The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6)

by Joseph Flynn

  Welborn and Benjamin looked at each other. Those were the two best words anyone in government could use to cover his heinie. There was no getting around them. Not if the claim was legitimate. Or even plausible.

  Drummond sighed. “But you two are right, I’m going to have to talk with someone, and the only person I can think of is the woman who appointed me to my job.”

  “The president?” Benjamin asked.

  “Yes. You don’t have the number to her private line, do you?”

  Welborn said, “I do.”

  “Really?” Both Benjamin and Drummond had asked the question.

  “Really, but one thing before I call,” Welborn said. “Do you think you’re in danger, too, Mr. Drummond?”

  He said, “I may well be.”

  FirePower America — Falls Church, Virginia

  Auric Ludwig felt threatened, as he never had been before. He’d found a new lawyer after making hours of phone calls. He finally succeeded in hiring Spencer Dryden, the flamboyant Montana lawyer who affected a cowboy appearance and was known for carrying a concealed weapon up to the courthouse doors — where he yielded it to the authorities for safekeeping until he won his case at which time he would reclaim his weapon in front of the building with the television cameras rolling.

  Dryden had demanded a million dollars up front.

  He’d told Ludwig, “You really stepped in it this time, son. We’re not talking a Second Amendment issue this time. We’re looking at an obstruction of justice charge. That police captain told it to you true. You could be looking at a very long spell in prison.”

  “How are you going to fight it?” Ludwig asked.

  “Only one way to do it that I can see. The cop who gave you the news about this Abel Mays fella is gonna have to carry the weight. He took the initiative to call you all on his own.”

  Reading between the lines, Ludwig assumed the cop would have to be paid off.

  Reading Ludwig’s mind, Dryden disabused him of that notion.

  “There can’t be any quid pro quo here. I’m not going to enter into any conspiracy to obstruct justice. What you do is give me the man’s name and phone number. I’ll tell him things have gotten real serious and advise him to hire a lawyer. I won’t give him a referral because that might be considered an element of a conspiracy, too.”

  “So what will you do for your million dollars?” Ludwig demanded.

  “I’ll appeal to the man’s understanding of the greater good.”

  Ludwig didn’t question that idea. He understood it implicitly. As someone who professed a reverence for the unconditional right to bear arms, the cop would be guided to the understanding that without Ludwig’s leadership that sacred right might be diminished. The cooperative cop would become a martyr to the cause. Not that he’d have to outright die for it. His lawyer would naturally fight to get him the lightest sentence possible, and when he was released from prison he would be regarded as a hero and would enjoy tangible appreciation for his status.

  That was how Ludwig imagined Dryden’s approach anyway.

  Praying that the scenario he’d painted was more than just wishful thinking.

  He told Dryden. “All right, we’ll do it your way.”

  “Just as soon as my fee is deposited in my account,” the lawyer replied.

  The money had been wired hours ago.

  Ludwig hadn’t left his office in the hours since. He felt trapped by his circumstances. Worse than that, he had that goddamn billboard outside his window taunting him. National Gun Death Counter. Shit. He couldn’t imagine anything worse. Or anything more likely to give guns a bad name. To actually move the usually indifferent mass of the American public to make his life harder. To cut into the profits of the companies that paid him. Maybe even to scare the invertebrates in Congress into passing effective gun control laws.

  He had drawn his curtains so he wouldn’t have to look at the damn billboard, but he couldn’t help himself. Every ten minutes or so he had to get up from his desk and take a peek, hoping like hell the number had held steady. In a moment of fantasy, he’d even imagined the number rolling backward, as if to correct a mistake. Every time he looked, though, the damn number had gone up once more.

  It was enough to impress even him, how regularly the number of gun deaths increased.

  He hated the billboard all the more for that.

  He went to the window again, praying, though he didn’t really believe in God, that a power shortage or something would interrupt the counter’s electricity. No, a thunderstorm would be even better. A bolt of lightning turning the damn thing into smoking rubble would be just the thing. A sign from on high that his side had been right all along.

  To his amazement, he did see flashes of light in the darkness.

  Only they were coming from the ground in a steady stream, not from the sky in a jagged bolt. Then Ludwig heard the sounds that accompanied the light show. The steady mechanical tattoo of an automatic weapon firing. No, there were two weapons.

  Ludwig watched as the billboard shattered in front of his eyes.

  The goddamn number that illuminated the death count disintegrated.

  A surge of pure joy flooded through Ludwig. Of course, that was the way to handle the damn sign and any other like it that might be erected. It was all so simple. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it.

  And then he was reminded why it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Sirens blared. More lights flashed. Not from gunshots, but from cop cars.

  He looked down at the street. Two men were proned out on the pavement. Cops were running toward them like ants overrunning a picnic blanket. The police hadn’t appeared by magic; they’d been waiting for something just like what had happened.

  A tremor of fear ran through Ludwig. It was quickly replaced by rage. If he was going to go down, he would go down fighting. He decided he had to open another front in his war to stay out of prison.

  He had to make the whole situation political, and get the three million members of FirePower America behind him. He had to do everything he could to find his good guy with a gun, the one who’d killed Abel Mays. His effort would start now.

  Just let James J. McGill or anyone else get in his way.

  See what happened to them.

  McGill’s Hideaway — The White House

  McGill and Patti decided not to spoil their dinner so they waited until afterward to partake of a digestif and conversation in McGill’s White House lair. The weather outside was chill and damp. McGill put some logs in the fireplace and set them ablaze. He joined Patti on the long leather sofa and accepted the glass of Laubade VSOP Bas Armagnac.

  On most occasions, McGill was a beer drinker, and contentedly so. As his marriage to Patti continued to mature, though, he let her coax him into trying something new every so often. She’d persuaded him to try the Laubade by telling him the brandy had the fragrances of vanilla, chocolate and nougat.

  McGill hadn’t been able to resist making a comparison. “Sort of like a Milky Way bar.”

  Patti had said, “If you like. Give it a try.”

  He did and found it pleasing in moderation.

  After watching the flames in silence for the length of time it took to sip their glasses empty, Patti said, “Are you ready to talk?”

  McGill put his glass down. “Sure.”

  “I think you did a wonderful job with Ellie Booker. Galia told me your interview won its time-slot ratings by a large margin.”

  “I have a future in television?”

  “Well, you are handsome and well spoken.”

  “Thing is, I don’t like reading other people’s scripts.”

  “A prima donna. Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

  McGill paused to look Patti in the eye and ask a serious question. “Will you want me to give up the private eye biz when we leave the White House?”

  “Maybe move into management anyway. I’ll teach theater arts. We’ll do some good works, and we’ll have t
ime to take more romantic vacations like the one in Paris.”

  McGill leaned over and kissed his wife. “You could make a weekend in Dubuque romantic.”

  Patti laughed and returned the kiss. “Let’s do some more of that after we talk.”

  “Do we have to?” McGill asked. “Talk, I mean.”

  “I feel better when we do. You’re the one person I know who has absolutely no hidden agendas. The one person who’s not afraid of getting on my bad side.”

  “As if there were one.”

  “Really, Jim. Please.”

  “Okay. How was your day, dear?”

  “Pennsylvania’s legislature voted to petition Congress to call a constitutional convention.”

  McGill recalled where that left things standing. “One more state and the carnival comes to town?”

  “The talk is the convention would be held in Philadelphia, just like the first one.”

  “The better to provide self-delusion for all the fools in the room,” McGill said. “Which state is on the bull’s-eye, the one to clinch the matter?”

  “Ohio. Mather Wyman’s going to work the legislature in Columbus to vote no, but he’s not sure he can pull it off, having come out as a gay man.”

  “I don’t understand how one thing would affect the other, but if it does and things go the wrong way, there’s only one thing for you to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pack the convention with loyalists and allies so you get most, if not all, of the things you want.”

  “And how would I do that?” Patti asked.

  “Well … I think you use a combination of threats, favors, deceit and nepotism.”

  “In other words, politics as usual.”

  “Pretty much. I’ll have to check out my copy of the Richard J. Daley handbook to see if I’m forgetting anything. Like dire threats.”

  Patti moved on to her next subject. She told McGill about the TV commercial Jean Morrissey had brought in.

  McGill winced. “That had to be tough to watch.”

  “That’s the whole point. Mather’s going to handle that job, too, talking to the Winstead families to get permission to use their photos. I was thinking of buying the time slot immediately after I speak to the nation tomorrow. Run the commercial then.”

  “That’d be the place to do it. If you put it up front, you might lose a big chunk of your audience, even some people who share your views.”

  McGill waited to listen to whatever was next, but Patti told him it was his turn.

  “Sweetie and Putnam have an idea for school reform,” he said.

  He told Patti what it was. She thought about it for a moment.

  “If I were simply Mrs. James J. McGill and we were living in, say, Evanston, Illinois, and my stepchildren, Kenny and Caitie, were attending public schools like most other kids … I’d want a plan like that in place.”

  “You’ll bring it up when you speak?”

  “I will.”

  “I’ve thought of a couple of other things since I talked with Sweetie.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got eighteen-year-olds in a lot of high schools. They’re old enough to buy their own weapons in a lot of states. Mom and Dad might never know. What’s to keep them from bringing a new purchase to school?”

  “Please tell me you have some idea of what to do about that?”

  McGill said, “Schools need to have intelligence officers. My suggestion would be tech-savvy college students. They could be hired part time. Their jobs would to monitor all the social media outlets for every student in a school. We know most kids can’t stop themselves from blabbing to each other on social media. Chances are if some student has bought his own weapon, it will be the subject of an online discussion. You bring the gun-buyer in and explain if he keeps his weapon, he’ll be attending a special school, too.”

  “That sounds like it could be a very dangerous school,” Patti said.

  “That brings me to my other thought. Every school has got to have some sort of perimeter defense. Stop any would-be shooter outside the school. Never let them make it into the building. Raise property taxes to pay for the security. Let people know that’s the price they have to pay for having the gun laws the way they are. Maybe they’ll get mad enough to change things.”

  Patti nodded. “I think you’re right, but I don’t want to hit people with too much all at once. I’ll go with Sweetie and Putnam’s idea when I make my speech; I’ll raise your points at a press conference the following day.”

  “Can we call it quits with business for the day?” McGill asked.

  “I think so.”

  A ringing phone said otherwise. McGill answered. It was his hideaway.

  “Really? Yeah, that’s good. I’ll tell her.” He put the phone down.

  “What’s good?”

  “That was Captain Rockelle Bullard of the Metro Police. There have been two shootings of gun death counter billboards. One outside FirePower America; one outside St. Martin de Porres Church here in DC. The FBI arrested two guys in Virginia; the metro cops grabbed a single shooter here in town. So we know where those three will be going, don’t we?”

  “We do, indeed,” Patti said.

  McGill stood and extended his hand to Patti. They took their first steps toward the door when the phone rang again. Both of them grimaced. They longed for the day when a ringing phone might be ignored, but it hadn’t arrived yet.

  McGill answered once more. He listened and then told Patti, “It’s Welborn. He and Special Agent Benjamin of the FBI would like to know if they can bring the inspector general of the DOD to come see you.”

  The president made an executive decision.

  “Tomorrow morning, ten a.m. in the Oval Office.”

  McGill relayed the message. Patti took his hand and they went to their bedroom.

  What little remained of the night was theirs to do with as they wished.

  Chapter 19

  President’s Private Dining Room — Tuesday, March 11, 2014

  McGill was having breakfast alone, reading chicagotribune.com on his iPad. The paper’s baseball columnist was evaluating the Chicago White Sox’s off-season acquisitions and how they might fare in the upcoming season. Blessing, the head butler at the White House, interrupted McGill’s reading when he entered the room bearing a message.

  Handing it to McGill, he said, “From the switchboard, sir.”

  The White House, in the spirit of democracy, had a phone number the public might call: 202-456-1414. Once reached, though, you had to leave a message — in a quaint 20th century fashion — with an operator. You couldn’t just say, “I want the president.” Or “Get me McGill.”

  The staffers on the switchboard were trained to assess the importance of each message. In a world of endless hierarchies, some rose to the top of the stack, others sank to the bottom. The one McGill received that morning rated immediate delivery.

  It came from Ellie Booker who pointed out to McGill that his cell phone was off.

  He knew that. The choice had earned him thirty minutes of peace and quiet with his morning eggs, toast and baseball news. But the world would not long be kept at bay.

  Ellie informed him that Auric Ludwig, in ten minutes’ time, would be giving a live interview on SNAM, Satellite News America, the new purveyor of anti-administration vitriol now that WWN had taken its distemper shots. McGill was going to be a featured name in Ludwig’s commentary. He might like to watch. If he had remarks to make in response, Ellie would be happy to share them with the masses.

  Just how Ellie had come by this tidbit, McGill didn’t know. But he assumed she had an intelligence network at least equal to the one he’d proposed for the country’s schools. He knew that Patti had the Farm Bill signing this morning and would be using that as the televised springboard for sharing her views on what should be done to rein in gun violence.

  So he wasn’t going to bother her with Ellie’s news.

  He called Galia, and found
out she already knew about Ludwig’s TV appearance.

  It seemed everyone had their spies, except for him.

  So he had a decision to make: Watch Patti or Ludwig.

  Not a tough choice. He’d watch Patti. Catch Ludwig later on YouTube.

  Get back to Ellie Booker if he had something that needed saying.

  The Oval Office — The White House

  Thirty seconds before the president would speak live to the nation, Mather Wyman slipped into the room, careful to stay out of frame of the camera focused on the president. He caught the president’s eye and gave her a thumbs-up. Then he whispered ever so softly, “Warriors.” The name of the Winfield School’s athletic teams.

  The president read his lips and nodded.

  The parents and wives of those who’d lost their lives at the school had given permission to use the photos of their loved ones in the commercial Jean Morrissey had dug up. Warriors, indeed, the president thought. She gave her own thumbs-up to Galia, who would see to it that the commercial ran.

  Also present, off-camera, was Senator Richard Bergen, the Senate majority leader. Just before the president had taken her seat behind her desk, she’d given Bergen a message. “Dick, I’m about to make your life more difficult.”

  Bergen blinked. “For any particular reason, Madam President?”

  “It’s nothing personal.”

  “It never is.”

  “I’m going to blast Congress. Not everyone, just the senators and representatives who kowtow reflexively to the gun lobby.”

  “That’s still quite a large number.”

  “I know, but they’ve earned it. I should have done it long ago. I’m ashamed I didn’t.”

  “Looking forward, not back,” Bergen said, “it will be harder for me to get my members, much less the other side, to pass any legislation you want to see enacted.”

  “I know, but with the House in the hands of the Republicans and True South, there’s little chance of getting much accomplished anyway.”

  For the first time, the president thought a constitutional convention might be a good thing. The country could move to a parliamentary system. If the people elected a party to a majority position in the legislature, they got to run the show until the electorate kicked them out. There would be no gridlock.