Adam Benjamin, in a red, gray-trimmed Ohio State letter jacket, stood with a hand mic on the stairs of the West Front, a cadre of reporters before him with rows of supporters in back of them. Positioned behind the speaker, fanned on the stairs, were a quartet of hard, tough-looking men in black suits and black ties, with ear mics and sunglasses, suggesting Secret Service minus any sense of discretion.
“The biiiiig announcement,” Ackley said with quiet sarcasm. “Was saving that clown really necessary, Peep?”
“He’s a good man, Bob. Very down-to-earth for a billionaire. Anyway, I have to do something to keep myself out there.”
“Wouldn’t buying commercial time be easier?”
Reeder grunted a laugh. “So he’s running for president, huh?”
The chief said, “What a shock.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Ackley used a remote to unmute the sound.
Benjamin was saying, “I know many of you here today are expecting me to announce my candidacy for the presidency of the United States. If so, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”
Moans, groans, and no’s from the crowd. Reeder and Ackley shrugged at each other.
Benjamin held up a hand, as if being sworn in to office. “I will let the Common Sense Movement dictate who their candidate will be, and if they choose to draft me, well, we’ll see. For now, I am here to offer my humble thanks to the brave man who died protecting me at Constitution Hall — I would rather it have been me.”
Ackley said, “Now we’ve moved from bullshit to horseshit... Apologies, Agent Rogers.”
“Not necessary, Chief.”
“On this day of mourning,” Benjamin was saying, “our thoughts and prayers should be with the family of Jay Akers, former Secret Service agent and a patriot who gave his last full measure of devotion for the Common Sense cause he believed in. Thank you.”
The solemn man in the letter jacket strode away, even as questions came fast and heavy from the reporters. He answered none of them, his bodyguards in black surrounding him and hustling him away.
Ackley muted the TV. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“I’d call it well played,” Reeder said.
“For building his poll numbers, I guess,” Rogers said. “But with the spotlight on him, why not announce?”
Reeder shrugged a shoulder. “He’s playing the long game. There’s no Common Sense Movement convention, but he can create the illusion that he’s been ‘drafted,’ when the numbers are right.”
Rogers cocked her head. “I thought you liked the guy, Joe. Everything you say about where this country’s heading, he says, too... better, of course.”
“Thanks. Don’t read my pragmatism for cynicism.”
Ackley said, “But, Peep, you are cynical.”
“Oh yeah.”
A knock came to the door. Apparently the whole world hadn’t been watching Adam Benjamin’s big moment.
“Come!” Ackley said.
A birdlike man in his late forties entered, widow’s peak hair combed straight back, its brown invaded by gray. He wore a work jumpsuit with a Capitol crest, but the creased pants and spotless appearance indicated these threads had never seen a real day of blue-collar work — the same could be said for its wearer. The walkie-talkie in a belt holster, however, had seen plenty of action.
Ackley said to Reeder, “This is Ronald Murton, Lester Blake’s supervisor... Ron, have a seat. This is Joe Reeder, who’s consulting with FBI Special Agent Patti Rogers, here.”
Reeder and Rogers stood, hands were shaken, and then everybody sat down.
Murton, perhaps slightly intimidated by FBI presence, asked, “Bob, what’s this about?”
The chief said, “Special Agent Rogers, would you like to handle that?”
Murton turned to her.
Rogers said, “I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Murton, that Lester Blake, of your department, was murdered.”
“You said... murdered?” Murton said, frowning, obviously trying to turn the abstraction of the word into something real. “Of all things. How? Where? This was last night?”
“His remains were found last night. We don’t know the time or even date of death as yet, and the specific cause has not been released.”
“That doesn’t make sense...”
“All I can say is, we’ve positively identified Mr. Blake, and murder is strongly indicated.”
Reeder just sat staring through the blank mask he gave the world, reading Murton’s body language. On hearing that Blake had been murdered, the supervisor had crossed both his feet and his arms, as if it were cold in this toasty room. Going into a defensive posture because he had something to hide, possibly; or perhaps just shielding himself from the sad news.
Rogers was asking, “Do you know anyone who might have wanted Lester Blake dead, Mr. Murton? Work conflicts perhaps, someone with a grudge that Mr. Blake may have mentioned...?”
Murton shook his head. “Lester was a good employee, a hard worker. Make that a great employee. Quiet but friendly, everybody liked him.”
Didn’t they always, Reeder thought.
“I’d go so far,” Murton said, uncrossing his arms, “as to call him a friend.”
“Close friend?”
“Well... close for a workplace friend. He’s been on my crew here at the Capitol for, oh, almost twenty years. We went out for a drink after work, now and then — maybe once a month? But then, so did most of the crew.”
“No other socializing?”
“No. Well, our respective kids’ weddings. That’s about it.”
“He get along with the rest of the crew?”
“Yeah, like I said — everybody liked him.”
“What were his duties, exactly?”
Murton uncoiled a bit. Work was a more comfortable subject than murder.
“Recent years, with all his experience, he got the most important maintenance jobs. When something needed to be done right, I turned to Lester. Things break down in the Capitol, you know — it’s a beautiful building but it’s old. Anything we can fix ourselves, we do — hardly ever contract outside workers. So, Lester, he was usually busy.”
Reeder asked, “Was he in on repairing the dome?”
“No, that’s the kind of job we do bid out.”
Reeder nodded.
Rogers asked, “What was Lester’s most recent project?”
“A big one — he oversaw the installation of a new furnace.”
Could you construct a furnace out of Senkstone?
Miggie had talked about desks and chairs, but they didn’t have moving parts, like a motor-driven machine. Mig mentioned making a computer of Senkstone, too, but that was only an object that looked like a computer, right? A 3-D rendering?
Could something mechanical be built entirely out of plastic explosive?
Reeder said, “We’d like to have a look at the new furnace.”
Murton frowned so hard, it was like all of his features had converged on the center of his face. “Why would you—”
Rogers, staying right with him, said, “It may have a bearing on our case.”
Ackley was frowning, too, but in a different way. “Is this something I need to worry about?”
Reeder said, “We’re just doing some due diligence, Bob. I’ll let you know if the threat level goes from green to blue.”
“You do that,” the chief said, hard-eyed. “Ron, you wanna show our guests our brand-new furnace?”
The supervisor, confused as hell, shrugged. “I can do that.”
Everybody got up but Ackley. Reeder and Rogers left their topcoats behind in the chief’s office and followed the maintenance supervisor into the corridor. Soon Murton was leading them down into the vast, well-lit Capitol basement, roaring with the merged vibrations of what looked like an underground city of machines.