Tile opened the door and let John Heller inside. He nodded to the two men. Then he strode to the minibar, fixed a vodka and diet Sprite and drank it down fast. He noted the story on the TV. He said to them, “Good job.”
Governor Heller had a problem.
Himself.
Married and a father of two, Heller had a roving eye. When he was on the road, he might spot a young woman at a rally or a hotel bar, buy her drinks—plenty of drinks—and “help” her back to her room, with his bodyguards making certain no one was around to see.
Infidelity and public office were hardly an uncommon occurrence but this politician was running for president. Peter Tile, Heller’s minder and fixer in chief, couldn’t care less about the morality of it all; he was, however, determined to end up in the West Wing, with a real job title and a fat salary; his boss’s bad behavior simply could not make the news and derail their mutual ambitions. He spent a good portion of his time tactically planning these liaisons.
Then, disaster.
Drunk and apparently irritated at her rejection, Heller had snapped and beaten Elly Morgan to death in Maryland.
Full crisis mode.
Eddie Von had staged her death to look like a mugging gone bad and dumped the body elsewhere. He’d pitched the bloody rock into a deep river nearby. This wasn’t enough, however. Not for Tile. The debate was being held in a small and largely crime-free college town outside Baltimore, and Tile knew the press would jump all over the story. It was on the record too that Elly was a guest at the motel where the governor was staying. Also known was the fact that the governor himself had had past “incidents” with women—and a legendary temper.
If the press put those strands together, Heller might end up in a homicide investigation.
How could Tile prevent that?
An idea occurred to him: What if there were a crime in the vicinity that was so sensational that stories about the mugging would be buried in the press?
Tile liked the idea. But what kind of crime? He’d then laughed to himself.
Buried . . .
So he and Von created the Gravedigger. Von snatched a random victim and hid her in a drainage tunnel, leaving a puzzle as to her whereabouts. They had no intention of letting her die and, if the police hadn’t figured out the clue, Tile would have made an anonymous call reporting her location. The plan worked perfectly. For several days, the media was consumed with the idea of unraveling the Gravedigger’s puzzle. The story dominated the headlines, and the death of the West Virginia woman was hardly reported.
Tile thought they were home free. But then Morgan’s boyfriend—Josh Marcus, a coal-company manager—decided to play fucking detective. He was probably suspicious: Why was his girlfriend mugged around midnight, behind a restaurant at which she hadn’t eaten, miles from her motel?
Typically, at the motels and hotels Heller stayed at, Tile would spread thousands around the staff to downplay the governor’s presence, citing “security concerns.”
But apparently he’d failed to dispense alms to everyone.
Marcus learned from some employee that the night she’d died she’d been in the bar talking to Heller. He’d called the governor’s mansion asking if he could meet with the man himself. Probably Marcus didn’t suspect Heller at that point but legitimately hoped that he could provide some information about her plans that night. No one called Marcus back, and when he learned the governor was in Garner for fundraisers, he drove up there to get answers to his questions. He met with Tile, who sensed that by now, yes, he was a risk.
He’d had to die too.
Von staged the fatal car accident on Route 29. Once again, since the reporting about his death might lead someone to make the connection to his girlfriend Elly’s, and to the fact that the governor was present at both times, the Gravedigger struck again, this time kidnapping Jasper Coyle.
Sure enough the second abduction consumed the media, even more than the first incident; the Gravedigger was now a serial kidnapper—junk food for the media. Marcus’s car accident story, as well as the coverage about the governor’s fundraiser, went to the bottom of the news pile.
But then Edward Fitzhugh showed up. The reporter had actually managed to find out about Tile’s presence at Coyle’s kidnapping, where he’d been acting as lookout for Von. Tile had checked out the old journalist. A Pulitzer winner, the man was known to be a dogged investigative reporter. With some persistence, he could probably connect the dots: Heller’s presence in the towns where Elly Morgan and Josh Marcus had died, and Tile, with a connection to the governor, being at one of the kidnappings.
Now the journalist was gone, his files destroyed.
Crisis averted.
Heller was staring out the window. “I didn’t want any of this to happen. I didn’t want anybody to die. You do know that, Peter, don’t you?”
“I do, John. But—”
The governor held up a hand. “No, no, you don’t have to worry. It’s over with. I promise. No more women.”
“It has to be,” Tile said.
The governor nodded. “I’m done. What are the next steps?”
“Me? I’ll make some anonymous calls that the Gravedigger has been seen on the West Coast and the story’ll go away. And you? We’ve got a rally tonight. Start working on your speech.”
18
Dottie Wyandotte stared at her computer screen until she could sit no longer.
She had to rise and, working up her courage, she walked into Fitz’s office. It smelled of tobacco—not smoke, just the tobacco. Whiskey too.
She opened desk drawers. Found a pack of cigarettes and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
You drink whiskey?
Does it have wheat in it? . . .
She replaced them and flipped through some of his notebooks. Set these back on the desk too. In the corner of his office was an old typewriter. She’d never used one. Dottie walked to it now. She hit several keys. The o worked and the m but not the e; she believed he’d told her that that letter was the most used in the English language. She looked at the armatures. Some of the letters, at the end, were clogged with ink from striking the ribbon year after year. Maybe she’d go on eBay and buy one. It would make a nice objet d’art in her tiny apartment.
Dottie walked back to Gerry Bradford’s office. He looked up. Dottie reflected that he was a younger version of her banker father.
“I’m not writing the piece.”
“The animal influencers?” He was frowning.
“There’s another story I want to do.”
“What is it?”
“I see it as a memorial to Fitz. An homage, you could say.”
He hesitated; she knew he would.
“Well, corporate really wants it. And they want it right away.”
“Give it to somebody else.”
“They want you. You’re the best writer on the team.”
Bradford glanced at his phone, as if debating calling corporate for their okay. Or to ask for help. Then his eyes returned, taking in the four studs in her right cheek. They represented the four corners of the earth—to which she intended to travel someday. She’d never told anyone this.
She said nothing but just stared.
Bradford sighed. “We’ll go with the Fitz story.”
V
JULY 22
19
For the past week, Dottie Wyandotte had played real reporter.
Pounding the pavement—and learning she wasn’t in as good physical shape as she’d thought. Up stairs, down stairs, walking next to contacts as they strode quickly or, in one case, jogged along the sidewalk.
She talked to sources Fitz had spoken with, to sources he had intended to speak with, to sources whose identity she dug up on her own. Dottie found herself out of shape in this area too; her Northwestern J-School skills were rusty. Those talents weren’t really necessary when your piece is about teenage makeup choices or the best keto diet recipes for beef. (And you don’t need to ferret out sources when
they come to you, in droves, kissing ass and hoping for free publicity.)
Soon she hit her stride.
Taking dictation was tough for her, but she was a whiz at hitting “record” on her iPhone app. And, back in the office, Dottie proved equally talented at plugging in yet another program to transcribe the words of the various interviewees.
Now, at last, she was writing the Fitz story itself, following the journalistic rule of the inverted pyramid. A story should start with the most important facts in the lede.
She smiled to herself remembering a journalism professor at Northwestern: “The first paragraph of a news story leads, as in being the first. But it’s spelled ‘l-e-d-e.’ Why? To avoid confusion with the word ‘lead,’ pronounced ‘l-e-d.’ In the old days, my days, the molten metal was used to set type for the printing presses.”
After the lede, the paragraphs appeared in descending order of importance, down to the “cut-off ’graphs,” those containing material that was perhaps interesting but unnecessary.
Yesterday, late, she’d finished the piece and, following protocol, sent it to Gerry Bradford. He gave her no reply then.
She’d wakened this morning early and gone right to her computer. Still nothing from the EIC. Now, in the ExaminerOnline office, close to noon, she could wait no longer. She strode into his office. He was reading something on the screen. Was it her article?
No. The OOMC piece about a celebrity coming to town.
“Who’s this guy?” Bradford nodded at his display.
“No idea. If he’s a YouTube sensation, he’s got the shelf life of yogurt. So run the story fast.”
Bradford sat back. And looked over his shoulder.
Dottie turned.
Two men, in suits and ties, walked through the doorway.
“Gerry,” the taller of the two said. Dottie sensed he was in charge.
Bradford introduced them. The tall one was the president of the Examiner’s owner, National Media Group. This was the boss of bosses. The other was the chief general counsel for the company. They’d flown here from New York. Even though they could have driven.
The president looked her over, not interested in the studs or ink. “So this is the girl that doesn’t like animals.”
The general counsel said, “Sounds like the title of a bestselling thriller.”
Neither Bradford nor Dottie smiled or otherwise reacted.
A moment passed. The president said, “Why don’t you sit down, Ms. Wyandotte. There’re a few things we need to discuss with you.”
20
No spectacle on earth is more exhilarating than a national political party convention.
The coming together of enthusiastic men and women selecting the candidate who will lead their party to victory in November.
Peter Tile was standing in the wings, staring out at the crowd and listening to the pulsating cheers of the audience, as Governor Heller and other officials whispered among themselves nearby. These were the committee chairwoman, the campaign director, the governor of Ohio, where the convention was being held, and others with no role other than kissing ass and hoping for jobs in the administration.
Tile couldn’t be critical; he’d been there himself.
All was calm on the Fitzhugh front. The case, handled by the Fairview County Sheriff’s Office, was largely closed. It seemed that the killers were indeed a pair of meth tweakers living outside Garner. Three days ago they’d died, ironically, in a fiery explosion in their trailer, as will happen when the dire ingredients required to make that terrible drug are present. The gun and gasoline can traced to Fitzhugh’s death were found in their backyard.
As for any evidence Fitzhugh may have marshaled that could point to Peter Tile himself and to a connection between the governor and the deaths of the couple from West Virginia, it had all been destroyed in the conflagration of the reporter’s house. The man’s laptop and desktop computers had gone missing, presumably fenced by the tweakers.
He looked over the convention floor. The chairwoman, a dull, somber senator from California, was at the podium and calling each state to announce their votes.
As the tally progressed, the crowd was reacting as if their vote were the final draw in a million-dollar hand of celebrity poker.
“The great state of Washington, which has raised the minimum wage to twelve dollars an hour and has more sunshine than people give it credit for . . .”
Laughter.
“Washington casts its 107 delegate votes for Governor . . . John . . . Heller!”
The applause and shouts erupted again. Feet stamped too.
Tile glanced toward the governor and noted a young woman had caught his eye. The smile on her acne-dotted face grew broader, wide eyes wider. The gaze lasted only a few seconds. It was Heller who’d looked away first.
I promise. No more women . . .
People can change, of course. The events of the past month had been dreadful, terrible. There had been mistakes made, crimes committed, lies told. There’d been death. But now, looking at the energy of the candidate’s followers, knowing the man’s brilliant policies and how he could steer the country on a prosperous course, Tile felt that the team’s decisions were the right ones. The governor would emerge as one of the best presidents in years.
Tile examined the convention floor.
Soon West Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming had their say—procedurally required but mathematically unnecessary; the Heller tipping point had arrived before the S and T states. Amid the stomps and claps and hoots and shouts, the chairwoman banged the gavel and recognized the senator from New York, a young Latina standing on the floor at her delegation. “Madam Chairwoman,” the senator said, “I move that the convention nominate . . . Governor John Heller . . . to be our candidate . . . for the next . . . president of the United States!”
Tile’s ears ached from the thunder. But what a pleasant pain it was.
My God, life didn’t get any better than this.
Heller strode onto the stage, looking every inch a president—the Kennedy mode, of course, not Gerald Ford or either Bush. The governor wore a beautiful Italian suit, cut perfectly, and a starched white shirt that glowed, reflecting flares of red and blue when the spots swept over him. Hands raised on high. Smiling, nodding.
Finally, quiet—if not silence—descended and he stepped to the podium. Behind him on the jumbotron words coalesced from spiraling pixels:
A NEW BEGINNING . . .
Peter Tile felt that was exactly what he was looking at. Heller’s past was being scrubbed. He, and the country, were moving on to great things.
Tile along with him.
“My fellow citizens . . . delegates . . . colleagues . . . distinguished officeholders . . . my . . . dear . . . friends.”
That last word spawned a paroxysm of cheers.
When it died down: “I accept the nomination that you have so generously bestowed upon me!”
Again, cacophony.
Tile wished he’d brought his earplugs, but then wondered what the Secret Service would make of that; they were for use when he was on the shooting range.
“We stand on the verge of change in this country,” Heller continued. “Momentous change. Yes, it’s time for a new beginning in our great nation.”
Now, though, the applause and the cheering were more subdued.
Tile looked out over the floor. Something odd was happening. Many delegates were looking at their phones. Then most of them were. Soon instead of shouts and cheers, the hall was awash with the rising and falling sound of murmuring voices.
Heller stopped speaking and stared, frowning, into the crowd.
Tile’s own phone began vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket. He noted that Heller’s coterie were looking at their own mobiles.
A terrorist attack? That would play well for him, bad for the incumbent. They could spin the current president’s neglect of security.
Heller gave up. He strode offstage.
Tile looked at his news
feed. He felt the gut punch.
Heller walked up to him and grabbed the phone. He read. Then whispered, “No . . . no . . .”
In the ExaminerOnline office, Dottie Wyandotte was scrolling through her article, which she’d uploaded not long ago. It was front and center on her monitor.
Above the fold.
Even if there no longer was one, not in the digital age.
Her story was front and center too in the New York Times, L.A. Times, the WaPo and Journal and about a thousand other publications and news feeds throughout the world.
Serial Kidnappings, Homicides Linked to Heller Campaign in Sexual Assault Cover-Up
Reporter for This Newspaper Was One of Alleged Victims
By Kelley Wyandotte, Examiner Staff Writer, Based on Reporting by Edward Fitzhugh
Dottie read through the article yet again. She couldn’t help herself. She was looking for any grammatical mistakes. Punctuation errors. Problems with syntax.
Yoda, a butcher of syntax is . . .
Nope. Looked pretty clean to her. Thank God. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Fitz, assuming—as she occasionally did about departed loved ones—that he was looking down from on high somewhere.
All the whichs had commas, all the thats did not. And there was not a single apostrophe s committing the crime of pluralizing a word.
Then she turned from the monitor, sat back and read once again the email that Fitz had sent her the night he died. According to the time stamp, and the police account of the chronology of his death, he’d sent it a few minutes before he was killed.
Hey, Whippersnapper:
Nice chatting tonight. Haven’t had a good conversation like that for a long time. Have been doing some research, using this thing called the internet. You should try it. It’s great. For instance, I just learned that distillation removes the gluten protein from whiskey, so you’re good to go.
I’m going to need some help with my story. You’re spritely. I’m old. You’re smart and I’m slow. Let’s do this one together, what do you say?
Buried (Hush collection) Page 6
