We didn’t talk until we arrived at the front gate to the governor’s mansion and one of the sentries waved us through. That’s when Lien-hua turned to me. “Good work interviewing that kid back there,” she said.
“Thanks. And good thinking to realize she was looking for her car keys. And to check the prescription for the contacts too. Very nice.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m just glad I wasn’t too sidetracked by looking for motives.”
Yes. Definitely rephrase that in the next briefing.
Governor Taylor’s mansion lay back from the main road behind a grove of looming oak trees that sprawled along the drive just barely within reach of the headlights. As we pulled to a stop in the circular drive in front of the elaborate manse, I let out a long, slow breath. “Whew… Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work. I didn’t know the government of North Carolina paid its public workers so well.”
“Tobacco family,” our driver said wistfully, pronouncing it tu-backa famlee. “They’ve been in politics forever, but it’s cancer sticks paid for this place.” He opened up the door for Lien-hua. “I wonder how much of it I paid for before I quit,” he mumbled. Then we stepped past him and climbed the steps to the porch.
A young woman greeted us at the door. Mid-twenties, blonde, movie star face, dressed in a skirt that must have taken her an hour to squeeze into. She introduced herself as the governor’s personal assistant. “Ms. Anita Banner,” she said in a crisp, professional voice. “Please follow me.”
She led us down the wide hallway toward the governor’s private office. Ms. Banner turned every step into a Spanish dance. I wondered just how personal her assistance to the governor was. Especially this late on a Friday night.
She asked us to wait for a moment in the great room and then slipped through another set of doors to announce our arrival to Governor Taylor.
I glanced around the room. Paintings depicting Civil War battles hung on the walls: Antietam, Fredericksburg, Bull Run, Chancel-lorsville. Apart from some kind of huge fish mounted above the fireplace, the entire room seemed to be decorated to celebrate the war-and the South. A plaque below one of the paintings read: “First at Bethel. Last at Appomattox.” So, a tribute to the soldiers of North Carolina.
Lien-hua picked up a picture that was sitting on the grand piano. “I wonder where the governor’s wife and kids are tonight?”
“She took the boys to Barbados for the week,” I answered.
Lien-hua stared at me, amazed. “How do you know that?”
“I’m tempted to wow you with my Sherlockian deductive powers,” I said. “But actually I heard it on the news last night while channel surfing. His wife loves the spotlight. She’s twenty years younger than him and used to be a model. She just might be the first governor’s wife in history with her own paparazzi.”
“Oh,” said Lien-hua. She didn’t seem impressed.
Brilliant move, Einstein. Next time try and wow her.
Just then Ms. Banner reappeared and led us into the governor’s private office.
He stepped out from behind a vast mahogany desk to greet us. I extended my hand and introduced myself. The governor looked to be in his mid-fifties, but his grip was firm, almost startlingly so. He had cool, calculating eyes that were offset by his wide, practiced smile. He’d loosened his tie but still chose to wear his impeccably tailored suit that moved with him seamlessly as he strode through the room. A small pin with a Confederate flag hung proudly from his lapel.
I was about to introduce Lien-hua, but she beat me to it, stepping forward and taking his hand. “Special Agent Lien-hua Jiang. Pleased to meet you, Governor Taylor.” The governor’s eyes brightened when he took her hand, and they did not linger long on her hand.
“Agent Jiang,” he said with a honey-sweet Southern accent, “the pleasure is all mine.”
Yeah, that’s an understatement.
“Governor Taylor,” I said, nodding toward the room with the fireplace, “you have quite a collection of paintings.”
He smiled thinly. “All who are warriors must be students of war.” He reached for a bottle on his desk. “Drink?”
I shook my head. Lien-hua said, “No thank you.”
“Well, then.” He considered a decanter of cognac for a moment and then refilled his glass.
“That quote,” I said. “Chekhov?”
He lifted his glass to me with a slight nod. “Taylor,” he said, winking at Lien-hua.
OK.
“I especially liked the portrayal of Sharpsburg,” I said. The South often used different names to remember the battles than the North did. In this case, I used the Southern name to refer to the battle of Antietam.
He looked mildly impressed. “One of my favorites as well.”
But then I blew it. “An interesting way to remember the Civil War.” As soon as I’d said it, I realized it. Oh well.
“You’re not from the South, are you, Dr. Bowers?” His tone had turned fatherly, patronizing. I was not in the mood.
“Actually, no. Milwaukee, originally.” Go on, say it. I know you’re going to.
He grinned, pleased with himself. “Here in the South, we prefer to call it the War Between the States. Or the War of Northern Aggression
…”
I knew he was going to say that.
I didn’t respond, just waited for him to go on.
He continued, “There’s nothing civil about war, Dr. Bowers. The phrase is an oxymoron-like giant shrimp, rubber cement, or tight slacks.” As he added that last one, his eyes flickered toward Lien-hua.
“Or act natural,” I said.
He shifted his attention back to me, with one eyebrow raised. “Hmm?”
“Act natural. It’s another oxymoron. Either you’re acting or you’re not. But only one is natural.” I met his gaze, didn’t look away.
“Ah, unless you are a natural actor,” he said with a slight raise of his glass.
Or unless you’re a true counterfeit, I thought but managed to keep my mouth shut.
“Sir,” Lien-hua said, “you wanted to know about the case.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” He set his drink on the desk and took his place behind it, in the position of authority. He motioned for us to have a seat in the two tiny chairs facing him. It was a power play, of course.
“Bad back,” I said. “Think I’ll stand.”
Lien-hua sat.
“So,” he said, “this girl tonight. What do you know so far?”
Lien-hua leaned forward. “Governor, if I might ask, what’s your specific interest in this case?”
“Public relations.” He shook his head slightly. “A serial killer? Oh, it’s been a nightmare.” He let his words hang in the air as if he expected us to agree with him that his public relations concerns were somehow more important than the fact that at least six young women had been brutally murdered. I wasn’t sure how much more of this guy I could take.
“I guess no one has informed you about the phone calls?” He asked it as a question even though it seemed like a statement.
“What phone calls?” I asked.
“Let’s see, what was her name… Bethanie something…”
I wondered where he was going with this. “Not Dixon? Bethanie Dixon?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s it. From what I’ve heard, she called our switchboard a dozen times in less than eight hours. That night she disappeared. Two days later she was found dead.”
I remembered seeing a series of calls in her phone records when I was reviewing her case earlier today, but I hadn’t had time to investigate who she’d been calling.
“Are there transcripts of the calls?” I asked.
“Of course. We tape all incoming calls. I’ll have my people fax them to you in the morning. Not much there, though. She demanded to talk to me, said it was urgent. She was afraid her life was in danger. Mine too, it seems.”
“What?” asked Lien-hua. “A death threat?”
“I get those constantly,” he said, dismissing her concern with a wave of his hand. “This was different.”
“She wasn’t threatening you,” I said. “She was warning you.”
“So it seems.”