The mirth sealed his next victim’s fate. The General wore the face of-
Judge Fiona Patrick.
8
After eight o’clock, the regular mix of tourists, political hacks and city veterans, went home for the night, and left traffic light. The city’s ceiling, dark but clear, lost its frosty bite, but remained crisp and cold.
Robert treated the streets like a personal NASCAR speedway, barely missed a taxi or two, with Thorne right on his tail.
George Clinton pounded out funky beats from his stereo. Robert’s pulse quickened, and his nose snorted air like an angry bull. He bit down on his lip, imagining Patrick Miller’s jovial reflection in the windshield.
A tight grip on the steering wheel, and his bloodless knuckles turned white.
I should’ve checked out that weasel who followed me to the mission.
Did he have anything to do with Miller’s death? He slapped a palm against his forehead.
The Mustang and Range Rover slowed at Constitution Avenue, where speeding cars attracted the attention of Secret Service and Army personnel, strategically hidden near each monument and major government building. Minutes later, they crept into the city’s parallel dimension, where murky, dilapidated streets spawned an eerie sub-culture.
Bodies crowded the sidewalks in heaps, like scattered islands of misery, magnifying the overwhelming squalor. Bright orange flames leapt up from bonfires. The homeless and hopeless crowded around large metal drums in vacant lots for warmth.
Robert turned off his CD player, concentrating on Miller. What did he know? Why would someone kill him? Then he remembered something Charlie said back at the office. “They know I’m here and they’ll come for you.” Thorne was right. Robert didn’t care.
Normally he didn’t indulge in hatred, considering it a waste of time and emotion. Nevertheless, he despised and hated those responsible for President Kennedy’s assassination. Robert considered politics a contact sport, where daughters disappeared, interns were seduced, and war a necessity if you wanted peace. Sometimes people died.
However, even for a realist like him, President Kennedy’s murder extended beyond the realm of political necessity. He wasn’t about to walk away from Charlie’s revelation, not with hard evidence and one of the shooters. The sensation behind his eyes warned- Patrick Miller won’t be the last to die.
Robert drove through his second roadblock of the day, passing several fire-trucks and an ambulance. Flashing lights bounced off the brick and asphalt, creating a surreal, psychedelic atmosphere. They parked across the street from the mission.
Robert spotted Popeye, sullen, slumped down in his wheelchair, taking slugs from a bottle in a brown paper sack, watching the police work a large crowd assembled in front of the shelter. He avoided Popeye’s gaze, but felt the weight of the old vet’s glare.
Inside, uniformed police and plain-clothes detectives nearly outnumbered the homeless, with every room and office being used for questioning. A mix of stress, confusion, and frustration obvious, detectives tried to get information from reticent staff members and shelter residents not inclined to talk with police.
In the cafeteria, several distraught volunteers pointed at him, including the Bahamian woman who directed him to Miller’s office earlier. The detectives took note, reluctantly sending them to the fourth floor, escorted by a young female officer, a rookie Robert guessed, for questioning.
They reached Miller’s tiny office and were greeted by another sizeable police contingent, edgier and more frustrated than their cohorts downstairs. Robert asked for the lead detective, and was met with silence and looks of aggravation.
“Mr. Veil?” a muffled voice called from somewhere inside.
In the back of the office near Miller’s desk, a man mountain, with a fiery red crew cut, rose up from the floor and towered over the room. He grunted and pulled off the largest pair of rubber gloves Robert ever saw, a proctology nightmare.
Making his way toward them, his considerable girth demanded several people step outside the room to accommodate his movement.
“Detective Ralph Durbin, homicide,” he said. “I’m the one who called you.”
Robert nodded, introduced himself and Thorne, then extended his hand, which disappeared in the giant’s tight grip.
He glanced around the detective to get a good look at Miller’s body.
The director sat in the chair behind his desk, eyes wide, chin on his chest, jellybeans strewn all over the floor, a bullet hole centered in his forehead.
Durbin moved his frame so they could get a clear look.
“We were wondering what you could tell us about our little situation here,” said Durbin. “You were here earlier were you not, Mr. Veil?”
“I was here,” answered Robert. “What makes you think I know something about this?”
Thorne filmed the scene while they spoke.
“Sorry miss, we can’t allow that,” Durbin told her. “We know who you are, but this isn’t one of your cases, so no pictures, no video tape.”
“Then why’d you call us here, detective?” Robert asked, stepping inside the office.
“Well, when we got here we found your business card gripped tight in Mr. Miller’s fist, and several eyewitnesses place you as the last person seen with him. Can you offer something different?” Robert looked into Miller’s hollow blue eyes. His heart sank. “Like I said, I was here. Doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“Exactly what was your business with Mr. Miller?”
“A missing person’s case,” said Robert. “I questioned Mr. Miller as a possible lead.”
“Who were you looking for?” asked Durbin, pulling several sticks of Juicy Fruit from his inside jacket pocket. He wadded them together and tossed them into his cavernous mouth.
“I’m sorry, that’s confidential,” answered Robert, picking up a slight odor of feces from Miller’s body. It wasn’t uncommon for an individual to shit themselves in the face of immense fear or death. In the field, he’d seen it happen to the best. Hell, he’d almost done it himself once or twice.
“Listen detective,” Robert continued. “Do you think I’d leave my name and number in a man’s hand after I killed him?”
“I’ve seen stranger things over the last thirty years. Besides,” said Durbin, sarcastic and matter-of-fact. “Like I said, you were the last person seen with him. Now, you say you were following up a lead on a case?”
“A missing person’s case,” Robert repeated, irritated.
“But the only person who knows if that’s true has a bullet in his head.
So you see our little problem here?”
Durbin’s repetitive questions annoyed Robert, but he wasn’t going to bring up Charlie. What would I say anyway? Hey, I’m following up on a case connected to the Kennedy assassination, so back off. The only thing that would get me is a nice long stay in a straight jacket.
Thorne walked over to the detective. Tall, she still looked up at him.
“Listen Detective Durbin, or whatever the hell your name is. If you had anything real, Robert would be in handcuffs. You wouldn’t have called him down here; you would’ve picked him up. So either get on with it, or back the fuck off.”
Durbin looked down and smiled the smile of a man who knew his own strength, yet made a conscious decision to keep it under control.
“It’s just procedure Ms. Thorne,” he said, gently. “We’re required to follow up on every possible lead. You know that. I’m catching high-heat on this case. Mr. Miller was connected, respected, and well-liked.” Thorne returned Durbin’s smile, and took a step back.
“We understand,” said Robert. “But I wasn’t involved. If you’d like, I’ll take a gunshot residue test confirming I haven’t fired a weapon.
Better still, take my guns and test them. They haven’t been discharged in a couple of days, and then only at the range. What was used on Miller?”