Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  The helpful young woman he’d talked to at the White House had told him Mather was making sure everything was ready for the wedding of his niece, Ms. Fahey. He’d known about that, of course, had his own invitation. Darling little Kira, all grown up and getting married. Time went by so fast. It had already been… oh dear Lord, it had been twenty years since he’d lost his Vivian.

  What surprised Zack Garner even more was how much faster his few remaining days seemed to fly by, and how what had been a firm grasp on his own moral compass seemed to be weakening by the minute. He supposed that was the way things went once you started shooting people. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t chastise himself for what he’d done.

  He loved his country more than his life. More than his soul, come to that.

  He was only mildly disappointed with himself that he quickly thought of a way to use a final personal visit to an old friend to further his murderous goals. His driver stopped at the entrance to the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory, the parklike setting for the vice president’s house. The security people talked to his driver and then took a look at him.

  But he was an expected guest, a well-known public figure, and he had a gift-wrapped package on the seat next to him, a Waterford crystal bowl if they cared to take a look, but they didn’t.

  They took his word for it when he said, “A wedding gift for the young couple, in the event I’m not able to attend tomorrow.”

  No one asked him to step out of the car, frisked him or waved a magnetometer up one side of him and down the other. Security tomorrow would be a good deal more thorough. People might not have their private parts manipulated the way they did at airports these days, but the chance of smuggling a gun into the gala affair would be much smaller.

  A day in advance of the nuptial, however, smuggling in a gun was just what Zack Garner did when his car was waved forward, and he went to see his old friend Mather Wyman.

  Wyman greeted Zack Garner in his home office. The two men embraced, and when they stepped back the vice president had tears in his eyes. He said, “My God, Zack, I’m going to miss you. Any time I’ve faced an ethical question in this damn business, I’ve felt comforted just knowing I could pick up a phone and call you.”

  Garner lowered himself into an arm chair. The vice president sat opposite him.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” the congressman said, “if they have cell towers in hell by now. Everybody on their phones talking at the tops of their voices for all eternity.”

  The vice president laughed.

  “If you’re among the damned, Zack, there’s precious little hope for the rest of us.”

  Garner shook his head. “You’ve always been an honest man, Mather.”

  The vice president blushed. Garner would have had to be dead already to miss it.

  “You haven’t been honest?” he asked, surprised.

  The vice president waved his hand. “I haven’t stolen any money. I never sold my vote when I was in the Ohio legislature.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  Mather Wyman sighed. “But I’ve been less than candid with just about everyone who ever trusted me.”

  Zack Garner leaned forward, peering at his old friend.

  “Well, you’ve been damn clever about it. I don’t know anyone who would take you for anything other than what you appear to be.”

  “You can’t always tell by looking,” the vice president said.

  The congressman sat back. “Sorry, Mather, I’m not up to solving riddles these days.”

  “How are you at keeping secrets?”

  Garner smiled. “Oh, I’m still capable of that.”

  “Then you’ll be only the second person I’ve told my darkest secret.”

  The congressman was surprised that he was still able to squirm.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said.

  “Why? You won’t blab, will you?”

  “No, never. Well, not in my few remaining days anyway.”

  “Then I have nothing to worry about when I tell you I’m gay.”

  Zack Garner looked as if he hadn’t heard his friend right.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said I’m a gay man, always have been.”

  “But you —”

  “I was married? Yes, I was, and I loved my wife more than anyone I’ve ever known. The thing is, Elvie was gay, too.”

  Garner’s jaw dropped.

  “I know,” the vice president said. “The way things were, neither of us had much of a sex drive, and both of us were terrified of having our families find out. To protect ourselves, we got married. It really was a grand match in most ways. We were always a comfort to each other, as I’m sure you and Vivian were.”

  “Yes, of course,” Garner said. “But … but why are you telling me now?”

  Mather Wyman told Zack Garner of his plan to run for Congress from his home district in Ohio as an independent and an openly gay man. He didn’t mention that he’d soon be the first gay acting president. He would never betray the president’s trust on that or any other matter.

  Garner smiled in wonder. “That’s wonderful, Mather. God, but I wish we might have had the opportunity to serve together.”

  “We will, old friend, at least in spirit. If I’m lucky enough to be elected and I ever need help in deciding what is the right thing to do, I’ll simply ask myself: What would Zack Garner do in this situation?”

  Now, tears filled the congressman’s eyes. “Please excuse me for a moment, Mather.”

  Garner made his way to the bathroom off his friend’s office.

  He took his gun off his ankle and hid it there.

  USDOJ Briefing Room, Washington, D.C.

  Attorney General Michael Jaworsky stood at the lectern in the Department of Justice’s briefing room. He hadn’t waited for the newsies to get settled before appearing, as was customary. He had other business concerning both Erna and Burke Godfrey to attend to, but the president had given him this job to handle personally and he wanted to get it done as soon as possible. Standing in front of the crowd, unsmiling, looking as if he might start investigating them if they didn’t get their act together quickly, he prompted the reporters and their supporting video and sound people to snap to attention.

  “Thank you all for coming. The president has directed me to inform the American people that in the interest of safeguarding the democratic process in the presidential and congressional elections to be held next year and the campaigns leading to that election, the Department of Justice will subject all partisan political activity to unprecedented scrutiny.”

  That straightened the spines of the reporters in their chairs.

  “This should in no way be construed as the president attempting to chill a full and free debate of the issues. It should not be taken as an attempt to seek personal or partisan advantage. It is none of those things.”

  “Then what the heck is it?” a voice at the back of the room called out.

  The attorney general did not respond directly. He stuck to his script.

  “The Supreme Court has held that constitutionally there can be no limits on monetary contributions to political campaigns. The court has equated corporations with people and money with speech. The only body that may say otherwise is a future Supreme Court.”

  Everybody in the room understood what that meant.

  They’d just heard the opening salvo in the battle that would occur should Patricia Grant be re-elected and have the opportunity to nominate one or more new justices to the Supreme Court. She would choose legal minds that would undo what the current conservative court had wrought.

  The very thought of how much drama that would add to the upcoming presidential debates made every newsie in the room want to jump for joy. But a sense of decorum and the feeling that the attorney general had more red meat to throw their way kept them in their seats and paying rapt attention.

  “The infusion of limitless money in the electoral process create
s the possibility of the side with the deepest pockets gaining an insurmountable advantage in advancing its messages, causes and candidates. Things may very well turn out to be that way.”

  The attorney general stared at the gathering to let them know how he felt about the possibility of money trumping all other considerations. He hated it. Being the nation’s chief law enforcement official he might want to do something about it. But what?

  He told them what.

  “We all enjoy a long held and firmly established right to free speech in this country, but that freedom is not without limits. Those limits have also been firmly established. The most simplistic example, of course, is that you may not yell fire in a crowded theater when there is, in fact, no fire. You may not use the shield of free speech to further a criminal conspiracy. Nor may you use the Constitution as a license to commit fraud.”

  Michael Jaworsky took a sip of water.

  He was about to assault two centuries of American political tradition.

  “Relevant to the matter of fraud, this department will closely monitor all campaign advertising supporting candidates for federal office, including the presidency, the Senate and the House of Representatives, for intent to defraud the American public. That is, if the Department of Justice finds substantive misrepresentation or distortion of one candidate’s views, record or character by another candidate for the purpose of winning an election and personal gain, that is an ill-gotten salary and other material benefits, we will initiate criminal proceedings against that candidate.”

  “Jesus Christ,” a reporter shouted, “you can’t outlaw lying in politics!”

  Jaworsky cut off any others from taking up the cry. He had another bomb to drop.

  “As most political advertising is done through mass media, that is television and radio, this department will look on broadcast outlets that air fraudulent advertisements as co-conspirators. They will be subject to both criminal prosecution and revocation of their broadcasting licenses. Politically fraudulent phone calls will be subject to wire fraud statutes.”

  Most of the broadcast reporters sat in stunned silence.

  But a print reporter in the front row called out, “What about newspapers? You can’t tell us what we can report.”

  The attorney general said, “Talk to your publications’ general counsels. Ask them if you can print claims you either know or should know are fraudulent.”

  “You want us to fact check ads?” the same reporter asked.

  “You want con artists elected to office?” Jaworsky shot back. “I don’t, the president doesn’t and I’m sure the American people feel the same way. Thank you all for coming.”

  The senior reporter present, the most respected media figure in the room, stood up. “If I might ask just a question or two, Mr. Attorney General?”

  Jaworsky responded to the man’s respectful manner.

  “Yes?”

  “Will these strictures be applied equally, regardless of party affiliation or lack thereof?”

  “They will apply to all candidates, incumbents or challengers, running for federal office in the coming election. That includes the president.”

  “We should take your word for that, sir?”

  “You should watch what we do. Vigorously report any inconsistencies or signs of favoritism.”

  “We’re still allowed to do that?” a wiseguy in back called out.

  “You’re free to do anything but lie or be a party to a lie for personal gain.”

  “What if the Supreme Court overrules this new policy?”

  “On what basis?” Jaworsky asked. “That politicians and would-be politicians have a license to commit fraud when no one else does? I would hate to be the justice to advance that argument to the American people. I don’t think they’d buy it for a minute.”

  With that second barrage at the conservatives on the court, the attorney general left the room, admiring Patricia Grant’s courage, hoping it would carry the day.

  McGill on the Move

  McGill received a call back from the helpful staffer in Representative Zachary Garner’s office. He was still at the office, but he’d given her his cell phone number so he wouldn’t be tied to his desk. She told him, “The congressman will be at the Praetorian Club for the next two hours or so. The wake is a private affair for friends and colleagues, but he’ll leave word to have you admitted to the building and will spare you a few minutes to chat privately.”

  McGill said, “Thank you.” Then he asked the obvious question. “Will members of the congressman’s family also be attending the wake?”

  There was a pause before the staffer answered. McGill got the feeling he should have known better than to ask such a question. “Mrs. Garner died several years ago and Colonel Thomas Garner, his son, was killed in Iraq in 2005. The congressman has no other family.”

  “I’m sorry for his losses,” McGill said with sincerity.

  He heard heartbreak in the staffer’s voice. “We’re all … all going to miss him very much.” In a more professional tone she gave him the club’s address.

  McGill said, “Thank you for your help.”

  The passing of a good man was always to be mourned, he thought, but he couldn’t help but also think that Zachary Garner, nearing death, having lost his wife and son, would have no real restraints on his actions. He was looking better and better to McGill as the killer.

  And Garner had become a friend to Kenny. Might stop by to see his son again.

  McGill would have to see if he could prevent that.

  He experienced an epiphany just then. If Garner was responsible for the four killings on K Street and the attempt on Putnam Shady’s life, his body-count was higher than Erna Godfrey’s, and he was the same stripe of zealot. Worse, if he wasn’t done killing and Erna’s repentance was sincere.

  McGill feared for the future of the country if everyone with a grievance, real or imagined, felt their cause gave them license to take the lives of those on the other side of an issue.

  He got up to go when there was a knock at his door and Deke poked his head in. “SAC Crogher is here to see you, if you can spare a moment.”

  McGill said, “Sure, if he cares to ride with us.”

  Crogher didn’t want to ride with McGill, but he got into the back seat of the Chevy, buffering himself from the bane of his professional existence with the person of Special Agent Elspeth Kendry. Leo, of course, was at the wheel; Deke rode shotgun.

  If the SAC had hoped for a private talk, McGill had thwarted him once again.

  “Where to, boss?” Leo asked.

  “The Praetorian Club.” McGill relayed to Leo the address on Massachusetts Avenue he’d been given. “Anybody know anything about this place?”

  Only Crogher did and now, to his further annoyance, he found himself answering McGill’s question. “It started out as a fraternal organization. Now, it admits both men and women. Members come from the military, federal law enforcement, state and local cops and an occasional civilian. In short, anybody who’s sworn an oath or acted on his own initiative to protect and maintain civil order is eligible to be nominated for membership.”

  McGill nodded. “So these good soldiers have substituted country for the emperor and act as its protectors.”

  “Yeah,” Crogher said, hoping there wouldn’t be any more questions but knowing there would be.

  “And you know this because you’re a member, SAC Crogher?”

  Crogher was surprised McGill hadn’t addressed him by his first name. To show everyone in the car who the boss was. Using his title displayed a measure of respect. So he tried to get over his grump and show he could be professional, too.

  “I was invited, but I don’t have the time.”

  “Thank you for your service, SAC Crogher. I wouldn’t want anyone else looking out for the president,” McGill said.

  Crogher honestly appreciated that, but it didn’t keep him from saying, “Other than you, you mean.”

  McGill smiled. “I me
an in addition to me. Would you know anything about Congressman Zachary Garner?”

  Crogher had read extensive biographies of every politician, military officer and foreign dignitary who sat down in the Oval Office for a private meeting with the president, the closed door coming between him and Holly G. He remembered the important details of all the bios. Representative Garner had been on his reading list.

  “His parents raised horses for a living. He still owns the farm he inherited from them. He graduated from the University of Virginia with a degree in political science. After college, he served in the 82nd Airborne as a lieutenant. He probably would have been sent to Vietnam except he was seriously wounded fighting in the Dominican Republic.”

  That one brought McGill up short, until he remembered a reading assignment from a long ago history class at Saint Ignatius. “Lyndon Johnson sent troops there. It was right when Vietnam was heating up so nobody paid it much attention.”

  Crogher leaned forward and looked at McGill.

  You just couldn’t underestimate this SOB, he thought.

  “That’s right,” Crogher said. “The old dictator who’d been around a long time got bounced. A new president was elected. The old bastard’s friends bounced him. There was fighting in the streets and the U.S. ambassador down there thought the Cubans and Russians might try to take advantage of the situation. Turn the place communist. The Marines went in first; the airborne guys were right on their heels. Representative Garner got shot in the right leg. Looked like he might lose it, but he wouldn’t let them cut it off. He not only survived, he regained full mobility.”

  “Strong, determined man,” McGill said.

  Crogher nodded and sketched the rest of a brief personal portrait including the deaths of the man’s wife and son. “Anything else I can tell you?” he asked.