The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  Feeling very much alone, she set the list down, withdrew a small key from the hidden compartment in the secretary and crossed the room to the old brown trunk at the foot of the bed. Its gold trim glistened in the late morning light. She kept it unlocked to avoid suspicion that a secret hid inside. She sifted through the trunk's mementos and lifted out the one significant item, a beautiful rectangular box inlaid with ebony and pearl in an alternating pattern of small squares. It had been one of the items in the ancient saddlebag her father, retired Senator Matthew Morgan Heffron, III, presented to her as an inauguration gift. When he died three weeks later, she emptied the saddlebag with its distinctive M for McGragor tooled on the flap and displayed it in the Oval Office where she and her father were sitting when he gave it to her. She'd moved its simple treasures, each one part of her family story, to this beautiful box that brought a tactile sense of his presence in his absence. Using the small key, she unlocked it and felt again the centering power of connection with her roots. The smell of old paper brought back her vivid memory of that day, easing her loneliness:

  His eyes sweep the Oval Office. "During my four terms in the Senate, I sat in this room many times with many presidents." He focuses on the presidential desk. "My life goal is unachieved: to be elected to sit behind that desk. But now it is fulfilled in you, Madam President." His watery old eyes shine with pride. He opens the saddlebag and begins to tell her a story, displaying its precious contents one by one as he talks. He concludes with a family secret of defining-moment proportions. A secret that changes nothing. A secret that changes everything. A secret known only to him.

  And now known only to her. A secret so buried that even presidential historians would never be able to uncover it.

  She is proud of these unknown ancestors, proud that her heritage includes an Apache great-great-grandfather. Her father's story brings her strength during the tight spots—and they come daily in the presidency. It reminds her that serving boldly is more important than serving again, and gives her courage to make responsible decisions despite the risk of losing the lobbies' financial support—and the concomitant risk of losing a second term. She smiles as she remembers his view on polls: Essence explains the simplistic fallibility of polls. Statistics deal with percentages, and percentages miss essence. Not being linear, essence can't be measured. But it can be sensed, discerned, grasped. The power of polls is manipulative: they initiate a self-fulfilling prophecy. That day he gave her a brief but deep course in wisdom. Did he know it would be the last time he saw her?

  She caressed the inlaid lid of the box, longing to reach out and touch her father. She needed his wisdom. Yet she knew what he would say: Words are mirrors. Listen to a person's language and the patterns of logic behind it. Look for the values and motives the spoken words expose. Watch the eyes, their blinks and movements, and the soul they reveal. He was a man too pragmatic to ignore the human soul—the essence of a person. She realized how difficult it would be to ferret out her enemy. Or enemies. Perhaps impossible. But she planned to walk into meetings with acute perception, practicing what her father had taught her. Listening. Watching. Seeking to glimpse the essential character of each one there. Beginning this afternoon with the Inner Circle.

  She ran her hand across the monetarily worthless but essence-filled contents, then closed the box and locked it. She held it close for an instant, crossing her arms around it and hugging it against her heart, cherishing her father and the story that gave her courage.

  16

  Lynn had intended to get her car from home and drive to her office to make the eleven o'clock meeting. But feeling violated and heavy-hearted, she called her executive assistant and asked him to attend on her behalf. She left the streetcar at her stop and made her way through the traffic across the boulevard. She hurried down the cracked sidewalk that arched and sagged over hidden roots of ancient oaks. St. Charles Avenue no longer felt like a friendly place to be. Wariness wrapped around her like the humidity. She glanced from side to side and listened for the click of steps behind her.

  She fumbled with the house key, dropped it twice, and finally unlocked the door. She punched in twelve-ten. Lyndie.

  The streetcar scene replayed in her mind like a nightmare in daytime. When something was hard for her to handle, she usually took a long bath and soaked it away. But how do you soak away murder? And riding on a streetcar with the murderer?

  She felt again in her pocket, hoping for a miracle. None came. She took pride in her ability to resolve problems—to mend broken systems and restore hope to broken souls. But she couldn't fix this. Now poor Mrs. Darwish would not get to have Elie's medal. Not get to hold it to her heart and feel his presence. Lynn's eyes teared. "I'm so sorry," she said aloud. Guilt's silence engulfed her.

  You have to get it back, Lynn!

  But how, Ivy? She ignored the beep that signaled phone messages. Not now. She felt enough weight on her shoulders. And messages always brought something else. She turned the kitchen radio on and heard happy Cajun music. A dirge seemed more appropriate. She debated whether to call the police about the medal and the mime. Robotically she iced a diet Dr. Pepper, added a stemmed maraschino cherry, and spread pimento cheese on whole wheat bread. And tell the police what?

  Tell them I got my pocket picked?

  Right, Lynn. You and a zillion other people.

  Tell them the eyes of the stranger in sunglasses matched the mime's?

  They'd roll their eyes and hang up—another paranoid-schizophrenic conspiracy theorist.

  Tell them I have photos of his profile?

  Pictures of one more tourist in a T-shirt? Big deal.

  Tell them the stolen medal belonged to Elias Darwish, and Bubba Broussard took it from the crime scene? Lynn didn't need Ivy to know the outcome of that: FBI agents, whom Bubba considered as useful as a life jacket in a hot tub, would be all over him again.

  Talk to Cy Bill about it?

  Brilliant, Lynn. His first responsibility is to the law. If he takes you seriously, he'll probably have to report what you tell him.

  Bottom line: Don't do anything to get Bubba in trouble. The Cajun music abruptly stopped.

  "Listen up, ya'll. We're going to patch in to a live NOPD news conference with Chief Martin Luther Armstrong about the murder of Elias Darwish, our Saint with a perfect record."

  Lynn turned up the volume.

  "I am proud to announce that due to the tireless efforts of the NOPD during the last twenty-four hours, the murder of Elias Darwish has been solved." He paused, giving the words a chance for impact. "Yesterday I promised to provide the good citizens of New Orleans full information. Today I want to make the evidence public."

  No mention of the FBI, Lynn noticed. This was still his city.

  "First, a piece of red fuzz found in the suspect's hair matches the mime's wig. Second, the ballistics report shows that the gun found at the scene with his fingerprints on it fired the bullet that killed our star kicker. Third, his fingerprints identify him as a man wanted by the federal government for another murder."

  "They've caught you since you got off the streetcar, Mr. Mime! Or they're about to!" Cynicism caught up with her elation. "But you'll probably hire a slick lawyer and go free." Too often justice related more to a lawyer's guile than a defendant's guilt.

  "Unfortunately, we cannot seek a confession or take this case to trial. The mime who murdered one of our favorite sons was found dead at dawn. There were signs of a struggle, and he was shot with his own gun. The NOPD solved the heinous murder of Elias Darwish in record time. And justice has been served by a Higher Court."

  Slowly his words sank in.

  Reporters began asking questions. So did she. If the police found the mime dead at dawn, how could he have been on the streetcar half an hour ago? Who made a mistake? The police? Me? Could two different sets of eyes be exactly alike?

  Pondering the chief's statement, she took her lunch outside and sat down at the glass table on the back veranda. A rainbow of flowe
rs encircled the courtyard, but their color faded as rain clouds rolled in. Gray sky. Gray eyes. Cold marble eyes stared at her from gray bushes in every direction. Eyes of the mime. Eyes of the stranger on the streetcar. The same. The same. Lynn was sure about that.

  Chief Armstrong had made a terrible mistake! Her mind whirled in circles like a paddle wheel. What if the mime set up his second victim to look like Elie's murderer? What if he planted evidence easy to find? What if the two killings added up to one double murder?

  Perfect. The accused can't proclaim his innocence and the double murderer roams freely about town. Drinking coffee at a cafe. Riding the streetcar. Stealing a medal.

  The diet Dr. Pepper trembled in her hand. An old cliché came to mind: Dead men don't talk.

  17

  Thursday afternoon the Patriot rushed into the Oval Office, last as always, creating the impression that his schedule barely permitted another meeting, even with the President. He strode straight to her and shook hands, conscious of her small fingers in his long ones as she greeted him in her Katie Couric voice. His charming cover intact, he smiled cordially and gave a respectful nod, then moved quickly around the room to speak to each member of the Inner Circle. He called them all by name and added a personal word of appreciation, habitually mindful of cultivating business and political networks that crossed party lines. Duplicitous but necessary.

  "Let us begin," said President Benedict. Her low-key way of opening the monthly "Inner Circle gathering" strained unsuccessfully for informality.

  Oval Office informality—the pinnacle of oxymorons, he thought, seating himself in the dark leather chair directly across from her. He recalled past visits since 1990 to this room-above-all-rooms, ever the same even with change.

  The President's three little words brought an abrupt shift in mood. All eyes turned to her. Sentences stopped midway. Coffee cups clinked against saucers. Postures straightened. People leaned forward in their chairs. The Inner Circle—the chosen ones—sat proudly at the feet of the President like the twelve apostles at the feet of Jesus. The Patriot scanned the table. A widely acclaimed national historian sat to the President's right. Her task was to listen to members' ideas and draw historical parallels that pointed to successes and failures. Next were four international relations scholars whose areas of expertise included the Middle East, North Korea, China, and Russia. An environmental scientist sat to her left, followed by specialists in the fields of health care, education, poverty, the space program, plus a retired general with diplomatic skills. And himself, a financial magnate who offered insight regarding how potential policies could impact the corporate world—who also profited from the inside information that led to his being in the right place at the right time for his covert arms business.

  The Inner Circle's makeup indicated that the President placed knowledge above party affiliation and political opinions. Worldviews within the circle clashed, but she apparently considered this to be an asset in making good decisions. Instead of stating her positions so the group would tell her what she wanted to hear, she expected each of them to share concerns in their areas of expertise, to be followed by a discussion based on penetrating questions. Her open style of leadership created options, and he couldn't predict the outcome. He found that troubling but masked his feelings.

  Bored by the members' look-at-me-I'm-in-the-inner-circle egotism, he let his mind wander back to the President's call to the Secretary of Defense on a secure line. Was she, too, masking something? How well did she know Major Manetti?

  And what about Bishop Peterson? Nothing unusual about a bishop giving an invocation for a dinner the Vice President attended in New Orleans last night. But why did he invite her to ride back to the airport with him? Relevant or coincidental? The Patriot did not believe in coincidences.

  From behind his affable mask, he refocused on the meeting. Doris, the historian, made a point. He asked for clarification, showing interest and appreciation. He might need her someday.

  He had quickly gained insight about former presidents, but Benedict was far more difficult to read. Sitting opposite her made it easy to seek personality clues in her demeanor. He watched her blue-green eyes, sometimes cautiously blank, sometimes sharply piercing. Always alert. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, another thing he didn't like about her. Yet he pretended admiration.

  Her attire offered few hints to her personality: Clothes tailored with a feminine touch. Simple jewelry. Always dressed tastefully and camera-ready. There would be no photos of a sloppy President Helena Benedict! But he preferred a president with a tie.

  Faking a genial smile and nodding appropriately while half-listening, he discreetly scanned the office for clues—pictures, mementos, citations of honor. But the only personal items in the room were in a display case standing unobtrusively against the back wall near her desk. One was an ancient saddlebag, its leather wrinkled and scuffed, its silver buckle worn and scratched—an unworthy item in this historic seat of power. He noted the M on the flap and thought of Manetti. Logic told him that was too big a leap. Next to the saddlebag was a sculpture of a mother and little girl, striking in its simplicity. He'd asked about it during his first visit to the Oval Office after she became president. Joy had lit her face as she looked at it, and she gave the longest reply he'd ever heard from her: It's an Allan Houser. For me, he demonstrates the power of art through suggestion and invites us to be partners in our interpretation. He was a National Medal of Arts winner. This is titled The Shy One. Her tone, like a caress, brought life to the cold bronze. Speaking rapidly, she'd added: Haozous, his birth name, was Anglicized to Houser because it was easier for the children in his Oklahoma school to pronounce. He was a descendant of the great Apache Chief Mangas Coloradas, and his father rode with Gerónimo. Though dead now, he remains my favorite sculptor. That ended her only self-revealing conversation with him.

  Today's pointless meeting droned on. And on. It irritated him to waste energy pretending interest. Past presidents had shown him deference and treated him like an unofficial advisor. But not this President—an irksome shortcoming on her part. She treated him like everyone else, and the members saw themselves as his peers. Equality eroded his edge to shape committee decisions. His agitation increased as the minutes passed—minutes he could be spending to gain information about Major Manetti and Bishop Peterson and to prepare for his long flight to Frankfurt this evening. Here he sat, deprived of his due. Unacceptable! Infuriating!

  Suddenly the President's eyes darted to him. "Is something troubling you, John?"

  Caught! John Adams of BarLothiun realized he'd dropped his mask!

  18

  Lynn went through the motions of life's minutiae throughout the afternoon. Words from Luke's gospel ran through her mind: Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. Lynn waited until 5:30 to call Francine Babineaux, giving her a chance to get home where she could speak freely. As an employee in the crime lab, she might know something. As a close friend, she might share it. After the customary small talk, Lynn asked her about the Darwish case.

  "Just between you and me?"

  "Always."

  "To be fair, the evidence appears adequate."

  "Appears?"

  "Commuting over that twenty-five-mile bridge across Lake Pontchartrain gives me lots of time to ponder things."

  "Things like?"

  "Prematurely closing a case."

  "You think that's what happened?"

  "Perhaps."

  "But they listen to you, Francine."

  "Usually. But not on this one." Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "Somebody above—I don't know how far up—brought pressure to declare the murder solved."

  "That isn't the reassurance I'd hoped for."

  "They have their reasons, I suppose. The people of New Orleans need confidence that our star Saint can't be taken out and the perp roam the streets."

  Perp? Short for perpetrator, Lynn supposed. But he is still
roaming.

  "Anyway," she added, sounding unconvinced, "they're calling the evidence sufficient."

  "So it looks good. But the real murderer remains free?"

  Francine whistled softly. "I don't like it put so directly. Let's just say I'm still troubled."

  "About whether the mime killed Elias Darwish? Or whether the second victim is the mime?"

  "The mime killed him, all right. There's no doubt about that." She paused for several moments, and Lynn didn't interrupt the silence. "Just between us—the evidence that the second man is the mime seems too obvious."

  "Like it was planted?"

  She sighed. "You got that right."

  "Francine, did you happen to see the body—the one they're saying is the mime?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  Lynn recalled the mime's cold gray eyes when she walked past him in the Quarter. "What color were his eyes?"

  "Brown as they come, cher."

  19

  Immediately following the Inner Circle meeting in the Oval Office, the Patriot rushed to his office, pushed the fleur-de-lis on the stand holding JFK's bust, removed the hidden items needed, loaded his briefcase and headed to his private jet for the jaunt to Frankfurt. He drove himself, as always. Too much of his life was concealed to have a chauffeur and, besides, John Adams drives himself was part of the legend that made him popular. It also protected his itinerary.

  As his Challenger rose above the earth, he reflected on the near disaster of the Inner Circle meeting. To drop his mask was a perilous mistake, especially in the Oval Office. Turning crisis into opportunity, he'd made a quick recovery and explained that a comment had reminded him of the horrific Balkan crisis. He stated with compassion that war does dreadful things to people. It won him points from most of the Inner Circle. His cleverness pleased him. But as usual he'd been unable to read President Benedict. Her intelligence and depth of perception both surprised and troubled him.