by Brian Haig
On paper, this guy was so conscientious, professional, and shit-hot He didn't even need a bulletproof vest.
I took a moment to study his photo. Jason Barnes was fairly good-looking, actually-high cheekbones, smooth complexion, thin lips, and eyes that were deepset and light blue, or possibly gray. His hair was brown and short, with every strand in place, and I wondered if he had AstroTurf in his DNA. Even his eyebrows looked plucked and neatly combed.
On the surface, this was a guy who could get his share of the ladies into the sack. But attractive bone structure aside, something about him didn't sit right. He was too well-groomed, and as a result, a little strange-looking. In a well-lit room, women with less than five beers in them would look carefully at Jason Barnes and take a pass.
Sounding surprised and distressed, it was Mrs. Hooper who broke the studious silence. She held Barnes's photo aloft. "I know this guy From Belknap's house." She unhappily added, "I've spoken to him a few times."
I mentioned, "And I hope he remembers them as warm and pleasant conversations"
She stared at me like I was weird.
But seriously, I-actually, we all-needed to open our minds a bit. With only suggestive evidence, with no scintilla of anything substantive, we had slipped the noose around this poor schnook's neck. The more circumstantial the case, the more somebody needs to tamp the breaks and sniff for the bullshit. I'm good at dubious.
In truth, Jason Barnes had led an honorable, in fact an exemplary life-military college, three years as a Jarhead, Secret Service-all in all, a life dedicated to the trinity of God, country, and family Also, crime originates in the mind, and what was missing here was the why-as in, why would this gilded paragon of red-blooded American goodness become a homicidal maniac?
Or was there another side to Jason Barnes, a shred or shard burrowed so deeply that his supervisors, peers, and a shrink entirely missed it? Was he a split personality, half Mr. Goodbar and half Simon LaGreedy? As a member of the Secret Service, Jason had surely been apprised of the bounty on his boss's head-all that cash, for whoever had big enough brass balls to collect it. Possibly. However, nothing in his life pattern suggested money was the flame that lit his wick.
Of course, people change. Daily proximity to all that power and money can wear on the soul, the mind, and the spirit. The poor schlep gets up in the morning, drives his crapped-out Mazda to the manor house, and then squats in a cramped and dreary subterranean cell, through the cameras observing the Lord and Mistress upstairs entertaining the glitterati, gleaming Mercedeses stacked out front, people in tuxes and evening gowns guzzling the bubbly, trading political fixes, and plunking $50K checks into the coffers of the Grand Old Party.
Or had Jason Barnes experienced some spastic metamorphosis? Some galvanizing revelation that sent him caterwauling into a homicidal rage?
I mentally ran his life backward. His father was a judge, and had in all likelihood filled his son's head and heart with lofty notions about equality and justice. He was raised in Richmond, a bastion of southern culture, largely bypassed by the carpetbaggers, which was both a good and a bad thing. Having once spent a few weeks in Richmond on a case, I recalled it as one of those cities with a quaint, almost small-town feel and insular, tight-knit neighborhoods. Being a prominent judge's child could not have been easy for little Jason Barnes. Army bases have that same close-knit aura, and as a colonel's kid, I remembered the way other kids and their parents looked at me when I did bad things. Boy, did I remember.
Also, we knew for a fact that Jason was a pious man whose adulthood had been cloistered in monasteries to high ideals and patriotic virtues. We had uncovered his monkish lifestyle, and witnessed his quirky appetite for neatness and order, so the obvious question now seemed to be: How deep and how wide did that go?
In the enlightened words of somebody, it's not the cynics who ignite revolutions, it's the disillusioned idealists. Perhaps Jason Barnes took a long and disquieting peek behind the curtain of the counterfeit reality, at the pulleys and levers behind the spin machine, at the money that greased the machinery, at the full hypocrisy of democracy, so to speak, and maybe… well, maybe Jason decided that somebody needed to clean up this mess. Maybe.
Both motives sounded reasonable: greed, the oldest engine of dirty deeds; and rage, the nectar of history's most appalling crimes. Yet neither rationalized the sheer extravaganza of killing. A pious man on a moral crusade doesn't massacre innocents, and a greedy man has his own reasons to be circumspect in his actions. The contradictory extremes made no sense, unless we were missing some connecting line between the victims. And if Jason's motive was money, why leave that leading note at Belknap's home? And why put Fineberg and Benedict in the morgue?
The catch with a bounty is you have to be alive, free, and clear to cash in. And it is drilled into the thick skull of every Marine infantry lieutenant in Tactics 101 that surprise is a decisive advantage, not to be wasted through error or careless judgment.
It made no sense that Jason Barnes would identify his intention, his mission, and his target.
And just as I was mulling those vexing issues, Director Townsend won the booby prize. He looked up and mentioned, "According to this form his father is Calhoun Barnes." He looked around the table. "Judge Calhoun Barnes?"
Jennie replied, "His supervisor mentioned his father's a… a federal judge, I believe."
Director Townsend put down his folder and blinked a few times. "Doesn't anybody here appreciate the monumental significance of that fact?"
I looked at Jennie, but she had suddenly pushed back from the table and was whispering furtively into her cell phone.
The other faces around the table were clueless.
The name struck a bell with me for some reason that, unfortunately, I couldn't put my finger on. Something.
Townsend folded his hands in a temple and informed us, "Calhoun Barnes was on the President's short list for the next Supreme Court opening. That fact was leaked to the press and widely disseminated."
All of a sudden it came back to me.
The light apparently flipped on for Mrs. Hooper as well, who uttered, "Holy shit. This guy is Calhoun Barnes's kid?"
"It appears that he is," Townsend replied, also sounding not overly pleased.
But before we could probe more deeply into that dark revelation, Jennie punched off her cell phone and bent forward. She announced, "That was Roy Ellington from forensics." She added, "During our search of Barnes's townhouse, Sean and I forwarded his shoes to the lab for comparison with the foot molds taken from Belknap's garden. We have a perfect match."
George had been quietly sulking and he came out of his funk. "Tell us about that."
"Jason Barnes's running shoes correspond exactly to a set of prints found in the garden, and some partial dirt tracks located inside the house."
George asked the obvious. "Then Barnes was at the house this morning?"
I asserted my lawyership, replying, "It means his shoes were at the house."
"Shoes don't walk without feet in them," George insisted.
Jennie reported, "The lab also discovered traces of the mulch on his shoes. Apparently, afterward, he returned home and changed, before he disappeared."
Mr. Wardell commented, "Look, before everybody… well… the shoeprints… I mean, Barnes worked at that house, and-"
"We considered that, Chuck," Jennie informed him. "But Barnes made a mistake."
"Meaning what?"
"The Belknaps entertained last night. According to the security log, Mrs. Belknap had her yard service tidy up before the party. The grass was cut, the garden was raked, and a fresh layer of mulch was applied around 4:00 p.m.-three hours after Barnes's shift ended."
"Yes, but… I… I know I sound… well, stubborn but-"
"If he returned after his shift," Jennie persisted, "to chat with a colleague, whatever… it's not listed in the security log"
"Maybe they forgot to log him in."
Director Townsend said, "But it'
s unresolvable, isn't it? That whole shift is dead."
We all nodded at this unimpeachable truth.
But what Wardell, in fact, what everybody, excluding Townsend, Mrs. Hooper, and I, failed to yet appreciate, was why-as in why Jason Barnes might feel impelled to murder the President, his spokesperson, and a Supreme Court justice.
Mrs. Hooper had apparently heard enough. She announced, "It's time to put out an advisory to all federal employees. They should vary their daily routines and their routes to and from work." She paused and looked around the table at the security professionals. "Does anybody disagree?"
Nobody disagreed.
I pictured a bunch of federal employees the next morning kissing their wives, husbands, and kiddies good-bye, wondering if they should be kissing their own asses good-bye. Washington was not ready for this.
Townsend turned to George and somewhat gruffly said, "You've got until morning to discover where these military munitions came from."
George nodded.
Phyllis added, "And perhaps you can ascertain what other weapons or munitions they got their hands on."
Townsend acknowledged this sage advice with a nod and said, "That would allow us to assess what they could reasonably do, our risks, what we need to protect against."
We all thought about that a moment. If the killers had Stinger antiaircraft missiles, Mr. President better stick with trains. If they had more antitank missiles, even the Oval Office was no longer safe. If they had anthrax or a suitcase nuke, we should all be thinking about an excuse to leave town.
Townsend turned next to Jennie and ordered, "Send somebody to Richmond. I want Mrs. Calhoun Barnes interrogated tonight." He added, very forcefully, "Our challenge is to match the speed of our investigation to the velocity of whatever the killers are planning. The federal government does not have a reputation for quickness.
I challenge all of you to overcome that. Oh-and by morning I would like to have some idea who his co-conspirators are."
It was interesting that he said "his co-conspirators," as though there were no longer any doubts or equivocations about what Jason Barnes had been up to that day. Inside this room Barnes was now The Man.
I wasn't so sure about that. In my view, the problem with the FBI is they spend all their time catching criminals, whereas I, a former defense counsel, spent a good part of my career getting them off. It's all about mindset.
As an old criminal law prof used to impress upon us, remember the fifty-fifty rule: Anytime you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, there's a 90 percent probability you'll get it wrong.
Director Townsend looked in my general direction and said, "Drummond, you figure that one out."
Right.
CHAPTER TEN
On that unhappy note, the official part of the meeting ended, and everybody broke into small knots, tidying up loose ends and exchanging whatnots.
Meany, I noticed, was buttonholed by his boss, Townsend, and the loose knot they were transparently tying was George's ass. They stood in the far corner, George, stiff and erect, arms at his sides, occasionally recoiling as his boss spoke with his chin jutted forward, hands locked on his hips.
What I would've paid to overhear that discussion.
Mrs. Hooper of the White House was trapped in the other corner, having her ear bent by frisky little Gene Halderman, who was still struggling to find a purpose, useful or otherwise. The loose end they seemed to be wrestling with was how to break this shower of bad news on the unsuspecting public. I couldn't wait for the morning news shows to see the spin they put on this one. I pictured the anchor saying, "The White House this morning announced that in collaboration with the D.C. mayor's office all government officials are strongly encouraged to participate in a traffic management experiment and to vary their routes to and from work." Pause. "In other local news, local stores have reported an unexplained rush on bulletproof vests and armored cars."
Mr. Wardell had not budged from his seat, and nobody was dropping by to tie knots, trade hints, or even offer bromides. I think it was dawning on him for perhaps the first time that his beloved Service had two feet really sunk in the doo-doo. He was thumbing through the folder on Jason Barnes, rubbing his forehead, and I've seen shell-shocked soldiers who looked more with-it. In fact, he was probably wondering how much worse this could get. Worse, Chuck. Given how much Barnes knows about the security force and procedures protecting the President, your worst nightmare.
I also stuck around for a few minutes to get my marching orders from Phyllis, which did not start off convivially I mean, did she say, "Well, Sean, what a very impressive display of detective work, both at the Hawk's house and on the beltway, and I apologize for my earlier nastiness, because you're really some guy"? No, she withdrew a cell phone from her purse, showed me how the on button functioned, and called to my attention the career benefits of checking in often. The lady was pissed, I could tell. She even threatened to make me produce written reports. I'll take the poisoned cigar, thank you.
As I mentioned, I'm not an easy man to have working for you. I actually felt'a genuine spike of regret for the difficulties and anxieties I had caused Phyllis, and I silently vowed to do better.
In fact, I assured her, "Will do," hoping she didn't see my crossed fingers.
She nodded knowingly and patted my shoulder. "Better do."
"Anything else?"
"Only this. Mort has been combing through the reports pouring in from our station chiefs. It seems word about the bounty was known more universally than we thought."
I nodded.
"But," she continued, "nearly every international intelligence institution discounted or dismissed it-just as we did. They concluded it was a joke or an elaborate hoax."
"And their thinking now?"
"They think we have a very big problem."
"And they're glad it's not their problem."
"Actually… they're worried it might be their problem."
"Meaning what?"
"They're desperately hoping none of their people put up the money and none of their native criminal enterprises or terrorists are trying to collect it."
Right. America had changed since 9/11, and the rest of the world was experiencing a jolt of dislocation, not to mention anxiety adjusting to the new reality It's like waking up one morning and discovering your generous, happy-go-lucky next-door neighbor with that frisky Lab just moved out, a grumpy gun collector moved in, and his three Dobermans are pissing all over your wife's prize rhododendrons. It's a little scary. You really don't need your kids tossing eggs at his front door. The Pentagon was probably lit up like a Christmas tree.
Phyllis droned on a bit longer about the activities of our friendly counterterrorist people, who, she assured me, were working around the clock to figure out where all the known and suspected terrorists in America were at that moment, what they were up to, even scrubbing the immigration files to see if anybody dark and moody had sneaked across the border in the past few months.
Some interesting leads and developments were being considered, and they were still beating the bricks, hustling their sources, and squeezing their stoolies. But nothing had popped, so far.
I wasn't optimistic. In truth, the intelligence agencies are so fragmented and compartmentalized, one hand never knows what the other's doing. Often, one hand doesn't know what it's doing.
Another annoying reality was that my Top Secret clearance was so pathetically limited I could barely peek into my own desk drawer. This sucked. Intelligence agencies are so risk-averse that information is never released until it's been checked six ways from Sunday, massaged, dry-cleaned of conjectures and assumptions, and stuffed with so many maybes, possiblys, and on the other hands that you aren't even sure about the date at the top of the memo. So you find out on Friday about the terrorist attack coming on Saturday, only it was last Saturday. The point is, you have to see what's working when it's still called soft intelligence, because usually by the time it hardens, it's irrelevant.
Phyllis, on the other hand, had so many initials and suffixes attached to her clearance, she could sniff the Director's under-shorts.
Also it went without saying that the counterterrorist folks were targeting most of this gumshoe effort at Arabs, or, more broadly, those who practice the Muslim faith. This had become the venerable convention, and while it is politically incorrect in our tolerant nation to even allude to terrorism as a religious cause or crusade, try walking onto an airplane these days thumbing through the Koran. Right.
Yet it struck me that the people doing these killings probably weren't Arabs, jihadists, anybody who gave a rat's ass about Allah, or even anybody who glanced toward Mecca, except to watch a cool sunrise. This felt too secular and, in a way, either too personal or not personal enough.
But I didn't confide this thought to Phyllis. When you tell smart people obvious things they conclude you're not smart.
Anyway, we finished up, and I decided I should exercise my discretion and pass these latest updates on to Jennie. So I walked out the door, and to my surprise, George grabbed my arm and muttered, "You and I need to have a word-in private."
I stared down at his hand.
Two seconds of awkward silence passed before he released his grip and stepped back. He drew a few breaths, smiled, and suggested, in a more suspiciously polite tone, "I Just think we need to have a confidential discussion."
"Fine."
George led me down the hallway and around a corner where we were out of everybody's earshot and, more curiously, everybody's eyesight. He spun around and we ended up face-to-face, about a foot apart. He looked coiled and pissed off, and I wasn't sure if he was going to throw a punch or kiss me. For the record, I preferred the punch.
But George did neither. He gave me a hard stare and said, "Do I have to tell you how much I dislike being set up in front of Townsend?"
"As much as I dislike having my observations plagiarized?"
