Murder on Capitol Hill

by Margaret Truman

It took Lydia two nights to read through the transcripts given to her by Chief Horace Jenkins, and she found little of overriding significance in them. Mark Adam Caldwell’s statements were the most provocative. Although he’d said nothing overtly hostile toward his father, Lydia read between the lines a festering, unsettling animosity and wondered whether Jenkins had picked up the same thing. It occurred to her to check whether the interviews had been recorded. She assumed they had been. Certainly a great deal more could be found out by actually listening to the comments than from reading them on a typed page.

  She called Clarence and asked whether his interrogator had used tape.

  “Yes, he did. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, Clarence.” She almost told him she had the transcripts but thought better of it. The fewer people who knew about it the better. As it stood, only she and Jenkins knew that they were in her possession. At some point, of course, she’d have to share them with the committee, but for now, there was something comforting about having sole possession.

  She hadn’t decided yet about whether to press the McNab matter. She knew that if she did, she’d have to make a good case with the committee, and she couldn’t even begin to build it until she’d had a chance to examine the McNab file at the MPD.

  “Time,” she muttered to herself as she sat behind her desk in the committee office and reviewed a preliminary list of potential witnesses to call before the committee once it shifted into that phase of the investigation. She had to do everything herself at this stage, though of course she’d created that situation by keeping the transcripts away from her office and staff, and by agreeing to personally review the McNab files.

  She called Horace Jenkins at the MPD. He was grumpy, and when she said she’d like to spend Thursday reviewing the McNab files, he mumbled, “Just stay out of the way.”

  Ginger returned from lunch, hung up her pea jacket and closed the door. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  The researcher, wearing beige corduroy pants tucked into tan cowboy boots, a heavy purple turtleneck sweater and a massive, noisy necklace made of random pieces of silver and copper, sat in a chair across from Lydia’s desk and shook her head. “The older I get, the weirder people get.”

  Lydia couldn’t help but laugh. “How old are you, Ginger, twenty-eight?”

  “An old twenty-eight. Anyway, just before I went out to lunch I got a call from Quentin Hughes.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Dinner.”

  “And…?”

  “And this time he’s invited me to his apartment at Watergate.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Only because I’m a dedicated employee of the committee.” Lydia smiled, but Ginger shook her finger. “I’m serious. Quentin Hughes is not my type. Well, I wasn’t doing anything anyway. Harold still says he needs more space to get his act together about us. So, I accepted. The point is I’d like to know just how important it is for you to know more about Hughes and his relationship with the late Jimmye McNab.”

  Lydia looked down at the mass of papers on her desk, sighed and said, “I don’t know. You told me after your last dinner with Hughes that he wouldn’t admit anything about a relationship with her. Right?”

  “Right. But the way he avoided it makes me feel that there was something between them, maybe even more than the rumors indicated.”

  “The problem, Ginger, is that while it all might have some bearing on the Caldwell murder, I can’t justify having you pursue it. To be honest, I’d have to say that at this point it doesn’t seem to matter. If Hughes did have an affair with her, it can’t tangibly be linked to what we’re doing here. I wish I could encourage you because frankly I’m fascinated with it and have this nagging feeling that there is a connection between the two deaths. But I’ve been put on notice that to drag the McNab case into it might cost me my job and if I can’t—”

  “Well, maybe you’re not so far wrong. This is what I really wanted to talk to you about. I had a date last night with an old friend, a nice guy who’s recently divorced. He’s really not my type, but what’s a girl to do? I won’t tell you his name because I wouldn’t want to betray his trust. Understand?”

  “I’m not sure… go on.”

  “Okay. Jack is an FBI man. I thought that was pretty heavy stuff until I got to know what he really does. He audits books, for God’s sake, handles records, things like that. I mean, it was a real letdown when I realized he wasn’t the one who shot Dillinger. Anyway, I told him that I was working on the Caldwell committee… I hope that’s okay… I told him, and he asked me questions about it. I didn’t answer all of them because I didn’t want to be talking out of turn. But when I mentioned Jimmye McNab, he gave me one of those wry smiles and said, get this, that the rumor was that Senator Caldwell had had an affair with her—”

  Lydia raised her hand to stop what was too offensive to hear.

  “I’m not joking,” Ginger said.

  “How would this man know such a thing, even if it were true, which I’m sure it isn’t.”

  “The pipeline.”

  “From the MPD to the FBI?”

  She nodded. “He wasn’t sure of the source and the circumstances, but he remembered talk about Senator Caldwell having been… how did he put it?… having been ‘intimately involved’ with Jimmye McNab.”

  “Nonsense. Caldwell was her father, or like her father. She was his wife’s niece. They’d raised her like a daughter—”

  “Not legally a daughter.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I knew the man and his family. It’s too farfetched even to speculate on such a thing.” Or was it? she was forced to ask herself. She’d had a feeling about a connection. But this…?

  Ginger fiddled with a broken fingernail and gave Lydia one of those “think what you want” looks. “All I’m doing is passing on what I was told. And he is with the FBI—”

  “Did he say anything else that might substantiate it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s all too—”

  “Too what?”

  “Too soap opera.” And Lydia immediately regretted saying it, remembering it was how Veronica had characterized her interest in the McNab murder.

  “Some people say that’s what Washington is, one long-running soap opera.”

  “Not to me, and not to you either. You’re too young to be a cynic.”

  “Well, the point is that maybe there was a link between the murders… want my advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Follow it up. Ask around. Caldwell’s sons, his wife. I think it’s true.”

  “I don’t.” But of course she half did. It helped explain the feeling she’d had for so long that she couldn’t express. “Let’s go back to Quentin Hughes. You said he agreed to send over the videotape of the interview he did with Senator Caldwell.”

  “That’s right. I’ll ask him about it again tonight.”

  “Ginger, be careful tonight.”

  “Careful? Why?”

  Lydia was sorry her motherly instincts had come out. She said in a deliberately light voice, “Well, you know, he’s a lech.”

  “Old leches like him are never a problem.”

  Like hell, Lydia thought but didn’t say. After Ginger left the office, she thought about their conversation, especially what Ginger had said about Cale Caldwell and Jimmye McNab. “Absurd,” she said to no one, not really believing her own disbelief.

  Senator MacLoon’s call broke in. He skipped the amenities. “Do we have a witness list yet?”

  “I’m working on it, Senator. It depends on decisions made by the committee this week. I wanted to bring it up at tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “I’d like to have the list finalized by Friday and release it at a press conference.”

  “Press conference?”

  “I think it’s time to report on what progress we’ve made. Do you object?”

  “I think it might be premature. The question of the
McNab murder should be resolved first.”

  “You said you’d be presenting your reasons on that for the committee to consider. We’re waiting.”

  “I’ll try to do that on Friday. I think any press conference should be postponed until the middle of next week.”

  He made a show of patronizing indulgence. “All right, but let’s wrap up things on Friday… a witness list, the McNab thing put to rest, all of it. Is that agreeable?”

  “It will have to be, Senator.”

  He hung up, and Lydia returned her attention to the list of potential witnesses. It ran the gamut of Senate colleagues and employees, members of the Caldwell family, personal friends of the deceased and unspecified members of the Washington MPD.

  She flipped through a Rolodex until coming to Cale Caldwell, Jr.’s office number, dialed it and told the woman who answered that she wanted to speak to Mr. Caldwell.

  “Oh, hello, Miss James, this is Joanne Marshall. We met at Mrs. Caldwell’s house. Hold on just a moment.”

  Cale came on the line. “Hello, Lydia, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “That’s all right. I was wondering whether we could get together today.”

  “Today’s almost gone.”

  “I know, but there’s been a shift in schedules that’s pushed up my timetable. I’d really appreciate a chance to talk, even a half hour.”

  “Well, I can’t get out of here this afternoon, but I could have a drink after work.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “How about Hogate’s? Six?”

  “Fine. Before you hang up, I was wondering whether you could put me in touch with your brother.”

  “Well, I… you could call him.”

  “I know, but I’d rather have you arrange a meeting between us, preferably before Friday.”

  “That might not be easy, Lydia. He’s… you know how he is, very secluded down there with his friends, very much keeping to himself.”

  “Let me be honest with you, Cale. I’m making up the witness list for the committee. Naturally you and Mark will have to be on it. I thought it might be helpful for me at least to be able to pre-interview your brother before he’s subjected to the full committee’s questions. I’m suggesting it for his sake, nothing else. I want to be helpful.”

  “I appreciate that, Lydia. Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll get ahold of him and suggest that he see you. I don’t know what more I can do. I really don’t have any control over my brother’s life.”

  “I realize that, Cale. Anything you could do would be appreciated.”

  “I’ll let you know when I see you how I made out. See you then.”

  ***

  An hour later she received a call from a man who introduced himself as Francis Jewel, executive director of the Center for Inner Faith, the cult Mark Adam Caldwell belonged to. “I understand you wish to speak with one of our brothers, Mark Adam.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Did his brother call you?”

  “Yes. It is our policy to shield our brothers and sisters from the secular life as much as possible. Naturally, since we are a law-abiding church, we are always willing to cooperate in legitimate matters…”

  “That’s to be admired, Mr. Jewel. Are you calling to arrange for the meeting I asked for?”

  “Reluctantly. Obviously, our brother made a very unwise decision, attending a party. He was counseled against it but went against the wishes of his brothers and sisters, and his God. I recognize that there are certain obligations he now must meet regarding the investigation into his father’s death. One must always pay for one’s transgressions. His brother told me that you would be subpoenaing him to appear before your Senate committee but wished to speak informally with him first.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You do realize that there is no binding reason for him to agree to this.”

  “Of course.” His tone had begun to grate on her. “He’s free, isn’t he, to make his own decision in such a matter?”

  “Apparently you’re one of those who believe what you read about how we exert control over our members.”

  “I’ve heard things, Mr. Jewel. I don’t prejudge. May I see Mark Adam Caldwell?”

  “Under certain conditions. What happens to him reflects, of course, upon our entire church. I will agree to an interview with him, but I insist on being present. If that is acceptable to you, we can set a day and time.”

  “Why must you be there?”

  “To protect his interests.”

  “His or yours?”

  “Perhaps both. When would you like to see him?”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Ten?”

  “Fine.”

  “You know how to find us?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Brother!

  ***

  Cale Caldwell, Jr., was waiting at Hogate’s bar when Lydia arrived. He was especially cordial as he greeted her, then placed their order with a busy bartender.

  “Thank you for calling your brother’s church for me.”

  “They got back to you?”

  “Yes, a Mr. Jewel. I didn’t like him, don’t like anything about the arrangements that have been made, but I guess I have no choice. In order to see your brother, Mr. Jewel insists on being present during our conversation.”

  Cale smiled. “I agree with you, of course, but I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. Ever since Mark joined the Center for Inner Faith everyone in the family has been subjected to that sort of thing. I’m afraid there’s nothing can be done about it. That’s the way they work, and if you want something from them you play by their rules.”

  Lydia sipped her drink and stared at the highly polished bar. “It’s bad, Cale. These cults and their hold over their followers. They’re a real threat. There should be more investigations—”

  “It’s touchy,” Cale said. “Start messing with religion, or what purports to be a religious group and you run the risk of being called intolerant, messing with constitutional rights… hey, you’re a lawyer, you know all about it.”

  She nodded. “Still, after Jonestown… Anyway, what attracted your brother to it, do you know?”

  He leaned on the bar and moved closer to her to allow a man behind him to reach for his drinks. “Mark is… well, Mark has always been different, Lydia. He has an intensity about him that, once upon a time, was appealing to Mom and Dad. He’d get into something and it became the only thing in the world. It didn’t matter whether intellectually he knew it was dangerous. It was as though he went into a trance, all judgment was suspended. Still, it wasn’t something that you could take serious exception to. After all, he excelled at whatever he did. He became the best wrestler in high school, the best weight lifter, the most knowledgeable astronomer. Nothing halfway with Mark. He could blot out the world once he dove into something. Frankly, I often envied him that single-minded dedication until, of course, it led him into something like this damn cult.”

  Lydia glanced around. The bar was filled with attractive people, animated in their conversations, eyes skirting the bar, appraising.

  Someone recognized her and waved. She returned the greeting, then turned back to Cale. “Cale, do you think your brother was… capable of murdering his father? Do you think he had a reason to?”

  For a moment she thought he might actually strike her. He gripped his empty glass, his mouth tensed. Then, abruptly, he seemed to relax. “Yes.”

  Now it was her turn to react. “You do understand that I’m not suggesting that he did.”

  “You said ‘capable’… yes. My brother, as much as I love him, is a disturbed person. It’s gotten worse over the years. Naturally, everyone in the family has denied it. After all, what’s a family for?… Do I actually think Mark killed his father? Of course not…”

  “Any ideas?” she asked, noting that his last words sounded more a demurrer than a denial.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I bet the police will never come up with a good answer, and the
same goes for your committee. It will be another unsolved murder, more important than most because of Dad’s position, but unsolved… which of course will be the ultimate blow to Mother, not having an answer to it. I hope it won’t happen, but I bet it will.”

  “I’d like another drink, Cale.”

  “So would I.”

  After they were served Lydia decided to press him more on his brother as a good suspect.

  He drew himself up straight, smiled pleasantly. “If you wouldn’t mind, Lydia, I’d just as soon not talk about this anymore.”

  “I’m sorry… well, how are things going with you?”

  “Personally or professionally?”

  “Either, both.”

  “Professionally, first-rate. Personally, up and down. Which makes me part of the human race, I guess.”

  “I suppose you’re right. It seems easier to get professional things in line than personal ones.”

  “Ah, yes.” He wiggled, Groucho Marx fashion, an imaginary cigar between his fingers. “Nothing is as unsolvable as the man-woman thing, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you seeing Clarence?” he asked.

  “We’re old and good friends.”

  He shrugged, took a drink. “I thought there might have been more to it than that.”

  She said nothing. Then… “I had dinner with your mother.”

  “She told me, said it was a nice evening.”

  “Yes… she’s an amazing woman, Cale, so strong, able to rise above the worst… I saw it when Jimmye died, and now again with your father.”

  The mention of Jimmye made him grimace. She decided to follow through on it. “Cale, can you think of anything that might link Jimmye’s murder to your father’s?”

  He looked her in the eye, said very firmly, “No.”

  “Neither, it seems, can most people, including your mother. She’s quite upset that I’ve suggested it as an area of inquiry for the committee.”

  He nodded. “She told me.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “The way she does. We’d all rather see Jimmye’s death stay a thing of the past. It’s too painful to bring it up, and it serves no useful purpose.”

  Lydia cocked her head. “Still, I’d think the family of a murdered daughter wouldn’t… couldn’t stop pressing until her killer was brought to justice—”