A moment later, Leonard Rudnick emerged from his office, a smile broadening his thin face. As Madeline had said, Rudnick was short. By Uzi’s estimate, five-foot-two. With shoes on.
Rudnick took Uzi’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Leonard Rudnick. You’re Mark Klecko — the plumber, right?”
Uzi eyed him suspiciously. “No, I’m— Wait, you’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Rudnick clapped him on the back and led him into the room. “Of course I’m kidding. An experienced psychologist never guesses at his patient’s identity. I know you’re Mark Klecko.” Rudnick peered over his quarter reading glasses. “Sit, make yourself comfortable, Agent Uziel. I was just pulling your leg.”
Uzi settled himself into a firm upholstered chair opposite the seat Rudnick claimed. “Please — call me Uzi.”
“Do you happen to know my son Wayne, at the Behavioral Sciences Unit?” Rudnick asked as he crossed his legs.
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Different world, I guess. Wayne’s buried down in the bowels of the Academy, studying serial killers and other such upstanding citizens.” He slapped his thigh. “So — Uzi — let’s talk about why you’re here.”
“Because my boss said I had to come.”
Rudnick smiled. “I see you can make jokes, too.”
“I’m not joking.”
The grin faded from Rudnick’s face. “I see. Well, we’ve got some work to do, then.”
“That’s what my boss said.”
The doctor’s eyes brightened. “I like a patient with a sense of humor. Now, tell me, Uzi, how do you feel about your boss ordering you to come here?”
“Look, doc, I’m not into this touchy-feely, get-in-touch-with-your-emotions bullshit. I’m not that kind of guy, okay? I don’t like to talk about how I feel. Sometimes I don’t even like to think about how I feel.”
Rudnick nodded, but did not say anything. When Uzi’s gaze began to wander around the office, the doctor said, “Go on.”
“Go on with what?”
“Why do you think you don’t like to talk about yourself?”
Uzi shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t.”
Rudnick nestled his chin in the palm of his left hand, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Think about it a moment, okay? Think about why you don’t like to talk about yourself.”
Uzi began bouncing his knee. Rudnick’s gaze dropped to Uzi’s fidgeting leg, then came to rest on his patient’s eyes. “Extra energy,” Uzi said. “Used to drive my wife crazy.”
“Oh, so you’re married?”
Uzi looked away. “Yes.”
“But the information I received said—”
“She’s dead. I’m widowed.”
“I see.” Rudnick waited for elaboration. Uzi did not provide any. “So your wife, did she die of health-related causes, or was it an accident?”
Uzi stopped bouncing his knee. He did not want to get into this. “Neither. But if you don’t mind, doc, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I see.”
“That’s annoying, you know that?”
“What is?”
“The way you kind of look at me and say ‘I see.’ You don’t see anything. With all due respect, this is a complete waste of time. I don’t know why I agreed to come.” Uzi stood and turned toward the door.
“I believe your boss said you had to.” Rudnick’s voice was measured, matter-of-fact.
Uzi, facing the door with his back to Rudnick, sighed deeply. He put his hands on his hips. “I’m in the middle of an important investigation, so my time is a bit limited right now, Doctor.” He hesitated, then said what was on his mind. “Besides, I disagree with my boss’s assessment.”
“Well, since you have your orders, and I have mine, and they both involve talking to each other, I suggest we do what we’re supposed to do.”
Uzi turned to face the doctor. “How often do we have to meet?”
“Four times this week, then three times a week.”
“No offense, Doc, but I don’t have time for that. I’m running the Marine Two investigation.”
“Then you have a lot of people working for you. A little time here and there won’t hurt. I’m sure Mr. Shepard wouldn’t have… suggested you see me unless you really needed it. And I’m sure you could afford a little time out of your schedule. But how about this. Let’s strike a balance — take it one session at a time and see how we progress. Fair enough?”
“How am I doing so far?”
A smile crept across Rudnick’s lips. It seemed to round his entire face. “That depends. Do you like the truth, or do you want sugar-coated opinions?”
“I don’t like bullshit, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Rudnick said. “So here’s the straight scoop, Uzi. You’ve got some serious issues and your boss sent you here to explore them. I don’t have to tell you how you’re doing because you already know. What would help is if you’d realize that I’m not here to hurt you, but rather to help you. You tell me something, it stays with me. No one will ever know what we’ve talked about.
“I think you’ll find that once we pop the lid and start examining what’s bothering you, you’ll feel better — relieved, even. But you have to work with me, help me get to the roots buried beneath the surface. Can you help me do that?”
Uzi turned back to the door. “I’m not sure.” He placed a hand on the knob. “When do I need to be back?”
“Tomorrow. Same time, before your workday starts. Again, balance is important. I don’t want to take you away from your case.”
As far as that goes, we’re on the same page.
The Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, known as the WRNMMC — because it wouldn’t qualify as an official military institution without a government-mandated acronym — dated back to the War of 1812. At the time, the facility occupied a rented building adjacent to the Washington Navy Yard. During the next century, its name and location underwent numerous changes until it found a permanent home in 1938 on a 250-acre cabbage farm in Bethesda that would become, four decades later, one of the ten largest medical centers in the country.
The private ICU room was guarded round the clock by a bevy of Secret Service personnel. Doctors and nurses wore photo ID and had their thumbprints scanned each time they entered the room — or they weren’t allowed in. Extraordinary measures, even for the military hospital, but after one nearly successful attempt on the president-elect’s life, the Secret Service vowed it would also be the last.
Forty-nine-year-old Vance Nunn, slim without ever having seen the inside of a health club, sporting a thinning head of gray hair and facial jowls of a man ten years his senior, waited for the fingerprint identification system to, literally, give the green light. He pulled his surgical mask down, then tapped his foot impatiently, glancing to his left at the Secret Service agent assigned to him.
“Dick, this is ridiculous. Can’t you just tell them who I am?”
“Sorry sir. Must be a glitch in the program. I’ll make sure it’s repaired so you don’t have to go through this again next time.”
Nunn took that as his answer. Of course Dick couldn’t bypass procedures. After what had happened, everyone’s actions were being examined with renewed scrutiny. It was post-9/11 hysteria all over again. Though Secret Service agents routinely followed procedure to the letter, the slightest transgression during a time of heightened domestic threat could result in reassignment to the contingent guarding foreign nationals. Nunn would not ask Dick to jeopardize his job.
Nunn and Glendon Rusch had come up through the ranks together, first as senators in neighboring Virginia and Maryland, then as governors of their respective states. As freshmen lawmakers, they had promised each other during a late-night drinking binge at Nunn’s brownstone in Georgetown that if one of them ever ran for president, the other would be his running mate. Regardless of the political climate at the time, or who owed what favors to whom, they would somehow make their arrangement work. At least, that was the plan. But Nunn, of all people, knew that plans didn’t always take root the way you thought or hoped they would.