The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description

by Dale Wiley

  I asked the desk clerk how much a room was. She had short red hair and a stern face, and she stared at my left elbow. She said $150. I asked her if she could rent me one of those that she knew she wasn’t going to rent for the night, the kind that would really be a shame if it had to go without someone to sleep in it, and handed her a twenty while doing so. There was no one else around. She smiled. “Oh. That kind of room. That kind is $100.” This was at least a little more reasonable, or it seemed so at the time. I nodded, not wanting to press my luck.

  I checked in as Benjamin Braddock. The woman wanted to see some ID, but I flipped her another five and said I didn’t have any. This satisfied her. It nearly killed me to give anyone any of my money, let alone twenty-five bucks, but it had to be done. And, despite her dour expression, she genuinely seemed to enjoy being bribed.

  The woman showed me on a map where my room was, and I glanced around at the hotel before making my way up. It was still swank, in a very 70s meets the 1800s kind of way, with lots of burled wood and brass. The ghosts of Haldeman and Ehrlichman probably still came for cocktails once in a while, but I imagined that politicians from any era could walk in and know this was where they were supposed to do business. Most of the hotels I had been in had room keys firmly attached to red plastic key chains with “postage guaranteed” stamped on them, so all this luxury was a little foreign. Nice, but foreign just the same.

  My room was on the fourth floor, adorned with curious lime green and white striped wallpaper, a bed bigger than my apartment, and furniture that cost more than my college education. Everything was sturdy and shiny, and the value of the mini-bar probably would’ve been enough to make me nervous. The bathroom was big and well-lit, and the closet was the approximate size of a conference room. There was a really natty white terry cloth robe with the Watergate logo embroidered on the breast that just had “secret agent” written all over it, and I practically danced out of my clothes in order to get into it.

  I lay down on the bed and watched the news. The lead story was, naturally, the Timmons murder. The brunette reporter, who couldn’t keep from constantly flipping her hair, described the packed rally and how the killer had thrown some firecrackers into the crowd as a diversion and then fired at Timmons as everyone else looked the other way. The constipated analysts, who were all famous for some minor thing or another, discussed whether this would strengthen or weaken the gun lobby and talked about the irony of a gun lobbyist being killed by a gun.

  They talked about the Second Amendment and the Brady Bill. Then the network did a biographical piece on Timmons, mentioning his political ambition—big surprise there—and the tough re-election campaign that had led him to offer promises of a scandal that would rock the “liberal establishment.” But Timmons would never have the chance. He was now vastly more famous in death than in life, and I noticed how handsome he was when they showed his picture as they went to a commercial.

  There were no mysterious goings-on during the rest of the night. After modeling my robe and doing my best James Bond faces, I took a long shower and tried to wash everything off of my body and sat in a tub of insanely hot water, pondering my next move. By the time I got out, I looked like a prune and fell straight into bed, tired, and very scared—and jumpy.

  Even though my body could barely keep itself from falling into drug-like sleep, I would start to drift away only to find myself kicking or flailing at the pillow like a bad-ass Kung-Fu demon. This happened four or five times, enough to make me consider raiding the mini-bar for all of its over-priced alcohol, but I finally found some solace between frequent nightmares.

  Well, they weren’t actually nightmares. My mind just kept playing my day back accurately—from the message-taking, to the note-writing, to the burglary, to that idiot ticketing my car, and my idiotic ass assaulting the damn parking guy. How dumb was that? And every time, when it would start to get too unbearable, I would realize it was only a dream. Then, unfortunately, I would remember that I was dreaming about real life.

  Wednesday

  Chapter

  * * *

  Seven

  I woke up several times during the night, too hot for the covers and too cold without them, painfully helping the moments float by, and I could not go back to sleep at seven. I stared at the ceiling for a good ten minutes, just trying to decide what to do.

  Everything does seem better in the morning. Despite my past experiences, there was a chance that this simply was a coincidence, and, even if it wasn’t, I now knew what I was going to do. There was a police station just a few blocks from the NEA headquarters. I was going to go to work and tell them I’d be back later. I’d then march to the police station and spill my guts after I bargained like a mob informant and got them to drop the whole assaulting a parking officer thing. Maybe I’d make them throw in the parking tickets too. And even if they kept me on the hook for those things, I’d still help bring the killer to justice and hope for leniency later.

  I turned on the TV while I was getting ready. I didn’t have my contacts on, so I could only hear and make out vague, impressionistic pictures, but I didn’t need much else. When they returned from commercial, the anchor started out with my favorite story. “Police and FBI officials are beginning to compile a list of suspects in the Gregory Timmons assassination according to sources in both offices.” I moved close enough to the TV so I could see an image of Timmons; he looked meek and unremarkable behind the anchor’s well-coiffed hair. “Several terrorist groups have claimed responsibility for the attack, but the FBI seems to discount these admissions. At a press conference half an hour ago, FBI Press Secretary, Sally Hunt, said the Bureau is looking for a lone assassin.”

  There was a cut to a well-lit, grave-looking young woman standing behind a podium. “We believe this is the work of someone working alone. We’re not ruling anything out at this point, but all indications are pointing that way.” A man asked her if she could name any suspects. “We have suspects,” she said, “but we’re not releasing those names.”

  The police, I thought, would soon know there was more than one person involved, thanks to me. I turned off the TV as the newscast moved on to a report about reptile cloning, and I headed for the shower. During all that wonderful steam-filled bliss, I decided I’d put on the suit and tie I planned to impress Stephanie with—even thinking of her made me sick—and make a nice impression on everyone. I thought about just calling the NEA and telling them I’d be late, but I was hoping that I’d walk in and find out from the office gossips that Helper had already been caught.

  Of course, then I’d have to deal with the whole assault thing, but I was willing to make that trade—at least I’d still be alive. I put on my suit, packed up my other things, checked out, and threw my stuff in my car. I decided not to drive, remembering that until I made my appearance at the police station, I was almost certainly wanted for assault and battery and avoiding The Boot. Instead, I left the car in the garage and took the Metro from Foggy Bottom to Federal Triangle. It was a short trip. At eight-thirty sharp, I was looking both ways and crossing 12th Street on my way to work.

  But there amongst the homeless people and pigeons were Kurt and Damon, sitting on one of the benches and looking right at me. “What’s the matter?” I asked both of them.

  “Someone broke into our offices last night. They’re up there sorting through everything now,” Damon said, looking as if he had wished he had brought a coat. I tried to keep my composure, but my feet wanted to move in twelve directions at once. “What are you all dressed up for?”

  “Yesterday was the longest day of my life,” I said. “I’ll explain it all someday. I have some errands to run. Is that cool? I’ll probably be back later.” With the police, I thought.

  “Sure,” said Kurt. “That’s not a problem. Anything I can help with?”

  I was trying to decide what I was going to tell them. “Listen. I need to go correct a mix-up from last night. Part of the story involves me punching a parking officer. They’
re probably gonna throw the book at me for that, and I’m going to the police station to take care of it.”

  “You did what?” said Damon, laughing.

  “What you’ve always wanted to,” I said. “He caught me at exactly the wrong moment.” I looked around and felt very itchy.

  Kurt giggled. “Heavens to Murgatroyd. Well then, I’ll definitely let you go—I don’t want to get on your bad side!”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything soon.” I started to walk back across 12th Street, turning just in time to see someone pull out in a black Mercury and head directly for me.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Eight

  I screamed, “Dah!” as the car accelerated, moving across the center line and toward me and the parked cars on the other side. I knew I had about five or six strides before the car would catch up, and I tried to make the most of all of them, doing a goose-step sprint toward the sidewalk. I jumped, looking as if I expected my body to do a flip, which is a pretty damn funny expectation. My head was aimed directly at the bumper of a Mazda, and I managed to roll enough that my left shoulder took the blow instead, causing me to shriek as I landed.

  By this time, the car had stopped, and some blond maniac in a navy jogging suit had gotten out and was chasing me. I got up, my shoulder throbbing, looked at my pursuer for a split second, and hightailed it toward the Metro. I jumped the turnstiles, causing a guard to get up to yell at me, and ran around to the escalators, throwing myself down the escalator median, which was kind of like a big, bumpy, painful slide. The whole thing hurt my balls a lot.

  I landed on the same shoulder at the bottom, saw a train marked New Carrolton just about to close its doors, and did another jump-roll between them, once again—you guessed it—landing on the same shoulder.

  It felt as if it were attached to my body by two painful threads, and it pulsed like the rhythm track at a nightclub. I was sitting on the floor, wincing, and making very awful, howl and screech-type noises, all of which would have drawn considerable attention in many other venues. However, this was the Washington, DC subway. Several people stared but not for long. They averted their eyes as I rose and looked around, all dreadfully afraid that I might do something to them.

  Did I mention that my shoulder hurt like hell? If I didn’t, then I should, and even if I did, I should probably emphasize it. Because it was practically all I could think of. I could just feel the blood rushing into it, but I didn’t want to examine it for fear that I might not like what I would see. So I tried my best to focus enough to find a place to sit, breathing laboriously and grimacing all the while.

  I sat alone and told myself not to worry about what had just happened. I would analyze it in time, but right then I needed to figure out what to do next. Obviously, I wasn’t going to the police station—not now, at least. Foggy Bottom, the station nearest the Watergate, was only a few stations away, and I didn’t have a Metro ticket. The machine stamps your ticket on your way in to know where you started and again when you stop to see how much money it needs to remove. My ticket this morning only had enough money for one ride and had been taken when I got off the Metro. Due to my rather unexpected trip, I hadn’t had time to stop and get another, so I was SOL. I had never been a fast—or even a moderately fast—runner, and now that all my adrenaline was gone, I knew if I tried to jump the turnstiles again I’d probably get tangled up, and, if that didn’t happen, I’d get about five feet and be apprehended. Considering all of these things, I did the only thing I could.

  There was a half-bald old lady, wearing a crocheted vest over a wrinkled lavender shirt, sitting in the seat in front of me. She must have been both deaf and blind because I was sure she was the only person in the car who hadn’t looked over at me when I made my abrupt arrival. She was evidently mesmerized by the whole process and was staring at the window, even though there was nothing to see. Her ticket lay right next to her bag. When the conductor called Foggy Bottom and several people started to move, I got up and bumped into one of them, which hurt me and my poor shoulder greatly. I positioned myself so I landed in her seat. It worked, and I quickly turned to apologize to her, palmed her ticket, and walked quickly out of the car, hoping no one else had noticed.

  Now that I had stealing from the elderly on my conscience, along with everything else, I wondered if there was any sort of all-points bulletin out against the mad gate-hopper from Federal Triangle. Also, I wondered if those in charge of the conspiracy against me had the wherewithal to have someone waiting for me at the station. I kept my eyes peeled for anyone who looked suspicious. This was DC—that didn’t help much. Instead, I tried looking for people who looked like they were looking for people. I noticed no one with scars and scowls and dark-colored suits, although I did see several guards surveying the crowd intently. But this was still rush hour, and I imagined that they were looking for someone who didn’t have a ticket, not someone who had a ticket with … I looked down. Oh Jesus. Twenty bucks! This woman had put her whole Social Security check on her Metro ticket, and I was now going to use it! I shook my head, did the best to clear the pangs of conscience, and sighed as I sent it through the machine and was given a green light to proceed.

  I walked south toward the Watergate, looking over my shoulder periodically, not sure what crime I would need to commit next. I glanced in the large windows to make sure I still appeared relatively okay, brushed the dirt off my shoulder, which was a painful procedure, and ducked in the front door of the hotel. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to the television set in the lobby.

  I recognized the fellow on the screen.

  It was me.

  I was making my cable television debut in an unusual role. They were referring to me as a “shooting suspect.”

  Chapter

  * * *

  Nine

  I froze.

  I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I stared. When everything registered, I turned slowly, trying to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn’t. I tried to look as unconcerned as possible as I got out of the lobby and made a bee-line for the garage.

  Helper had framed me; I could see it now. The night before, I had been concerned with what had been removed from my apartment and hadn’t even checked to see what might have been planted there. He probably made an anonymous phone call, the police found whatever he had there, and now I was Public Enemy No. 1.

  The Watergate hallways are always cold and silent, and as I navigated them I told myself that at least the picture looked nothing like me; this much was true. It was taken during my sophomore year in college when I was making my one attempt at wearing long hair and a goatee. It was also during my “Domino’s Pizza” phase, when I ballooned up about twenty-five pounds thanks to mozzarella and beer. My goofy smile and facial features were the same, and I surely looked guilty of something. But I was significantly slimmer and definitely less hairy now, and this would at least give me a fighting chance.

  I sat in my car and wondered what to do next. The pain in my shoulder was now rivaled by the throbbing in my head, and I had no clear picture of what I should be doing. I was breathing like I had run the Boston Marathon, and the windshield started to fog up. I knew I couldn’t stay there, but I still felt my car would be safe for a little while longer. I glanced in the back seat and saw the bag that contained my library books, which, if not returned, would constitute yet another crime; my pilfered Fire Inspector hat, which was also stolen; and the Regionarts materials that had started all of this mess. I thought of that stupid note—I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING. I was such a genius.

  Then a light bulb came on. I turned around, grabbed the hat out of the bag, and tried it on. It was a little small, as I remembered, but if I wrenched it on, it would fit. I looked in the rear-view mirror and adjusted it; I knew I had my plan. I took the hat off, tucked it under my arm, slammed and locked the door, and headed for the street.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Ten

  After finally convincin
g myself that this might actually work, I found a pay phone, called the Congressional switchboard, and asked to be connected to the office of Senator Lon Stanky of Rhode Island. The operator obliged, and in a minute, I was greeted by a young, perky voice. I asked for the Senator and was told that he was on vacation in Bermuda during the Senate’s recess. I said I was sorry to hear this, and told her I would call back when he returned. She asked my name, and I lamely whispered, “Rick Danko” before hanging up. I was far from sad that Stanky was gone; I had banked on it.

  It didn’t take long to find a taxi, and I told the driver that I wanted to go to the Hart Senate Office Building. He barely let me close the door before he was halfway across town, and I noticed as we hit Constitution Avenue that he was more interested in maintaining eye contact with me and telling his story than he was with watching the road. I dug my nails into the upholstery. He was from Nairobi, had been here ten years, and had invited his brother, who was now using drugs. I don’t remember in what context all of this was because I was trying to steel myself for my next few criminal acts. I had a plan, which was far from foolproof, and if I screwed up, I’d end up in some dark interrogation room in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. I nodded at the cabby and tried to find new and inventive ways of obscuring my face. He was talking about his brother stealing a TV set when I had to look at him apologetically and pay my fare.

  I got out of the taxi and walked toward the building. I found a small bush, which looked like it was about to die, among all the concrete. I looked over both shoulders and put on the Fire Inspector cap while among what little greenery remained in the dying shrub, then straightened up, walked toward the building, checked myself in a window, noting that I looked presentable, and walked in.