by Brian Haig
I recalled a woman friend once informing me that what makes men different from women is simple: A woman wants one man to satisfy her every need, where a man wants every woman to satisfy his one need. Not true—simply not true. But true enough.
She said, “This is my problem...not yours. I’m telling you because...because, I don’t want you getting cut down in the crossfire.”
“I can take care of myself.”
She smiled. “Still...watch your back.”
“No problem. I’ve handled George with one arm tied behind my back.”
I had the sense that my mucho-machoness wasn’t selling, but she said, “Oh yeah. Over a woman...right?” When I failed to reply, she said, “Is it...I mean, are you...still involved?”
“Are you?”
“Well...call ahead for Saturday nights.”
“I meant, anybody special?”
“Me? You know, the occasional billionaire bachelor...a few Nobel prizewinners. The problem with D.C. is you never meet anyone interesting.” I think she was kidding and maybe replying in kind to my maladroit evasiveness. She squeezed my arm. “What about you?”
“Oh...me? Well, it’s a little complicated.”
“Complicated?”
After a moment I said, “She’s not exclusive.” I added, “So...I guess, I don’t have to be. Right?”
“I don’t know your arrangement.”
“Well...neither do I.”
Which raised the ever-evocative question—was it a good thing? Actually, Janet’s career, my career, and the time and distance between Washington and Boston were in the middle, we both knew it, and neither of us had taken a single constructive step to rectify it. That said something, I think. Ours was a sometimes thing, leaving me too much free time, too much freedom, and we all know idle hands become playful hands.
Of course, I’m Catholic, and coital loyalty and that till-death-do-you-part thing are big with us. So is the obvious corollary, the get-it-all-out-of-your-system-first thing. I said, “Don’t worry about it.”
“Why would I be worried about it?”
“Oh.” Had I misread a signal here?
She smiled. “We’re partners. Partners should know a little about each other, right?”
“Right. So...are you a cream and sugar in your coffee person?”
“Tea person, Earl Grey preferably. No additives.”
“Blood type?”
“A pos. Yours?”
“Ice water.”
She laughed.
Anyway, a mass murderer was running around Washington, her boss was cutting her throat, mine wanted to throttle me, and there I stood, lightheaded and giddy, making an idiot of myself.
Time to change the subject, and I said, “Richmond.”
“Right. Judge Calhoun Barnes, what do you know about him?”
“As your boss said, he was on the short list for the next Supreme Court opening.”
“Why is that past tense?”
“He died.”
“Oh. Well, he must’ve been a good judge.”
“Judges are always in the eye of the beholder. The profile I read on him described him as a law-and-order fanatic, ultraconservative, a strict constructionist, brutal on criminals. Great guy, if you’re a prosecutor. A monster, if you’re the accused, or representing the accused.”
She looked at me and asked, “Do you know how he died?”
“I do.”
“Don’t keep things from me.”
I smiled. “Find out when we get there.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS I SAID, IT WAS ONE OF THOSE PERFECT NIGHTS TO FLY, CLEAR SKIES IN every direction, silvery moon, no wind or choppiness, and it was smooth sailing as we left Washington in our wake.
I was becoming very intrigued with the woman beside me, and as I knew virtually nothing about her, this was a little presumptuous and possibly premature. When somebody dissects criminal minds for a living, you have to wonder.
After we got comfortable, I said to her, “Tell me why you decided to become a shrink.”
After a moment, she smiled. “As in all shrinks are nuts and what’s a nice girl like me doing in a strange place like this? Isn’t that what you’re asking?”
“Exactly.”
“Watch it, pal.”
I smiled. “I would think it’s very challenging to remain sane when you study the criminal mind. Doesn’t it—”
“Get to me?” After a moment she said, “You know the hardest part? Putting yourself in the frame of the victim. That comes with the job. You have to see and observe a crime from both angles.”
Having prosecuted and defended, I also had experienced that part of the job, albeit with a bit more healthy detachment than allowed in her field. So I had an idea where she was coming from. It sucked.
She continued, “The easier part is understanding the criminal. I know this sounds...maybe a little abnormal...but for a trained psychiatrist the criminal mind is endlessly fascinating. The things they do, how they do it, why. Also you bear in mind that it’s for the greater good. If you don’t answer those questions, you can’t find them, you can’t catch them, and you can’t get them off the streets.”
I said, “I knew a shrink in the Army. A little offbeat, but basically a good guy. Over a beer one night he told me that after sessions with the real nutsos, he thought of home, his wife, his kids, and that brought him back.”
“A professor of mine called it the anchor that keeps the ship from drifting. Being single, I think about my parents, about my childhood in Ohio.”
“Mom and Dad must be proud of you.”
“Mom and Dad are dead. Car accident, when I was thirteen. They left one night to get some groceries, it was snowing, and they never came back.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“None. But my parents were both wonderful. Dad was an executive at a food company, an up-and-comer. Mom, she was just Mom. He was tall, handsome, and brilliant, and she was beautiful and charming. Dad read to me every night, and Mom fixed my boo-boos.”
“Good memories.”
“The best.” She smiled. “Now I’m going to sleep. Keep talking if you like. I’m going to stop listening.”
I catnapped until the bounce of the machine setting down jarred me awake. Through the window, I could see that we were in a large, lit parking lot in the middle of Richmond proper and, more happily, that we hadn’t crashed. I don’t particularly trust things without wings that fly. I checked my watch. Nearly midnight.
Through the window, to our left, and about forty yards off in the distance, I noted the distinctive roof and columned portico of the Capitol Building of the Commonwealth of Virginia.
I recalled from some high school state history class that this building was regarded as an exemplar of neoclassical Roman architecture, planned by Thomas Jefferson, who had also designed the University of Virginia, erected Monticello, invented a bunch of furniture, drafted a constitution, was a Secretary of State, a President, ran a plantation, and raised a family, or possibly two. I can barely find time to do my laundry.
Jennie’s head rested comfortably on my right shoulder, and I gently nudged her awake. Her eyes opened and I informed her, “We’re here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Maybe where it all began.”
“Do you really believe that?”
I replied, “I believe in Chekhov’s rule.”
“The Russian writer?”
“Same guy. If a gun is revealed in Act One, it must go off in Act Four. The gun already went off—it’s time to go back to the first act and find out why.”
She sat up and stretched. She said, “I’m going to confess something you might find...a little strange.”
“You like me?”
She punched me. “Not that strange.” She said, “I hope we’re wrong. I truly do. I’d hate to think one of the good guys turns out to be a bad guy.”
Nice sentiment, although I really hoped she was wrong. If we didn’t get a break
soon, the federal government was going to be depopulated, and Ms. Margold and Mr. Drummond were going to be standing on somebody’s carpet explaining why we let that happen. Surely she knew that. I said, “Get your stuff. Let’s go.”
About thirty feet from the helicopter, a shiny blue Crown Victoria and a shiny young man, who introduced himself as Special Agent Theodore “call me Ted” Baltimore, awaited us. Ted jumped into the driver’s seat, we climbed into the backseat, he twisted around and informed us, with true southern surliness, “Buckle your seat belts.”
I said, “Wha—”
“Don’t you argue with me, sir. Bureau policy. Buckle up or the car ain’t movin’.”
I felt a strong urge to choke Ted to death. But Jennie said, “Thank you, Agent.” She buckled up, glanced at her watch, and asked, very nicely, “You live here, Ted? In Richmond?”
“Sure do.”
“Like it?”
“Yup. Born hereabouts. Home for me.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Ted.” After a moment she added, “You have eight minutes to deliver us at Mrs. Barnes’s front door. Eight and a half, and I’ll have your ass shipped off to the northern tip of Alaska.”
“You’re kiddin’, right?”
“It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m having a really bad day.”
The stakes and the pecking order apparently crystallized in Ted’s mind; he punched the accelerator and burned rubber out of the parking lot. We took a right and then a left and another right and then we barreled at high speed down a wide boulevard filled with office buildings. Ted asked Jennie, “All right with you, ma’am, if I flip the lights and siren?”
She said, “Yeah, great idea—wake everybody up.” I made a note to remember that Ms. Margold woke up a tad on the moody side.
“Yee-hah,” squealed Ted, reaching out the window and slapping a light on the roof.
I leaned forward and asked Ted, “You go to Ole Miss?”
“Hell no!” He laughed. “That school ain’t good for nothin’, ’cept, sometimes, maybe football.” After a moment he added, “Alabama U—better football, better parties, and better women.”
“Right.” And there, in a nutshell, was the mentality of the young, virile southern male. Ted yelled, “Hey, what the hell y’all got goin’ up there in Washington? A goddamn war, sounds like.”
So, having nothing better to do, Jennie and I took turns giving Ted a watered-down version of the killings, withholding the juicy parts, like why and who, which wasn’t difficult, since the who remained an open question, and we had not a clue why. That could change in the next hour, or it might not. But it hadn’t changed yet. Anyway, everything we informed Ted about he could get off the morning news, and when we’d concluded our little duet, Ted commented, “Sheeeit.”
Having lived in the South, I was aware this amorphous expression actually meant, “Well, that’s a sizable issue, and I sympathize with you.” It can also mean, “Sounds like you’re utterly fucked.”
Anyway, having gratified his curiosity and established a spirit of mutual bonhomie, I asked Ted, “Did you know Judge Barnes?”
He scratched his head and thought about that. He said, “He was federal. Had a few cases got worked up to his level. Never testified myself. Heard his reputation, though.”
“And what was his reputation?”
“A good judge. Hated criminals. Heard he was a fine man, too.” He added, “Damned shame what happened.”
Jennie asked, “What did happen?”
I suggested to Ted, “Why don’t you take a stab at that?”
“Sheeit.”
In this case, I believe the aphorism meant, “Forget it, pal.”
“Suicide,” I informed Jennie. “The judge hung himself.”
“Not exactly,” Ted corrected. “The man shot and hanged hisself.”
Jennie asked, “Simultaneously?”
“Hard to do sequentially,” Ted replied with a rare, thoughtful expression.
Jennie asked, “Is that possible?”
“Guess so.”
“But...how?”
“Seems he got hisself up on a stool, slipped a rope ’round his neck, and put his granddaddy’s revolver in his mouth. Pulled the trigger and kicked at the same time.”
“That’s unusual,” commented Jennie.
“Yup,” replied Ted. “A meticulous man. Don’t see many like that these days.”
No kidding, Ted.
Jennie turned and asked me, “Do we know why he killed himself?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
We had just departed a business section and entered a long and obviously prosperous urban boulevard. Homes of considerable size and grandeur closely bordered the sides of the street, grand manses from another time and another era, when Richmond was widely regarded as the Rome of the South. Times change, the Old South is gone, the New South has risen, and Atlanta and New Orleans have long since eclipsed Richmond as business, cultural, and political epicenters. Richmond has become a backwater, but it remains a lovely, even pleasant place, while Atlanta now has all the character and charm of L.A. sans palm trees. Narrow grass strips divided the thoroughfare, and every block or two stood a statue of a long-dead Virginian hero disinterring old myths and glories. “Still the best street in Richmond,” Ted informed us. “Used to be, took tobacco money to live here. Mostly, nowadays, it’s lawyers and doctors.”
Jennie commented, “Darwinism.”
Ted replied, “Whatism?” apparently missing this anthropological farce. What once gave wealth, prosperity, and optimism to Richmond’s finer residents remained a meal ticket, and now it was lawyers and oncologists cashing in.
Ted swung hard to the right, hit the brakes, and we screeched to a sharp halt at the curb of a three-story townhouse. Clearly, Judge Barnes had not been without means. Actually, the guy was loaded. The house was tall, wide, and constructed of sturdy southern clay brick that had browned with age. From the looks of it, the house was circa 1920 or so, and in the architectural manner of that era, was austere, not garish or ostentatious, though still regal and impressive. The building’s facade appeared well-kempt and tended, though the grass and shrubbery in front were overgrown and in need of loving care, evidence of a widow as the landlady.
Perhaps it was the darkness, but the judge’s house struck me as slightly creepy and claustrophobic, a brooding gothic tableau awaiting a nightmare appropriate to its size and scale. But my imagination sometimes runs away with me.
Ted commented, “Whew—seven and a half minutes.”
Jennie said, “Lucky you.”
“Sheeit,” said Ted, surely meaning, Yes, indeed, lucky me.
Two agents stood guard outside the door, and we clearly were expected, as one rushed forward and opened the rear door for Jennie. He informed her, “Mrs. Barnes is waiting in the home office. Incidentally, she goes by Margaret. I wouldn’t suggest you call her Marge, or Maggie.” He added, “Per orders, we haven’t disclosed what this is about.”
Jennie replied, “Good.” She turned and said to me, “This is going to be delicate. If we upset her, she’ll clam up. Let me handle it.”
“You mean I can’t just throttle her and ask how she raised a monster?”
“You cannot.” She smiled. “Unless I get nowhere. Then she’s all yours.”
The agent pushed open the door and we three passed through the threshold with the sure knowledge we were about to ruin Margaret Barnes’s night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE FIRST THING I NOTICED WAS THE SILVER TRAY ON A SMALL TABLE BY THE front door. I recalled a time when such trays were fixtures in the homes of senior officers, intended for visitors and guests to deposit business cards and thank-you notes. Agency people don’t carry business cards, at least not real ones. And, after we finished with Mrs. Barnes, a thank-you note was probably out of the question.
But tradition has greater meaning in the South than the North, and the home we entered had the aura of a museum, or perhaps
a mausoleum. We passed down a long, high-ceilinged hallway strewn with antique furniture and memorabilia that clearly meant something to the Barneses and looked like old junk to me.
A large living room was to our right, and to our left what is called a parlor, which has passed out of favor even in the South and never was in fashion in the less ceremonious North. I noticed that an elevator had been installed off the living room, perhaps the only nod to modernity in this house. Strewn there and about were paintings of the Barneses’ ancestors, some women in antebellum gowns—only one real looker in the group—a few stout gentlemen in gray Civil War costumes and old-fashioned business suits, and so forth.
Above the living room mantel hung a more recent portrait of a man in a dark robe I assumed was Judge Calhoun Barnes, before he blew his brains out, I think.
The gent in the portrait was handsome in a florid, broad-faced manner, barrel-chested, silver-haired, with a long, noble nose, a tight, uncompromising mouth, and fiery eyes that seemed to bore not through, but at you. They were eyes that slammed you against a wall.
I felt an immediate jolt of sympathy for any lawyer who appeared before His Honor’s bench. In Judge Barnes’s features and facial creases, I observed no self-doubts, no sense of humor, no sympathy, no empathy—in fact, no hint of generosity or goodwill. A very talented portrait artist had rendered this pose, and artists are called artists because of their license to interpret reality. But a painter cannot hide, disguise, or absolve the inner essence of his subject, and Calhoun Barnes’s inner core was palpable. The man was a bully.
I mentioned to Jennie, after we’d browsed a little more, “This isn’t a home. It’s a history lesson.”