by D. F. Bailey
“That’s not all. There’re three more anomalies,” he continued. “At least three. First, Turino says Dutch was shot in the guts. Kinsella claims it was a head shot. Second, Kinsella states that Turino had become paranoid — and therefore, the defense would argue — he’s not credible. And third, which is the most damning of all, every single one of these deaths has an alternate explanation. Sure, Dutch was murdered. And J.R. himself filed the incriminating report. But nothing ties his death to Deacon Brodie. As for Sinclair, well, he simply disappeared. There’s a good chance that he deserted. He wasn’t the only one, I can assure you. If that’s the case, it’d be unlikely he’d ever testify to any of this. As a deserter, he’d have little credibility in court. Furthermore, the army could incarcerate him for up to five years. As for Cottrell and Rousseau, they were KIAed.”
“What does that mean?”
“Killed in action.”
“That’s the time you were telling me about. The skirmish you were in?”
He nodded and turned his head toward the patio window. A light rain spattered against the glass. “I was there that day. After the fight, I noticed something unusual. Something I remembered last night.”
“What?”
“The two fighters who killed Rousseau and Cottrell were wearing ten thousand dollar Rolex watches.”
Her head notched to one side with a puzzled expression. Slowly the knot in her brow unravelled. “So that was their payoff? Two watches?”
He shrugged and continued. “As for the recent killings, Chernovski and Kinsella — they’re explainable, right? A mugging and a motorcycle accident.”
“Maybe.” Eve seemed skeptical too. “But look at what we know personally. Turino was murdered the same night we saw him. And Nine. What about Nine?”
“I know. It’s real. All of it.” Finch waved a hand, a gesture of concession. Then he spun another lap in the circle he was pacing out in the kitchen. “Okay, so what we also know — what we just figured out — is that we don’t have a case we can take to the police.”
“Not yet.” Eve’s chin jutted forward. Finch could see that her determination had hardened. “Maybe not yet. But it’s out there.”
“Yeah. And so we have to prove this on our own.”
※
Finch and Eve drove downtown to The Post in her Acura TLX. As they drove, the local radio station played Miles Davis’s So What, then moved on to the news.
“Dems move to impeach.” The announcer’s voice resonated with authority.
The rap-rap-rap of a steel riveting gun blasted onto Montgomery Street from a tower rising above the sidewalk. Finch leaned forward and turned up the volume.
“Today the leader of the House Democrats, Nancy Pelosi, introduced the motion to impeach the president. In introducing the motion, she said, ‘The actions taken to date by the president have seriously violated the Constitution. No one is above the law.’ — Another blast from the construction tower blocked the sound, then it returned — “betrayal of his oath of office, betrayal of our national security and betrayal of the integrity of our elections.’ ”
“This’s big,” Finch said as Eve entered the underground parkade and the radio transmission faded to a static buzz.
“Yeah.” She lifted her right hand from the steering wheel and turned the radio off. “But what does it mean for Brodie?”
Since it was a question neither of them could answer — and because they had more pressing problems — they dropped the subject and walked in silence across the parking lot and made their way directly to Fiona Page’s office.
They were in luck. Fiona sat alone at the editor’s desk scrolling through a tablet, checking the page layout from the most recent news update.
“Fiona?” Eve’s voice sounded surprised. “Looks like we caught you between a meeting and a crisis. This a good time?”
She laughed and set the tablet aside. “Sort of.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting with Gabe Finkleman in twenty minutes. But by the look on your two faces,” she added, “I can tell a crisis is brewing right now.”
Finch smiled at that. Fiona’s social IQ still scored well above the genius level. He knew very few individuals able to read people so quickly. And so accurately.
“I guess you’re right about that. You mind?” He made a gesture to close the door.
She nodded and Eve and Finch settled into the guest chairs.
“What’s up?”
Eve glanced at Finch. “You want to start?”
“Sure.” Over the next ten minutes Finch provided a snapshot of the string of murders that began in Iraq in 2004 and carried on to Tony Turino’s death on Mayne Island. As he spoke, Fiona’s face became more drawn and pale. Her attention switched from Finch to Eve and back again. When Eve took up the story to explain how the murder conspiracy could reach into the White House, Fiona nodded with a solemn look. Then she held the tips of her fingers to her forehead as if she were trying to block a migraine.
“My God,” she whispered. “It’s what so many of us have feared since day one.”
“What’s that?” Eve asked.
Fiona paused to consider her words. “That the White House is governed by a criminal organization.”
No one spoke. Then Finch leaned forward. “If this is true,” he said and pressed an index finger to the top of her desk, “and if Deacon Brodie becomes the new secretary of state, then it will be indisputable.”
“And he’ll be fourth in line of succession if the president’s impeached,” Fiona added.
Finch shook his head. He hadn’t thought of that. Vice-president, speaker of the house, president of the senate, then secretary of state. Deacon Brodie.
“All right, so how do we break this story without being shut down before day one?” Fiona looked from Eve to Finch. “You’ve both said that the testimony from Turino and the diary from Kinsella have mile-wide holes. What about the 2004 records from the army, Will? The helicopter flight when the Iraqis were murdered. Or the report on VanHeussen’s murder?”
“There’s zero chance we can get them before Brodie’s senate confirmation hearing. And without a subpoena we’d never get them. Besides, Brodie himself wrote the mission report the night of the mass murder. I’ll bet my next year’s salary we’ll find nothing incriminating there.”
Fiona glanced at the clock on the wall. “Okay, so what do we do?”
Finch rubbed a hand over his eyes. He could think of only one solution. But the very idea of it made him cringe. He tried to rustle up another solution, and when nothing came to mind, he said, “Ambush him.”
Eve turned in her chair to look at him. “What’s that mean?”
“Some people call it gotcha journalism.” He shrugged as if he were too embarrassed to suggest it.
Nonetheless, the idea brought a smile to Fiona’s face. “It’s the sort of thing you do to out a politician or movie star when you know they’re having an affair. You ambush the guy just outside his door and ask one question. In the case of Bill Clinton, the question was: ‘Mr. President, what does your wife say about your affair with Gennifer Flowers?’ Usually you get one shot, maybe two.”
Finch added, “It’s always best to have a back-up question. It’s like a double-barreled shotgun. Pull one trigger, then the other. One-two. Whatever reaction you get becomes that day’s headline.”
“You know it might work,” Eve said. “If Brodie has a weakness, it’s that he can’t shut his own mouth.”
“Okay, look.” Fiona stood up and tapped her wrist as if to say, time’s up. “Figure out the tactics and give it a try. First write a story that will break the entire conspiracy into the open. The can-opener. Give Brodie a copy and tell him that it’s going to lead in The Post twelve hours after you confront him. Tell him he has twelve hours to prepare a response which we’ll publish unedited under his byline. Tell him he’ll get equal news space to air his side of the allegations.”
“All right.” Finch stood up. For the first time in a
week he felt a boost of confidence. Fiona had convinced him that he could take control of events. That he had choices. That now Brodie would have to react, and if they got lucky, he’d stumble. As they followed Fiona out of her office, he pulled Eve aside by the elbow.
“Look, I’m going to draft the story right now. Can you find out where Brodie is staying? Could be in DC or in his home in Seattle. If you get stuck, ask Finkleman to help you. We need a street address that I can get to tonight.”
“You mean that we can get to.”
The glint in her eyes showed her determination. She had plenty of that, he knew.
“Right,” he said. “Then book the next flight out. Two seats for Alice Shaw and Joel Griffin.”
※
Finch made his way through the office to his old desk in the editorial section, an area sectioned off by shoulder-high partitions which the writers referred to as The Bog. He opened his laptop and dove into the story. The process was always the same for him. Breaking open a story felt like crossing the waters of an unexplored ocean. The only way to move forward was to type one sentence at a time. State a fact. Then another. Tie the two together. Make a bridge to something every reader understood. Then reveal some evidence. Provide a quote from a witness. After an hour, maybe two, he would have a story that guided the reader to an understanding of the crisis at hand. In this case, a human catastrophe named Deacon Brodie.
Forty minutes later he sat back and read the paragraphs that would expose Brodie’s hidden life to the world. He read it a second time and nodded to himself. It would do.
Deacon Brodie, Unmasked
Mass murder. Serial Killings. Conspiracy. These criminal allegations against Deacon Brodie, the president’s current nominee for secretary of state, come from the men he commanded on the battlefields in Iraq. The claims are damning — and documented in legal depositions filed in October.
The mass murder allegations arise from a combat mission in Iraq on February 6, 2004, when Brodie served as an Army Air Assault Captain on board a Chinook CH-47 helicopter transporting Iraqi prisoners to Baghdad. Shortly after liftoff, the CH-47 was struck by ground fire and severely damaged. To lighten the payload, Brodie allegedly threw all 15 handcuffed prisoners to their deaths from the back of the helicopter.
Seven US Army personnel onboard the flight witnessed the mass execution according to Private Tony Turino, who recorded a notarized audio interview about the murders on October 25. Turino subsequently died while visiting Mayne Island in Canada on November 3.
Private Joseph Kinsella, onboard the same CH-47 flight, documented the alleged killings in a diary that he kept during his tour of duty in 2004. The diary identifies four of the seven witnesses who Kinsella claims either disappeared or were murdered by Brodie and his co-conspirators in the months following the Iraqi soldiers’ deaths. Kinsella’s diary was given to Turino prior to Kinsella’s own death on September 22. The diary has been authenticated and is in the possession of a local public notary.
Next week Deacon Brodie is scheduled to appear before the senate to defend his nomination as secretary of state. Questions related to the allegations against him are likely to be brought by Democratic members of the senate committee.
※
As the Cadillac Escalade skimmed over the slick blacktop highway, Deacon Brodie considered the long road he’d been on. He’d been raised not far from Seattle, in a middle-class bungalow in Olympia, Washington, where his father worked in the US Army Reserve base in nearby Tumwater. Brodie had skipped the third and tenth grades, and following his graduation from Washington State University, at the age of nineteen, he volunteered for the army at the Olympia recruiting office. With his father standing at his side, he pledged his Oath of Enlistment and gave his father a clipped salute. Three months later, not long before his scheduled retirement, the old man died of colon cancer.
Brodie’s stream of nostalgia was interrupted as the car skidded and briefly slipped onto the gravel shoulder. Within seconds, Fox steered the vehicle back onto the asphalt.
“Everything all right, Fox?”
“Sorry, sir. The road’s a bit slick after the rain today. It’s been a month since we’ve seen any water out here. When it comes, everything gets oily.”
“Right.” Brodie turned his attention to the view of Lake Sammamish coming up on the right.
“I’ll have you home in ten minutes, sir.”
No need to tell me that, Brodie whispered to himself. I’ve lived here for four years already. For a moment he mused about firing Fox. He’d never liked him. But the time wasted to find his replacement was ridiculous. Brodie nodded to himself as he stifled a yawn. Then he realized he hadn’t had any fresh air all day. Time for a walk.
“Fox, pull over when you get to the bottom of the hill. I’ll walk up the rest of the way.”
“Yes, Mr. Brodie.” Fox glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “You want me to pick you up at the regular time in the morning, sir?”
“No. Make it seven thirty, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Fox stopped the Escalade and set the brake.
“And give the car a good wash tonight, all right.” Brodie pushed open the door and slung the leather strap of his briefcase over his shoulder. “And vacuum the interior, too. It’s disgusting here in the backseat.”
He slammed the door and waited for Fox to pull away. As the car slipped along the road he inhaled a long breath of the moist autumn air, crossed the Lake Sammamish Parkway and started up the hill. He approached the first of seven neighboring properties that lined the cul-de-sac which curled to the top of the ridge. His neighbors. He rarely saw them and didn’t know any of their names. Didn’t want to. Better that way, he told himself. In all other social situations he was an extrovert. Loved crowds. Could tell stories to strangers for hours. BS his way through any corporate mixer in the country. But when it came to protecting the sanctity of his home, less was always more.
Deacon Brodie's ranch house stood on the top of the well-manicured ridge dotted with fir trees and maples. The five thousand square foot structure had a commanding view of Lake Sammamish. At sunset the sky lit up the lake and surrounding wilderness trails in an amber hue that delighted his visitors as they stood in the great room admiring the vista below.
“God’s Country,” he told them in his whisky voice.
Then on queue, his maid, Sally, would add, “Amen to that,” as she served a platter of hors d’oeuvres and topped up the guests’ champagne flutes.
The house was a short drive from Seattle’s bustling tech-central suburb in Redmond. From there he held a tight grip on his international media platform, BrassWing. From his home base he could fly down to LAX on short notice to manage the portfolio of legacy Hollywood film gems and serial TV properties that he’d quietly acquired at a time when no one else could determine their long term worth. Using his Wall Street smarts he’d invented a video-media valuation formula that made him a multi-millionaire in less than five years. While his Hollywood properties brought him millions of dollars every month, it was BrassWing Media that brought him global influence.
But soon all of that would be seen as a quaint backstory. As he trudged up the hill toward his home, Brodie tried to calculate the value of the new opportunity that had come his way. The president had nominated him to replace the recently fired secretary of state. Dick Clearihue, yet another cabinet disgrace, had been unable to grasp the reins of history and steer the country toward its manifest destiny. It was late in the election cycle — almost too late — but the president wanted Brodie to stand before the senate confirmation hearing prior to the Thanksgiving recess. Assuming all went well, Brodie would be appointed before Christmas. Then he’d have less than a year to set international relations straight and save the president from the socialist dogs nipping at his heels. It wouldn’t be easy, but Brodie knew he could deliver. He already had money and influence. Soon he would have power.
Over the coming week he planned to huddle with his lieutenants at his
retreat. Together they’d map out the plan which would guide him through the senate hearing and steer him around the incessant chatter from the fake news media. Most often, it was best to ignore them. But his nomination required a clear statement from him to the American people. His instincts told him to prepare a single announcement for the media to echo his opening address to the senate committee. After that, he’d take two questions, both of them whiffle-balls from the BrassWing staff who’d be planted in the media scrum.
His focus would reinforce all the president’s priorities. In everything, America first. Then in order, he’d reset relations with Russia. Settle trade with China. Withdraw from NATO. Champion Israel. Demonize Iran. Smother North Korea. And miracle of miracles — not a single life would be lost, not a boot set upon foreign soil. It would all be accomplished through digital media. World War III would be fought — and won — in the American mind.
※
Finch and Eve sat in their rented car, a Black Honda Civic. He’d parked behind the decorative shrubs at the top of the cul-de-sac. To their right stood Brodie's house, on the left a long hill sloped down to Lake Sammamish.
They’d caught a flight from San Francisco and arrived at Sea-Tac Airport around four thirty. The Honda was waiting for them when they arrived and by six o’clock they were driving along the East Lake Sammamish Parkway. So far their plan was on track. A precision tactical operation. Gabe Finkleman had done all the background research to determine Brodie's schedule and location. Then The Post receptionist Dixie Lindstrom booked their flights, the car rental, and a hotel room in Redmond. Meanwhile Finch had drafted the five paragraph story that The Post would publish after he spoke to Brodie. It was far from a complete exposé, but it was all he needed to pry open the can of worms that contained the secret life of Deacon Brodie.
“I’m telling you, Gabe Finkleman is worth his weight in gold,” Finch said as he peered down the empty road leading up to the round-about where they’d parked.
“Which is about ninety five pounds.” Eve held her fingers to her mouth and chuckled.
