So I offer Bailey a shrug. I hope that's enough for him.
"Sorry, I don't keep up with that stuff anymore."
"Well, from what I read about what happened, I am so sorry for what happened to you, miss. Just seems horrible. Especially for someone who survived so many problems like that."
"Thanks. I promise it's not that bad."
"It doesn't have to be bad. I just want to let you know someone's thinking about you."
I can taste the flirtation in his words, but I roll my eyes and look over at Ben as he comes closer to us, slapping his phone against his palm.
"Sorry baby, I have to go over to the senator's. She said something's come up with tomorrow's speech and needs me there at the last minute. Something about how there's talk of opening the government so she needs another speech just in case it does."
Politics in this country have been crazy. Nothing has seemed sane since about a year ago, and I never really understood why. It just seems like our system has broken down. That's one reason why there's a government shutdown that just won't end. Of course I would start dating a man who was directly tied to the government. It meant that he had to do more work.
"No worries," I say. "Just call me when you get home."
We hug and kiss goodbye. He steps away back in the direction he came from earlier in the night, walking through small mounds of snow with his phone in his hand. I watch him walk away and, for the briefest moment, wonder if this will be the last time I see him.
No, I can't think that like that anymore. I can't keep thinking everyone around me will die.
"Need that ride?" Bailey asks.
"You bet. Just don't flirt with me. I have a boyfriend."
The cop smirks. "If you say so."
We walk through the snow towards his car, the bone-chilling air rushing by us. I sneak one last look at the mall, hoping to see any footsteps near the water to help me. But all I see is snow, and from my angle, I can't make out the shoe steps.
So I turn back and head toward the car to give my statement to the police.
Chapter 4: Home
The police station visit went as well as expected. It cleared my mind to know I wasn't a suspect. Knowing you're not accused of a crime can make it easier to tell the complete truth without worry of slipping up your words or your story. Even if you're telling the truth, the story might come off wrong or you might forget a detail. And that's the last thing you want.
I spent about two hours there. And by the time I left, the sun started to peak over the eastern side of the city. A faint glow of orange sprayed across the capitol building. The city became more alive, like it had held in a deep breath and then let it out in the early morning.
The police didn't press me anything too much. Detective Lawrence Krasinski, whose name I had seen in Scribe articles I read before I moved to the city, had asked me why I was there by the mall at such a late hour. I told him the truth -- I went on a run after my boyfriend never came home and I fell asleep on the couch. I wanted to see the memorial since I had been stressed out and worried about my reporting. He asked what I was reporting on and I told him. The Senate hearings about the tech company NEW SURGE. He made a note of it and said he'd be in touch if anything came up.
Getting out of the station at that hour would have been a mess. So early in the morning when it was still dark out. Krasinski offered me their napping room in the back corner of the station. So I took a nap. It was hard to fall asleep quickly since the office was so busy. When I woke up, I grabbed a cup of the department's coffee -- Folgers brewed in a cheap pot. You'd think they could afford better. I left the department without saying another word to the police.
I requested a Lyft driver -- named Senia -- who came to pick me up in eight minutes. She was a young black woman with braided hair that went past her shoulders.
I've made a point to always talk to my Lyft and Uber drivers. After what happened with Paige back in Minnesota, I owed it to all drivers to give them the benefit of the doubt.
"So how's your morning going?"
"Can't complain. Well, I guess I can complain. This shutdown has me so pissed off. I swear."
"Why's that? Do you work for the government?"
"No, no. I was working for a bank out in Virginia, you know? Large bank with a marketing department. But then they laid off a bunch of us because they eliminated the department. So I started driving Lyft to make up for the cash."
"Wow. And has it worked? I always wondered if Lyft drivers can make enough money to do it for a full-time position."
"Oh, that's what I heard. It was actually my sister who recommended it to me. I figured it'd be a good job for me while I wait to get hired somewhere else. My sister told me you can make easy money through Lyft, especially because they let you have one of their cars if you pay for it."
I had no idea. "That's awesome."
"It didn't turn out that way," she said. "I started driving the week before the shutdown. Now, there's no one on these roads. Just people who live here during the year. And with Georgetown out for winter break, you can imagine there's not a lot of people here anymore. And it sucks. I lost a ton of money. And I don't even know why the government is shutdown. They don't even explain it the right way. I'm trying to figure it out."
We turn down another road into the tight streets of Washington. The streets are baron. No one's walking along the streets. Businesses normally glowing with excitement but now dark because of the terrifying shutdown.
The car slows to a stop at one of the lights, which hangs off on the corner of the street. I am surprised how subtle the lights are placed throughout this city. Almost like they don't want you to see them, which is odd.
I will say, after spending so much time in Minnesota and across the country visiting various towns and cities, Washington definitely has the East Coast vibe.
I think about Senia's question about the shutdown. I know all about it, in large part because I've been reporting on it and it's a large reason as of why I am here in Washington in the first place.
"Well, you're in luck, because I'm a reporter and I can tell you all about it. Well, at least the parts I know. I mean, I don't have any inside secrets to the shutdown or anything but I can tell you how it started."
"Oh, please. Please tell me. I wish I could know so I could know who to complain to about what happened."
I smile. She's got a point. True change only comes when people feel the need to complain to those in charge. She deserves to know who caused this shutdown, and then she can complain. That's one of the aspects in journalism, after all -- keeping those in power in check. And when those in power weren't working, it was more important than ever to make sure those who elected to those in power kept them in check.
"Okay so back in June there was this huge expose in The Washington Scribe from a reporter named Minny something or other. It was talking about this company named NEW SURGE, which had been organizing and lobbying for a number of campaigns to change the political atmosphere in the country. They were using a couple of different analytical and data companies to collect information on the country and the people inside. Using all of that data, they were manipulating campaign slogans, organizing social media efforts, and, this is where it gets really strange and I have no idea what this means, there was an artificial intelligence project that was aimed at manipulating results."
"Say what now?"
"That's right. They didn't go into full details about what it meant, you know? Like, that's all the report said, and the reporter disappeared after the story ran. But there have been a lot of theories about what she meant. Some people think it was an intelligence system that could infiltrate voting machines and mark votes for them. But my personal favorite theory, and I can't say if this is true or not, but there was this idea that literally artificial intelligence beings -- you know, like robots -- were going to walk into the voting rooms and would literally place votes for people."
"Isn't that voter fraud?"
"You bet
it is."
"Wow. That's some crazy ass stuff."
"Yeah, it is. But none of it was proven, I mean, unless you believe the reporting, which I do. You wouldn't stake your reputation on something like that. So everyone was on this story. And then it was discovered that New Surge owned the rights to a number of fake news websites. Like, they had websites that would just share fake news all the time. So it sort of matched the reports. And, in another crazy development, it turned out the President Hicks and Senator Gates were both connected to the whole thing. So Congress decided to hold a hearing about to regulate tech and how analytics and data can be shared with the government."
"Wow. Are you serious? That seems insane. That just seems absolutely insane. I didn't know that was going on. I thought they were just messing with Facebook, Twitter and all of those apps. I didn't even hear about this New Surge stuff."
"Yeah, so, the Senate was holding some hearings. And then the senate and house decided to draft a bill on what the regulations would be. But because the country is so partisan and because people can't make up their minds, here we are. They shutdown the government in order to craft the right bill."
"Ah, so that makes sense now. I get it. Typical partisan politics though. Closing down the country so they could make their own bill? That's so unfair."
"You bet it is. I'm trying to find out what they were writing in that bill. Maybe if it gets leaked, people can put pressure on the government to open up back up."
"I hope so honey. I hope you keep doing some reporting and keep us all informed on what's going on."
"Oh, we will. I'll have something eventually about all of this."
"Good," she says as she pulls over to my apartment building.
I wish her well and tell her I hope the government opens up again so that she can get a new job and make real money while driving Lyft. As I step out onto the sidewalk, the bone-chilling air of a winter morning shattering my bones, it makes me realize how much this shutdown impacts people other than government workers. It's affecting people who are just trying to get by. It's affecting your average day American Joe.
I walk into my apartment and notice that Ben isn't there. He's still out working. I know that probably sounds bad, but it's not. You get used to it when your boyfriend is an aide to a senator. They're called to work late into the night for long hours.
After I change into more comfortable pajamas, I curl up on the couch and flip on the television across the room. CNN already has a host of talking heads on the screen, chatting away about the events at the national mall last night. The chyron reads: MURDER AT NATIONAL MALL; NATIONAL MURDER VICTIM ON SCENE.
I roll my eyes at how much they're playing up me being there. I debate whether or not to flip on the television and hear them talk about me without actually calling me, but I fold off. Taking a nap would probably be a better way to waste time.
The screen fills up with a breaking news screen. The words stretch, big and bold and red. When it comes back, the main anchor stares at the viewers across the nation and reads off a report. The chyron below reads:
SENATOR SIMMONS ANNOUNCES PRESIDENTIAL RUN
I sit up like a bolt of lightning, my back straight as an arrow. My mouth falls open as I stare at the screen. She's running for the president. How did Ben not even mention hat to me? I fumble for the remote and then flip on the screen. The anchor is reading her script.
"It's a surprising mood for the senator, who has only barely made a dent in Congress since she was elected two years ago. But, she says, that she believes she's the right person to bring change to the government. She's been a big advocate for term limits, and for pushing through the tech legislation, which has held up the country with the government shutdown."
The screen flashes to a press conference from earlier in the day. Ben is standing in the background behind the senator, who is tall, thin, almost lanky in her stance. She reads off about how she'll make the country better than the last president.
Something about her seems oddly familiar. I mean, I know she is, and I've known about her for a long time. But I feel almost like I saw her last night.
Flashes of last night spray across my mind. I see the tall and thin killer last night, holding the screaming girl underneath the icy water of the national mall pool.
I'm back looking at the screen now, listening to the senator rattle off her qualifications.
The flashes from last night return, showing me the crime scene from last night. I hear the shouts and screens of the girl. I see the lanky figure disappear into the darkness, running away from the scene.
And then, as the camera zooms out and Senator Simmons walks away from the podium, my mouth falls open and the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
Senator Simmons and the murderer from last night are one in the same.
Chapter 5: Can it be?
The clock ticks on. I can't read it. My mind is stuck on one place. The images become so clear about what I saw that it's hard to get them out of my mind. It's like when you read an angry text from your boss in the middle of the night. That terror hangs over my head. And they just won't leave me alone. A shuttering cold washes over me. I pull the blanket closer. My eyes stick to the television screen. Even as the anchors have moved onto a new story, I can't escape the last one.
I sit there for what must be hours. Can it be? Could Senator Simmons be the same person I saw last night? There's no way. I'm connecting lines that shouldn't connected. Then again, I've seen a lot of murder in my time. I've followed a lot of course cases and I've dealt with a lot of criminal reports. These connections aren't always coincidences. That is to say, when someone says there's a spade missing, and you see a card tucked away in the corner that looks like a spade, it's most certainly a spade.
Experience counts for something, right? All the time I've spent reporting on true crime and living through actual experiences where killers tried to murder me, has to mean something. If my gut is telling me something, I have to believe it, right? I have to trust my gut.
Reporters hear that from editors a lot. My former editor, Jon, told me that years ago. Trust your gut. Follow your gut.
At some point in the night, I pass out on the couch. The twittering of birds wake me from my slumber. A red-orange spray of sunrise splatters across the room's far wall. The TV is off. Hibernation mode must have shut down. A cop car wails down the street. I wipe the crust out of my eyes and stand up, stretching when I'm finally on my feet.
I drag my sleep feet over to the coffee machine. The wet coffee grounds from yesterday are still stuck in the pot. Great. I bang the cup against the trash can, letting the coffee grounds shower on the thrown-out items. I put it back in the machine and grab the coffee put, fill it water and then pour that into the machine. Set it to go. Give me my lifeblood.
After I'm done in the bathroom, I come back out and see the pot of coffee is already half full. So I snag out a mug and fill it up. I carry it back to the couch and plop down. Right back where I started. I flip on the television and read the captions as CNN talking heads chat away busily about the field of 2020 candidates, and whether or not they can take down President Hicks in the coming election.
One of the commentators wonders if Senator Gates will make a run at the seat. He's been campaigning for years.
But all of the political pundits agree that the ongoing shutdown weighs heavy on all potential candidates. So many furloughed workers. So many people without pay. Questions rising here and there about what it means for the presidential field. The outcome and fallout from the shutdown will affect what happens to everyone next.
The door to the apartment squeaks open. Ben tiptoes into the lobby, holding his laptop bag in the cradle of his arm close to his chest. He shuts the door behind him carefully, letting in snap close rather than slam. He gently turns the lock, takes off his shoes, and tiptoes in.
"Morning," I say.
Startled, he fumbles with his bag and his back goes straight. He relaxes one hand on his ch
est in surprise.
"Damn, you got me," he said.
With a heavier step, he walks over the living room and drops his briefcase on the ground, leaning it against the recliner. He sits opposite of me in the big black leather chair. He wipes his face with his freehand, almost like it's a fresh towel, like he's trying to wake himself up.
"Welcome home," I say.
"They didn't keep you long, did they?"
"Not at all. I answered their stupid questions. I'm just glad I'm not a suspect," I say. My eyes fall on the television screen cross the room. I nod forward, knowing that he's watching me. "Crazy morning for you then, huh?"
His eyes turn to the screen and then back to me. "Sorry I didn't tell you what was coming. You know I'm not allowed to talk about these sort of things."
"I'm not reporting on the senator. Well, not exclusively, anyway. You can tell me anything you want about those things. I mean, especially if it's about your job. Damnit Ben, you could have told me that you're going to be busy because your boss is planning to run for office."
"It's not that easy, and you know it," he says. When I stare at him for a second and don't change my expression, he presses on. "What? If you had a story about the senator, would you tell me? If you found out she was taking money from Russians or she was planning to sign a bill that went against campaign promises, would you tell me?"
The images of last night and of Senator Simmons the television last night pop into my brain. That cold, unnerving feeling swims through my body again. He's not wrong. I do have my suspicions about the senator being the one who killed the woman last night, and the thoughts nearly shouting at the back of my brain. I haven't told Ben about my thoughts.
"Fine, you're right," I say. "You're totally right. I wouldn't tell you. Sorry, it just took me by surprise. With the stuff last night, and then you being away, I just couldn't believe that now this is going to be on our plate."
Into the Night Page 3
