by Darrell Case
Knowing the camera in the corner wouldn't pick him up, Robbins lifted his ski mask.
Gyration gasped. “Jer…Mr. President?”
“A little late but you finally got it right, Donny,” Robbins said, holding the small .22 two inches from the senator's pale face.
“Wha…Pl..p.. please..n..no.”
“Ye...yes...you old gasbag.” Robbins popped Donny behind the left ear. The old man fell dead on his pillow.
Outside the kitchen door, Robbins tossed the pistol under a Mr. Lincoln rose bush. The symbolism amused him greatly. He laughed giddily, devilishly, almost danced as he as he scurried away.
A silent witness to the killing, the tiny camera in the bedside clock had recorded all the action. It sent the video feed to the hard drive of the senator's computer in his office study.
Two blocks away, Robbins crawled back through the men's room window at Merreio’s restaurant.
Posted outside the locked door, Secret Service Agent Jeff Coolly said, “What in the world’s taking him so long?”
“Are you going to tell him he's been in the bathroom too long?” fellow agent Ken Rustier queried provocatively.
“We've already turned three guys away and the last one used the ladies room.” Coolly said.
“I...,” Rustier began. At that moment, the door opened. Robbins came out rubbing his hands together. “Well, I feel so much better now. Gentlemen, shall we continue our run?”
“Yes sir, Mr. President,” Ken said.
Staring at a spot of blood on Robbins’s dark running suit, Jeff Coolly remained silent. Rustier spoke into his mouthpiece alerting the agents outside they were on their way.
The always prompt and reliable Gyration's absence the next morning caused his office staff concern. His house and cell phones had both gone unanswered.
At 10 AM, 911 dispatched an officer to Gyration’s residence. Receiving no answer at the front door, he went around to the back. Sunlight glinted off something under one of the rose bushes. A small pistol lay partially hidden under its branches. The officer slipped his ink pen through the trigger guard, and lifted it. The pungency of gun powder made his nose tingle.
He put the gun back where he found it, and drew his service pistol and keyed his mike. “This 507. I need backup at 3523 Court.”
“Roger 507. Any unit in the vicinity, 507 needs assistance.”
Within a minute, another cruiser pulled up to the curb with its light bar flashing. The two officers circled the house, checking doors and windows. The back door was unlocked. A quick check of the downstairs showed nothing damaged or seemingly out of place.
The cops moved cautiously up the stairs. The discovery of the senator's cold body sent their adrenaline pumping. They exited the house, called it in and taped off the area. Fifteen minutes later the street was clogged with police vehicles.10 minutes after that CSI and the media were there.
Watching CNN’s live report from the Oval Office, Robbins smirked. “Teach you to mess with the D. C. Killer, you old idiot.”
Jeff Coolly stepped back into the hallway and gently closed the door. He was guarding the president alone this morning. There were of course other agents in the White House and on the grounds. Coolly’s assignment was to not leave Robbins’ side. He had opened the door to inform him that the attorney general was waiting to see him, but all Robbins’ ever heard was the reporter gushing about the senator’s murder.
On his first day as an agent, Jeff had signed a strict confidentiality agreement.
“Think of yourself as a priest,” his instructor at the academy had said. “However, unlike a priest, if you reveal anything the person you are protecting says you will be incarcerated in a federal prison.”
Last night when his shift was over, Jeff went to the White House laundry room. Robbins’ jogging suit lay on a pile of sheets ready for the next day's wash. He picked up the pants secreted them under his shirt and left the building undetected.
On the way home, he stopped in the alley behind Merreio’s. He shined his flashlight on the wall under the men’s room window and examined it closely. There were scuff marks on it that looked fresh and could have been made by running shoes.