Roaches Run

by John Wasowicz

  “Can you explain this to me?” Katz asked. He opened the book to the inside page and placed it on the table in front of McLuhan.

  F — We have come full circle. May this merit the redemption you long desired—Ari

  McLuhan looked at it and said nothing.

  “You wrote that,” Katz said. “You’re Ari Hammond.”

  McLuhan bent forward ever so slightly. “That’s right. You must have gotten an advance copy of my taping of Tom Mann’s show tomorrow night. I come out, so to speak.”

  Katz flipped to the dedication page, which read: To RH. “You dedicated your book to your sister, Ruth Hammond,” Katz said.

  “Yes, of course. She’s my twin sister. I’m devoted to her. Most of the earnings of my book go to her foundation. I’ve never made a secret of that.”

  “That’s not true,” Katz said. “You’ve never really acknowledged it, at least not until now. Why are you going public now, Ari? What’s changed? Why is it okay to show the world that Ari Hammond and Henry David McLuhan are the same person?”

  Nine Years Ago

  Ruth Hammond always parked in the same place even though there were no assigned spaces. It was force of habit, like sitting in the same seat in a conference room. The parking space was on the lower level of the underground garage, in the corner furthest from the staircase and the elevator. She parked there in case work got so crazy that she had no time to get outside to walk to lunch or to go to the gym. She used every opportunity to maximize her steps, taking the staircase and walking the furthest possible distance in the garage.

  She went down two flights of stairs, opened a heavy steel door, passed by the bank of elevators, opened another steel door, and walked down a handicapped ramp. The garage was deserted. Her car waited a football field away in the far corner.

  The place was dark. Her heels clicked on the cement floor. Ceiling lights flashed on overhead as she approached, lighting the area immediately around her. Cement columns stood like trees in a petrified forest.

  She preferred working late at night. There were fewer distractions: no phone calls, fewer emails, and fewer interruptions from other staff members usually asking stupid questions and wasting valuable time. Ruth knew that women were assaulted in garages. She was on guard. She remembered a story about a guy who stood beside the open hood of a car as a woman walked by. He asked for help. An instant later, she was being pulled behind the car. Ruth couldn’t remember if the woman was raped before she was murdered.

  She held tight to her purse strap, ready to fling the hefty bag at anyone who might approach her. In her other hand, she held her car key like a knife, ready to rip it across the face of any would-be assailant. In the distance, tires screeched as a car turned toward the ramp leading up to the street.

  Ruth got to her car. She opened the passenger side door. She placed the purse on the seat.

  She heard nothing. No footsteps or screeching tires. She saw nothing. No overhead lights turned on. No shadows were discernible. As a result, she had no time to react when her assailant charged, throwing one arm around her head and covering her mouth tightly with a gloved hand while the other arm slammed her against the car.

  The next thing she knew she was spun around and struck twice in the mouth. Then several sharp blows landed on her stomach. She fell forward, gasping. A knee struck her forehead. She fell backwards, seeing stars. Her nose was bleeding. She was shoved roughly into the passenger seat on top of her purse.

  Duct tape was wrapped around her face, forcing her mouth shut and nearly preventing her from breathing. Her eyes bulged and watered. Her nostrils shot out streams of blood. She was slapped across the face. Once, twice, three times. Her lip was bleeding. Her right eye closed. She tried desperately to fend off the assailant, but he grabbed both of her arms. Now a rope was bound around her.

  She expected to be thrown to the floorboard and trapped inside the car, or placed inside the trunk. Instead, she was yanked out of the car and thrown to the ground. Then she was kicked, repeatedly. First in the face. Then the pelvis and legs. Finally a boot stomped on her head, crushing her face and fracturing her cheek bones.

  “Bitch!”

  That was the only word she heard uttered by her assailant. She never saw a face, or a piece of clothing. Then everything went black.

  **

  “NO ONE really understands what happens when you are victimized,” McLuhan said. “No one recovers, not the victim and not her loved ones. It’s just hell, forever.” He choked up. “She’s confined to a wheelchair. She can’t speak in coherent sentences. I know she’s aware of things, but it’s like someone on life support who’s hoping you don’t pull the plug because they’re more aware of their surroundings than you think.”

  Katz listened intently as he sat on the edge of one of the bar stools.

  “It’s so pathetic and unforgivable,” McLuhan said.

  “When did you learn that Landry was responsible for what happened to your sister?” Katz asked.

  McLuhan grimaced. “I’m not obligated to talk to you, Mr. Katz. I may appear to be an extrovert, what with my speeches and everything. But I’m a very private person, and I have no desire or interest in sharing my feelings with you.”

  Katz was undeterred. “I’m actually not interested in your feelings, Ari. I’m just interested in the facts, like when you first learned what Landry intended to do and how you outsmarted him every step of the way.”

  “It may sound trite, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What about the inscription to Federico Pena. Can you explain that?”

  McLuhan looked over at the boarding gate. People were forming a line. “It looks like they’re getting ready. I must have missed the announcement. I mean, it was easy to be distracted listening to you. Mind if I excuse myself?”

  “I do,” Katz said. “I’d like an explanation.”

  A second announcement was made for priority seating to board. They both heard it.

  “I have to go.”

  “That inscription was written the night of your appearance in the tent beside Constitution Hall,” Katz said. “Landry didn’t die until the following afternoon. What did you mean by coming full circle and about redemption?”

  McLuhan turned. “Phil Landry died in an explosion in a van parked at Roaches Run. I don’t think you or anyone else is going to be able to pin that on me. So, unless you have arranged for someone to issue me a warrant tonight, I’m going to head over there and board my flight.”

  “I don’t have enough evidence to arrest you, but I know you’re complicit.”

  McLuhan looked at the gate. Passengers were scanning their boarding passes and going down the jet bridge to the plane. “I really have to excuse myself,” he insisted.

  Katz raised the book. “Somehow or other, you found out about what Landry was up to, and you subverted his plan. He staged an act, but you managed a play within a play.”

  McLuhan looked amused. “Goodbye, Mr. Katz.” As he walked away, he said, without turning his head, “Don’t try to figure it out. You never will.”

  Six Years Ago

  It took three years to assemble the report. The cost was astronomical. But in the spring of 2015, Ari Hammond finally received the results of the private investigation he commissioned about the attack on his sister. The report traced the movements of every person who was in the building on that day. People who worked there, and people who visited. It included thousands of people. People who worked in the building were examined first, and they were all eliminated as suspects. Roscoe Page, who oversaw the report, was not surprised, reasoning that no one would carry out a brutal act in their own backyard for fear they would be considered the most likely suspect.

  Next were the people who visited the building for the first time that day. Each of them was also ruled out. Again, no surprise to Page, who felt the perpetrator had to be someone who was familiar with the layout and habits of the victim.

  The third and final group w
ere people who visited the building on multiple occasions in the weeks and months preceding the attack. These were patients of doctors and dentists and clients of law firms, consulting companies, and financial planners. The list consisted of ninety people.

  Page’s forensic team analyzed the activities of each of them. When did they enter? From where? Was it from the front doors or from the staircase or elevators that went to the underground parking garage? How long were they in the building? When did they leave? Did they depart the same way they entered? Using this methodology, eighty-nine people were eliminated. The remaining suspect was Phil Landry.

  Landry had visited an estate attorney’s office five times over a two-month period preceding the attack. He was in the building during times that would have allowed him to discover Hammond’s work habits and parking routine. He always arrived by car late in the day. After he parked in the two-story garage, he always took the staircase to the lobby. When his meeting ended, he always returned to the lobby by elevator and took the staircase down two floors to the garage.

  With one exception. On the day of the attack, he walked into the lobby from the street. He signed in at the concierge desk, received a visitor pass, and rode an elevator to the floor where the estate attorney’s office was located. At the conclusion of the visit, he rode an elevator down to the lobby and left the visitor pass at the concierge desk. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he walked across the lobby and went to the restroom. Then, according to the surveillance camera, he took the staircase to the garage. While there were cameras in the lobby, staircases, and hallways, there were no surveillance cameras in the garage.

  Landry was seen on camera going up the staircase shortly after the time of the attack on Hammond. He walked through the lobby and left by the street entrance. It might not have been enough to hold up in court, but Ari Hammond had no intention of sharing the report with the police. This was good enough.

  “Someday,” Hammond told Page, “I’m going to need you to deliver a sanitized version of this report to the media. It’s a ways off, but we will eventually reveal what happened. Just not yet. I have to settle the score. I’ll be in touch if I need anything further.”

  About six years later, Hammond contacted Page in need of another favor. He wanted to hack into Landry’s private email account. Another request followed, an even more delicate one. Hammond needed cameras set up in a room at the GreyStone Hotel visited by Landry about once a month. It wasn’t for prurient interests, Hammond assured Page. It was strictly business.

  Under normal circumstances, Page would have turned down the requests. But he didn’t, and Hammond knew why. Page also wanted to see justice done.

  **

  AS McLUHAN stood in the queue with his boarding pass, Katz walked up behind him. “I’m not sure how you did it,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t know if you acted alone or if you had accomplices. I think Pena helped, though I don’t know how. But I’ll tell you one thing: Landry had neck bruises. So I’m guessing he didn’t die in the explosion. He was strangled. In fact, I don’t think he was alive in the van when Sherry Stone was texting at Roaches Run.

  “I think it was you I saw at Gravelly Point the afternoon of the explosion. You were the one emailing Stone. You masterminded the operation.”

  McLuhan turned to Katz. “All his life, Landry got away with ruthless and horrible things,” he said. “He finally got what was coming to him. It took twelve years, but it happened. All that was needed was a few changes in the rhythm of life. Don’t spoil it now, Mr. Katz. Justice has been served.” McLuhan had reached the front of the line and displayed his boarding pass. Then he was gone through a door and headed down a ramp toward the plane to Paris.

  **

  A WOMAN darted across 29th Street between K and M. Cars were parked tightly along the curb, bumper to bumper. Crowds were thin along Georgetown’s streets. Lamplights shined down on nearly deserted sidewalks. Trees in open spaces bent their twisted limbs over the urban landscape.

  The driver of the car bearing down on her barely had time to react. The driver slammed on the brakes, but that was after impact. The body had already hurtled through the air and landed by the curb, one arm extended onto the brick sidewalk.

  The driver stopped, jumped out of her vehicle, and ran to the motionless body. She called 911 and waited for help. Within seconds, the sound of sirens filled the otherwise quiet night.

  The accident occurred along a stretch of street that went over the C&O Canal. The spot was about 1,000 feet from where Tony Fortune was gunned down four years earlier.

  **

  AT BEDTIME, Ruth Hammond told the nurse she wanted to remain in her wheelchair. She was in the living room now, positioned in front of a window. Earlier, she heard a jet fly overhead. She thought of her brother. She knew he had gotten away. Although she was confined in this mobile cage for the rest of her life, they had won. Well, maybe not won. No one really wins. But the score is at least even. She closed her eyes.

  BREAKING NEWS

  The body of the woman hit by a car in Georgetown has been identified as Margaret Moriarty of Alexandria. She was pronounced dead at the scene. The incident has been ruled as accidental. No charges have been filed against the driver, whose name was not released by police. Alcohol is not believed to have been a contributing factor. Moriarty leaves behind one daughter. Her husband, Anthony Fortune, died four years ago a short distance from where the accident occurred.

  **

  KATZ HEARD the news while driving back from the airport. Tony Fortune had died on the day Katie was born, and Maggie Moriarty died on Fortune’s birthday. Moriarty’s death touched his life. He wondered if Snowe was awake and heard the news. If so, what was she thinking? He wanted to call and ask but decided to wait and discuss things in person when he got home.

  If Snowe wanted to seek custody, he would support her 100 percent. They would do it as a couple, which probably meant getting married. He was prepared to do whatever it took. For Abby, for Katie, for Tony. That’s the way he looked at it.

  His thoughts returned to his encounter with Hammond — or McLuhan, or whoever he was. He felt unsettled and dissatisfied. He was not sure what he hoped to accomplish. But he expected to accomplish something.

  He was left with the same questions that bothered him when he drove out to Dulles. What was Hammond’s role in Landry’s death? Who else was involved? And was there an underlying motivation beyond the attack on Ruth?

  He ran through the weekend’s events in chronological order. First, there was the train mishap. It wasn’t supposed to go down that way, with some guy falling to his death in the river. One of Stone’s people had said if something could go wrong, it would. He was right.

  Next was the explosion at the GreyStone. The hole in the wall was analogous to a tear in a pair of jeans. Everyone got up, dusted themselves off, and resumed the game. It was similar to the way people behaved in response to COVID-19 last year. People were resilient. They knew what was needed to get through a crisis and did it. The holiday mood was put on pause. People regrouped, realized there was no imminent crisis, and proceeded as planned.

  The third thing that happened was the van blowing up at Roaches Run. It seemed mysterious and odd, and Katz had gone on a wild-goose chase asking if someone other than Landry had been blown to smithereens, which proved to be a colossal waste of time.

  Finally, there was the revelation surrounding Ruth Hammond’s attack. Landry’s legacy was forever tainted for his shenanigans at the Alexandria Courthouse and attacking the woman who exposed his wrongdoing.

  It occurred to Katz that, if the threesome enlisted by Landry had succeeded, things would have turned out a whole lot differently. But they didn’t and, as a result, they basically disappeared from view and the incident itself was largely forgotten. But suppose those three people — whoever they were — actually took a bomb, or just devices that resembled bombs, to Lafayette Park? Suppose the GreyStone explosion was caused by an incendiary device intended for the pa
rk?

  Suddenly, Katz remembered something that happened on Saturday night at Constitution Hall. He was sitting in the audience. Hammond had taken a drink of water and said something about shaking things up. “Redirect your energy and take yourself off the road that previously led to bad destinations. Use today — right now, tonight, in real time — to change the past. You can do it. You can definitely do it.” What had happened in that moment?

  As he turned off I-495 for the Old Town exit to his home, Katz detoured to Prince Street. A parking space was open in front of Stone’s townhouse. He slid his car into it. Santana, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, opened the door when he knocked.

  “Stoner up?”

  “She’s sleeping, Mo. Do you realize what time it is?”

  “No, I don’t,” Katz said. And he didn’t care. Moriarty was dead. As was Spates. Katie was orphaned. Ari Hammond, aka Henry David McLuhan, had departed for Boston. When he added those facts to all the other events of the weekend — Morley’s murder, the train caper, H-Pack backpacks carried around in D.C., the GreyStone explosion, and the van’s destruction at Roaches Run — he didn’t care if he was now disturbing the dead.

  Stone appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a blue robe. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m coming down.”

  “What’s this about?” Santana asked.

  “Nothing, sweetie,” Stone answered, now at the base of the staircase. “Go back to bed.” Santana trudged up the stairs, shaking his head.

  Once she and Katz were alone, she said, “What’s up, Mo?”

  “I need to know what happened this weekend. You’ve been avoiding me all day. Going to my house this afternoon took the cake. You knew I wouldn’t be there, or you wouldn’t have come over.”