Fate of the Union

by Max Allan Collins

  “I’ll call it in,” she said, “and say our perp’s on foot.”

  Before she did, however, they compared notes on what she’d say: BOLO issued for male Caucasian, six feet, two hundred pounds, slender athletic build, black combat fatigues, duster-type coat, armed and very dangerous.

  “And blond,” Reeder said.

  “All I saw was a ski mask.”

  “Blond hair on the back of his neck. The Nissan out front. It’s our guy.”

  “Okay. But did he have help?”

  “If so, they booked it even faster than he did. But I’d say no. He’s good enough to pull this off himself, and the way he approached this meant other team members might just get in the way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I don’t think there were any survivors here, but you better check the fallen. Then wait for the cavalry to make their late appearance.” No sirens yet. “I’ll check on Benjamin.”

  They went inside, and Reeder stopped at Benjamin’s door while Rogers returned to the bloodbath in the lobby.

  Finding a bullet hole punched through the peephole, Reeder stood to one side, back to the wall next to the door, and called, “Mr. Benjamin!”

  No answer.

  “Adam! It’s Joe Reeder! Are you all right, sir?”

  Not anywhere near the door, voice muffled and distant, Benjamin called back: “My man Asher’s been shot. He’s right inside the door—dead. I’ve called the police.”

  “So have we, sir. But you best stay put till the building’s been cleared.”

  Somewhat closer now: “What about my . . . man?”

  Now came sirens.

  “He’s not going anywhere, and for right now, neither should you. I’ll let you know when things are secure.”

  Reeder joined Rogers in the ghastly crime scene the lobby had become and then met the uniformed cops outside, three two-man units, and greeted them with displayed ID.

  A passkey was quickly found in a drawer behind the desk, where a painfully pretty young clerk lay staring up at nothing. Rogers knew how to use the key card scanner and made three more passkeys, handing one to Reeder. One uniformed man stood watch in the lobby, the other five began to search and clear the building.

  Returning to Benjamin’s room, Reeder said, “Adam, it’s Reeder. Open the door.”

  Behind it came: “I can’t. Brian’s body is . . . blocking the way.”

  “I’ll handle it. Go back and sit down. You’re inside a crime scene and it needs preserving.”

  Had the CSIs been there, they would likely have stopped Reeder from using the key card and carefully pushing the door open, moving the DB somewhat, so that he could edge in and step carefully over it. But they weren’t and he did.

  Reeder emerged from the short entry hallway to find the billionaire seated on the edge of a made bed. His silver hair slightly mussed, dark eyes glazed behind the black-framed glasses, Benjamin was suddenly just a senior citizen in off-white pajamas with brown trim and slippers—somebody’s uncle or grandpa on a very bad night. A small automatic pistol was next to him. His face was blister pale and his expression blankly traumatized. After a moment, he looked up at Reeder, standing nearby.

  “Joe. What the hell’s going on here?” The words were strong but their delivery weak.

  “Appears there was a second attempt on your life.”

  He looked up sharply, already coming out of it. “Have my men secured the building?”

  “Your men are dead, Adam. A man in a black ski mask and fatigues came in and shot everybody. There’s no sign that anyone had time to even defend themselves. The killer was outside your room when Agent Rogers and I got to the scene. We chased him away from your door, but lost him outside.”

  “I heard sirens. The police are here?”

  “Yes. Clearing the building now.” Reeder nodded to the little weapon next to Benjamin. “Is that your gun?”

  “A .25 I’ve carried in my briefcase for years. I have a permit.”

  Reeder smiled. “I’m sure you do. I know it’s not terribly pleasant here . . .”—the stench of cordite and the bodyguard’s vacated bowels, laced with the coppery smell of blood, wafted nastily—“. . . but until the crime lab unit allows us to clear this room, you’ll need to sit tight. In the meantime, I’ll open the windows.”

  “They don’t open. They’re sealed. Nobody trusts anybody anymore in this country. I’m . . . I’m afraid I tried to run.”

  Reeder sat next to him. “Adam, I would have tried to run, too. Don’t apologize, and nobody doubts the necessity of someone like you carrying a gun for protection. You’re the victim here.”

  The former professor gave Reeder a sideways look, the thin lips forming a rueful smile. “I’m supposed to be a leader. Not a victim.”

  “Leaders can be victims. Ask the Kennedys.”

  Benjamin sat slumped and silent for several long seconds, then he looked up abruptly. “Have you checked on my staff?”

  “Where are they?”

  “There’s an empty room on either side of me, then Frank, Lynn, and Lawrence in the next three rooms, down the corridor.”

  Reeder called Rogers and told her what rooms to check. Several minutes passed, then his cell vibrated; he answered, and she gave him a report. He clicked off.

  “Frank Elmore is dead,” Reeder said.

  “My God. My dear God.” Benjamin’s marble-eyed stare saw nothing. Like that poor desk clerk. “Frank’s been with me for so many years. My right hand. My friend . . .”

  He began to weep.

  Reeder got him a tissue from a box in the bathroom, skirting the corpse again. Adding to the crap he’d get from the CSIs.

  He brought several tissues to Benjamin, who dried his eyes and got control of himself. “What about Lynn and Lawrence?”

  “Also dead. These are execution-style shootings.”

  He clenched a fist around a tissue. “It’s a goddamn massacre. What in hell did any of us do to deserve this?”

  “Adam . . . Barr and Schafer were on the floor, on either side of the bed, naked, where they fell after being shot, apparently. Were you aware they were in a relationship?”

  He frowned. “I . . . I suppose I suspected, but I never gave it much thought. They were good at their jobs. Whatever their ‘relationship’ might be . . . it certainly didn’t compromise their work.”

  Reeder’s cell vibrated: Rogers.

  “The CSIs and detectives are here,” she said. “This is about to get very local and not our business, at least not yet. Just warning you that we’re about to become temporary bystanders.”

  Reeder thanked her and told Benjamin to go ahead and get dressed. “Adam, you’ve got a long evening ahead. And prepare yourself for a circus.”

  Soon the Holiday Inn Express, despite its many empty rooms, was at capacity: more uniformed police, a quartet of plainclothes detectives, fire department personnel, paramedics, and, before long, media vans. The CSIs came in a now-unsealed window of Benjamin’s room, took time only to scold Reeder and try to get him to turn over his shoes (he refused—the shooter had been outside the room, after all), and then America’s favorite hero and its richest man had to crawl out the window, escorted around front by uniformed officers.

  Walking through the lobby, Benjamin kept his head down and didn’t take in the slaughter. He was led off to a vacant room for detectives to interview, while Reeder and Rogers cooled their heels in an employee break room. Rogers got hold of Miggie on her cell, which she set on the table between her and Reeder, putting Mig on speaker.

  After filling him in, Rogers said to the computer guru, “Now, please tell us you’ve found something.”

  “I have—quite a bit, actually. The buildings in Charlottesville were in fact owned by Barmore Holdings, as we thought. Both Lynn Barr and Frank Elmore were on the board of Chemical Solutions, Inc.—another CSI, like Common Sense Investments.”

  “Please,” Reeder said. “We’ve already got enough CSIs swarming over this hotel.”
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br />   “None of this,” Miggie said, ignoring that, “tracks back to Adam Benjamin. On its face, it appears to be a cabal of trusted employees doing their own thing on their boss’s money. Embezzlement of a sort, on a crazy scale.”

  Rogers asked, “What about Lawrence Schafer?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Benjamin’s personal accountant,” Reeder said. “One of the nine murder victims in this charnel house.”

  “Hasn’t turned up in any of the records.”

  Rogers said, “Elmore and Barr were who Joe and I came here to talk to, now both conveniently deceased. This Schafer could be collateral damage—he was in bed with Barr. Literally, I mean.”

  Reeder asked, “Miggie, how is it the bad guys are always one step ahead of us? Could we have a mole on the task force?”

  Rogers jumped in: “I trust my team.”

  Reeder held up a single surrender palm. “Okay, Miggie—let’s say Patti’s right, and we’re all more honest than Eliot Ness. How about your computer system? Can you be hacked?”

  “Joe, I’m good, and the government is careful. It’s doubtful.”

  “But not impossible.”

  “I’ll run diagnostics again. These guys have guys who have already done some pretty high-tech hacking.”

  “Do that please.”

  “So,” Miggie said, shifting gears, “was this another assassination attempt on Adam Benjamin?”

  Rogers said, “It appears so.”

  “‘Appears,’” Reeder said, “may be the operative word.”

  Frowning, Rogers asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Something I’ve been mulling. If Benjamin’s the target, why leave him for last?”

  Miggie said, “To take out the bodyguards. First deal with the guys with guns, right?”

  “Bodyguards, yes, and maybe the majordomo . . . but why a pretty VP and an accountant? What if we’re supposed to think it was another assassination attempt? If your target is Benjamin, why kill anybody but watchdogs at all?”

  Rogers, thinking out loud, said, “Our double-taps appear to be loose ends getting tied off, over a period of time. Now some sort of clock is running out, and maybe somebody is tying off more loose ends. Big ones now.”

  Reeder nodded. “Somebody like Benjamin himself, maybe. Elmore and Barr owned a company making unstable next-gen plastic explosives. Conceivably, their scientists figured out how to stabilize Senk. If they whipped up a batch, where is it? The two people who could most readily answer such questions are both freshly dead.”

  “Not a coincidence,” Rogers said.

  “Something else to stir in the pot,” Miggie said. “Remnants of at least two 3-D printers were found in the debris of your exploded buildings in Charlottesville. Like it or not, Joe, you have the CSIs to thank for that.”

  Reeder and Rogers were exchanging glances.

  Reeder said, “Sounds like somebody figured out how to stabilize Senk. And printed out something, apparently. What?”

  “Neighbors at the industrial park,” Miggie said, “reported seeing trucks come and go this past summer and fall. No one has any idea what those trucks were hauling. Closest thing we have are reports of seeing pipe being loaded up.”

  Rogers said, “And we have no idea where the trucks went?”

  “None. But digging into the financials of Barmore Holdings, I see they have their fingers into all kinds of pots.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the construction firm that built the new furnace in the Capitol.”

  Reeder frowned, but Rogers only shrugged.

  “Then we may be fine,” she said. “We’ve already determined that the new furnace is just so much sheet metal and typical parts. Ackley’s people and our lab guys checked things out thoroughly. And, anyway, the Capitol maintenance crew installed it.”

  “A crew,” Reeder reminded her, “led by the now murdered Lester Blake.”

  Miggie jumped back in. “Blake was theirs—Barr and Elmore’s. His financials show substantial payments, over a period of a year, from another firm owned by Barr and Elmore.”

  Again Reeder and Rogers exchanged troubled glances.

  Miggie was saying, “And when I checked GAO’s Capitol records . . . don’t ask . . . Lester Blake came up as the guy who reported a problem with the old furnace, paving the way for its replacement.”

  “Patti’s right,” Reeder said. “It’s not the furnace.”

  Miggie said, “Doesn’t have to be. The same Barmore firm that paid Blake off sold the Capitol all the PVC pipe for its recent ductwork.”

  “Call Ackley now, Miggie,” Reeder said urgently. “Make sure they’ve checked any newly installed or replaced ductwork.”

  Rogers cut in: “And after you do that, call AD Fisk and tell her to speak to the President—the State of the Union address isn’t that far off. We could still be in danger of its being compromised.”

  “Compromised” was a hell of a euphemism, Reeder thought, in a world with Senk in it.

  Miggie asked, “What are you guys going to do now?”

  Rogers looked at Reeder.

  Reeder said, “We’re going to go have a chat with billions of dollars.”

  When the Falls Church detective in charge had completed her interview with Adam Benjamin—in a room identical to the billionaire’s previous one, minus such small details as a dead bodyguard inside the door—Reeder and Rogers were waiting.

  The no-nonsense fortyish detective—who Reeder had never met but guessed had never caught a crime scene quite like this one before—reminded them to stick around for a full debriefing, then gave them a solemn nod and went off to check on the crime scene team.

  Reeder and Rogers entered and found Benjamin in a wing chair in the corner, now in a gray suit and unbuttoned white shirt without a tie, looking exhausted. A straight-back chair left by the Falls Church detective was positioned in front of him.

  Coming over with a smile, Reeder said, “I told you it’d be a long night,” and sat. Rogers perched behind Reeder on the edge of the bed, not unlike the way Benjamin had earlier, in that other, bloody, unfragrant room.

  “It has been that,” the weary but composed Benjamin said. “I appreciate you stopping back to check on me.”

  “Not at all. This is Special Agent Rogers. I know that you know who she is, since she saved your life the other night, but you haven’t actually met.”

  Benjamin rose, came over, and shook her hand. “I’m embarrassed that I haven’t expressed my thanks before. I guess I owe you just about everything.”

  “Doing my job,” Rogers said, nodding, smiling politely.

  The folksy billionaire returned to his chair, eyes traveling from Reeder to Rogers and back. “You seem to have a somewhat . . . official demeanor, this trip. Is there something I can help you with, where this tragedy is concerned?”

  “Nine people died,” Reeder said. “So it’s a tragedy, all right. But that could be just a drop in the bucket.”

  The crudeness of the cliché made Benjamin flinch. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Special Agent Rogers and I have uncovered a probable plot to blow up the Capitol Building.”

  He winced, frowning and smiling simultaneously. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Does sound fantastic, I grant you, and I believe we’ve short-circuited the plan. These deaths, I should say murders, including this incident tonight, indicate a rather grandiose effort to tie off loose ends before shutting down a terrible, even mad plot.”

  A micro-expression tightened Benjamin’s eyes. “You’re actually serious?”

  “It’s not a night ripe for joking. Evidence strongly indicates that trusted employees of yours were in on this plot. I would like to think that you aren’t part of it.”

  Benjamin’s eyes and nostrils flared. He seemed about to lash out, but then he settled himself. Leaned forward.

  “Joe, I quite honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. What employees? How could any o
f my people . . . blow up the Capitol? It’s insanity. How would that even be possible in this day and age?”

  “In this ‘day and age,’” Reeder said, “many insane things have become all too possible. Technology can work miracles, and cause devastation. Take, for example, this crazy substance called Senkstone.”

  Benjamin tilted his head, a loyal dog who didn’t quite get what he was supposed to do with that last command. “Never heard of it. What sort of substance?”

  “A plastic explosive more powerful and dangerous than any before it. Your high-up employees Frank and Lynn had a company—well, several companies actually—but this one is called Barmore. Researchers in their employ figured out how to stabilize this explosive and what we’ve discovered suggests that they planned to use it—Senkstone, Senk for short—to replace the Capitol Building with a crater.”

  Some fury came into his frown. “And that’s why they were murdered? Was this a . . . black op? The CIA, operating on our own soil, killing Americans without a trial? Or Homeland taking a page out of the Company’s book? I don’t care what they might have done, Joe, they deserved the usual procedures of arrest and trial. If you’re soliciting my help in some sort of cover-up, you’ve come—”

  “No. We believe the man who carried out these wholesale executions tonight—and a number of others, over several months—is the one tying up loose ends. For some group—terrorists either domestic or foreign. Or possibly an individual with an agenda.”

  Benjamin took off the black-framed glasses and stared at Reeder for a long time: he was trained in kinesics, too.

  “Joe, you can’t mean . . . you surely can’t . . . suspect me in this? You think a man whose views are centrist, a concerned individual considering a run for the presidency, would want to destroy the Capitol? How much more insanity do you expect me to listen to, Joe?”

  Reeder ignored the rhetorical question. “Elmore and Barr were neck-deep in this conspiracy. I thought they might be at the head of it, but then somebody had them killed. The killer himself is clearly a mercenary. Who hired him?”