Murder in the House

by Margaret Truman

  “Washington MPD has to be called in anyway,” the House sergeant-at-arms said. “It’s in the code.”

  “Using the D.C. medical examiner is in the code,” Folsom said. “Nothing about MPD.”

  “Disagree,” the sergeant-at-arms said, holding up a piece of paper. “The MPD is authorized to help the medical examiner. That means they’re part of the investigation.”

  “Wonderful,” Folsom muttered, more to himself. “We’ll be tripping over each other.”

  Goss’s phone rang. He picked it up, listened, then slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle. “The FBI is on its way over. No need to call.”

  Folsom stood. “I’d better get back to the scene,” he said. “Anything else?”

  “Now that the FBI is involved, there is nothing else,” Goss said.

  Folsom returned to the park, where his people were finishing up. The rain fell harder now. The body had been covered again, this time by a sheet of plastic on top of the blanket. Folsom took another look at Latham, quicker this time. Pictures had been taken; the gun had been removed from the deceased’s right hand, to be examined in the lab. If the popular congressman had killed himself, the FBI wouldn’t hang around long.

  But would anyone accept a suicide ruling after the Vince Foster death, investigated by the park police? Political detractors of the Clinton White House had kept the possibility of murder open, primarily through the media. The park police took a ton of criticism for having been the agency charged with the investigation, lacking homicide expertise and personnel as it did.

  The Capitol police had its own homicide unit, and a good one as far as Folsom was concerned: small by MPD standards, but manned by men and women with previous city police experience.

  Folsom was torn as he left the crime scene and returned to his office, on the top floor of the seven-story Capitol police headquarters, to further coordinate things. Vic Lombardo had been left in charge at the park to handle on-site coordination with the other agencies that would soon arrive.

  On the one hand, he wanted the investigation of Latham’s death to remain within his jurisdiction. On the other hand, there was a relief factor in having the Federal Bureau of Investigation take over.

  By the time he reached his office and had settled behind his desk, he found dozens of phone messages to be returned, noted on pink slips in front of him. Jack Goss had overridden Folsom’s order to block off all streets leading to the Capitol. Traffic would flow again.

  A number of other decisions were made, and actions taken, in the next hour.

  Latham’s body was removed to the Washington MPD morgue for an autopsy.

  Ruth Latham was notified of her husband’s death by the Speaker of the House, who led a small contingent to the Latham home with the grim news.

  A hastily called press briefing, blessed by the architect, saw Chief Folsom give a brief, factual statement of what was known to date. He declined to answer questions, saying more than once, “We have nothing more to give you at this time. We have told you everything we know.”

  Three members of Congress joined Folsom at the press briefing, and took the opportunity to praise the deceased member and Cabinet nominee. Their opportunistic attitude dismayed Folsom, but he reminded himself that were he an elected official, he’d probably do the same—gravitate to any microphone or reporter with a pad to say hello to the voters back home. “Man is by nature a political animal.” Who’d said that? Folsom wondered. Yogi Berra? Probably not.

  The president of the United States issued a terse message through his press secretary, Sandy Teller: “This is a tragedy of not only personal proportions for the family, but for the nation. We have lost a loyal, courageous, and effective representative of the American people. And I have lost a dear friend.”

  And Mac Smith, secluded in his study at home, poring over computer printouts on recent legal developments in Russia, got the call from Paul Latham’s chief of staff, Robert Mondrian.

  “I’ll be there in a half hour,” Smith said.

  12

  Rather than waste time looking for a parking space, Smith took a taxi to the Rayburn House Office Building. Each time he climbed into a D.C. cab—or one in New York—he thought of London and its fleet of clean, efficient vehicles driven by knowledgeable, proud drivers. At moments, he considered moving there for that reason alone.

  A knot of journalists and TV cameras were on the sidewalk outside the building. A reporter recognized Smith and stepped in his path. “What’s new on this, Mr. Smith?”

  “I know less than you do,” Smith said.

  “They’re keeping us outside. Hell, some of us are trying to go in to see other members.”

  “Excuse me,” Smith said, aware that the rain, which had abated, now fell with renewed conviction.

  On an ordinary day, entering a House or Senate office building involved only passing through a metal detector as found at any airport, and allowing hand luggage to go through a similar device. This morning, three Capitol police uniformed officers—there was usually only one—stopped Smith to ask what business he had there.

  “I was called by Mr. Mondrian, chief of staff to Congressman Latham. I’m—I was his legal counsel. Name is Smith. Mackensie Smith.”

  One of the officers called the office: “Okay,” he said.

  Bob Mondrian was waiting, along with others on the staff. A female staffer cried quietly at her desk. Two young men huddled in a corner, discussing the tragic news.

  “Hello, Mac,” Mondrian said, shaking his hand. “Come on in.”

  They entered Latham’s office, where two plainclothes investigators from the Capitol police were talking with Latham’s press secretary, Harry Davis. Smith was introduced as Latham’s counsel for the confirmation hearings.

  The investigators, a man and a woman, each in their thirties, returned to their conversation with Davis. Smith and Mondrian listened in.

  “That press conference this morning was uncalled for,” the female investigator said. “Chief Folsom has been instructed to release nothing further to the press without prior clearance from the White House.”

  “Nothing?” Davis said. “Stonewall them? For how long?”

  “Until the White House gives the go-ahead. Congressman Latham was up for secretary of state. This obviously has ramifications beyond the House.”

  “Sure, I understand that,” said Davis. “But—”

  “Look,” the male investigator said, “this incident is out of our hands—out of everyone’s hands—except for the White House. The autopsy is being performed downtown as we speak.” He turned to Mondrian. “The FBI will be here shortly to start going through the office. We’ll be working with them.”

  “How thorough a search?” Mondrian asked.

  The investigators looked at each other like two children who’d been asked a silly question by an adult. “As thorough as it has to be,” the male investigator said. “Right now, you and the staff will have to vacate. We’re sealing this office off.”

  Mondrian laughed, said to the investigators, “We can’t just vacate. There’s a ton of work to be done here. Besides, Paul—Congressman Latham has a number of files that are classified. He’s been reviewing them for his confirmation hearing.”

  The man said, “I understand all that, Mr. Mondrian. But we have our orders. The White House has dispatched representatives to be here when the office is searched. State Department, too, I believe.”

  “On whose authority?” Davis asked.

  “The White House.”

  “This is a congressional matter, at least for the moment,” Davis said.

  “Let’s not get into a debate on jurisdiction,” said the woman. “The president has already called the Speaker and asked for an ‘understanding.’ The Speaker gave it to him. Look, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. Ask everyone to leave the office immediately. Nothing is to be removed by the staff except personal belongings—handbags, umbrellas, that’s it.”

  Mondrian looked to
Smith for support of his position. What he received was Mac’s laconic, “They’re within their rights, Bob. Where can we all gather?”

  Mondrian thought for a moment. “Paul’s committee office, in the Capitol.”

  “That’s been sealed, too,” said the woman investigator. She went into the large outer office and announced to the staff that they would have to leave—“Immediately!”

  “Let’s go,” Mondrian said, coming up behind her. “Just take your purses, umbrellas. Nothing else.” He returned to Latham’s office, picked up the phone, and after a brief conversation announced, “The hearing room directly above us is free. We’ll go there.”

  The male investigator said, “We’ll want to be questioning each of you. Along with the FBI. I suggest you stay in that room until we contact you.” Mondrian gave them the hearing-room number, and led the staff and Mac Smith to their temporary nesting place. Once there, and settled at a large conference table in front of the tiered section at which House members sat when conducting hearings, Mondrian took a pen from his jacket pocket, pulled closer a yellow lined legal pad on the table, and said, “Before they start questioning, maybe we should discuss this together. You know, get a sense of what anyone of us knows.”

  Glances all about, shoulders shrugged, muttered denials of knowing anything of interest.

  Smith said, “I’m probably more in the dark than any of you. All Bob told me when he called was that Congressman Latham was dead, and that it was an apparent suicide.” He turned to Mondrian. “A gun, you said?”

  Mondrian filled Smith in, to the extent he was able, on the discovery of Latham’s body and events occurring since then.

  “Anyone have an inkling that Paul was depressed, anxious, suicidal?” Smith asked.

  “He’s been uptight,” a young woman said. She was part of a team that answered Latham’s constituent mail.

  “Natural,” Mondrian said. “The nomination on top of everything else he was juggling.”

  “Beyond that,” Smith said. “Any unusual pressures on him? Any threats?”

  “Threats?” Harry Davis said. “It’s a suicide.”

  “Allegedly,” Smith said. “Even if it is, there might have been some threat that drove him to take his life.”

  No one knew of any.

  “What about you, Mac?” Mondrian asked. “You’ve been staying close to Paul lately.”

  “I spoke with him late yesterday afternoon. He sounded—well, under the gun. Even a little angry.”

  “About what?” Davis asked.

  “I have no idea. The conversation was brief. No more than a few minutes.”

  The door opened. “Congressman Latham’s staff?”

  “Yes,” Mondrian replied.

  “We’re FBI. Mind if we come in?”

  “Please do,” Mondrian said.

  Four special agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation entered the room and were introduced by the agent in charge. “We’d like to talk to each of you individually about the death of the congressman. The House clerk told us there’s an adjacent empty room over there.” He pointed. “We can use that.”

  “I have a question,” one of Latham’s staff said. “Why are we being questioned by the FBI? Paul—Congressman Latham—killed himself.”

  “We have to investigate any unusual death on the Hill, ma’am. It won’t take long.”

  “I’m Mackensie Smith,” Mac said. “I was counsel to Congressman Latham for his confirmation hearings. I assume I’m free to go.”

  The lead agent chewed his cheek and consulted a paper he’d taken from his briefcase. “We’d like to speak with you, too, Mr. Smith. But we can do that later today, if you’ll make yourself available.”

  “Of course.” Smith slid a business card to the agent. “Call me. I’ll be at this number all afternoon.”

  The light on Smith’s answering machine was blinking when he returned to his Foggy Bottom home. Annabel had called twice. She’d heard the news on the radio. “Where are you?” she said through the tiny speaker.

  Smith realized he should have called her at the gallery before racing to Latham’s office. He did so instantly.

  “Was it suicide?” she asked.

  “That’s what they’re saying—now. He had a gun in his right hand. The wound was to his right temple.”

  “Can it be?”

  “Who knows? He was under a lot of stress. The FBI and Capitol police have sealed off his office. They’re doing the autopsy at the MPD morgue.”

  “Have you talked to Ruth yet?”

  “No. Dreading the call.”

  “Want me to make it?”

  “Let’s let it go until tonight. We’ll make it together. I’m sure she doesn’t need us intruding so soon.”

  “Mac.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there any talk of murder?”

  “If there is, I haven’t heard it. But after Vince Foster, I don’t think anybody in this town will take suicide for granted again. They’ll nail it down, and quickly, I imagine. At least I hope so.”

  “The president is speaking in a half hour.”

  “Oh? I’ll turn on the TV.”

  “Will you be there the rest of the day?”

  “Expect to be, unless something comes up. Sorry I didn’t call you this morning before going to Paul’s office. I’ll let you know if I leave again.”

  The majority of other calls on his machine were from media people, requesting interviews, comments, etc. But the call that captured his attention to the extent that he returned it immediately was from Jessica Belle, former student in his class on Russian-U.S. legal systems, who’d followed Giles Broadhurst to his new position at the CIA. She answered on the first ring of the direct number she’d left.

  “Thanks for getting back so fast, Professor. I—”

  “Make it Mac. Okay?”

  “Sure. Can we get together?”

  “Of course. What about?”

  “Paul Latham.”

  “I should have assumed. What do you hear about it?”

  “Probably more than you have, or than I want to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When can we meet?”

  “I’m free right now.”

  “I’m into a meeting in ten minutes. Four?”

  “All right. Where?”

  “The Marriott at National?”

  “All right.”

  “The bar? At four.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He called Annabel and told her where he’d be later that afternoon.

  “Any idea what she wants?” Annabel asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “The president’s on in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll watch.”

  “Call after he’s through.”

  “Shall do.”

  The president spoke from the White House briefing room. Joseph Scott’s broad, handsome face was drawn and sad as he placed notes on the lectern, issued a flat greeting to the reporters, and said, “This is a very sad day for me personally, for the nation, and for the entire world. Congressman Paul Latham was not only a dear and trusted friend, he was one of the most able members of Congress. I nominated him to be our secretary of state because the nation and world need the sort of steady hand on the rudder he would have provided.

  “I urge each of you not to speculate on the circumstances of the congressman’s untimely death until more is known. This is a dreadful blow to his family. Speculation will only add to their grief. Thank you.”

  He walked away from a barrage of questions hurled at him.

  Mac called Annabel. “Tough on the president,” he said.

  “Have you heard anything else?”

  “No. There are calls on the machine from the press. I don’t intend to return them.”

  “I agree. But look out the door before you leave. They’ll probably track you down at home.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll try to get in an hour or so on the Russian project before heading fo
r Rosslyn.”

  “Okay. I’ll be home early. ’Bye. Love you.”

  The FBI man called and asked if they could get together with Mac the following morning. They would be at the house at ten.

  He tried to concentrate on the U.S.-Russian legal project, but gave up after a series of false starts.

  He left the house at three-thirty, relieved to see no reporters camped outside the door. It was while passing over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge on his way to Rosslyn, Virginia, that it struck him for the first time: Latham’s appointment secretary, Marge Edwards, hadn’t been at the office that morning. Was she sick? Or was she so distraught at the news that she couldn’t bring herself to be there? He remembered Marge’s comment about Paul asking her to keep an eye on Molly. She’s probably with the daughter, he thought. Tough duty, beyond the call of appointment secretary.

  The question came and went, replaced by the larger and more meaningful question of why he was meeting Jessica Belle.

  13

  The Washington, D.C., press corps was stretched thin that day trying to get a handle on the death of Representative Paul Latham—so many friends and colleagues to corner and question, so many places to be at the same time.

  By four that afternoon, their ranks had swelled as reporters from other cities, and from national and international wire services and publications, arrived in the capital to follow up on the initial news.

  Everyone who’d ever had dealings with Paul Latham, for any reason and in any capacity, was fair game. The reporters and photographers, remote TV trucks, cameramen, familiar on-air TV anchorpeople, and hundreds of support staff camped in front of the Lathams’ Foxhall home, the Rayburn House Office Building, the White House, and the State and Justice departments. The home addresses of Latham’s staff were ferreted out, and correspondents dispatched to them. Neighbors of the Lathams were interviewed for clues into the dead congressman’s state of mind: “Notice anything unusual about him lately?” “Now that I think of it, yes. I saw him last weekend in the yard. I don’t know, he had a funny look on his face.”