The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  He went on to the University of Arizona but dropped out after two semesters. That was three years ago. Where has he been since? And what compelled him to commit such a horrific act? Surely not his obsession with Chinese fetish porn. Which has created a bit of a challenge for the news media—how do you delicately describe an addiction to videos that go way beyond everyday fantasies into disturbingly hardcore practices? The tabloid websites suffer no such inhibitions, and they’re having a field day with clips of Mistress Anna May Wrong and her colleagues in full whip-snapping action.

  When analyzing behavior as shocking and evil as Markum’s, Erica keeps an open mind. His motive could have been political, but there’s not a shred of evidence that it was. In fact, the man has never registered to vote. It could have been a personal vendetta against the Buchanans for some irrational reason, but there’s no evidence that they ever met. It could have been self-aggrandizing, the product of a deluded and paranoid mind. Is Markum schizophrenic? Again, there’s no record of hospitalizations, ER visits, or previous psychotic episodes. Or, just possibly, was he under the command of someone? Someone who ordered him to commit the crime? Someone who had taken control of his mind? As Martin Vander said, cult members who are in effect brainwashed become unable to think independently.

  It’s a fascinating and horrifying case, and Erica is glad she made the decision to fly to Detroit—there’s no substitute for being on the ground. She wants to get a firsthand look at this monster, who was apprehended at the Canadian border by an eagle-eyed TSA agent in spite of a beard that disguised his baby-face features and a false Canadian passport.

  The plane banks in for a landing. Erica has never been to Detroit—has anyone?—but even from the air she can see its graceful old office buildings, haunting vestiges of its days as an industrial powerhouse. It’s hard not to root for this classic American underdog.

  Eileen has booked them into a Hyatt near the courthouse. The room is generic to the point of parody, but Erica finds the muted hues and no-frills design strangely calming. And she needs to slow down a little. Markum’s arrest is a big break and an important story, but Erica can’t let go of her meeting with Vander and his words about Mike Ortiz’s affect. Or the fact that Markum seems similarly robotic. Somewhere, way in the back of her mind, a suspicion is taking shape—could the two stories possibly be related?

  After a swim and a workout and an early dinner with Eileen, who seems incapable of talking about anything but work, Erica heads up to her room and calls Jenny.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “How’s it going there?”

  “Fine. We had ravioli for dinner. I helped make the mushroom sauce.”

  “And homework?”

  “All done. I’m just watching 48 Hours.”

  “Jenny, you know I worry about you watching all those murder shows.”

  “I worry about you being blown up by a bomb.”

  How can she answer that? “Where’s Becky?”

  “She’s in her room, on her phone.”

  Her room. “Jenny, that’s the spare bedroom, the guest bedroom.” And why does Becky have to go back there to take her calls? “Can I speak to her, please?”

  “She seemed like she wanted to be alone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When the call came in, she started to talk in, like, a whisper. Then she went into her room and closed the door.”

  “Well, please go knock and tell her I want to talk to her.”

  “I don’t want to bother her.”

  “Do what I asked, please.”

  Jenny sighs and Erica can hear her padding through the apartment. Then there’s a knock.

  “I’ll be out in just a minute, Jenny.”

  “Mom wants to talk to you.”

  “Oh, okay.” Erica hears the door open, and then Becky says in a rush, “Hi there. We had a nice ravioli dinner, and then I checked her homework and it looked good, so we bargained for a TV show.”

  “I don’t like her watching those true-crime shows. And I’m okay with you making personal calls, but please keep your door open. You just never know.”

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. It was just that it was a . . . um, a fella, a boy, a guy I’ve gone out on a couple of dates with. I’m sorry. I’ll tell him not to call me again when I’m here. I mean, I won’t talk to him again when I’m here.”

  Erica sighs and reminds herself how young Becky is. Dinner went well; homework is done; what’s the harm of a little phone flirting? “Not a big deal.”

  “Are you in Detroit?”

  “I am.”

  There’s a pause and then Becky says, “I saw that they caught the Buchanan bomber there.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “I guess his arraignment is going to be tomorrow.”

  Erica pauses before saying, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Erica hangs up and looks out the window at the lights of the struggling city. Something about Becky’s tone was unsettling, almost as if she were dissembling. And she’s grown so curious about Erica’s schedule, about her every move. Erica brushes away her concerns—after all, Becky wants to be in the news business, where curiosity is a must. And Erica has probably been throwing too many personal—and not enough professional—chores at her. The bottom line is that she’s doing a good job.

  Erica closes the curtains and gets into bed with her laptop, intending to work on her coverage of Markum’s arraignment in the morning, but she has a hard time concentrating. She gets out of bed and does a half hour of Tae Kwon Do, working up a good sweat. Erica first started to practice Tae Kwon Do when she was a freshman at Yale, and she found it helped her deal with the anxieties triggered by the high-pressure, high-privilege school. She learned how to defend herself—both literally and figuratively: the practice stresses courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-discipline, and invincibility. She saw her early classes as lessons in adulthood, and she’s kept up her practice ever since. When she’s done, she feels a sweet fatigue spread over her limbs. She climbs back into bed.

  But sleep doesn’t come. What do come are images—haunting, almost fun-house images of Mike Ortiz flashing his spectacular smile.

  CHAPTER 19

  ERICA IS IN THE SOARING lobby of Detroit’s Levin Courthouse, a stately Art Deco building. By not announcing the time of Markum’s arraignment until an hour ago, the FBI has been able to avoid the media circus. The Bureau did alert the victims’ families immediately after Markum’s arrest, and many have come to Detroit to witness the arraignment. Security is tight. Erica and her crew passed through metal detectors, were patted down and wanded, and were finally issued passes to wear prominently around their necks. In addition, the building’s main entrance has been closed, and there are at least a dozen uniformed federal marshals present. The only other broadcast media present are a crew from a local station—Erica has definitely scooped the competition. There are about a dozen print and online journalists. All the media are contained behind rope barricades. Around them, lawyers, clerks, and defendants come and go, preoccupied with their own cases. The law grinds on.

  Markum is going to be driven from the city jail, where he spent the night, to the back of the building and brought up through the basement. The mood among the reporters is somber and hushed. Erica feels tense and very curious. She wants to get a look at this killer. And she wants to throw him a question. Just one: “Why?”

  She watches the monitor just below the camera, the feed from GNN in New York, where anchor Patricia Lorenzo says, “We now go to Erica Sparks, who is live inside the Levin Courthouse in Detroit.”

  “That’s right, Pat. I’m in downtown Detroit, where Buchanan bombing suspect Timothy Markum is going to be arraigned before federal magistrate Deborah McGivern. Markum is being represented by prominent defense attorney Jeremy Munson, who is known for his flamboyant style and fierce tactics. Markum is expected to enter a not guilty plea and Judge McGivern will then set a tentative trial date. We are told that amon
g those waiting in the courtroom are Paul and Judy Buchanan’s four children, as well as relatives of the other victims of the brutal bombing, which convulsed our nation just four weeks ago.”

  Down the hall an elevator door opens and Markum, surrounded by US marshals, is led out. Handcuffed and shackled, he shuffles along, his eyes trained straight ahead, devoid of any emotion.

  “Here is Timothy Markum now, being led out of an elevator and escorted to the courtroom.” With that round baby face, slouchy posture, and chubby body, he doesn’t look capable of killing a bug, let alone committing an act of terrorism that killed fifteen people and wounded dozens more.

  “Mr. Markum, why did you do it?” Erica shouts.

  He turns his head and looks at her, dead in the eye—and Erica sees a lost soul who doesn’t know the answer to her question. It’s almost as if he has one foot in this world and the other in some parallel universe, some dark, unfathomable place where none of the rules of civilization apply. The marshals tug him along.

  Then a print journalist—a young man standing near Erica—pulls out a handgun and fires three shots into Markum’s face, which explodes in a fusillade of flesh, blood, hair, and brains.

  Erica’s dress and face and hair are covered with splatter. She drops the mic, leans down, and heaves up a thin stream of bile. Then she sucks air again and again, filling her lungs. You have a job to do! She grabs a handful of tissues and wipes off her face, picks up the mic, and stands up just in time to see the shooter put the gun into his own mouth and pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER 20

  THERE’S A SUSPENDED MOMENT OF shock and silence in the Levin Courthouse. It’s an eerie, skin-crawl silence. Many bystanders look away from the horror, but others stand riveted, unable to avert their eyes. The federal marshals are frozen, trying to figure out what to do. But there’s really nothing to do. The bodies speak for themselves—the danger is over.

  Eileen has GNN cut away to the newsroom in New York. Erica collapses on a nearby bench and her first thought is, Thank God Jenny is in school and not at home watching. She wills herself to take deep, calming breaths. Handling this kind of trauma doesn’t get easier, but she has learned some tricks for managing her own response.

  Then her reporter’s mind kicks in. With Markum’s death, it’s going to be next to impossible to find out the truth about his motives, his actions in the weeks and months before the bombing, and whether or not he acted alone. As with Lee Harvey Oswald, the ultimate source has been shut down. The whole story may never be known. And what about the bogus reporter who killed Markum and then himself? Who is he? Who put him up to it? What are their motives? How did he get his fake credentials and then through security—with a gun no less? The unanswered questions start careening around in Erica’s head like runaway bumper cars.

  Eileen comes over and sits next to Erica. She’s ashen, trembling slightly, her tough-gal producer veneer peeled back to reveal a deeply shaken woman.

  “Are you okay, Eileen?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Erica. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  Erica wants to tell her that as a journalist, she did in fact sign up for this. It’s their job to walk into war zones, to report on horrific events, to delve deep into the heart of darkness. But she holds her tongue, because she knows Eileen will figure all that out on her own.

  “The shock will wear off,” Erica says, giving Eileen’s hand a squeeze. “In the meantime, we have to get back on the air.”

  CHAPTER 21

  ERICA ARRIVES HOME THAT EVENING, walking in the front door to the smell of sautéing garlic and herbs. Then suddenly, from the end of the hall, Jenny is rushing toward her, a look of love and concern on her face. She races into Erica’s arms and squeezes her tight. Jenny smells fresh and clean and innocent. Her baby girl.

  “Oh, Mom, Mom, I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” Erica says, hoping she sounds more convincing than she feels. Still, it’s so good to be home, to walk into a house where food is cooking and soft jazz is playing.

  Jenny takes Erica’s hand and leads her into the apartment. “Becky and I are making chicken Provençal-ish with asparagus and wild rice.”

  “That sounds so good.”

  They reach the kitchen and there’s Becky at the stove, wearing an apron, looking very much at home. Erica feels a stab of jealousy—the easy rapport between Becky and Jenny is what she hoped for, but now that she has it, she doesn’t want them to get too close.

  Becky turns and looks at Erica with urgent empathy. “We thought it would be nice for you to come back to a home-cooked dinner.” She has a glass of white wine on the counter and indicates it. “Would you like a glass?”

  That’s a little bit strange—Becky must know Erica’s history; it’s public record, for goodness’ sake. Erica shakes her head. And Becky seems a little too at home. It’s almost as if this is her house, and Erica is the guest.

  “We’re just about ready here.”

  “I’ll help you plate,” Jenny says.

  They all sit at the dining room table, which is candlelit and set with linen napkins.

  “This is delicious,” Erica says, savoring a bite of the melt-in-your-mouth chicken.

  “We invented it,” Jenny says proudly. “Becky never uses recipes. She says that’s copying, not cooking.”

  “Does she . . . ? I mean, do you?”

  Becky nods with a sheepish smile. “Growing up we never had cookbooks. My mom hated to cook, so I just started to make things up.”

  Jenny grows serious. “I was so worried about you, Mom. I wish you had a job that wasn’t dangerous.”

  “You know I love what I do, honey.”

  “I get so scared sometimes. I had a bad feeling about this trip. I woke up in the middle of the night sure that something terrible was going to happen. And it did.”

  “Yes, it did. But not to me. I’m still here.”

  “I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “You did eventually, didn’t you?”

  “Only later, when Becky came in.”

  “What do you mean—when Becky came in?”

  “She came to sleep in my room.”

  “In your bed?”

  Jenny nods.

  Erica puts down her fork. It’s a queen bed and she’s sure it was all completely innocent—right?—but it’s just so . . . intimate. Erica herself hasn’t slept with Jenny in years. She looks at Becky, who is busy eating—maybe a little too busy eating.

  “There was new polling released today—Lucy Winters is gaining on Ortiz,” Becky says abruptly.

  “I like her,” Jenny says.

  “So do I,” Erica says distractedly.

  “Oh, I forgot the rolls,” Becky says, getting up and going through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  Erica leans into Jenny and asks in a whisper, “Did Becky get under the covers with you last night?”

  “Nooo. Silly. She had her clothes on, and she slept above the covers.”

  Erica exhales with a sigh. “Would you like me to sleep with you tonight?”

  “I don’t worry when you’re home.”

  Becky returns with a basket full of warm rolls. Erica’s phone rings.

  “This is Greg calling from Sydney. I’m going to take it. Be right back.” As Erica walks into her bedroom, she can’t shake a creepy feeling about Becky climbing onto Jenny’s bed.

  “Hi, Greg,” Erica says, closing the bedroom door behind her. The darkened room is bathed in a noirish glow from the city lights outside.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, yeah. How are you?”

  “Worried about you. You’ve had a traumatic day.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Any updates?”

  “The shooter’s been identified. His name is Peter Tuttle. Twenty-six years old. His press credentials were forged. They think the gun was planted in the courthouse yesterday. They found adhesive-tape residue under one of the benches.”
>
  “Sounds like they’re moving fast on this one. But I think you should put it on the shelf for a couple of days. Witnessing something like that takes a real toll. Try and pull back a little.”

  “I’m trying.” Erica sits on the edge of her bed and wonders if now is the time to bring up Laurel Masson. She notices that her bedside clock is running fast. She picks it up and adjusts it.

  “Are you back in New York?”

  “I am. Having dinner with Jenny and my personal assistant, who is turning into Jenny’s best friend.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself, Erica.”

  Erica can feel an enormous wave, a tsunami of emotional exhaustion heading her way. Today in Detroit she was hoping to come closer to the truth and she ended up further away, covered with bits of bone and brain. She’s in no mood to dissemble or play cute. She stands up and starts to pace, steeling herself as she says, “I saw that tweet of you and Laurel Masson.”

  There’s a long pause. Too long. Finally Greg says, “She’s doing a terrific job.”

  “Assuaging your loneliness?”

  “That’s unfair, Erica.”

  “I’d say seeing another woman is unfair.”

  “Boy, one tweet and you’re off to the races.”

  “One picture is worth a thousand lies.”

  There’s another pause, and Greg lowers his voice. “We need to talk.”

  “I thought we were.” And then, in the pause that follows, Erica knows: Greg is having an affair with Laurel Masson. She feels a stab of hurt and betrayal, and then a terrible cosmic sadness washes over her. “I’m going to go now, Greg.”

  “Okay, Erica.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Erica sits in a chair she never sits in. She had thought Greg was the one, her one and only, for always and forever. A bitter little laugh, a snort really, comes out of her. Ain’t life grand? And then, in spite of herself, she pictures Greg’s green eyes, his lopsided smile, his arms around her. Her career wouldn’t be where it is today without his savvy and unwavering support. She arrived at GNN a rookie from a small station in New Hampshire, rebuilding her life after it shattered like glass—a glass full of vodka at ten in the morning. Greg took her by the hand, fought for her, gave her brilliant advice, protected her. Loved her. Did he love her? Does he love her? Is he lost to her? Loss. And love. Love and loss. Are they inseparable? Erica looks around her. The beautiful room is empty.