The President s Assassin

by Brian Haig

  Not so. At least, not yet.

  She added, “The Director could get here any second. He’s expecting a full and comprehensive briefing. Trust me, he’s not a man you want to disappoint with half-assed results.”

  “All right. I’m here in an advisory capacity.” I reconsidered and said, “Actually, I’m not here. The instant your boss shows up, I’m out of here.”

  She nodded, but did not reply.

  In retrospect, I should have heeded the old warning: Never test the depth of water with both feet. But it was already too late.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WE STEPPED BACK INSIDE FOR ANOTHER VISUAL AND MENTAL SWEEP OF the surroundings. First, however, I took a moment for attitude adjustment. I was annoyed at being back inside this house, annoyed at being blindsided by my boss, and most of all, I was annoyed at Ms. Margold. Had Miss Tightass not kept the motive and victim profiles from me in the first place, we wouldn’t have to go through this again. For the record, I’ve seen death, destruction, and corpses in my Army and legal career, and I’m not queasy. Yet it is something I’ve never grown used to, and a rerun is in some strange way worse than a first run.

  But you have to focus at a murder site, and I noted first the absence of a peephole on the front door. There were lines of small side windows to each side of the door, and I suggested, “Possibly she never saw his face.”

  “What? Oh...Lacy...You mean Elwood’s face?”

  “Yeah. Look here. If he stood close enough when he rang the doorbell, even if she peeked out the side window, she could only observe the side of his body.”

  Margold walked over and peered out the window to confirm the accuracy of this observation.

  I obviously did not need to explain why this point was relevant, even important. The driver, Larry Elwood, was at that moment our only identified suspect. But there were no living witnesses and Elwood’s face wasn’t on the videotape in the basement, which left open the possibility that the gentleman we observed on film stumbling up the walkway was an impostor. The fact that June Lacy couldn’t recognize Elwood’s face at the door would leave his status ambiguous. Solving crimes is about inclusion and exclusion; Larry Elwood could still go either way, and we were back to roughly five billion UnSubs—FBI-speak for Unknown Subject and normal-speak for haven’t got a clue. I mentioned, “Make sure your forensics people take fingerprints from the doorbell buzzer.”

  “I’ve already made a mental note of that.”

  “Incidentally, where’s the car? And where’s Elwood?”

  “Missing. We’ve confirmed that Elwood left the motor pool at five-thirty, headed this way. An APB’s out on him and the car.”

  “It’s a big city.”

  “No, Drummond, it’s a small city. New York and L.A. are big cities.”

  Ironically enough, I get a little pissed when sarcasm is used on me, and I replied, “Great. Then you’ll have no trouble finding them.”

  “Actually...the car’s equipped with a specially coded satellite navigation system that also works as a locator.”

  “Easier still.”

  “But it’s apparently been disabled.”

  “Isn’t that a surprise.”

  “Yeah, actually.” She looked at me and said, “Only a handful of people are aware of the existence of that locator system. A very small handful.”

  “Not as small as you thought.”

  I took a knee and regarded June Lacy’s body again. Her left hand covered the bullet hole, and the exit wound was hidden beneath her, so it was impossible to confirm whether the same caliber bullet did her as the others.

  My eyes shifted to her face. June Lacy wasn’t beautiful or even pretty, really. Her face was too roundish and her features were flat and ordinary, though she was striking, I thought even captivating, in a way that caught you by surprise. It took me a moment before I put a finger on it. She had a noisy innocence, a serenity of spirit, a sort of pleasant simpleness, not of the mind but of the soul, where it counts. Hers was that kind of happy girlish face found peeking out from the third row of a church choir, or at curbside during the Memorial Day parade, hand over her heart, having not the slightest doubt that this is the greatest country on earth, that the world is populated by knights and dragons; she stands with the knights, and is just so damned proud to be part of it. I’m not that type. Perhaps I once was, but no longer. Actually, for a moment I felt guilty and even a little soiled in her presence. More than that, I felt terribly sad and, in some strange way, deeply angry.

  Ben had mentioned she was a Minnesotan, and indeed, Special Agent June Lacy emerged from a Nordic gene pool; her hair was silvery blond, her skin fair and unblemished, and her eyes were a sort of Baltic Sea pale blue. She was a slumber party habitué, never the prom queen though always in the court, the girl everybody entrusted with their most embarrassing secrets, though she wouldn’t be among the elite Secret Service were she not also bright, ambitious, and adventurous.

  No doubt, in some small town in northern Minnesota everybody was real tickled that little June with the pretty blond pigtails was now a handpicked bodyguard for the President of the United States. Every year the high school principal probably informed the incoming frosh that if you cracked the books and kept the wrong sorts of noxious substances out of your nose, a desk in the Oval Office might be a stretch, but a seat on Air Force One wasn’t, because one of our fine students did it, and doesn’t that make you all proud?

  Clearly, a walk in Lacy’s footsteps would no longer be the galvanizing inspiration it once was.

  I glanced up at Agent Margold, who, incidentally, looked like the class-valedictorian-school-president-most-likely-to-succeed type. “She never had time to react.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for her, Drummond. Had she been on her toes this would never have happened.”

  A priori, I couldn’t argue that point, nor did I try. In my experience women tend to be harsh about other women. Whereas I, a male, was a bit conflicted. It’s no longer PC to regard men as the protectors and females as the protected, implying as it does a relationship of the stronger and the weaker. We’re all interchangeable and androgynous these days—all sensitive, caring creatures, who share cooking duties, child-rearing, and thankfully not childbirth or monthly periods. I even remember to put down the toilet seat at a lady’s house. But I was raised an Army brat and spent my life on Army bases, where the fifties are eternal. Point is, I find it a little difficult to get my arms around all the contemporary mantras on these things, and I was very pissed that somebody put a bullet through June’s throat.

  I noted the sparkly engagement rock on her finger. Two more weeks and the knot would’ve been tied; the bridal gown surely was fitted and bought, the church reserved, the RSVPs collected—the guests wouldn’t even have to change their travel plans, just their moods and wardrobes. I was tempted to adjust her skirt for dignity’s sake, but Margold and her pals would probably get lathered up and cite me in a report or something.

  I squeezed June’s shoulder, stood up, and informed Margold, “Let’s reconstruct.”

  “Fine. You start.”

  “All right. At 6:15, Lacy’s probably waiting in the foyer for Elwood to arrive. Maybe she’s seated on a stair—the guys downstairs announce through her earpiece that Elwood’s headed up the walkway—ding-dong, she walks to the door, opens it, some guy’s holding a pistol, and before she can speak or react, bang—no, not bang, but pssssht—a bullet passes through her throat. Right?”

  “Right. Had to be a silencer.”

  “She flies backward. Two, maybe four guys enter, and...and...”

  “And what?”

  “Maybe not all the killers were men.”

  Margold gave me a weird look. “Yeah...possibly. You’re thinking they brought along a woman to stay at the door and talk so the Belknaps would hear a feminine voice and not suspect anything amiss.”

  “It’s a possibility we need to consider.”

  She looked down at Lacy a moment. “Interesting theor
y. Wouldn’t that presuppose they knew a female agent would open the door?”

  We both allowed that vagrant thought to hang for later. Margold suggested, “Next one shooter goes into the living room, and one or two more sneak downstairs to the basement. One remains here by the door. Say it’s a she...she goes straight to the kitchen and gets into position...she gives the signal and they all open up.” She faced me. “Like that, right?”

  “Be careful with the exact numbers. Say two to four, and wait till forensics and ballistics confirm the exact count.” I added, “Where are the spent shells?”

  “You’re thinking they used catchers on the guns?”

  “If they used silencers, that means automatics, and that means the shells should’ve ejected. Tell your forensics people to look under every rug and inside every crevice. Of course, I doubt they’ll find any.”

  “Right.”

  We returned to the dining room, where the two agents still loitered against the wall. Margold looked at them and said, “You two getting paid for sitting on your asses?”

  The heavy one said, “Ah, don’t bust our balls. We’ve sealed it off and we’re waiting for forensics. Just following the manual and making sure we don’t contaminate the site.” After a moment he added, “You’d be well-advised to do the same.”

  Margold shook her head and began walking around the table.

  I asked, “Why aren’t the ME and forensics here already?”

  The skinny guy said, “We were ordered to avoid locals. No quality control or evidence transfer issues.” After a moment, he added, “So the teams have to come all the way up from Quantico.” He shook his head. “Welcome to Washington. They’re caught in traffic. About five minutes out.”

  Margold was moving around the room, testing out the shooters’ positions, I guess to confirm my theory about a second gunman. She looked at me and said, “I’m done. Anything else?”

  “Uh...” There was something. But what?

  She looked at her watch and asked, again, “Are you done?”

  I studied Mr. and Mrs. Belknap. We were overlooking something, I was sure. I said, “Ben mentioned Elwood arrived at 6:15 every morning.”

  “Yeah. And he came five minutes late this morning.”

  “You should think about that five minutes.”

  “On my list already.”

  “Also...well...Belknap probably had to wake up at five...maybe five-thirty, so he could shower, shave, dress, and have breakfast.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You married?”

  “No...why?”

  “Ever been married? Cohabited?”

  “No, I’ve...” But apparently I had struck a sensitive nerve, because she snapped, “If you have a point, get on with it.”

  “Conjugal habits, Agent Margold. The guy’s an early bird; she didn’t have to be. How’d they know these two get up and eat breakfast together?”

  I was sure she got my point, but she did not acknowledge it. In fact, she said, “Let’s go back to the basement. Now.”

  She stopped halfway down the stairs, turned to me, and whispered, “No more of those observations in front of the others. Obviously, if the killers knew how to skirt the security, and obviously if they knew about the security room in the basement, and...I’m not stupid, Drummond. Inside knowledge, right?” She looked me in the eyes and added, “But don’t confirm that to anybody. Understand?”

  I didn’t understand. But I did appreciate that there was more here than met the eye—either a cover-up or not everybody in this house was trusted, or this lady had a few bats in her attic.

  Ben had also returned to the security room, where he was replaying the tape of Elwood over and over, like if he watched it enough times the past would change and he’d still have a career. I sort of felt sorry for the guy. The killers had not played fair; they had found the kink in Ben’s armor, and broken it off in Ben’s butt.

  The rule of thumb in his business is that guarding moving targets is the tough part. Home truly is a man’s castle, and when you construct a deep moat around it, and you man the ramparts with stouthearted souls, it should be safe and impenetrable.

  Should be. Unless the moat becomes your worst enemy. From the moment that black limo pulled into the driveway and entered into the castle proper, so to speak, it was accepted by the watchmen in the basement for what it appeared to be and in fact was not. The system instills confidence, nullifies distrust, and erases the wariness. June Lacy didn’t die because she was careless, June Lacy died because her bosses told her to trust the electronic moat to do her work for her.

  Every Washington institution plays by its own rules, and the Secret Service has a less forgiving mentality than most. Ben was headed for an early pension, unless he was a wicked bullshitter, in which case he’d end up handing out tickets at the White House tours office. But it was better than the cold morgue drawer where his team and the hapless Mr. and Mrs. Belknap were headed.

  Anyway, Margold and I nosed around and gave the basement security room another once-over. Nothing new jumped out, though I concluded that Margold had probably hit the mark about the progression of death—the guy in the chair got nailed first, the lady at the console got it second, and then the sleeper.

  If you had perfect intelligence and time to consider and plan the assault on this room, that’s exactly how you’d do it; says so in the manual, neutralize the most imminent threats first. But that was exactly the point; the shooters didn’t have time—they burst open the door and shot. I looked around for stray bullets that had struck a wall or the furniture. None. One shot, one kill...with the exception of the lady at the console, who took three slugs on her right side. I spent a moment examining her more closely. Her right arm was stretched out, she was in easy reach of the panic button, and it struck me that her killer had coldly used the impact of the bullets to drive her back, to prevent her from reaching it.

  Very impressive.

  Too impressive. I mentioned to Margold, “It’s likely they used fiber-optic filament cameras. Slip it under the door, and you know what lies behind the closed door.”

  She nodded. Then she bent over the corpse on the bed. She was beginning to explain, “This guy must’ve pulled the night shift, and—” when her cell phone went off. She answered, “Margold...uh-huh...I understand, George...right.” After a moment, she said, “No...well, we’re almost wrapped up...Uh, yeah, we can be there. Ten minutes.”

  She punched off and appeared distracted. Finally she looked at Ben. “I’ve gotta go. Forensics and the ME will be here any minute. Agent Jackson’s in charge till they get there.” She looked at me. “The Director got diverted en route. We’re heading to his location.”

  “We?” I shook my head. “Your boss, your case, your nightmare.”

  For the second time she smiled. “Is It? Did I fail to mention we’re meeting at the George Bush Center? Isn’t that a CIA facility?”

  I stared at her, then I turned to Ben and said, “Give us the tape with Elwood arriving.” A fresh thought hit me, and I asked Ben, “Did you view the portion with Elwood departing?”

  “Uh...no. I...I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Provide that, too.”

  Margold looked at me and said, “Good catch.”

  “Right.”

  We went back upstairs, and halfway up I grabbed her arm and suggested, “You should think twice about allowing Ben free rein of this house.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “For one, he’s a potential suspect. Inside knowledge got out, and Ben certainly knew the layout.”

  “What’s two?”

  “There’s going to be a witch hunt, and Ben was in charge of this operation. He should never have been permitted to tamper with the evidence before you arrived. But this is now your watch. Cover your ass.”

  “I...I should’ve thought of that.”

  She was right. She should have.

  She returned to the dining room to inform Agent Jackson he had the foo
tball and to eject Ben from this house.

  Ben rejoined us at the front door, handed Margold the tapes, and said to me, “Look...don’t draw hasty conclusions. There’s no proof there was more than one killer.”

  “There was more than one, Ben. Get used to it. If it’s any consolation, I’ll be sure to pass on that the security was nearly adequate.”

  “Gee...thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Yeah. I won’t.”

  On our way to the car, Margold said to me, “This what you do for the Agency...reconstruct crime scenes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how’d you...how’d you put it together?”

  “Oh...well, I used to kill people.”

  She shook her head. “Seriously.”

  “All right, I’m a criminal lawyer.”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “That’s why I hate working with you CIA people. You’re all compulsive liars.”

  I smiled.

  She said, “Get in the car.”

  And the problem with the FBI is they’re all compulsive skeptics. Before I went to law school I was in Special Ops, I did do this for a living, and it does afford a certain familiarity with method and technique.

  On a more becomingly modest note, I saw the disturbances in the garden mulch before we ever entered the house. Margold should’ve paid better attention when she was slapping on her latex mitties and telling me what an asshole I was.

  She informed the driver, “We’ve got five minutes. Don’t make me late. Move.”

  He stomped on the gas, and we peeled out down Ballantrae Farm Drive, mini-mansions whizzing by on the left and right. Halfway down the block, a long convoy of vans and dark Crown Vics passed us going the other way. Margold whipped out her cell phone and spent two minutes giving instructions to her contact in the forensics team, telling the technicians what to collect—foot molds in the garden, spent shells, fingerprints on the doorbell buzzer, whatever. She ended the conversation saying, “Yeah...okay...we’ll both find a time later for you to get our shoe molds.”