by Ed Markham
Chapter 7
PHILIP GOODMAN STOOD just off stage right with his hands pressed lightly together, the tips of his index fingers resting against his thin lips.
His lavender necktie was knotted snugly into the collar of his white shirt, but he had rolled up his sleeves almost to his elbows to give the impression that he’d been hard at work for hours behind the scenes. His suit jacket hung on a chair behind the desk on stage—an assistant’s attempt to diversify the set and the host’s appearance.
Forty-seven years old, Goodman wore his still-dark hair in a floppy, youthful part. The ends of his bangs fell across the top of his brow an inch above his hazel eyes, which remained closed as the host visualized his entrance.
When he heard the opening notes of his theme music—a brassy tune reminiscent of early American piccolo and kettledrum marches—Goodman opened his eyes. As the music rose and reached its crescendo, he exploded onto the stage to thunderous applause.
Pumping one fist in the air, he strode confidently toward the audience, his lean, handsome face beaming with an expression that conveyed heartfelt appreciation for the crowd’s enthusiastic displays. At six-foot-five-inches tall, he had to bend low to shake the hands of the audience members sitting in the first few rows. As he backpedaled to the stage, he threw his hands up, inciting ecstatic outbursts from the crowd.
“Go get 'em, Phil!” one audience member called out. “We’re with you!” shouted another. The energy in the room was electric.
As the theme music faded, Goodman held his hands above his head, open palmed, as though conferring a blessing on the crowd. He lowered them slowly, easing the audience down from its fervor.
“That’s it!” he called out in his subdued southern drawl. His voice was a deep, honeyed tenor. “That’s the spirit that’ll bring this country back. Welcome, friends. Welcome.”
The audience erupted into a second chorus of cheers and applause, but quieted as the host’s face became grave. It was clear Philip Goodman would not be long distracted from his purpose.
“I believe it is my somber duty to remind everyone here of one important and undeniable truth,” he said, holding up a finger as he spoke. “And I don’t tell you this to frighten you. I tell you this because I love my country, and I can’t sit back while those spineless snakes in Washington slither and snatch away the building blocks of this great nation.”
He pointed his finger at the floor as though the snakes of which he spoke were even now coiled at his heels. His face fluctuated between expressions of concern and resolve.
“When I graduated from high school in Marietta, Georgia—and we’re talking a long time ago, ” he said, grinning.
The audience responded with hearty chuckles.
“When I graduated from high school in Marietta, my Uncle Jimmy gave me two gifts. Two gifts, and a card.” He paused, allowing the audience time to absorb the contours of his tale. “The first gift was a one-ounce coin of solid gold. And my Uncle Jimmy’s card said, ‘Hold fast to this, Philip, because it’ll only appreciate in value.’ That gold coin was worth about forty dollars back then. And let me tell you, my uncle wasn’t kidding.”
Goodman shook his head and laughed along with his audience. But then his mien grew serious. “The second gift, ladies and gentlemen, was a copy of the United States Constitution. And in his card, my Uncle Jimmy said, ‘Hold fast to this, because it only retains its value if you and every other American fights to defend its principles.’ ”
Goodman stared pointedly at the audience for a quiet moment, and then he walked to the chair behind his stage desk and reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat. He extracted a well-worn, pocket-sized edition of the Constitution—presumably the same copy his uncle had gifted him all those years before. He smiled as he flipped through its yellowed pages.
“It’s been a long time since Uncle Jimmy gave me this. And I haven’t let it go,” he said, holding the tiny book against his chest and covering it with one of his large hands. “And I know you haven’t either. And the truth I want to remind you of—that I feel it is my duty to remind you of—is the same truth my uncle imparted to me all those years ago: As long as we hold fast to this document and fight for its principles, the spirit of America and of the great men who created our nation will persevere!”
The audience erupted, the applause intermingled with shouts of, “That’s right, Phil!”
Goodman smiled his thanks out at the crowd, and a rush of proud complicity washed over all those in attendance.
“Now, a lot of people out there want to put a label on me—on us,” he said. He walked slowly, back and forth across the stage, and looked into the eyes of his audience members. “They call us Libertarians or Tea Party Conservatives. Or they get real fancy and use words like Strict Constructionists, whatever the heck that means.”
He made a face, and the audience laughed.
“But you know what I tell them?” he said, standing a little taller.
The audience knew what was coming, and Goodman paused, letting their anticipation build. He made a fist, and people began to shout their support even before he said the words: “I’m an American!”
The audience exploded, and Goodman let their cheers and applause ring for several seconds.
“Now,” he said, his expression becoming jovial. “I want to thank you fine residents of Baltimore for joining me today for the fourth stop on my Founders’ Tour to honor the American Constitution. As I’m sure most of you know, I’m going to be visiting each of the original-thirteen colony states before wrapping up my tour in Washington, D.C., on September 17th, which just happens to be the anniversary of the signing of this great document!”
He held up his worn copy of the Constitution to more applause.
Behind the host, a large flat-screen monitor displayed a graphic representation of his show’s tour schedule; arrows marked its progress from Georgia to the Carolinas, and then on to Maryland.
“And on September 17th, just twelve days from today, I hope you’ll all be able to join me at the foot of the Washington Monument, where I’ll be hosting a Founders’ Rally in honor of the great men . . .”
As Goodman spoke, a woman sat quietly watching from among the audience members.
Because of her height, it was difficult for the woman to sit comfortably in the cramped theater chair; she had to tuck her heels beneath her seat in order to keep her knees from brushing against the back of the seat in front of hers. Her pale hands squeezed each other in her lap.
If asked, the audience members who had stolen glances at the woman would have described her as “striking” or even “a little scary looking.” But few would have guessed she was only twenty-six years old. Her shallow-set eyes protruded from her oval face, and her carrot-colored hair was pulled back so severely that it seemed her cheekbones would at any moment poke through her delicate, salt-white skin. At the back of her head, the hair exploded in a constellation of frazzled ringlets.
The woman did not applaud or cheer along with the rest of the audience. She only watched.
Chapter 8
“AGENT DAVID YERXA.”
After announcing himself, David stood motionless as the security agent posted outside of the elevators looked him up and down and then paused to confer with her computer. Sitting behind several inches of blemish-free, bulletproof glass, the woman was the last obstacle in a long series of security barriers separating the outside world from the FBI’s executive offices on the top floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Downtown Washington.
After a few seconds, the agent nodded and waved him toward the elevator.
When its doors opened on the seventh floor, David found himself stepping out into a plush anteroom. Green leather chairs rested alongside walnut coffee tables. Ornate oriental rugs covered large sections of the floor, which was a dark mosaic of polished-wood. It was all very different from the drab conference-room-and-cubicle labyrinths of the building’s lower floors.
Mahogany Row, he t
hought, recalling the nickname agents had long ago bestowed on the seventh floor.
To reach Reilly’s office, he had to pass through the deputy director’s personal waiting room. In it, he found Reilly’s assistant sitting behind a mostly bare desk. She was small and slight, with cold middle-aged eyes that regarded his attire with a look of disapproval. He didn’t like that. In his experience, personal assistants tended to assume the demeanors of their bosses.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her voice contained as much hostility as her eyes.
Normally polite, David couldn’t quite contain the annoyance he felt at being summoned without warning in the middle of an investigation. He said, “After all the security measures I just passed through, I’m sure you know who I am and why I’m here.”
“Special Agent Yerxa?”
He nodded, and she said, “I’ll notify the deputy director.”
Standing in front of her desk, David watched as she placed a call to Reilly’s inner office. “All right,” she said into the phone. “Of course.” Dropping the receiver into its cradle, she said to him, “Feel free to have a seat. The deputy director will be with you soon.”
“I thought he needed to see me immediately.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”
He stepped away from her desk and pulled out his cell phone. He checked the time and then started to flip through his photographs, beginning with the shots he’d taken that morning of the scene on the bridge.
“You’re welcome to take a seat,” Reilly’s assistant said to his back.
Without taking his eyes from the photographs, he said, not meanly, “I heard you the first time. I’d rather stand.”
Sliding through the photos, he revisited the double police lines erected for the county executive’s benefit. He lingered on the photograph of blood on the railing, as well as the shot of cars passing on the opposite span of the bridge. He was certain now that something wasn’t right about it all. Moving through older photos from the Hill and Aronson sites, he felt the same disquiet though he couldn’t identify its source. He tried to clear his head—to get his mind out of its own way. But it did no good.
He checked the time and saw that nearly fifteen minutes had passed. Without looking at Reilly’s assistant, he started to leave. “Tell the deputy director to call me if he needs to talk,” he said over his shoulder, speaking calmly.
The small woman started to protest, but as she did the door to her boss’s office opened to reveal Deputy Director Jonathan Reilly. “Special Agent Yerxa,” he said. Seeing that David was headed toward the door, he added, “Going somewhere?”
David stepped forward without a reply, and Reilly extended his hand. The two shook, and the deputy director’s eyes passed over David’s attire.
Like many of the Bureau’s senior officials, Jonathan Reilly was tall and heavy-shouldered, with the rigid carriage of ex-military. Though in his mid-fifties, he still had a full head of gray-black hair and a strong, angular jaw that worked from side to side as though he were crushing something between his teeth. David thought his handshake grip was comically firm, as though he were an adolescent trying to impress an uncle.
Still eyeing his T-shirt, Reilly motioned for David to follow him into his office. “Close the door behind you,” he said as he walked toward his desk on the far side of the room.
David did as he was told. As he took a seat in front of Reilly’s desk, he glanced around the deputy director’s office. The photographs and framed letters that littered the walls were a testament to the deputy director’s high achievement in both the Marines and the FBI. A tattered American flag was framed on one wall next to a photograph of Reilly and the Republican Speaker of the House, Spencer Farnsworth. The two men were dressed in formal military attire and seated next to their wives. Both were smiling and leaning toward each other as though in close conference.
Seeing the photo of Speaker Farnsworth with his wife recalled for David the previous year’s tragedy. While visiting her husband’s campaign headquarters, Lynn Farnsworth had been struck in the throat by a .22-caliber bullet fired through a window by a fifty-seven-year-old Florida man who called himself a “freedom fighter and a patriot.” The man said he was protesting the speaker’s “collusion” with the Democrats and the president, who he believed were “trampling on the people’s rights.”
Following the death of his wife, Speaker Farnsworth—who was normally reserved and party-loyal to a fault—had grown vocal about what he called a “radical and expanding cadre of House Republicans” who “fear-monger and attempt to scuttle any and all legislative action to the detriment of their party and their country.”
Looking at the photograph of Reilly and Farnsworth with their wives, David wondered how long before Lynn Farnsworth’s death the picture had been taken.
Seated now, Reilly leaned forward, propped his elbows on his desk, and folded his hands together. “Do you always dress like that?” he asked, his face forming a slight grimace.
“Yes.”
As Reilly stared at him, David sat straight-backed with both feet on the ground and his hands on his thighs. If the deputy director’s stare made him uncomfortable, he didn’t show it.
“I realize it’s not part of Bureau regs anymore,” Reilly said, “but most agents in your position still wear a suit. At the very least, they put one on when meeting with members of our executive team.”
When David didn’t answer this non-question, Reilly added, a little aggressively, “Did you hear what I just said?”
David considered telling the deputy director that a suit was an impractical uniform for his line of work—that many of the tasks he had to perform involved either working outdoors at crime scenes or speaking with members of the public who reflexively distrusted FBI agents. A dark suit on a man with a Bureau ID conjured all sorts of negative associations and could erect an unseen barrier between an agent and a witness. But the fact that Reilly had brought up something as absurd as changing into a jacket and tie just for their meeting told David his reasoning would fall on deaf ears.
“Is this what you wanted to talk with me about?” he said. “Why I don’t wear a suit?” There was no confrontation in his voice.
The deputy director was speechless for a moment, but then he shrugged off the comment and decided to drop the subject. “No, Agent Yerxa, it’s not. We’re both busy so I’ll get to the point.” His words came out quick and precise, like well-aimed bursts of automatic gunfire. “With the death of Senator Jacobsen, your investigation has acquired a new sense of urgency, both in my estimation and in the estimation of many more important people here in Washington.”
David looked again at the photo of Reilly and Speaker of the House Farnsworth, not minding that Reilly saw him do this.
“The American public won’t tolerate this kind of violence perpetrated against a public servant,” Reilly continued. “And when they learn the senator’s death is not an isolated homicide but part of some kind of grotesque series—and they will catch wind of that at some point—they’re going to be frightened and they’re going to be curious and above all they’re going to demand swift justice.” He paused. “I demand nothing less.”
David nodded but said nothing.
“I’ve spoken with your superior, and Section Chief Wainbridge has assured me you have his full faith and confidence. In my book, that’s about as solid an endorsement as you can get. Even so, I want you to understand that you’re operating on an extremely short runway.” As he spoke, Reilly unfolded his hands. “I expect steady progress, I expect arrests and, above all, I expect for these murders to stop.” On this last word, he jammed the tip of one forefinger onto the top of his desk. “Am I making myself clear so far?”
“Absolutely, sir.” David nodded to show Reilly he was taking the warning seriously, but in his mind he was already starting to tune the deputy director out. He wondered whether Lauren had heard back from Omar and the people at CITU about their cell phone inquiry.
He was also curious to find out if fugu poison was available domestically. Both could produce solid leads.
Reilly sat back in his chair, his posture relaxing but only slightly. “We’ve had little interaction since you joined the Bureau, but I want you to know I’ve followed your progress and I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished at this early stage of your career. You’ve demonstrated the rare ability to work well with your colleagues, with civilians, and, most importantly, with members of other law enforcement and intelligence agencies. Collaboration is an essential component of the work we do here, but a lot of agents would rather engage in pissing contests. You don’t, and I have a lot of respect for that. I’m not sure I always displayed that wisdom and restraint when I was your age.”
David fought the urge to frown. It was difficult for him to believe the deputy director of the FBI had called him all the way to Washington just to give him a pep talk and an atta-boy. Neither was helping him advance his investigation.
In their line of work, David believed you either trusted your people to get the job done or you replaced them with people you could trust. Laying out the stakes and stroking egos was a waste of time.
Reilly glanced at his computer monitor and said, “I see here you spent time with the U.S. Foreign Service before joining the FBI. Kosovo?”
David watched the deputy director’s face closely. “That’s correct.”
“Posted Pristina 2000 to 2002,” Reilly read from his computer. He looked at David. “Short stint for a foreign service officer. What happened?”
“I thought I could do more good back home,” he said.
Reilly didn’t speak for a moment. “I take it your diplomatic experience has helped inform your work here at the Bureau?” he said finally.
David considered this. “I think my time in Kosovo taught me a lot about people—how they respond to different situations and motivations. And yes, I’m sure I’ve put that knowledge to use here at the FBI.”
