The press was being kept a hundred yards or so from the rear doors of the building by a sizable cop in his uniform blue winter jacket. By morning the national press would add to the melee. After the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Gabby Giffords — though she had survived, six had died and thirteen others had been wounded — this would be more evidence that we were truly a gun-crazed country. The foreign press would love it especially. Unfortunately, good and sane people really could make the argument that we had become one of the most violence-crazed countries in the world.
On the way here the radio had informed us that Jess had not been hurt, nor had anyone else. The shooter had escaped.
We had to park even further back than the press. Yellow crime-scene tape had cordoned off a large portion of the parking area. By now well-wishers and zombie hunters had arrived; the first to reassure themselves that she was fine and to pay tribute, and the second to wish that she’d really been killed — for political reasons or just because they liked the idea of somebody getting murdered. A near miss was better than nothing.
The night now smelled of cigarette smoke, gasoline from idling engines and a strong hint of winter. Near the doors I saw Ted talking to a group of reporters. For once his drama queen style was probably appropriate.
I hadn’t had time to emotionally confront what had happened here. The only thought I had now was about the hunt — finding the bastard who’d tried to kill Jess.
The first cop I saw, I asked, ‘Any idea where Congresswoman Bradshaw is?’
Suspicion, of course. ‘And you’d be who?’
‘Her campaign manager.’
‘You have proof of that?’
I took out my wallet and showed him.
‘He’s really the campaign manager,’ Abby said.
‘All this proves is that he’s really this Dev Michael Conrad.’
‘I just want to know if she’s been taken off the premises here.’
‘No, she hasn’t.’
He walked away and we walked on.
‘What an asshole,’ Abby said. Her rage was matched by her sorrow — her voice was trembling. She was much closer to Jess than I was. All I could think of was killing whoever had taken a shot at her.
‘Just doing his job.’
‘Oh, right, I forgot you were a cop once. At least, sort of. And you guys stick together. The thin black line.’
‘Blue.’
‘Oh. Right. “Blue.”’
Abby stopped to talk to a reporter she knew; I walked toward Ted.
Five uniformed men and women were working a wide area with flashlights and evidence bags. Two others were on the roof of a large black storage shed. The shooter might have fired from there.
For the next fifteen minutes I walked around. I overheard policemen, average people, reporters. Every once in a while you hear useful things this way. In my army days I’d worked briefly out of Honolulu, where a man who’d been an informant for us had been stabbed to death on the beach at night. I’d been following him but was waylaid by a major traffic accident. By the time I got there, he was dead. But there’d been a party on that section of beach that night so I’d walked around, listening to people talk. A young woman had complained to her friend that a man had practically knocked her down as she was leaving the restroom and her shoulder hurt badly. I’d got his description and we were able to find the killer two days later.
No such luck tonight.
I was thinking of checking out the front of the building — I was told that donuts and coffee were being offered there, which sounded good on a night when you could see your breath — when I saw Ted begin to hold up his arms, signaling that he was done. I was close enough that he was able to see me. He marched triple time in my direction, trailing reporters the way poor children trail rich American tourists in Latin American countries.
‘Where can we go?’ He was moving fast enough that, despite the temperature, there was a sheen of sweat on his face.
‘Front of the building.’
Then we were walking triple time together. We could have moved even faster if we weren’t wearing topcoats. The reporters following us aimed their microphones at us as if they could actually pick up our words — we weren’t even speaking.
Then, as we rushed along the side of the building, Ted said, ‘Katherine’s back in the dressing room with Jess. I told her to give Jess two Xanax. I need to talk to the press.’
He didn’t ‘need’ to. He wanted to. The spotlight beckoned.
As many as fifty people huddled in the lobby. The aroma of hot fresh coffee welcomed us.
The ghosts of modern assassinations roamed the halls of the building tonight. Jack and Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
I grabbed a donut and a paper cup of coffee. Ted did the same and followed me into the auditorium where the debate had been held. Though the stage was dark I could see the outlines of the rostrums. The TV people had cleared all their equipment away.
We sat in theater chairs near the back.
‘We won twice tonight,’ Ted said.
I must have been thinking about those political ghosts. Something had distracted me, anyway. ‘What?’
‘I said we won twice tonight. First the debate and now the shooting. You think we aren’t going to get a big sympathy vote?’ The mannequin face gleamed with real pleasure.
‘Yeah, we really “won” all right. Your wife could’ve been killed. I guess we have a different idea of “winning.”’
‘But she wasn’t killed, was she? Don’t get sanctimonious with me, Dev. Thank God she wasn’t killed. But since she wasn’t, let’s try to find a bright side to this. We should get a bounce out of both the debate and some right-wing bastard trying to murder her. So, any guesses what that bounce’ll be?’
He was hopeless. ‘The two combined — maybe three or four points.’
‘Are you serious? I’m thinking more like six or seven.’
‘Probably not.’
‘You know some people are going to think that Dorsey was behind this.’
‘Some people think they’ve been abducted by aliens.’
‘Don’t kid yourself. The way he talked about all his “patriots” tonight. It’s not a big leap to think that one of them might have been the shooter.’
‘But there was nothing in it for Dorsey. He’d caught up with us. He might even have been ahead until tonight. We’re the ones who’ll now get the sympathy vote.’
‘Maybe, but that still doesn’t rule out somebody in Dorsey’s camp—’
Abby said, ‘Mind if I join you?’
She sat in the row in front of us.
‘What happens now, Dev?’ Ted said.
‘We start planning for the news deluge. Ted, you can be our spokesman.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘No. Jess needs to rest and you’re her husband. You’ll talk about the gun culture, how lucky Jess was and how we now have to pass serious legislation. And, of course, hit all the points we make every day. You’re good on television.’
‘I appreciate your faith in me, Dev. I really do. This is an important venue.’ Then, ‘I can’t wait to see that first poll.’
‘I’m more interested in the major poll three days from now. Once things have had a chance to shake loose for a little while.’
‘Me, too,’ Abby said. ‘These things evaporate pretty quickly.’
‘Somebody trying to kill a congresswoman?’
‘Well, I guess you’ve got a point, Ted,’ she said. ‘This probably isn’t going to go away anytime soon.’
‘By God, Abby finally agrees with me about something.’
‘Ted, I agree with you all the time. You always forget that because once in a while I disagree with you.’