The President s Assassin

by Brian Haig

  “Expected what?” Jennie asked.

  “Well...the sabotage of my husband’s reputation and...who caused Calhoun to kill himself...who exploited your Bureau...and...and who lied...”

  I said, “Tell us about that.”

  Her head jerked up. “No...no, I don’t believe I will. I believe I have already answered enough of your questions.” She appeared confused, and suddenly upset, but she collected her wits enough to say, “You should leave my house. Right now, both of you.”

  I looked at Jennie. Clearly, the curtain had just collapsed on Act One, and it was time to shift into Act Two, to give Margaret Barnes the proverbial knee in the balls. I said, “Mrs. Barnes, we were sent here by the Director of the FBI. We’re not leaving.”

  “Oh, you are quite wrong about that. It’s my home and—”

  “Stop talking. Listen.” I looked Mrs. Barnes in the eye and informed her, “At approximately 6:20 this morning, the White House Chief of Staff, his wife, and four Secret Service agents were murdered. This afternoon, the President’s spokesman was murdered on the Washington beltway, as were seven entirely innocent people.” She blinked in confusion, apparently not getting the connection, so to help her along I added, “Moments later, Phillip Fineberg—your husband’s former partner—was blown in half as he opened his front door.”

  “Fineberg? I...I don’t—”

  “Yes...I think you do.”

  Jennie quickly added, “Agent Jason Barnes, your son, has been missing since he went off duty yesterday afternoon. We need your help to stop him before he kills more.”

  I looked at Margaret Barnes’s stricken face and realized my earlier prediction had come true. We had just ruined her night, and very possibly we had also destroyed what was left of what I was now sure was an already miserable life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARGARET BARNES SAT QUIETLY IN A STATE OF MILD SHOCK. IN A FEW seconds, either she would go hysterical or fall headlong into a pit of incoherent despair. As a general rule in these situations, you have about three minutes to coax a subject into a chatty mood, or they aren’t going to talk. Period.

  I looked at Jennie, and we both knew what we had to do; further, we both knew who had to do what. I had no enthusiasm for this, but by temperaments and alpha factors, I was the obvious choice.

  “Are you listening, Mrs. Barnes?” I leaned forward and informed her bluntly, “Your son murdered sixteen people.”

  She stared off into space, and appeared not to comprehend. I raised my voice and said, “The Belknap murder was an inside job—Jason was on his security team, he had the insight, and his footprints were placed at the scene at the time the crime occurred. We also have hard evidence showing Jason’s access to the specialty munitions used to murder both the presidential spokesman and Justice Fineberg.”

  I paused to let this half-lie sink in, then threw in another half-lie. “We have evidence, we have opportunity, and at least the skeleton of a motive. In fact, Jason left a note announcing his intention to go on a killing spree.” With a touch of theatrics, I paused, then added, “And lest I forget—he also intends to assassinate the President.”

  Margaret Barnes was starting to lose it. She appeared unfocused and woozy, and was gasping for breath. Jennie stood up. She walked over to Mrs. Barnes, knelt beside her chair, and said, “Can I get you something, Margaret? Water? Anything?”

  She did not reply.

  I said, “For Godsakes, you gave us the connection to Phillip Fineberg. But to tie this together we need to know more...and you’re going to tell us more. Now.”

  She mumbled, “But...you lied, and I...you deceived me about—”

  “No—we did not lie.”

  “Yes, you—”

  “We identified ourselves as federal officers pursuing an official investigation.” Following an instinct, I bluffed and said, “Knowing that, you still lied about the circumstances regarding your crippling. We can and will investigate your story, but we already know what we’ll find, don’t we, Mrs. Barnes? You lied to us—on tape.” She gawked at the recorder as I informed her, “That’s a prosecutable federal crime, if you’re interested.”

  Jennie insisted, very softly, “It’s true, Margaret. You did volunteer the information. And you weren’t truthful, were you?”

  “But, I...but, Jason couldn’t...I mean— I think I’d like to speak to my—”

  Before the L-word could slip out of her lips, I raised my voice and said, “In a few hours, your son will murder again. If you withhold information that could help us stop him, I will arrest you for willful complicity in murder, for obstructing an investigation, and for willful concealment. I’ll drag you out of this house in cuffs, and I’ll put you in jail.”

  Mrs. Barnes turned her head and looked at Jennie. Jennie said, “Margaret...I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’d be left with no choice.”

  I said, “On tape, we already have you lying to federal officers. You’ll be convicted. You’ll go to prison, probably until you die.”

  In a way I was telling the truth, because any lie to a federal officer—even absent a Miranda warning—is a punishable offense. But as a lawyer, I was well aware that juries don’t really expect mothers to rat out their own kids. So this mild exaggeration was obviously not intended to be interpreted too literally.

  But what mattered was not what I knew, what mattered was what she knew, and, judge’s wife or not, apparently she didn’t know enough. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, and she appeared to be on the verge of a complete meltdown. But she still wasn’t talking, which was annoying and frustrating. You have to push the right button, and I still hadn’t found it. I searched my mind for the soft spot and wasn’t coming up with it.

  Jennie raised an eyebrow at me and mentioned to Mrs. Barnes, somewhat sorrowfully, “This is terrible, Margaret. Your family, and your reputation will be ruined.”

  I got it.

  Jennie got off her knees and sat on the arm of Margaret’s chair. I walked toward Margaret and leaned over, getting three inches from her face. “But hey, Mrs. Barnes—imagine if your boy actually kills the President. Think about it—the President of the United States. You’ll become overnight sensations. You’ll be the modern equivalent of Mrs. John Wilkes Booth.”

  “No...it’s not—”

  “Wow—I mean, wow! What will that do for the glorious and esteemed Barnes name?” But in the event she couldn’t piece it together in her muddled mental state, I spelled it out for her. “The Barnes name in all the history books, beside Sirhan Sirhan, Lee Harvey Oswald, and that loony Hinckley. There’ll be books about you, your family, reporters crawling through everything, biopics of how you raised a sociopath, probably a Broadway play, some instant TV movies...Hey, who do you think they’ll get to play you, Mrs. Barnes?”

  “Stop it, Sean.” Jennie looked at me and said, “Can’t you see this is a huge shock for Margaret?”

  “You’re right. What was I thinking? Poor, poor Margaret Barnes. Why was I concerned about the wives, parents, and children of the sixteen people her son murdered today? How about Mr. Larry Elwood, Terrence Belknap’s driver, who we found this morning, barbecued to a crisp, after Jason put a few slugs in his skull.” Pause. “Or Agent June Lacy, one of Jason’s partners, who would’ve been married next week—except Jason, this morning, put a bullet through her throat.”

  Margaret Barnes was shrinking into her seat. On her face you could see guilt, and in that guilt you could see that Jason’s actions made sense to her, that something inside this family either had created or at least corrupted a human vessel capable of every wicked deed I had just described.

  Jennie laid a hand on Mrs. Barnes’s shoulder. She said, “Margaret, we need to find Jason.” She confided, “By morning, he’ll be the target of the largest manhunt in American history. We’re the only hope of taking him alive.”

  I said to Jennie, “I hope she doesn’t talk. Let them shoot the bastard.”

  “Sit down, Sean,” Jennie ordered. “Just...
sit down, and shut your mouth.”

  I sat.

  Margaret Barnes was looking around the room, wide-eyed, and if she had a gun, a noose, and limbs that worked, I had not one doubt she would climb up onto a stool, slip the noose around her neck, and swallow a bullet herself. Actually, after what I’d just done to this poor lady, I felt ashamed enough to join her. Jennie said, “The human mind is a brittle thing, Margaret. We know Jason struggled to live a decent life...an honorable life. We also know he was fleeing something, some monster.” She added, “Apparently, he did not run far enough.”

  Margaret Barnes looked at her, a little shocked by this insight. A good interrogator has to find common ground with the subject, of course. And the parent of a killer bears a special shame, and the mind of that parent searches for excuses, for so lace, even absolution. Jennie said, “I don’t blame you. Nobody should blame you. You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “But you can’t...It’s not his fault.”

  “Whose fault is it, Margaret?”

  She did not reply

  “Margaret, help us understand.”

  Mrs. Barnes sipped from her sherry, and from her expression I wasn’t sure she could piece it all together. She said, “He...his childhood...”

  “Being robbed of his mother?”

  “Yes. And my husband, he was very...he was quite strong-willed. And headstrong.”

  Jennie said, “I know this is difficult, Margaret. But Calhoun’s dead. He can never hurt you again.” She reached forward and she turned off the tape recorder. She said, “Whatever you tell us stays between us. I promise.”

  I knew why she did it, but turning off the recorder was, I thought, a bad move. But also, I realized in that instant that Jennie had picked up something I had missed entirely. Actually, she had picked up a lot I had missed, and I was curious to see what. Mrs. Barnes looked up at her. Jennie said, “It’s going to come out. It can’t stay hidden any longer. For your sake...for Jason’s sake, tell us.”

  After a moment, Mrs. Barnes blubbered, “You can’t imagine.”

  “Yes, well...I don’t want to imagine. I need you to describe it. You’ll feel better by telling us.”

  For a long moment, Margaret Barnes stared into Jennie’s face, but it was not clear she understood a word. Jennie prompted, “Start with how he really broke your back.”

  With a distressed expression she recoiled back into her seat. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Yes...yes, you do. You’ve always wanted to talk about it. Haven’t you?” She added, “For Jason. You owe him this.”

  In the past two minutes Margaret Barnes had learned her son was a homicidal maniac, that the two agents in her home had come to destroy her soul, that she was about to become the most shamed mother in the country, and possibly that she would spend the remainder of her years in prison. Interrogations are a tricky business, and every experienced interrogator will tell you there is a moment, not a crescendo necessarily, but a turning point after which the subject either blurts out everything or the lawyers take over. In fact, she looked at Jennie and asked, “Shouldn’t I call my lawyer?”

  Jennie glanced at me. I stood up and said, “Sure, Mrs. Barnes.” To Jennie I said, “Hand me your cuffs.” To Mrs. Barnes I ordered, “Put out your hands. After we’ve booked you, you can call your attorney from the holding cell of the nearest police station.”

  Margaret Barnes stared at the cuffs in my hand for a very long time. Basically, a hardened criminal has been through the wringer a few times, and knows better than to talk to coppers under any circumstances. But ordinary people don’t appreciate how the odds are stacked against them; they think they can bluff and outsmart cops, they think they can get away with a medley of half-truths and half-lies, and as first-timers, they still believe they have their untainted reputations to protect.

  Some combination of all these thoughts went through Margaret Barnes’s mind, and eventually she said, “All right. He...I mean, Calhoun...he beat me...and he threw me down the stairs. He was in a rage that night. He’d been...well, he’d been drinking...but he wasn’t...” She stared at me and, as though to underscore the one irrelevant truth she’d told, insisted scornfully, “He wasn’t drunk.”

  Jennie said, “And afterward—together—you fabricated the car accident to conceal the truth.”

  Mrs. Barnes nodded.

  Jennie said, “He threatened you, didn’t he? He said it would ruin both your lives, and Jason’s.”

  Again, she nodded. “I never lost consciousness. He...he hovered over me, and...and I couldn’t move my body...and, so we both knew I was badly hurt and...” She tried to stifle a heavy sob. “He threatened to kill me, Jennifer. And he would—believe me, I had not a doubt he would. He...he could be brutishly violent.”

  Jennie allowed a moment to pass. She said, “I understand your decision, Margaret. I believe he might have killed you, and I’m sure he would’ve looked for a way to cover that up. But afterward...well, afterward, he controlled you, when you could go out, what you could do, when you could use the toilet, your feeding, your entertainment, and—”

  She was nodding furiously. “I felt like...like an animal.”

  “He was a cruel man, wasn’t he?”

  “Beyond your imagination. He left the house every day, the good family man, the federal judge...you have no idea how normal...how charming he could be outside this house...how admired...how misjudged. But inside...”

  “I do understand, Margaret. Calhoun was sick. He was addicted to control. He needed his partner to depend on him. He needed his wife to be subservient, and it may have been an accident, but probably he was satisfied when you ended up crippled and became absolutely dependent on him.” Mrs. Barnes was still nodding as Jennie spoke, and Jennie paused and with exquisite timing suggested, “And from Jason, from his son, he also demanded absolute obedience, didn’t he?”

  Tears were now streaming down Margaret’s face and she was intermittently sobbing and drawing short breaths. The first dark secret was out, and it was like plucking the cork on a dusty bottle of champagne.

  “I...my son and I...we have no relationship. We haven’t...well, we haven’t spoken in years.”

  “We’ll get to that. Tell me about your family.”

  And for the next ten minutes, Margaret related what it had been like to be a wife, to be a mother, and to be a son in the house of Calhoun Barnes, a greater monster than we had even imagined. Margaret Barnes, as Jennie said, did want to get it out, and it came like a torrent, a sobbing collection of endless nightmares for her, and for her son.

  As I listened, I was struck that Jennie had also been surprisingly prescient back at Jason’s townhouse; Calhoun had been a terrorizing, overbearing bully who whipped and beat his son to a pulp for the tiniest infractions, who demanded and enforced perfection in matters and habits large and small. The things that could trigger Calhoun’s volcanic fury ranged from the trivial to the arbitrary. Little Jason once bought a turtle from a school classmate; Calhoun discovered the turtle, thrashed Jason with a belt, crushed the turtle under his foot, then forced Jason to clean up the squashed mess and, afterward, to wash his hands one hundred times. Adolescent Jason got into a schoolyard fight, which was fine, but he lost, which was not, and Calhoun thrashed him so badly he missed three days of school. And so forth, and so on.

  Because the mother was equally terrorized, and because she was bedridden, and then handicapped, young Jason was forced to confront his monster alone, unprotected and vulnerable. But I think not even Jennie had anticipated the unremitting ferocity the father unleashed on his son. Margaret eventually commented, “But you know the oddest thing? Jason actually looked up to his father. He admired him, and he obeyed him, and wanted always to please him. The two of them were...unnaturally close. Jason idolized his father.” She took a deep breath. “I did not lie about that.” She inquired of her confessor, “Don’t you find that peculiar?”

  “I find it normal, Margaret. We see it sometime
s in hostage situations. There’s even a term for it—the Stockholm syndrome. The combination of applied terror and victim helplessness creates mental dependency, and, perversely, even affection and loyalty. For a young boy, trapped in the home of such an abusively dictatorial man, I’d be surprised to hear otherwise.”

  “I...yes, I could see how that explains it.” In fact, she might—in her own way she probably had succumbed to the same bewitching phenomenon.

  Jennie asked, “Did Jason ever learn the truth about your injury?”

  “No. We...I kept it from him. I thought...a child...a son...should not have to bear such a terrible truth. Don’t you think that’s so?”

  Jennie glanced at me, pointed at Margaret’s glass, and I got her another refill. I was tempted to tell Margaret that whatever her intentions, she had made a serious, even fatal miscalculation. In truth, she had made many mistakes, starting with her marriage, but mistakes compound, and some are worse than others, and cumulatively they become a disaster. Had the boy understood his father’s barbaric nature, he might have learned to despise, rather than admire and obey, the beast dominating his life.

  In fact, the hour was very late, and I was tired and becoming increasingly impatient to learn exactly what had triggered Jason’s rage—but Jennie continued her pursuit, methodically and patiently. Margaret’s marriage to Calhoun had been a carnival of smoke and broken mirrors, and I was sure she had entertained strong visceral feelings, but she had never intellectualized or verbalized the causes and effects to others, or probably even to herself. Or perhaps she had, but with only the knowledge of how it had destroyed her life. Now she knew how it had destroyed her child’s also, and she needed to rationalize the adjusted causes and effects.

  For the next few minutes, alternating between a whispery intensity and hurt chokes and sobs, she detailed how Calhoun had estranged her from Jason, isolating him and isolating her. Daddy taught his boy to admire strength; Mommy was crippled, Mommy was weak, Mommy deserved contempt. Also, Mommy was physically incapable of caring for and protecting him, magnifying Jason’s emotional enslavement to his father and his alienation from his mother. It struck me that young Jason might also have felt a sense of betrayal. Margaret had failed in nearly every sense, both practical and emotional, to be his mother, and a child is concerned not with cause but with effect.