  Brooks and Rena scan the story.

  “What are we looking at?” Brooks asks.

  “Check the last paragraph,” Smolonsky says.

  The murdered lawyer was an assistant district attorney years ago in San Francisco, it says.

  “I wonder if Madison knew him,” Jobe says.

  Rena nods.

  “This thing is weird,” adds Smolonsky. “Bludgeoned and then impaled with a branch. And a dog was attacked, too. The dog was knocked out but survived.”

  “The dead man’s dog?” Rena says with professional curiosity.

  “Doesn’t say,” Smolonsky answers.

  “Killer knew the victim?” Rena wonders aloud.

  “Or gets harassed by his dog and they get in a fight and the guy loses control,” says Jobe.

  “You three getting your old cop jones on? How do you know it was a guy?” says Brooks.

  Rena looks at her. “The killer was definitely male.”

  “The Madisons are here,” O’Brien announces from the doorway.

  They are spending the day prepping for Madison’s moot court, plus the late afternoon meeting with Senator Stevens’s staff. All of this is Brooks’s department. Rena remains in his office studying his dossiers.

  The judge starts wonderfully, Brooks thinks, deft and succinct, but he soon loses patience with the dull answers they want him to give.

  “Eye on the prize, Dad,” Vic chides. “Remember your goal: Do no harm.”

  “I would vote against me for insipidity.”

  “I recall something you once said about how to teach new one-L’s,” Vic says, referring to first-year law students. “You said you imagine talking to highly intelligent fourteen-year-olds—people capable of understanding anything but who know almost nothing.”

  “You don’t have a very high opinion of the Senate Judiciary Committee.”

  “You miss my meaning, Your Honor,” Vic says. “You were trying to get the right outcome with these kids. You were trying to get them to relax, and you weren’t trying to impress them.”

  “Your point, Vic?”

  “Think outcome. These senators expect you to say nothing. And the ones who might oppose you are waiting for you to slip up with an authentic answer. Don’t accommodate them.”

  Brooks doesn’t know what they would do without Vic. She’s learned the process faster than her father and knows how to regulate him better than they do.

  “I need a break,” Madison says.

  The judge is given to short walks to relax. A walker, runner, surfer, sailor, he uses physical activity to free his mind.

  When he leaves, Brooks gets and up walks over to a small refrigerator in the corner, pulls out two water bottles, and lifts one to Vic in invitation.

  The two women have spent a good deal of time together over the last few weeks. Vic takes the water and says, “Can I ask you something, Randi?”

  Something in her tone makes Brooks raise her eyebrows.

  “About Peter . . .”

  She has been wondering when Vic would get around to this. Whatever is going on between the nominee’s daughter and her partner has been obvious since the day they met. He has squired her around town, usually with Madison in tow. They steal looks at each other like teenagers at school. Vic tends to wander into Rena’s office during breaks. Brooks has even wondered, once or twice, whether to raise the subject with Rena. But she and her partner generally avoid crossing the line into their personal lives. Work is their terra firma.

  “Yes,” Vic says with a girlish smile followed by earnest look.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why did he stop being a soldier?”

  “That is a story better coming from Peter,” Brooks says uncomfortably. “But let’s just say he refused to bury something, a scandal, that the army would have preferred buried. He did the right thing. And it cost him his career.”

  “And then he went to the Senate? Where you met as investigators working for senators in different parties?”

  Vic knows some of this already. She’s fishing for Brooks to tell her more.

  “Yes. Peter was rescued, you might say, by a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee who admired what he’d done, Senator Burke of Michigan, one of the few Republicans I like. That’s where we met.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “You can ask me anything, Vic.”

  “Why does Peter get . . .” Vic searches for the word “. . . so remote when he feels he doesn’t understand something?”

  Brooks feels a little guilty she didn’t answer Vic’s first question. She also wants Vic to trust her and Rena. She likes Vic enormously. And Vic’s trust is key to winning her father’s.
/>   “Vic, here, look,” Brooks tries to begin.

  “What, Randi?”

  “Okay, I’m going to tell you something about myself that almost no one here knows, no one except Peter.”

  “Okay.”

  “When I was in college, my roommate was murdered.”

  Vic just listens.

  “I found the body. The cops assigned to the case struck me as incredibly stupid. And I was a total mess. I took a leave from school. I couldn’t focus. You know what saved me?”

  Vic shakes her head.

  “I set out on my own to solve it. I found one sympathetic detective who let me dig into files. I found a half-dozen similar cases the police had missed. There was even a suspect they had overlooked, someone who showed up in early interviews in multiple cases. I delivered the information to the police on a plate. They convicted the son of a bitch.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “But I was never quite the same. I suspect that’s why I went to law school. And why I do this. Because in the end you have only yourself to trust. You can take nothing for granted. And in some sense, trust no one’s word.”

  She can see the slow recognition register on Vic’s face.

  “Peter has some story like this, some secret?”

  She has to stop, now. Any more would be a transgression of Rena’s privacy he would not forgive.

  “Let’s just say we are wired in similar ways.”

  Vic searches Brooks’s face trying to decide how far to probe.

  “Does Peter think my father is keeping secrets?”

  “I think he isn’t sure. But he worries that your dad’s disdain for what is an admittedly bad process is getting in the way.”

  Vic makes herself larger in her chair. She is about to make a point she thinks is important.

  “Randi, I think you and my dad work well together. But I think Peter is misplaying this. He doesn’t get my father.”

  “Peter is pretty intuitive.”

  “Dad doesn’t like to be handled. Peter should try to put him at ease and earn his trust.”

  “Is this what your father thinks?”

  Vic smiles. “My father probably hasn’t thought about it. He takes people as they come. He is, in his way, mostly obtuse when it comes to his own feelings about people. He loves being a judge, a teacher, and he loves being a father. And to him it’s that simple. He amuses himself by playing games in conversation mostly because his mind doesn’t focus on people, not in the same way most of us do. He lives in the world of facts, of words. And he doesn’t like artificiality.”