Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  “Young man,” Killinworth bellowed. “I happen to be a large man, and your seats on this infernal machine were designed for midgets. If you had thought ahead sufficiently to provide armrests that are removable as in other aircraft, it would not be necessary to have the bloody thing removed with hammers and pliers whenever a man of my dimensions is forced into flying on this aeronautical beast.”

  Agent Coleman sighed and shook his head. “I understand, sir, and I wish there were something else I could do—”

  “Last boarding call for British Airways’ Supersonic Concorde service to Washington, D.C.”

  “Perhaps if you weren’t in such a rush, sir, you could fly to Washington on one of our jumbo jets,” said Coleman. “The Concorde is built primarily for speed—”

  “If I had more time, young man, I certainly would never have considered flying in an aluminum tube in the first instance. I spent most of the flight over here standing in the aisle watching that obscene digital Machmeter tell me how fast I was flying. It was not fast enough by half, I assure you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to board immediately, Dr. Killinworth. Your seat—” his smile was subtle—“your seats are ready.” A mechanic stood near the jetway entrance, an armrest in his hands.

  “Yes,” Killinworth said. “Good day, Mr. Coleman.”

  “Good day, Dr. Killinworth. Do have a pleasant trip.”

  ***

  Heather stood in front of a bandstand on the Mall, where a gospel group was performing, thirty men and women in purple robes raising their voices above the din of the Folk Life Festival. She was caught up in the infectious music, and it was not until the group sounded its final note that she realized she had lost track of time. She had, of course, wanted such an escape. Reality was overwhelming. She looked at her watch. Almost eleven. The walk from the Key Bridge to the Mall was not part of her conscious memory, nor were subsequent activities at the festival. She had tried Hanrahan’s house again without success, and had called MPD and left a message with Sergeant Arey, who promised to relay it to Hanrahan when and if he called in. “We’ve tried to beeper him on another matter but he didn’t answer,” Arey told her.

  ***

  “They’re just kids having fun, Mac,” Kathy told Hanrahan after he’d confiscated an assortment of torpedoes, Roman candles and mandarin crackers from two of his nephews.

  “That’s right,” he said, “kids with ten fingers and two eyes each. Better they should stay that way.”

  Kathy smiled and touched his arm. “I know, I know, you’re right. You’re responsible and I’m not. But I’ll tell you one thing, Mac Hanrahan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m more responsible than I was before. I’ve done a lot of growing up…”

  “I’m glad, Kathy. Can we leave it at that…?” His mother waved for him to join her at the barbeque pit.

  “But what do you feel, Mac?” Kathy asked. “I meant what I said at dinner. We should get back together, chalk up whatever happened before as a case of time and place that’s passed. It’s all so damned insignificant compared to the bigger picture, two people who love each other and who’ve shared a lot in common—”

  “Excuse me,” Hanrahan said, wishing he could outlaw family picnics when the word “family” was a name not a fact. “I walked out this morning without my beeper, I have to call in.” He went to a public booth at the perimeter of the park and called MPD. Sergeant Arey answered. “Hello, Captain. Happy Independence Day.”

  “Yeah, you, too, Arey.”

  “I tried to beeper you a while ago. You didn’t respond.”

  “I walked out without… any calls for me?”

  “Only one you need to know about. A woman said the guy who lives next door to her is the Smithsonian bomber.”

  “Yeah? What’s her name?”

  “She wouldn’t say, but she promised to call back this afternoon.”

  A frisbee narrowly missed Hanrahan’s head as it careened into the booth. He swore and tossed it to a group of kids. “Arey, get her name when she calls back.”

  “I’ll try. She said the guy next door is always talking about the Smithsonian, says he says he’s related to the limey who donated it.”

  “Get her name.”

  “I’ll sure try, Captain. If she calls back, I’ll beeper you.”

  “Good. I’ll call in again.”

  Hanrahan’s son approached him. He was tall and tan. A full head of black hair curled down to his neck, his black beard glistened with sweat. He’d been playing softball and wore cut-off jeans and sneakers. “Hey, Dad, what’s with Mom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She seems upset.”

  “Ask her.”

  A cousin told Hanrahan she’d heard that he and Kathy were about to get back together. A nephew who’d lost his firecrackers wanted them back. Hanrahan played a game of bocci and ate a hamburger with onions and ketchup. Occasionally he looked over at Kathy, who was playing volleyball. She wore tight jeans and a bright green T-shirt. She looked good. Familiar. Forget it.

  ***

  “Is Miss Prentwhistle there?” Heather asked. She had stopped in the Museum of Natural History to use the bathroom and the phone.

  “No, she’s not. Who’s calling?”

  “Heather McBean.”

  “Oh, hello, Miss McBean. This is Ford Saunders.”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “I’m not sure, probably this afternoon. Can I take a message for her? I’m house-sitting as it were.”

  Heather paused. For some reason once she’d decided to call Chloe it never occurred to her that she might not reach her. “It’s very important that I speak with her. Can you give me any idea when to call back?”

  “I wish I could. Can she reach you?”

  “No. I’ll try again.”

  “Fine… what is it you want to talk to her about? Maybe I can help.”

  “No. I’ll call this afternoon.”

  ***

  Evelyn Killinworth looked at his watch, glanced at the Machmeter (m 2.00, 1,340 miles per hour, cruising altitude 55,000 feet); then turned a page in a note pad. He had been writing since the flight left London, his only interruption a small boy who noticed that Killinworth took up two seats and giggled. Killinworth snapped, “Why don’t you go outside and play.” He rather liked the startled look on the boy’s face.

  He continued making notes during a lunch of sevruga caviar, délice de turbot Marignane, a Belgian endive and radicchio salad and gâteau Japonaise for dessert, all accompanied by Laurent-Perrier Grand Siécle Champagne. Before putting the notebook away and taking a short nap he found a small address book in his jacket and flipped through it until coming to a series of numbers for Vice President William Oxenhauer. One of them had “Private” penned next to it. Killinworth wrote the number in his pad, put everything away, rearranged himself in his dual seats and closed his eyes. “Four thousand dollars,” he mumbled as he closed his eyes. “A bloody expensive lunch and nap.”

  ***

  Heather tried Chloe again at one, Saunders answered. “Sorry,” he said, “she’s still not back, Miss McBean. I did hear from her, though.”

  “Oh? When did she say she’d be back?”

  “That’s the problem. She’d planned not to return until tomorrow, but she said she’d change her plans if it’s as important as you say—”

  “It is important. It’s urgent. I’ve found something that… I really must talk to her.”

  “She told me she can be back in town by seven. Can she meet you then?”

  “Seven? I’d hoped… well, yes, seven will do. Thank you.”

  “Where are you now?” Saunders asked.

  “At the Mall.”

  He laughed. “How can you stand all those people?”

  “I’m sort of enjoying it. It is crowded, though.”

  “Shall I tell Chloe that you’ll be here at seven?”

  “Her house? No, I think not… I hate bein
g a pest but I’d like to meet her here.” Her foot had begun to throb.

  “In that madness?”

  “Please, it’s important to me. Her office then?”

  “She told me she’d meet you anywhere except her office. That’s the last place she wants to be on a holiday.”

  “I can understand that but—”

  “I have an idea, Miss McBean. The courtyard between the East and West buildings of the National Gallery will probably be relatively empty at seven. Can Chloe meet you there?”

  With visions of being attacked in the courtyard racing through her mind, she took a deep breath, said yes, hoped for the best, would not be surprised at the worst…

  ***

  “It’s nice to spend a day with family again,” Kathy told Hanrahan as they sat on a picnic bench in the park. “Even your mother has been nice to me. I think she’s hated me ever since we split. It’s really too bad… she and I had a nice relationship while we were married…. Mac, we can have it all again, I know we can if—”

  He looked around to be sure no one was near, grabbed her by her bare arms and said, “Let’s get something straight, Kathy. I’ve missed you since it happened. It’s been a long time, but even now I sometimes reach for you in the middle of the night. I married you because, among other things, you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. When you made the decision to leave with what’s-his-face you said something basic about us. You told me that what seemed to be good and sometimes terrific was built on sand. I know you look at it as just an experience, and I’m supposed to be sophisticated or worldly enough to accept it that way. Sort of the old double standard in reverse. Sorry, but I’m too damn old-fashioned. A square cop.” He let go of her. “I wish you the best Kathy, I always have, but I won’t go through that crap again. Not ever. So please stop talking about getting back together. I don’t need it, I don’t want it, period.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Mac. Throwing out the baby with the bath water. Dirty bath water, I admit, but—”

  “Excuse me, Kathy, I have to call in again.” He realized he was losing his temper and didn’t want to play it out with her. To be frank, he’d had an urge to belt her ever since the day she announced she was taking off with her lover. But the picnic wasn’t the time. Get out of the area, he told himself, before you make a damn fool of yourself.

  The phone booth was a considerable walk from where the family had set up camp. He stopped on the way to watch a softball game, get his anger under control. He continued on to the booth, waited impatiently for a young girl cracking gum to conclude a marathon conversation with a boy friend, then dialed MPD. “Arey, Hanrahan. What’s up?”

  “Jesus, glad you called, Captain. Lieutenant Pearl’s looking for you.”

  “Pearl? He’s off today.”

  “We called him. The Smithsonian bomber turned himself in—let me get the lieutenant for you.”

  Pearl came on the line. “Joe, is Arey serious about the Smithson nut?”

  “Looks like it, Mac. He picked a great day, huh?”

  “A great day for publicity.”

  “Mac, I think he’s legit. I mean I think he thinks he’s legit. He’s also crazy as a loon.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the holding pen.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Hanrahan told his mother that he had to leave. He kissed her on the cheek. Kathy stood ten yards away. Hanrahan nodded to her, walked quickly to his car. His son chased after him and caught him up just as he was opening the door.

  “Something broke downtown,” Hanrahan said. “I’ve got to get to the office.”

  “Pop,” his son said, “don’t be too hard on Mom. She’s trying.”

  God, was that the real victim of this mess. The boy, missing his father, protecting his mother? The MPD was a welcome escape.

  ***

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Arey told Heather when she called in again. “Captain Hanrahan is on his way back right now. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Please tell him something important has happened… about the Harsa medal.”

  “The what?”

  “The Harsa medal. Please tell him that I’m meeting with Miss Prentwhistle at seven.”

  “Meeting with Miss Prentwhistle at seven.”

  “Yes. We’re—”

  “Please deposit ten cents or your call will be interrupted.”

  “I don’t have… hello, hello?”

  The line went dead.

  ***

  “We’re about to begin our approach to Dulles International Airport,” the Concorde captain announced. “It’s been a pleasure having you on board today, and on behalf of the flight deck I’d like to wish you a pleasant stay in America’s capital city, Washington, D.C. And to all, including those of the mother country, happy Independence Day.”

  ***

  Heather, with a thousand other people, sat in bleachers and watched a rodeo display. Next she visited a mock Apache village and enjoyed a demonstration of traditional Indian dances. Children from the audience were invited to join in. One little blond boy cried and ran for the protection of his father’s arms. A young girl got carried away and spun around so vigorously that she lost her footing and sprawled on the makeshift stage. The crowd loved it.

  It was four o’clock. A front that had been forecast moved in, and the clear blue sky was now obscured by low, cottony clouds. There was still a breeze, but the air was heavy and humid; rain was imminent.

  Heather ambled away from the Apache village—and was bumped by two drunks in cowboy outfits. Her purse was knocked to the ground. The men offered slurred apologies, continued walking. Heather, aware of what her purse contained, scooped it from the ground and held it close to her as she made her way through the crowd in the direction of the Washington Monument, stopping at a food concession to get the change of a dollar bill. She looked up with hundreds of others at a whining sound. Directly above was what had become a common sight over Washington, the British Airways’ supersonic Concorde, its movable nose tilted down so that the cockpit crew could see during the landing at Dulles Airport.

  ***

  The Concorde captain’s final words to his passengers were, “If you look down and to your left you’ll see quite a crowd of people celebrating the Fourth of July. Sorry we’re not a few hours later when you could see the fireworks. They’re quite impressive from up here. Cheery-O.”

  Killinworth looked out the small window next to him. The ground was barely visible beneath the sea of people about the Mall. He checked his watch. “Not fast enough, not for four thousand dollars,” he muttered.

  ***

  “Fill me in, Joe,” Hanrahan said. He’d arrived at his office minutes before, and Pearl was waiting for him.

  Pearl shook his head. “A certifiable ding-a-ling, Mac. Wait’ll you meet him. I figured him to be young but he’s not. Middle-aged. A nervous wreck, twitches a lot and never finishes a sentence. A piece of work, as they say.”

  “Why’d he turn himself in?”

  “He says he never wanted to hurt anyone, and when he read about people getting cut from the bomb he decided to come in and take his punishment. From what I gather he wouldn’t have bothered if the injured had been men. Women, that’s a different story. He has a definite psychosexual personality.”

  “He does?”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “Why are you sure he’s the bomber?”

  “You’ll know it when you talk to him. He knows too much to be faking it. He’s the one. I’d stake my career on it.”

  “Your career. No kidding. Well, bring him up here. I want a steno. You read him his rights?”

  “Sure, and he called a lawyer. I think he has a little money.”

  Pearl no sooner left the office than Commissioner Johnson called. “Mac, What’s with the bomber?”

  “Pearl called you?”

  “Of course he did. I left a standing order that if anything developed over the holiday in
the Tunney case I was to be notified immediately.”

  “I was going to call after I had a chance to talk to him.”

  “Do you think he’s the one?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him yet. Joe’s convinced he is.”

  “Well, I can be reached here all day. We’re having a little family get-together, a barbeque. One thing before I get off, Mac. Don’t let the press get hold of this until morning, and not until I’ve had a chance to think it out. We’ll hold a press conference and make sure it gets reported the way it should.”

  The alleged Smithsonian bomber was led into Hanrahan’s office by Pearl and two uniformed officers. His hands were cuffed in front of him. Hanrahan judged him to be in his late forties. He wore thick glasses, behind which a pair of small, green eyes were in constant motion. He wore a shiny blue suit, a green tie and tan shoes with perforations. He was slight, about a hundred and forty pounds. Hanrahan pegged his height at five-six or seven. What struck him most, however, was his head, which tended to come to a point. He had fine blond hair, corn silk cascading down from a pyramid.

  “Hello,” Hanrahan began.

  “I want my attorney. I’ll say nothing more without my attorney.”

  “Sure. I take it he’s on his way. Sit down.” He told an officer to take off the handcuffs. A stenographer arrived and complained about working on a holiday. “Time and a half,” she was told.

  Everyone sat silently until the bomber’s attorney arrived. He was tall and distinguished looking, cut from a D.C. attorney’s mold. “Hello, Harold,” he said. “Are they treating you all right?”

  “Yes, they’ve been very nice to me.”

  “That’s good.” To Hanrahan the attorney said, “I’m Dell Tierney, Captain, attorney for Harold’s family.”

  “What family is that, Mr. Tierney?”

  Tierney glanced at Harold, then said, “Could I speak with you privately, Captain?”

  They went into the bullpen. Tierney shoved his hands in his rear pants pockets and shook his head. “His name is Harold Benz, Captain. He lives with an aged aunt in Rockville. His father, Morgan Benz, made a lot of money in real estate out west. Morgan Benz claimed to be descended from the duke of Northumberland, Sir Hugh Smithson. Whether that’s true or not is unclear. It’s also unimportant. The point is that Harold believes that his father was linked to that family. With normal people that might not be a problem, but Harold has some difficulty with reality. He’s a disturbed young man, I’m afraid. He’s also brilliant.”