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

by Dale Wiley

  It was different than most of the House and Senate office buildings, still marble but modern. It had an impressive, foliage-filled entry, and I tried to avoid everyone’s eyes while I made my way through it. I stared at the floor—shiny and clean—admired the tapestries—very seventies—and took several looks at my watch. It was ten o’clock. I finally found a small hallway, and, a good distance down the hall, I saw a red switch about halfway up the wall.

  I checked twice to my left, three times to my right, and, seeing no one, I pulled the fire alarm and ran out the side exit. There was a noticeable murmur immediately, and, as I walked back around to the front, I could see people begin streaming out the double doors. I ran back by the bush, grabbed the hat, and continued walking until I was half a block away. I watched from that distance for precisely two minutes, then crammed the cap over my head, and walked briskly toward the building.

  “Fire Inspector. Please step back,” I said, repeating myself three times with the self-importance of those who hold such jobs. I saw a security guard just ahead and walked toward him.

  “Gram Parsons,” I said to him gravely, tapping my cap. “I need to run up and see if everyone’s out of Senator Stanky’s office.” The man nodded, and I trotted on by, taking the stairs and going very much in the wrong direction. A dorky-looking page ran into my sore shoulder, and I barely avoided screaming something obscene. Instead, I began my fire inspector spiel again and got a wider berth to continue.

  The second floor held my target. I knew this because I had interviewed for a job in this very office and had not received it. I wasn’t doing this for revenge; I was doing it because I had a pretty good feeling that I could get away with it. But the revenge angle didn’t hurt anything at all …

  The office door read, “Lon Stanky—Rhode Island.” Lon may have been from the tiniest state, but he was no tiny senator. He had been in the same job for thirty years and was legendary for his family money, his liberal politics, and, mostly, for his incessant womanizing. I opened the door and saw that a very pretty receptionist was still at her desk talking on the phone.

  “Get out of here, woman!” I barked. “This is not a drill!” She jumped up, very startled, and left the phone on the table without hanging up the receiver. I hung up the phone, followed her out, and watched her scurry down the hall; she never once looked back.

  Still, this made me a little nervous. I hadn’t planned for anyone to be there, so I scampered from office to office inside the Stanky complex, and, finding no one else, hurried into the Senator’s personal office.

  It was the kind of room in which dead people wanted desperately to remain. Everything was burnished or polished. EVERYTHING. I could see my reflection in practically anything except the carpet. The room was lined with law books and punctuated with photos of the famous Stanky clan shaking hands and smiling like their mouths hurt. I wanted to look closely and see who made the Wall of Fame, but there wasn’t time. I sat down in Stanky’s extremely comfortable leather chair and grabbed two tissues from a gold-plated tissue holder, which was embossed with the seal of the United States.

  Wary of my fingerprints being found anywhere unusual, I used the tissues to open drawers. In the third one, I discovered what I was looking for. It was a list of credit card numbers taped on the inside of the drawer. It was exactly the kind of thing that old men who weren’t used to being burgled do. I smiled and wrote down a couple of them on a piece of Lon’s swanky stationery using a felt-tip pen so there would be no telling impressions underneath. Next to them was a small, well-thumbed black book, which I carefully removed. I turned to “W” and saw, just as I thought, that my new best friend had a personal account at the Watergate, probably for those unforgettable evenings with his special companions.

  I decided just to take the whole black book with me and shoved it in a jacket pocket. It looked bulky, but not ridiculous. Then I put everything else back in its place, shut the door, and headed back down. At the stairwell, I was met by two firemen. They recognized the cap, and I pushed past them and went down the stairs quickly, making a beeline out the door. There was a large crowd gathered in front, including that hot number from Stanky’s office. I angled the cap down over my face and walked briskly down the street.

  I was pretty sure this part of my criminal handiwork would go undetected, at least for the next several days. Stanky would be out of the office, so he wouldn’t miss his black book, and, even if everyone looked for evidence of things being stolen during the false alarm, I was willing to bet they wouldn’t pick up on something so small and personal.

  I headed due east down Maryland Avenue. This was a little too close to my apartment for my liking, but I knew it was the closest place to find homeless people because the police try to make sure they stay a good distance away from the Capitol; they don’t want the tourists to see them. There’s a small circle park on that street, and I found a dozen homeless men, half of whom were sleeping. I tossed the cap to one of them and winked. He put it on and said thanks. I turned and headed in search of a taxi.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Eleven

  Before I could find another cab, I saw a pay phone and decided to try something first. I knew Stanky’s unmistakable New England, “clam chowdah” accent from years of seeing him giving stump speeches and denying allegations on television, and I thought I could do a passable impression. I removed a quarter from my pocket, pulled out the black book I had pilfered, got out the Watergate’s number, and dialed. I got a young lady and asked her to send me to reservations.

  “This is Senatah Lon Stanky,” I said to the woman before she was even through welcoming me. “I have some impahtant business to take care of, and I need a suite.”

  This threw her for a loop. She excused herself and then returned. “Sir, your normal suite is being occupied by the Prime Minister of Ethiopia.”

  My first response was to ask her to kick the guy out. However, I didn’t want to ultimately be accused of starting an international incident as well as a domestic one. “Do you have anothah suite?” I asked, trying to imagine what he would do.

  “No suites, sir, unfortunately. I asked already. I’m dreadfully sorry. But some excellent rooms.”

  She sounded like she was holding the phone away from her ear.

  “A room, huh?” I made it sound like I was pondering this rather white trash suggestion. “I guess.”

  “Excellent, Senator. We’re very happy to hear you’ll be staying with us again,” the woman chirped.

  Staying with us again, I thought. I wondered how often he did this. “I’m happy to be coming back,” I said in a robust mimic. “I’ll send one of my trusted aides …” what name to give? “Don Rich, ovah to make suah everything’s set.”

  “That’ll be wonderful, Senator. Do you happen to have your account number handy?”

  Ah, she was a sly one. I pulled out the black book, gave her the number, and she seemed satisfied. I hung up and searched for a cab in earnest.

  I tried a dozen ways of keeping a low profile inside the cab but had no idea how successful I was. When we rode by the Capitol, I was quite worried that some news junkie would spot me and ruin everything I was planning, but that didn’t happened. We made it back to what now seemed like my long-time home, the Watergate, and I marched up to the front desk, still trying to avoid eye contact with the world.

  I smiled at the front desk attendant—the people on the day shift were quite a bit better-looking than the ones working nights. She was pretty in a blond, dried-out, tanning-bed kind of way, and I could tell she had been in a sorority in college. Hell, I bet she would’ve joined two if they’d have let her.

  “I’m Don Rich. I think you’re supposed to have a reservation for …”

  “Senator Stanky. Of course,” she smiled. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you before.”

  God, I thought. This guy really gets around.

  She really didn’t care about whether I was new or not though. “How many nights?”


  Oh Lord. What should I say? “I’m … not sure.”

  “We’ll put down one and go from there,” she winked.

  “Let me ask you a couple of things,” I said, and she looked at me earnestly.

  I wanted to tell her not to look so closely, but I didn’t dare. I thought of my aching shoulder, and said, “The Senator said to find a good masseuse. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded and wrote herself a note.

  “And I’m supposed to take care of some other matters for the Senator,” I said, trying to look embarrassed. I lowered my voice. “I forgot to get the cash he asked for, and he’s gonna kill me. Is there any way I can have you give me some cash and just charge that to the room?” I was really going for the gusto here.

  “This is unusual …”

  “This isn’t just anyone,” I reminded her. Probably everyone said that at the Watergate.

  She bit her lip and thought hard. I thought she was going to turn me down. “I think … I’m … How much?”

  I racked my brain. I didn’t want to ask for too little, but I also didn’t want to get turned down. “A thousand.”

  “Fine,” she nodded, and reached to open one of the cash drawers.

  Fine! She just said fine! I just told her to charge a thousand dollars to this guy’s room, and she was going to hand me the cash. Maybe I should’ve asked for more. I told myself I should really do this kind of thing more often.

  “Will hundreds be okay?”

  I pressed my luck. “How about two hundred in twenties?” I grinned, and she counted the money. My hand tingled as I grabbed them. I put them in the right breast pocket of my jacket.

  “When do you need the masseuse?” she asked.

  “Half an hour,” I said, realizing I could request anything and get it, no questions asked. “The Senator will be …”

  “Coming in the side door? Yes, I know …” she lowered her voice. “We all know.” She grinned conspiratorially and handed me three key cards. “Good luck, Don. You’ll need it.”

  She didn’t know how right she was.

  By now, I was starting to feel like a recluse and was wary when anyone looked my way. Could they see through the extra pounds and hair to reveal the wanted felon right in front of them?

  I sighed with relief when I got an elevator all to myself. The room was on the eighth floor—my lucky number, thankfully. The room was very similar to the room the night before, only bigger, but I didn’t even walk around to check everything out. It seemed more like a cage now. Or maybe, as long as I could keep the act up, it was a haven. But it had a huge bed and a big tub, so I wasn’t going to bicker too much. I sighed and plopped down on the bed.

  Then I got back up, knowing more than ten seconds in a supine position would send me straight to slumberland. I removed the black book from my suit pocket, placed it on a table, and did a credible job of folding my suit pants and making sure my shirt wasn’t too wrinkled as I hung it on one of the wood hangers in the closet-suite. After taking off everything but my boxers, I slipped into another terrycloth robe and propped my feet up on the sofa.

  By this time, I was so tired I was practically dreaming, but I was determined to hold off until after my date with the masseuse, now that my shoulder had deemed me its mortal enemy. I knew when he or she—I was hoping for a she—touched me, it would hurt like hell, but it hurt like hell right now, and at least they could tell me just how expensive the reconstructive surgery would eventually be.

  But even more pressing was the news. I flicked on the TV, and once again saw my fat college face filling up the screen.

  “Within a day, this unknown intern has set Washington on its ear. We’ll tell you more about it when we return.”

  Oh great. They had already found me guilty before I’d even had a massage, and now I would have to wait to hear about it after sitting through a bunch of commercials, which I hate even at the best of times. There were something like 2,012 ads before the news continued, mostly dealing with dental care, feminine hygiene and doggie nutrition, but finally the plastic-surgery-happy anchor returned and smiled like her face was going to crack.

  “Unnamed FBI sources are continuing to point to Trent Norris as a prime suspect in yesterday’s assassination of Gregory Timmons. Several other seemingly unrelated offenses have now surfaced involving Norris. Who is this man accused of so much, and what happened?”

  So much? What other crimes? My fight? Did they know about the little old lady? Those weren’t crimes; those were infractions. They couldn’t have found out about the Stanky incident yet. My stomach felt like a washing machine when they cut to a scene of the crowd in the aftermath of the Timmons shooting.

  They then cut to a serious-looking man, not much older than me, who spoke gravely of the assassination, how everyone wanted to know who did it, and blah, blah, blah … Get to the good stuff, I thought, and then wished I hadn’t.

  They flashed the same awful picture of me—I was perversely happy no one had stepped forward with a better one—and started talking about me.

  “Southern boy now wanted in this crime.”

  My stomach went on spin cycle.

  “Police reportedly received a tip that a second man—the boyfriend of a woman Norris had recently dated—was shot about midnight last evening. DC police declined to comment on Norris’s status as a suspect in the case, stating only that his car had been seen in the area, that he apparently had an altercation with DC parking personnel just a block from the young woman’s house, and he was wanted for questioning.”

  They cut to a shot—obviously taken the night before—of a body right in front of Stephanie’s house. It took me a second to recognize the location, but, when I figured that out, I knew who it was. The body was covered and the paramedics were taking it away. It looked to be about the same size as me but quite dead. Timmons’ killer had listened to my answering machine and gone to Stephanie’s expecting to find me, and he thought he had. He found Roger instead.

  Before finishing, the reporter pointed out my run-in with police the day before, when I had reported the burglary. This made it look like I was the criminal who wanted to outsmart the police right under their noses. Great.

  I grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. I knew at that moment how Elvis must have felt when he shot that TV in Vegas, but I was also quite sure I’d get arrested if I did the same thing. Stephanie had obviously seen my face on the news this morning and had mentioned her connection with me to the police; they had put two and two together and gotten twenty-two.

  I hoped my masseuse would come sooner than the police, although now I wasn’t so sure. I was on a killing spree. I looked like today’s lunatic, the guy who should’ve been a postal worker, a cult figure to write instant books about, and remember during holiday trivia games. I lay motionless, staring up at points on the ceiling for what seemed like weeks.

  Finally, the masseuse came, and I told him I was Senator Stanky’s nephew. He was a burly man named Howard with forearms the size of bowling pins and a crew cut so short he might as well not have bothered. I avoided looking at him directly, hoping he wouldn’t have any great interest in the news of the day. He got a better look at my backside than my face, and for that I was eternally grateful.

  Despite my disappointment in not getting some gorgeous Swede named Ursula or Helga, he did a great job. Of course, this was my first massage, so I had little to compare him to, but he succeeded in making my arm feel slightly better, though only after he made it hurt so bad I nearly puked. He told me he didn’t think anything was seriously wrong with it, but I’d be a little sore for a few days. A little sore! I thought. Howard must’ve been a tough guy.

  Howard left a little before one after I told him to put a forty dollar tip on the bill—I’m really quite generous when it’s not my money in question—and he said, “Thank you” in a very genuine way.

  Before he even left the room, I was practically as tense as before. I needed to sleep, but I kept thinking about m
y car in the garage and my ass in a sling. I was on the “thirty days to an ulcer” plan. I turned the TV back on and caught the same news segment I had seen before. The anchorwoman added that I was also suspected of having burglarized the NEA offices early that morning.

  This was when I officially began to feel numb. It probably should’ve happened earlier, but, unlike all of the other crimes I had been accused of, when I heard about that one, I remained unfazed. Maybe it was that this crime was less severe; perhaps, it was the realization that consecutive life sentences are no worse than a single one. I don’t know. I still didn’t want to get caught, but it really felt inevitable. People who had known me only at the height of my doughboy stage were still able to spot me in a crowd; it was only a matter of time before someone else did.

  And if I was going to be caught, I decided I might as well be well-rested.

  Chapter

  * * *

  Twelve

  I fell into something that greatly resembled a coma, more like hibernation than sleep, dreamless, and dark. I woke almost three hours later, still tired and feeling almost feverish and quite grumpy. This was before I recalled I was wanted by every major law enforcement agency in the country.

  Before I went to sleep, I had tried to convince myself that if I gave my unconscious mind a chance to work on the problem, I’d have a plan worthy of an Ian Fleming novel up my sleeve before I awoke. Now, my unconscious was plenty rested but still no plan. But one thing kept gnawing at me, and I knew I had to take care of it or nothing else would be done. I had to eat.

  I ordered room service in my Senator accent and told them to put a rush on it. It was four o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I decided not to count the fat grams—my worrying would probably burn off those calories pronto—and I went for the burger and the good stuff that came with it.