Implant
F Paul Wilson
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1
Welcome to Federal World.
She cut diagonally across to her left, weaving between suited federal employees and T-shirted tourists, and came out on First Street. She consulted her hand-drawn map, she'd been to the Capitol area many times as a child, but never to a Senate office building. Up ahead the white blocks of the Russell Building sat to the right, the Dirksen Building to the left. She hurried past the Dirksen's shrub and flower-lined parking lot labeled "Federal Employees Only", hopefully she'd have a spot there soon, and up to Constitution, then left past the Dirksen and a scruffy clutch of helmeted bike messengers lounging on the sidewalk, waiting for a call on the walkie-talkies protruding from their vests.
Her destination was the adjoining block of white marble, the Hart Building.
In the white marble lobby she gave her name to the uniformed security guard and signed in. She was directed to place her bag on a conveyor belt. As it was swallowed by the X-ray box, Gin stepped through the metal detector. Just like an airport.
More white marble beyond the guards, the whole building seemed to be made of it. A short walk down a corridor lined with potted trees and she came to the Hart's huge central atrium.
She stopped, struck by the sheer mass of the enormous black steel sculpture that dominated the space. A series of jagged black peaks, stark against the white of their surroundings, thrust upward, reaching for the sunlight streaming through the ceiling beyond. Between the skylight and the peaks floated a gargantuan mobile of equally black disks.
Black mountains and black clouds in a white room. Arresting. But the tension coiled inside prevented her from fully appreciating it. Had to move, keep going, get upstairs to Senator Marsden's office.
As she passed through the atrium she noticed a man staring at her. In his gray suit he could have been any one of the thousands of Senate aides who worked on the Hill. He was good-looking, though, thirtyish, fair, tall, close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw. But why was he staring at her like that? She wasn't dressed in any way to make her stand out from any of the other women passing through the atrium.
Nothing special about her sedate, navy pinstripe suit, just a knee-length skirt and a short fitted jacket. So why was he ogling her like she was wearing a micromini and a halter top?
It made her uncomfortable. She was glad when she found the bank of elevators. She turned a corner and put some of that white marble between them.
The elevator on the end was marked "Senators Only." Gin rode one of the brightly lit peon cars to the seventh floor and began to look for Senator Marsden's office.
The offices occupied the perimeter of the Hart Building, the hallway, actually a ramp that ran around the inner walls, overlooked the atrium and the sculpture. She noticed a gray, powdery coating on the upper surfaces of the mobile. The clouds needed a good dusting.
Down on the floor she noticed someone standing in the center of the atrium, becalmed while everyone else flowed around him. That same man, the one in the gray suit, was staring up at her.
What's year problem, mister?
She looked away and walked on. Quickly. She found 752 at the far end of the hall. A simple black nameplate on the oak door said Sen. H. Marsden.
Vertical blinds blocked her view through the full-length windows that flanked the entrance. She reached for the door, then hesitated.
This is ridiculous, she thought, blotting her moist palms on her skirt.
I've been through premed, med school, internal medicine residency, I've brought people back from the dead, I've been up to my elbows in blood and guts, and here I am nervous as a sixth grader outside the principal's office.
She grabbed the handle and stepped into the front office.
I know her.
Gerald Canney continued to stare up at the seventh-floor walkway where that attractive brunette had disappeared from view.
But from where?
He prided himself on his ability to remember faces and match them with names. Part of it seemed to come naturally, part from his training at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Special agents had to spot faces through extra hair, dark glasses, any sort of disguise.
Only with this gal, no disguise. Her face had been there right in front of him, all but daring him to recognize her. Why couldn't he? Could she be in some way connected to the case? The late, great Senator Richard A. Schulz used to have an office in Hart, still did, in a way, until his successor was named. Gerry had just been up there, sifting through the senator's files.
He sighed. The Schulz case was something of an embarrassment to the Bureau. They'd been tipped that the good senator was laundering honoraria, since Gerry was attached to the public corruption unit, he'd been assigned to the team looking into it.
Schulz was suspected of various other dealings of questionable legality. The corruption team was tightening the noose when he dropped to his death from his apartment balcony.
Did he fall or did he jump? The Bureau did not know. They were reasonably sure that he was alone in the apartment when he went over the balcony rail.
How could he fall? The railing was four feet high. He'd have had to climb onto it to fall, and there was no logical reason for him to climb, no plants to water, no hanging decorations that needed attention.
That left a jump. Had he heard about the investigation and decided he couldn't stand the heat? Not likely. Gerry had interviewed both his current mistresses, neither of whom knew about the other. One was listed on his office payroll as an "assistant" for forty-one thousand dollars a year. No one on his staff knew what she looked like, she'd never been to the office.
The other was a lobbyist for an electronics trade association. Many members of Congress could be accused of being in bed, figuratively, with certain political interests, Schulz apparently took the phrase literally. Neither woman said she'd noticed the slightest sign of stress or apprehension in the senator at any time before he died. Even his physical therapist, who gave him an ultrasound treatment on his back only an hour before his death, said he seemed to be in excellent spirits.
So what had happened to Senator Schulz?
Gerry didn't know. Which was why he'd been at Schulz's officer this morning. That officer was right down the same hall the mystery girl had been traveling a moment ago. And Schulz had been quite a womanizer, a legendary womanizer in . . . this time
A third mistress? No. Gerry didn't think that was it. Schulz's office had been sealed since his death. No point in anyone going there. She couldn't get in.
But this gal didn't work here. Gerry could tell by the uncertain way she'd walked through the atrium, gawking at the sculpture, looking for the elevators, this was her first time in the Hart Building.
So who was she?
Easy enough to find out. Just go over to the visitors log by the Constitution entrance and check out the names. But that would be cheating.
Hey, I'm a trained special agent, he told himself. I can solve The Mystery of the Strangely Familiar Foxy Brunette without stooping to checking the visitors log.
So FBI special agent Gerald Canney stood in the center of the atrium and flipped through his mental files. After five minutes he walked over to the visitors gate and showed the guards his ID.
'"I'd like to see this morning's visitor sheet." The woman slid a clipboard across the table. Gerry scanned through the names, picking out the female ones. If he saw it, he'd know it. No doubt. It would click.
He slid past one and jumped back to it.
Regzna Panzella.
Regina Panzella . . . why did that ring a bell? Panzella sounded familiar, but not with that first name. Not Regina . . . not Gin . . .
What went with Panzella?
Pasta.
Oh, Christ! Pasta Panzella. It couldn't be. Absolutely no way Pasta had been . . . well . . . fat. That was how she got the name. A real chubette. This gal was anything but fat.
And yet . . .
Something about her face . . . slim down the rounded cheeks he remembered, do something with Pasta's wild tangle of hair, and it could be. It had been ten years or more since he'd last seen her, but yes, it could damn well be Pasta.
Gerry glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be back at the office soon to meet with Ketter on the Schulz case, but they hadn't set a definite time for the meeting. Maybe he'd hang around here for a while and see if he could get another look.
Pasta Panzella . . . it was almost too much to believe.
'"Okay, " said Joe Blair, Senator Marsden's chief of staff. "Enough about the officer. Let's talk about you."
Really? Gin thought. You're finally going to stop talking about yourself and actually interview me? Can you stand it?
Blair was about her age, with thinning brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, and a wispy mustache. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt, a nondescript tie, and dark blue slacks. He looked too young to be a U.S. senator's chief of staff, but from the stories he'd been telling her, all starring a certain Joseph Biair, he'd been on the Hill for the entire eight years since his graduation from Cornell with a poli-sci degree. This was the third senator he'd worked for, and to hear Joe tell it, he'd written more legislation than any of the members he'd staffed for.
What a guy. Reminded her of some of the orthopedic residents in Tulane.
Gin had been under the impression that she was going to be interviewed by Senator Marsden himself.
"The senator is on the floor, " Joe Blair had told her.
Gin had looked around. "I don't understand."
"That means he's in the Senate, " Blair said with a condescending smile. "On the floor of the Senate."
"I see." She did her best to hide her disappointment.
"Besides, the senator doesn't do the hiring and firing. I do."
Oh, great. Her disappointment was swept away by a wave of apprehension.
She had the distinct impression that Blair didn't like her.
Blair gave her a quick tour of the office. She'd already seen the small front section with its two receptionists, one male, one female, and its antiseptic, dentist's waiting-room ambience. The rear space was much larger and sloppier, looking like a real working office with modular work spaces, cluttered desks, sagging bookshelves, glaring computer monitors, empty coffee cups, papers and folders lying on every available horizontal surface. And phones. Phones everywhere, each bearing a little U. S. Senate seal.
The staff occupied two floors that communicated via a central stairway.
The two-tiered space offered more room than most senators had, but Marsden represented one of the larger states, and she knew "appropriation by population" was religious dogma on the Hill.
The second floor was pretty much like the first except for a small lounge and the computer room that housed the central processor for the office's LAN. The striking feature of the second floor was the mail room with its bins, many bins, of letters. Blair told her anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand pieces of mail were sorted, filed, and answered on a weekly basis by the staffs legislative correspondents.
Blair decided to interview her in the senator's office. Gin was surprised at the Spartan decor. She'd expected heavy oak paneling, plush carpeting, indirect lighting, a big leather chair, a huge impressive desk sporting a U. S. Senate seal and flanked by state and national flags, the works. Apparently Marsden wasn't impressed by the trappings of his office. The desk and its straight-back chair were of some nondescript wood, looking plain and slightly battered in the late morning sunlight that poured through the high windows. Files were stacked on the desk and floor. A few plaques and diplomas adorned the walls along with pictures of his family. A single bookcase was overflowing. A miniature basketball hoop was set up over the wastepaper basket.
Gin had a pretty good idea right then that she was going to like Senator Marsden.
But first she had to get past his chief of staff.
She and Blair settled themselves on opposite sides of the coffee table in the sitting area of the office. Blair spent another ten minutes or so talking about his prowess in helping guide the senator's bills through the many pitfalls of the legislative process, his gaze all the while drifting between her legs and her breasts. Gin drew the skirt hem closer to her knees.
She had decent legs and wore a 54-C bra. What else did he want to know? Maybe she should have worn a pantsuit.
Finally he began shuffling through her resume.
"Very impressive," he said, "but I don't see anything here about party affiliation."
"I'm an independent, " Gin said.
He glanced up at her as if she'd burped, then cleared his throat.
"Party affiliation is very important. We have to know whom we can trust."
"If I'm on your staff, you can trust me. If you want a straight answer, I'll give it to you. If I don't know an answer, I'll find out."
He stared at her. "I don't know . . . the senator was impressed that a practicing physician, especially a young one, would apply for a position as a legislative assistant on the Guidelines bill. Tell me, what do you think you can bring to the committee that we don't already have?" Finally, here was the question Gin had been waiting for.
"I can bring a lot of things. First off, ''
"You know the history of the committee, don't you?" he said. Gin did, but that wasn't going to stop Blair "Well, back when you were still in training, before a national healthcare program and universal coverage became hot topics, Senator McCready, a ranking member of the Committee on Labor and Human Resources, introduced his Medical Practice Guidelines Bill in the Senate at about the same time Congressman Allard introduced a very similar bill in the House. In a rare show of cooperation a joint committee was formed. Senator McCready chaired the hearings but died before the bill could be sent to the floor of either house. With one of its chief sponsors gone, the bill died in committee." Gin nodded.
"But earlier this year the president stepped in. Yes, he personally asked Senator Marsden to revive the McCready committee. But he wanted the legislation to include not only practice guidelines, but mandates on medical ethics as well."
"And that's why you need me, " Gin said, rushing in before Blair could drone on further with his recitation. "I'm a board-eligible internist who came through the medicine and public policy residency at Tulane. I'm a fully trained physician who's well versed in public health issues. You're going to be collecting reams of testimony, much of it conflicting. You'll need someone like me to sift through it and septate the wheat from the chaff. If Senator Marsden, "
"Quite frankly, I don't share the senator's enthusiasm for having a doctor on board, " Blair said, staring at her. "I think it could cause too much confusion, maybe even dissension. So, what can you say or do that will change my mind? " Gin's skin crawled at the way he looked at her when he said that. She decided to ignore it.
"I think you need all points of view to draw up a well balanced plan. I can provide the senator with a valuable perspective, one he's not seeing now, one he has little access to. The best generals always keep abreast of the conditions in the trenches. I can
offer," Blair glanced at his watch. "Look at the time We've already carried this over the limit I'd set for it." He closed her file and stood up.
"Well, thank you, Dr. Panzella" He walked to the door and opened it for her. "I'll discuss your application with the senator. We'll be in touch if he decides to hire you." His expression was perfectly flat, his eyes empty. "Can you find your way out?"
"Of course, " Gin said, forcing a smile.
Her heart sank as the message came through loud and clean Don't call us, we'll call you.
Gin let the smile fade as she wound past the cubicles and out through the reception area. What a nightmare of an interview. She couldn't imagine how it could have gone worse. What was Blair's problem? Was he threatened by her? Or was he looking for something from her? What can you say or do that will change my mind? What was that all about?
What had he expected her to do, lift her skirt?
She felt her jaw muscles bunch in anger. A little man with a little power equaled a big problem. Was this the way it was going to be?
She had the elevator down all to herself. She leaned against a side wall and fought the disappointment. Okay, so she probably wasn't going to get on the chairman's staff. She'd been prepared for that, not for a screw up like this, but for the real possibility that the senator wouldn't think he'd need her. There were six other members, no, check that, Congressman Lane had died in that car accident a while back. So at the moment there were five other legislators who were members of the Guidelines committee. As the ranking House member, Congressman Allard was the next obvious choice. Gin had set up a fail-safe appointment with him on Wednesday morning. Looked like she'd be keeping it.
She left the elevator and rounded the corner into the atrium. That was when she heard a man's voice from her left.
"Excuse me, but does the word ‘Pasta’ hold any special significance for you?" She froze. It was a name she hadn't heard since high school. A name she'd never wanted to hear again.
Gin turned. Him again. Or still. The blond guy in the suit. She now saw some fine linear scars across his forehead and down his right cheek that she hadn't noticed before. He was edging closer, staring at her face like the kids in pediatrics stared at "Where's Waldo" puzzles.
Implant Page 1
