by Mike Lawson
Based on the last call Canton had made—to Texas congresswoman Kathy Thomas—and the time of death as estimated by the FBI’s pathologist, Peyton knew the congressman had been killed sometime between 10:13 p.m. on Friday and approximately 4:00 the following morning. Peyton’s agents went to work compiling a list of everyone who had been in the Capitol during those hours. They interviewed the Capitol cops who’d been on duty and started looking at video footage obtained from the many cameras in and around the building. An elite team of crime-scene technicians dusted Canton’s office for fingerprints, took photos, and vacuumed carpets for trace evidence. The two shell casings found in Canton’s office were the first pieces of evidence they bagged.
Peyton learned Lyle Canton had a reputation for working long hours, but the specific reason he’d been in his office at ten o’clock on a Friday night was that he’d been doing his job: whipping up support for a bill that would go to the floor for a vote in a week—a bill that many Republicans didn’t like. In other words, Canton had been twisting the arms of reluctant Republicans like Congresswoman Thomas to make sure they didn’t stray from the herd.
About four hours after the body had been found, Peyton held a meeting in the commandeered conference room with four of his senior agents. Peyton had been getting periodic updates, but he wanted his senior people to have the whole picture and to make sure he had the latest news, so he could brief his boss and his boss could brief the president.
“Jack, you go first,” Peyton said to one of the agents.
Jack said, “The big thing is, we’re ninety-nine percent certain we’ve got the killer on video. He’s either a Capitol cop or somebody disguised as one. But we don’t have a clear image of his face.”
One of the other agents said, “You’re shittin’ me. That means the shooter could still be in the building. He could have—”
Peyton held up a hand for silence and said, “Go on, Jack.”
Jack went on. “This guy knew where every camera was, and he kept his head turned away or placed his hands over his face when he was in camera range. And he was wearing gloves, which is another reason we’re pretty sure he’s the killer. Why would a guy be wearing gloves this time of year?” It was late June. “Anyway, we can see him on a camera walking up the stairs leading to Canton’s office. About two minutes before Canton made his last phone call, which he made at ten thirteen p.m., we got him walking down the hall toward Canton’s office. Three minutes after Canton’s last call, he walked back up the hall. This means that Canton was most likely killed at about ten fifteen. We can tell from the video footage that the killer is white, about five eleven, and weighs around one eighty. The techs will get us more precise measurements. He’s wearing one of those ball caps the guards here wear, but you can see he has dark hair. He doesn’t have a limp or anything else that’s distinctive about the way he moves.”
“How many people were in the building when Canton was killed?” Peyton asked.
“Forty-three,” Jack said.
“That’s all?” Peyton said.
“It was a Friday night, and with the weekend coming there just weren’t that many folks working late. At the time of the killing there were twenty-four cops guarding the entrances and patrolling the grounds. There were four aides in various offices researching sh-, stuff for their bosses. There was an IT guy trying to fix a computer, eight janitors who were on the Senate side vacuuming and cleaning toilets, two gals making copies of some bill that was about five thousand pages long, and one guy trying to fix the sound system in one of the hearing rooms.”
Jack paused and smiled slightly. “In addition to all those folks, the House minority whip, Conrad English, was in his office with a twenty-two-year-old intern who works for a congresswoman. They were just a few doors away from Canton’s office but didn’t see or hear anything. One of the Capitol cops said there’s a rumor going around that English, who’s married, and the intern spend a lot of late nights together and probably didn’t hear anything because—”
Peyton said, “I don’t want to hear any nonsense like that unless it bears on the murder.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “Last, there was a lawyer down in the subbasement, some guy named DeMarco. He got here at nine forty-five and left about fifty minutes later. So that’s a total of forty-three people. And even though we now know the killing happened about ten fifteen, we’re interviewing everyone who was in the building between eight p.m. and seven this morning. So far no one has reported seeing anything useful, like a Capitol cop walking around wearing gloves.”
“How do you know who was here during those hours?” Peyton asked.
“During normal working hours, people who have the right badge can just walk in and out of the building. They have to pass through the metal detectors and go past the guards, of course, but they’re not logged in and out. For some reason—maybe just to keep the guards awake—after eight p.m. everybody going in and out, even if they have the right ID, is logged. We haven’t finished looking at the cameras near the entrances yet, but we will, then we’ll confirm that everybody who entered after eight is on the log.”
Peyton said, “We need to know exactly where every security guard was at about ten.”
Jack said, “I realize that, boss. We’re building a matrix showing everyone’s location at that time, then confirming their locations through interviews and video footage.”
Two hours later, Jack came back to Peyton and said, “We’ve got something interesting. As you know, the shooter was wearing what appears to be a Capitol cop’s uniform, but we took a close look at the patch on his right sleeve. It’s not an exact duplicate of the insignia patch the Capitol Police wear. I mean, it’s the correct colors—blue and white—shows the Capitol building, and has 1828 on it, but—”
“What’s the 1828 mean?” Peyton asked.
“That’s the year the Capitol Police were founded. Anyway, the image of the Capitol and the oak-leaf cluster on the patch are slightly different in a number of small ways. What I’m saying is, the patch appears to be a fake the shooter had made, but it’s not an exact duplicate of a real insignia patch. We’re getting the names of companies that could have made the patch, but it’s going to be a long list and will include companies in China, Vietnam, and Bangladesh. As for the uniform the guy was wearing—blue shirt, dark blue cargo pants—you can buy those clothes anywhere. Same with the stuff on the equipment belt, the zip ties, the baton, the Mace. You can buy all that commercially and online. But if we can find the shirt with the patch on it, that’ll be a significant piece of evidence.”
Peyton called Ronald Erby and gave the director another update.
“I’ve told the head of the Capitol Police that I want all his people polygraphed,” Peyton said.
“Can he do that?” Erby asked. “I mean, without his cops raising a stink and getting union reps and lawyers involved?”
“Yeah. His people agree to periodic polygraph testing as well as drug testing when they sign on. And naturally anyone who refuses becomes an instant suspect. I’ve also told him I want to see the personnel files on all his cops, including ID photos.”
“How many people does he have?” the director asked.
“About thirteen hundred, but we’ll immediately weed out anyone who’s not white or male or who doesn’t meet the physical description of the killer. But I seriously doubt it was a Capitol cop who killed Canton. For one thing, a cop wouldn’t have to make a fake insignia patch for his shirt.
“I also don’t think this was terrorist-related, and we should tell this to the media at the next press conference, just to calm everyone down. A terrorist most likely would have killed several people, not just one guy, and some organization would have taken credit for the killing. It’s also hard to imagine that some politician did this. I mean, the Democrats hated Canton, but I can’t imagine a politician actually murdering him.”
“Yeah, but the man went out of his way to make enemies,” the director said.
Wha
t the director meant was that Canton was the designated hatchet man for the Republican majority in the House. The Republican Speaker of the House wished to be viewed as a reasonable man who could work with those on the other side of the aisle and he tried his best not to poke the Democrats too rudely in the eye with a sharp stick. He left that job to Lyle Canton. Canton was the one who made brash statements to the media castigating the Democrats for their opposition to every Republican-sponsored bill. And Canton didn’t choose his words carefully when he accused Democratic Party leaders of being responsible for every malady affecting the country. So the Democrats hated the man, particularly the Democratic minority leader, John Mahoney, who was usually Canton’s primary target.
“The last time I can think of that one American politician shot another,” Peyton told the director, “was when Burr killed Hamilton. These guys assassinate people with money and lies, not bullets. A more likely possibility is that some nut could have taken offense at something Canton was doing—like maybe this bill he was working on last night—but this doesn’t feel like a nut to me. A nut would have walked up to Canton at some event and started spraying bullets, like the guy who shot Giffords.”
He meant Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, who had been shot in the head in an assassination attempt near Tucson in 2011. In addition to Giffords, twelve other people had been wounded, and six were killed.
“This was planned well in advance,” Peyton told Erby. “The shooter got a uniform, made up his own Capitol Police insignia patch, and he knew where every camera was on the route to Canton’s office. He had to have spent days, if not weeks, planning this, so this was done by someone who spent a lot of time in the building.”
“Like a Capitol cop,” Erby said.
“But if it was a Capitol cop,” Peyton countered, “why make a fake patch?”
Peyton continued. “I think this was personal, and not politically motivated. Canton was an abrasive asshole, and I suspect he stepped on a lot of people to get to where he is today. Maybe he destroyed someone’s reputation. Maybe he crushed someone’s career. We’re going to have to take a hard look at his personal life and his past to find people who had some reason to kill him.”
“I assume you’re going through all his hate mail,” the director said.
“Yeah, everything he got in the last year,” Peyton said. “The Secret Service had already investigated the people who sent them before he was killed, and they didn’t see any serious threats, but we’re going back over everything. So far no one has popped out that looks promising, but we’re still digging.”
“You seem to be ignoring the most obvious suspect, Russ,” the director said.
“I’m not ignoring him, boss,” Peyton said. “I just haven’t figured out what I’m going to do about him.”
“Do you know where Sebastian Spear was when this happened?”
“Yeah. He was in China, and he’s still there. According to his PR person, he’s been there almost a week at a conference that was scheduled two months ago. But that means nothing. With his money, Spear could have hired the best pro in the business, and if everything that’s been written about him and Canton is true, he had a better motive than anyone I can think of for killing Canton.”
“You’re going to have to tread carefully with Spear,” the director said. “The guy’s a politically connected billionaire.”
“I know,” Peyton said. “And right now I don’t have anything to justify getting a warrant to look at his finances or his phone records or anything else. I could go to China to question to him but I think that would be a complete waste of time unless I can find something that actually ties him to Canton’s death.”
“So what are you going to do?” the director asked.
“I’m going to talk to the reporter who broke the story about Spear’s affair with Canton’s wife. She seems to know more about it than anyone else.”
3
Four months earlier, Jean Canton—the wife of Congressman Lyle Canton—had been killed in a car accident. Her blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit when she lost control of her Audi and crashed into a hundred-year-old oak tree. She was pronounced dead at the scene.
It was raining the day they buried Jean at a cemetery in Vienna, Virginia. She was interred in a family plot that contained several of Lyle Canton’s ancestors, including his father, the former senator Eric Canton. Many of the people attending the burial service saw a man wearing a black trench coat and blue jeans standing on a knoll about fifty yards from the grave site. The man’s head was bare, and his dark hair was matted down from the rain, but he appeared oblivious to the elements. He hadn’t shaved in several days and was leaning against a tree, taking sips from a pint bottle as he watched the service. The people who saw him thought he was some pitiful street person who had wandered accidentally into the cemetery, but as Jean Canton’s coffin was being lowered into the ground, he staggered down the hill toward the grave, pushed his way through the crowd of mourners, and headed for Lyle Canton.
Accompanying Canton, because of his congressional rank, were two U.S. Capitol policemen dressed in suits. They immediately moved to stop the drunk. As they grabbed him, the man shouted: “You son of a bitch. You killed her. And I’m going to kill you. I swear to God I will.”
The two Capitol cops hustled the lunatic away from the grave site. Threatening to kill a member of the United States Congress is a felony. The man was handcuffed and placed in the back of a Vienna Police patrol car. (The Vienna Police had led the funeral procession from the church to the cemetery and had provided traffic control along the way.) Canton’s bodyguards needed to stay with Canton, so they told the Vienna cops to toss the drunk into a cell and that someone would be out to interview him later and decide whether charges would be filed.
Only two people at Jean Canton’s funeral recognized the man; had he been wearing his trademark glasses and not been so disheveled, maybe others would have. One of those who recognized him was Lyle Canton. The other was a woman who had gone to high school with both Jean and Lyle Canton. Her name was Libby Baker, and she was now a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Libby hadn’t been close friends with either Lyle or Jean, but she’d lied to her editor, convinced him that she knew them both well, and asked to be allowed to write an article about them: what they’d been like when they were young; the tragedy of Jean Canton’s passing at such an early age; the fact that widower Canton would now be one of the most eligible bachelors in Washington.
But when Libby Baker recognized the man who’d threatened Canton … Well, now she really had something to write about.
Before leaving the cemetery, Canton told his security detail to hold the drunk until he’d departed and then let him go. The senior Capitol cop told him that they couldn’t do that. He said they needed to identify the man and make sure he didn’t pose a real threat to the congressman and other politicians. At this point Canton got pissy. He said he knew who the man was, knew he was harmless, and to let him go. But the head of his security detail—who despised Canton because he was an overbearing bully—stood his ground.
“Sorry, Congressman, but I can’t do that,” he said again, and then stood there stone-faced as Canton berated him.
While Canton was tongue-lashing his security guys, Libby Baker walked over to the police car where the drunk was sitting in the back seat, his head down, sobbing. She quickly took two photos of the prisoner with her cell phone. She wondered what the cops would do when they learned that the man they were holding was Sebastian Spear, one of the wealthiest men in northern Virginia.
A week later, Libby Baker published an article claiming that Sebastian Spear had been having an affair with Lyle Canton’s wife, and the night Jean Canton had died she’d been on her way to see Spear to tell him she was leaving her husband. Sebastian Spear—who was never charged for threatening Canton—refused to comment on the article. Congressman Canton did make a comment. He said that had he been a private citizen, he would have sued Ms. Baker a
nd her paper. “I’m absolutely disgusted,” Canton said, “that the Times-Dispatch would print a pack of lies attempting to soil the good name and reputation of my late wife. And that’s all I’m going to say on this sordid subject.”
The real reason Canton didn’t file a lawsuit was that the claims in Libby Baker’s article were true.
4
Peyton told one of his agents to get him Libby Baker’s unlisted cell-phone number. Five minutes later he had it.
“This is FBI Special Agent Russell Peyton,” he said, when Baker answered her phone.
“What?” she said. “How did you get my number?”
Peyton almost laughed. “As I said, Ms. Baker, I work for the FBI, and I’m investigating Congressman Canton’s murder. I’d like to speak to you about the article you wrote about Jean Canton and Sebastian Spear.”
“I’m not going to divulge my sources,” Baker said.
Again, Peyton almost laughed. Who did the woman think she was? Bob Woodward? “I’m not interested in your sources, Ms. Baker. I just want to talk to you, as you may have information that might assist me in my investigation.”
“Is Sebastian Spear a suspect?” Baker asked.
Peyton didn’t bother to say that Spear was obviously a suspect as he’d publicly threatened to kill Lyle Canton. Instead he said, “I’d like you to come to Washington so I can speak to you in person. To speed things up, I’ll have a helicopter pick you up in Richmond.”
Peyton knew what Baker was now thinking. Here was a chance for her to get inside the investigation. No way in hell was she not going to come to Washington and talk to him. Not to mention, she’d probably never taken a ride in a government chopper.