Rosencrantz had duplicated the exact kind of lock Cory had on his trunk. He held it in his hand and turned it over and over slowly so the cameras could get good shots of it.
He then took out a presentation folder that had large drawings of the lock. He flipped through them as he spoke. ‘If a person doesn’t understand how to examine a lock in detail he can easily conclude that it hasn’t been picked. Picking tools are usually made out of aluminum or iron or steel and are very thin. But thin as they are — and as competent as the lock pick may be — the pick and the tension of opening the lock leave marks such as gouges and scratches. You need somebody familiar with lock-and-key forensics to determine this.’
Rosencrantz had flipped through the drawings as he’d spoken. Damn, he was good. Edelstein was a believer in shorter-is-better. Rosencrantz spoke only one time and then it was back to Mike.
‘Since Chief Showalter was so eager to claim that Cory Tucker’s trunk lock had not been tampered with I ask him now — publicly — to let our expert examine the lock with the chief and a few of his officers in attendance. He can always say wait until the run-up to the trial when he has to turn all evidence over to us. But I say in the interest of fairness let us do it right now, and I believe this will make it clear that there will be no need for a trial. That Cory Tucker was set up. That somebody from the opposing side of this election planted that rifle in his trunk.’
Edelstein had laughed about this being a ‘suicide run.’ Jess had all but accused Dorsey of setting up the entire staged shooting, and now Mike had just directly alluded to the ‘opposing side.’ The public was either going to buy our act or not. All we needed was half of them.
The war was on and I was enjoying the hell out of it once again.
Jess’s press conference was longer.
She was in the public room of a Methodist church where a group of Iraq and Afghanistan vets met every Monday and Friday. By now Americans have seen so many injured vets that for the most part the shock of seeing a man or woman without legs or arms has lessened somewhat. Somewhat. But then there is the man whose face has been burned into a horrific mask. Or the woman whose lips are little more than slits. Or the man who shakes every five minutes or so as if he’s having a seizure. The shock of seeing these people has not lessened at all.
We’d fashioned a good standard speech for Jess about the plight of our vets. You can get too angry or sentimental and dull the impact of the issue. After allowing for outrage, we went to statistics and biography. We told the stories of two typical National Guard soldiers who had been drafted into war for three tours. One man, one woman. From right here in Illinois. Both of them wounded on their final tour.
Jason Lindberg lost both of his legs in Afghanistan. The Veterans Administration did well by him at first. The surgery had gone as well as could be expected. The rehab program had also been helpful. What lagged was treatment for his mental issues. Both he and his wife pleaded for help but the only psychologists available were scheduled months out. Eighteen months after his return home Jason swallowed half a bottle of prescription antidepressants and died. His wife Jan was at work and returned to find him dead in his wheelchair.
Caitlin Scalise was a divorced woman who had been in the guard since college. After being shot in the chest three times she learned through surgery that her heart was not functioning properly. The paperwork delays were so extreme she died of a heart attack before the VA scheduled her for an appointment.
‘I don’t want to belong to a party that votes against increasing financial help for our veterans. And I’m sure none of my friends here do either.’
You can’t miss with cops, soldiers or nuns standing behind you when you’re speaking. I once suggested to an especially randy client of mine that he should have all the hookers he’d paid for over the years behind him. He was not greatly amused but then neither was I. In the middle of a close campaign (his aide had told me this) he’d spent two hours in a massage parlor that all but promised ‘happy endings’ right on the front window. A wise, wise man.
The four reporters present were nice enough to ask Jess how she would remedy this terrible situation. Oddly enough, she had a few points prepared. All it lacked was some patriotic music and a couple hundred people saluting the flag.
Two very nice scores for us.
Cindy Fletcher called just as I was leaving for lunch.
‘When Marie got home this morning she said she was sure somebody had gotten in here between the time I left for work and she got home. I left work so I could look things over.’
Marie worked the night shift at the hospital where Cindy worked the day shift. Marie’s was now her hiding place.
‘What makes her think so?’
‘Well, for one thing it rained last night and the ground around the stairs — she lives in the upper apartment — was real muddy. There’s a muddy footprint just outside her door. And the rubber mat she has outside the door shows where mud was wiped off. There’s a — what’s the word? — imprint of a man’s shoe on the mat. A very large imprint. Inside on the living-room rug there’s a little piece of mud, and there’s one in the little room where I’m staying too. Like he didn’t get all the mud off but didn’t realize it.
‘My room’s tiny. It’s only got a small closet and a single bed and a window. I keep my suitcase in the closet but when she got home it was on my bed and open. And like I said — a small piece of mud on the floor there, too.’
‘They think you have the recorder.’
‘I wish I did. I’d give it to them and get this over with. I just want Granddad to be safe.’
‘They’ve focused on Grimes and you.’
‘Like I said, I just want it over with. I don’t even care about it anymore. I wish Dave hadn’t recorded anything.’
I thought of Karen Foster. Only with the recorder could she bring down Showalter. The recorder would give her justice and the recorder would tell me who had ordered the staged assassination attempt. We both had urgent reasons to find it.
‘It really scares me — somebody coming in here like that. Like they could do it any time they want to. Marie’s probably thinking twice now about having me stay here. I’ll probably have to start looking for someplace else to stay now.’
‘I’ll handle that.’
‘Marie’s over at her cousin’s. She just wanted to get out of here. And I can’t say I blame her.’
She was upset enough that my words hadn’t seemed to register.
‘I’ll find a place for you, Cindy. It’s probably a good idea for you to get out of there, too.’
‘I need to get back to work, anyway.’
‘Good. By mid-afternoon I’ll have a place for you to stay.’
‘I appreciate all your help, Dev.’
‘I’m being selfish, Cindy. If the recorder proves that Dorsey was involved in the staged shooting, we’ve cleared Jess’s name and won the campaign.’
‘Be selfish all you want. Just keep me safe.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ But even as I spoke the words I knew I should have played Papa Bear. Sounded confident, even certain. ‘You’re going to be fine. And we’re going to get that recorder.’
‘God, I’m so glad you said that, Dev. Thank you so much.’
The rain started around three that afternoon — one of those blinding downpours that diminished spirits and grayed out a face even as vivid as Abby’s.
Jean Fellows had arranged to house Cindy for a few days with the proviso that she had an entire season of Downton Abbey and would permit only that to decorate her screen when she got home after work. If Cindy didn’t like that, ‘She can read the National Enquirer or something.’ The slashing rain hadn’t done much for Jean’s mood, either. She’d intended her remark as a joke, but there had been an edge to it.