Fate of the Union

by Max Allan Collins

“And me without my umbrella.”

  “I don’t envy you.”

  Reeder gave her a sideways look as they speed-bumped into the concrete catacombs. “Are you kidding? You’re the one who took down a wannabe assassin. You’re the star here.”

  Rogers said, with a shiver, “Hell, I hope not.”

  She had enough to contend with just for discharging her weapon, however righteous the reason—there’d be a board of inquiry and almost certainly desk duty until a ruling confirmed a justified shoot. No worries about the decision, just the time it would take away from the Bryson investigation.

  Though private-citizen Reeder hadn’t fired a shot, the Bureau—due to the inevitable media attention—would surely want to distance itself from him. In stopping this crime tonight, had she and Reeder lost their ability to solve a series of crimes already committed?

  The SUV slowed and stopped twenty feet from a bank of elevators. Waiting there like a classy tour guide—her charcoal suit immaculate, her helmet of dark hair perfect, her mouth a thin straight line, arms folded—stood Assistant Director Margery Fisk.

  They clearly rated. Not all condemned prisoners were met at the gate by their executioner.

  “Fuck me,” Rogers muttered under her breath.

  Reeder said, “Not on the first date.”

  She managed a grunt of a laugh and he gave her a little supportive pat on the shoulder. After climbing out on the driver’s side, she took her time coming around the vehicle, composing herself.

  Reeder and Detective Woods, having gotten out on the passenger side, were already approaching the AD. To Rogers’s surprise, Fisk smiled as she extended her hand to Reeder.

  “Joe, good to see you,” the AD said, putting her left on top as they shook, a surprisingly warm gesture. “Mr. Benjamin is very lucky you were around.”

  “You can take the man out of the Secret Service,” he said with a small smile, “but not the Secret Service . . . you know the rest.”

  “I do,” Fisk said.

  Rogers fell in at Reeder’s side, nodding to Fisk, saying, “Assistant Director.”

  Fisk’s smile was tight but seemed genuine. “Well done, Special Agent Rogers.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The AD turned a businesslike smile onto Woods, who was beside Reeder. “Detective Woods?” she asked, extending a hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  Woods nodded, shook her hand and smiled back, obviously a little flattered by such attention from a high-ranking FBI official.

  “Would you mind,” she said pleasantly, “giving us a few moments in private?”

  The young detective shrugged, perhaps too intimidated to feel offended, and walked halfway down a row of mostly empty parking places, out of earshot.

  Fisk returned her gaze to Rogers. “This is the first time you’ve taken a life?”

  “It is,” Rogers said, somewhat surprised that Fisk seemed already to know that.

  “How are you with it?”

  “Necessary action, ma’am. I’m fine.”

  “You’ll have to undergo counseling.”

  “Understood.” That wasn’t optional.

  “Of course,” Fisk said, “you’ll work that in and around your duties.”

  That rated a Huh?

  But Rogers just said, “Of course.”

  “Good. There’ll be a board of inquiry, naturally, but with positive media reaction and social media trending so highly in your favor, the Director will encourage a prompt decision. After all, almost everyone in this country has seen, by now, what you did. You’re a hero. In my opinion, you made the only decision you could.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “My off the record opinion, that is. In the meantime, I need you to keep a low profile for a while.”

  Rogers nodded dutifully. “If I’m to be temporarily reassigned to desk duty, might I request input into which task force member steps in for me?”

  Fisk’s smile actually showed some teeth. “Special Agent Rogers, I think you’re quite capable of continuing to lead your task force. I would avoid fieldwork, when possible . . . but if that should prove necessary, avoid media contact. For now.”

  “Uh, understood, ma’am.”

  “Good.”

  Fisk turned in the direction of Woods and called, voice echoing, “Detective, if you’d join us please?”

  Woods clip-clopped over and resumed his place next to Reeder.

  Fisk said, “Detective Woods, thank you again for coming. We have an unusual situation in that you were already working with Rogers and Reeder on a series of related murders that may include the faked suicide of a former Secret Service agent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you understand that we will be taking the lead in this attempted assassination of Adam Benjamin.”

  His brow furrowed. “That would seem to be a DC police matter, ma’am.”

  “Not when a major political figure, on the verge of running for president, is nearly killed within yards of the White House. And not when the assassination is prevented by the actions of an FBI agent and one of our consultants.”

  “Excuse me,” Reeder said.

  Everyone looked his way.

  “There’s a possibility these investigations could converge. The assassination attempt and the string of murders might possibly be related.”

  Fisk asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Start with a .45 automatic being the weapon of choice tonight as well. And while the attempt on Benjamin’s life was hardly execution-style, the use of a sound suppressor seems a professional’s touch.”

  Fisk gave him a single, narrow-eyed nod.

  He continued: “Who needs a silencer in a room that size? But a professional might have one handy and feel the silenced shot in the noisy hall could give him a few seconds before the realization of what happened kicks in.”

  “Making an escape,” Rogers said softly, “more possible.”

  Reeder nodded. “To pull it off, he had to get close—but still wanted a way out of the hall.”

  “A possibility,” Fisk granted.

  “There’s something that isn’t just a possibility—before he died, Jay Akers uttered the word ‘senk.’ And shortly before his death, Bryson told his wife that he was worried about what she thought was ‘sink.’ If this isn’t one case, I’m surprised.”

  His irritation finally showing, Woods said, “I don’t care how many cases you think this is—these are DC Homicide’s jurisdiction.”

  “No, Detective Woods,” Fisk said. “The Benjamin investigation is ours—we’ll keep you in the loop, work with you—but it’s ours.”

  He frowned, a child fighting back a tantrum. “I need to interview your agent and Mr. Reeder.”

  “We will conduct our own interviews with our agent and our consultant, and keep you apprised. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll give you a ride back to the crime scene, where our agents Bohannon and Wade are now in charge.”

  Woods flushed, and seemed about to say something he shouldn’t, when Rogers cut in.

  “Director Fisk,” she said, “I don’t know how closely you’re following the task force’s investigation into the Bryson ‘suicide,’ and the murders that appear tied to it . . . but Detective Woods lost an officer when that security office got torched.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “We thought it better to have him spearhead the segment of the investigation relating to the officer’s murder, while we concentrate on the other shootings.”

  Fisk considered that, then nodded. “Makes sense to me. What do you say, Detective Woods? Does that sound reasonable?”

  Woods was frowning, but he said, “It does, Director Fisk.”

  “Good. Why don’t you head back to your crime scene and get to work with Special Agents Bohannon and Wade.”

  He let out air, not quite a sigh. “I will, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Fisk offered her hand again, and they shook.

  When he was gon
e, Fisk said, “My apologies for conducting a meeting in a parking garage like this. But it’s a longstanding Washington tradition for matters best spoken of discreetly.”

  The AD rode up in the elevator with them, saying only, “You’ll find your task force waiting,” and when they got out at that floor, Fisk stayed on—her office much higher up, in several senses.

  They found the corridors as busy as if this were midday. Busier. Fire a shot anywhere near the White House, and the Washington law enforcement world scrambled.

  Luke Hardesy and Anne Nichols were at their desks, drinking coffee, waiting for marching orders. But Miggie was already at work on his tablet with behaviorist Trevor Ivanek at his desk watching the computer god’s progress on the wall monitor. Everyone was rather casually dressed—no ties on the men, pretty Nichols in a silk blouse and slacks—having been called from home for this session.

  Rogers and Reeder took positions by the monitor.

  Nichols asked, “Can I assume Jerry and Reggie are at Constitution Hall?”

  Rogers said, “You can. I’m sure you know the media’s version of what happened, although frankly Joe and I don’t—we’ve been in a law enforcement bubble since it happened. But here’s how it went down.”

  She told them, asking Reeder to pitch in here and there.

  Sitting forward, Luke Hardesy asked, “Reeder, how well did you know this Akers?”

  “Very well. And here’s a possible connection to our double-tap case—for a couple of years, Jay Akers, Chris Bryson, and I were on presidential detail together.”

  The shaved head shook solemnly. “Sorry to hear about a good man going down.”

  “And Jay was a good man,” Reeder said. “A good man who wanted to talk to me because he’d caught wind of something bad.”

  “Like Bryson had wanted to tell you something,” Hardesy said. “Another possible link between investigations?”

  “I’m already convinced it’s one investigation.”

  Nichols asked, “Is that why we’re here?”

  Rogers said, “This is just a typical ‘all hands on deck’ following tonight’s incident. Who knows what else will pop up around town? In the meantime, we’re here.”

  With a slow scan of faces, Reeder said, “Are we getting anywhere at connecting our double-tap victims?”

  Ivanek said, “Miggie and I’ve been going over every aspect of their lives. No connections so far.”

  “Miggie, how about the ‘sink’ search? Narrowing that any?”

  He nodded. “To a couple of million possibilities.”

  Reeder gave the computer analyst a look.

  “No, really,” Miggie said. “We started with over a billion and a quarter.” He shrugged. “I said this would take time.”

  Reeder said, “I’m afraid it’s going to take more.”

  Miggie’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “How so?”

  “Before he died,” Reeder said, “Akers’s last word was ‘senk.’”

  Pin-drop silence.

  Reeder went on: “He said it more than once, and I even asked if he meant ‘sink.’ He didn’t. We can assume Mrs. Bryson heard it wrong.”

  Ivanek asked, “Is that a word, ‘senk’? A name?”

  Miggie—face in his tablet, fingers flying—said, “Give me a second . . . it can be a name . . . Not a word, unless it’s phonetically the French word cinq.”

  Reeder asked, “How many hits for ‘senk’?”

  “Not quite 800,000.” Miggie grinned. “But that’s an improvement, anyway.”

  Nichols asked, “How does an attempted assassination of a presidential hopeful link up with our murder victims? Including Chris Bryson?”

  “Answering that,” Rogers said, “is where we come in.”

  Reeder said, “Akers also said the word ‘Capitol.’ I assume he meant the capitol city—Washington, DC—or the building itself. The word, depending on how you spell it, has other meanings, obviously.”

  Nichols said, “None that immediately resonate.”

  Reeder went on: “That ‘capitol’ and ‘senk’ were his two last words indicates a connection between them.”

  Hardesy said, “But how the hell could taking Benjamin out have anything to do with that?” He held up surrender hands. “Rhetorical question.”

  Frowning, Ivanek asked, “Why didn’t Benjamin have Secret Service protection? And that isn’t rhetorical.”

  Reeder said, “He hasn’t announced his candidacy yet. It’s possible he intended to do that before his speech was cut short.”

  The Secret Service provided protection for official candidates only, a policy that had been in place since the attempted assassination of George Wallace in 1972. Bobby Kennedy hadn’t had Secret Service protection, either, when he was shot and killed in 1968.

  Reeder said, “Had Benjamin announced his candidacy at that event—and my bet is he would have—any later attempts on him would become far more tricky. The Secret Service would be in place.”

  Nichols asked, “Out of all the potential presidential hopefuls . . . why kill Adam Benjamin? Whose idea is that?”

  Ivanek opened his palms. “Any psychotic with less than a billion dollars, whose envy has run amok. Any fringe figure, right or left, who might consider a centrist a threat. Certain traditional liberal or conservative politicians might fear the loss of money that a middle-of-the-road populist might generate. Who knows, maybe forces on the left and right pooled their money to take him off the ballot before he’s even on it.”

  Reeder said, “He’s bad for business for both sides.”

  Miggie brought the shooter up on the monitor—on stage, gun in hand. Not, Rogers was thankful, a shot of the dead man after her bullet had plowed through his brain.

  “Pulled from an audience member’s posted cell phone photo,” Miggie said. “Front row, I’d say.” Fingers flew again. “Now, here our man is, as they say, in happier times.”

  A smiling head-and-shoulders shot took the screen. Sandy haired, glasses, unremarkable. He was such a nice man, the neighbors would say. Quiet, nice to dogs and children.

  “Photo from the church where he was a lay minister,” Miggie said. “Thomas Louis Stanton—our late shooter.”

  “Church,” Hardesy muttered. “Jesus.”

  Reeder asked, “Does the media have this yet?”

  “Don’t think so. Bohannon sent me the name, from Constitution Hall, and I did some preliminary digging. Honorably discharged from the Army, divorced, father of two boys, who live with their mother. And you’ll love this. Ohio state trooper.”

  All around the room, heads were shaking.

  “Former, I should say,” Miggie said. “Retired last year on disability—stage-four cancer.”

  Ivanek asked, “Brain cancer maybe?”

  “Much as I’d like an easy explanation,” Miggie said, “for a former cop turning political assassin? I can’t help you. Not brain cancer—appendix.”

  “That’s a new one,” Hardesy said.

  “Not new, just rare. Occurs in about one half of one percent of those diagnosed. But it’s as good at killing you as any other cancer.”

  Reeder was studying the image on the monitor.

  Rogers said to him, “What?”

  No response.

  Then finally he turned to her and said, “Two things.”

  “Start with number one.”

  “You’re a good guy,” Reeder said, looking up at Stanton’s smiling image. “You have a good job. Okay, then you get divorced, which is a possibility in any marriage, but higher odds in law enforcement.”

  “We’re still on number one?”

  “Still on number one. You get dealt the cancer card. Sucks. Tragic as hell, and maybe enough to unhinge you some. But why does it make a ‘good man’ want to travel from Ohio to DC to shoot Adam Benjamin? Which brings us to number two.”

  Rogers squinted at him. “Does it?”

  “Ohio is Adam Benjamin’s home state. More than that, it’s where our unpretentious
billionaire still lives. And if Benjamin has acquired any under-the-radar enemies, what better place than Ohio to find them? Also, an Ohio enemy might hire somebody from around those parts to do this thing.”

  Rogers said, “Murder for hire?”

  Reeder didn’t answer, instead saying to Miggie, “Did you check Stanton’s financials yet?”

  Miggie nodded. “At first look anyway, nothing special. Checking account with about two hundred bucks in it, savings account with a couple of grand, and an IRA that hasn’t seen a deposit since our ex-trooper went on disability.”

  Reeder said, “Keep digging to see if he was sending hate mail to Benjamin, or spouting off around town about the man. If not, then maybe it’s just a case of somebody local hiring somebody local.”

  Ivanek said, “If so, where’s the big money a job like this pays? No way this guy breaks that bad and trades everything in, including his life, for a few thousand bucks.”

  “He was dying,” Reeder said. “The money wasn’t for him, and it’ll not likely be found in any domestic bank account. Safety deposit box, maybe.”

  A sad smile on her lovely face, Nichols said, “The money’s for his boys.”

  “My bet,” Reeder agreed. “So we need to look at the ex-wife’s financials.”

  Hardesy laughed. “Thank you, Joe.”

  “What for?”

  “Saving President Bennett’s ass. Without that beefed-up Patriot Act of his, we’d be weeks trying to get warrants for this shit.”

  “You’re welcome,” Reeder said.

  Miggie’s fingers danced. “Be a minute,” he said, barely audible.

  They waited.

  Then: “Money’s not with the ex-wife, at least not anywhere I can touch. No trust fund for the kids that I can find. Mom’s remarried, new husband makes a decent living. Nothing to write home about, but decent.”

  Rogers’s cell vibrated. Caller ID read: WADE. She took the call.

  “Boss,” Wade said, “it’s Clusterfuck City here. Gonna take days, even weeks, to interview everyone. A crime lab team of ours is collecting evidence. We don’t even know what became of the intended target.”

  She said, “Sorry, I thought you knew. He’s at the Holiday Inn Express in Falls Church.”

  “Adam Benjamin? Holiday Inn Express?”

  “You better talk to Joe.”