The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

“Like hell,” McGill said. “You have no jurisdiction. You said so yourself.”

  He gave it a moment to see if they’d learned about the mailbox, but they still didn’t know. Andy had never told anyone but him. So McGill continued, “You set foot on my crime scene, I’ll arrest you for interfering with police officers in the performance of their duty.”

  Braun laughed bleakly. “You’ve got some balls, buddy. But you know what? Our lawyers can beat up your lawyers, and we’ve got more of them.”

  There was no arguing that, so McGill gave the fed something else to chew on.

  “You want something to do? Think about this. Maybe these assholes won’t be happy until they kill the congresswoman, too. Protecting her, now that’s a federal responsibility.”

  McGill left Sweetie at the gate with orders to allow no one in except the crime-scene team from the Cook County Sheriff’s Department.

  “Paramedics?” Sweetie asked.

  The nosy neighbor had reported that the explosion had been blinding, deafening, and strong enough to crack his windows next door, over a hundred feet away. How was anyone going to survive that? But McGill said, “Okay, them, too.”

  Sweetie closed the gate behind them and blocked the driveway with her patrol unit. McGill went to the house on foot.

  The only chance for Andy was if he’d been somewhere else in the house. McGill quickly checked every room, calling out Andy’s name. Loudly at first. Softly and with growing despair the closer he got to the blast area. The door to the Grants’ bedroom leaned out of its frame like a drunk falling off a curb, providing a view of the carnage within.

  Andy Grant had been sundered, and there had been a fire. Put out by a sprinkler system that had survived the blast and was still going. Watering down the stink of the explosion and the charred flesh. The largest piece of Andy that McGill could identify was a blackened lower left leg severed at the knee. McGill had seen dead bodies before, more than a few, but nothing like this. This was a scene from a battlefield.

  He raised his eyes and looked out at the lake, made all the easier with half the wall on that side of the room gone. Not a boat in sight. So much water in which to dump the murder weapon. He took out his cell phone and started calling his list of lakefront police departments. He had them on voice dial. Maybe the assholes who had killed Andy would do something stupid.

  A minute later, a cop he called in Kenosha said something smart.

  “You alert any grouper troopers on the other side of the lake? You know, in Michigan?”

  Landlubber that he was, the thought hadn’t occurred to McGill. Crossing forty miles or more of open water. He’d thought only of hugging the near shore. Worse, he didn’t know any coppers over in Michigan. But his friend in Kenosha did. Said he’d start making calls and get back to McGill if he came up with anything.

  McGill had just said thanks and clicked off when Sweetie called up to him from the front door. “Feebs are here. Got a judge’s order allowing them onto the property. I told them I’d have to take it inside, read it in a good light. They gave me five minutes.”

  McGill descended the stairs. If Sweetie was in the right mood, he wouldn’t put it past her to shoot it out with the federal government, but he could see she thought this was neither the time nor the place.

  “I’ll let them in … but Margaret?”

  The use of her proper name between the two of them was reserved for only the most serious of occasions.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let Mrs. Grant see what’s happened to her husband. I doubt she’ll get here before they take him — his remains — away, but just in case, don’t let her see.”

  Sweetie nodded. Now she was in the right mood.

  McGill felt more certain than ever of one thing: Andy’s death wasn’t a lone-wolf killing. Somebody had put the threatening note in his Journal. Somebody had scouted his house from the lake. Probably saw Costello’s crew putting in the barrier. Maybe even saw Andy in his bedroom the way McGill had from his skiff. Then somebody had figured out a plan to overcome the barrier … and somebody had pulled the trigger on Andy.

  Could have been one industrious son of a bitch. But McGill’s gut told him it was a group … a group with money.

  The thought was an epiphany, one that made McGill shudder. Costello had told him there had been people watching his guys work, but they all looked like they belonged. North Shore. They could have come back at night and watched the house with binoculars, out far enough not to attract the attention of Andy’s security team.

  McGill groaned at the god-awful mistake he’d made. He’d kept thinking that the killers would look like cornpone crazies. Hicks. Stand out like Ma and Pa Kettle in his designer-label town. But the truth was — had to be — at least one of them blended perfectly because he was homegrown. Provided all the local color the group needed.

  Wrote his death threat in perfectly grammatical English.

  McGill got behind the wheel of Sweetie’s patrol unit, backed it away from the gate of the Grant estate, and called out the key code so the feds could open it.

  SAC Braun was the first inside. He double-timed over to McGill’s car.

  But whatever the fed had intended to say, McGill’s look made him think twice. The chief told him, “Mr. Grant is dead, dismembered by the blast. The crime scene is as I found it. Sergeant Sweeney of my department has been ordered not to let Congresswoman Grant see her husband’s remains. You and your men will be in peril should you try to countermand that order.”

  Braun’s head jerked as if McGill had given him the back of his hand, but he didn’t argue. Some things a judge’s order couldn’t overrule.

  Driving to police headquarters, McGill remembered reading stories of people in Dallas who had celebrated the assassination of JFK. Appalling but true. When he arrived, he had Klara alert all patrol units to be on the lookout for any home where a party might be going on. He wanted to know if anybody in the village knew of the death of Andy Grant and had reason to cheer about it.

  Then he got on the phone and woke up the dean of the Divinity School at Northwestern, the president of Lake Forest College, and the principal of New Trier High School. He informed each of them of what had happened and asked their help in identifying any of their students who had been active in the pro-life movement, especially those who’d been militant in their advocacy.

  Normally, the schools would have been reluctant to compromise their students’ privacy. But Andy Grant had been well loved locally, a generous contributor to endowment funds, and the spouse of a prominent member of Congress. Assured that McGill would be discreet, they all agreed to cooperate.

  Next, McGill started to call the rectories and parsonages of every church from Evanston to Waukegan. Somewhere in the haystack he was amassing, he was sure he would find his needle.

  He was between phone calls when Klara poked her head into his office, and, trying not to make too much of it, said, “Chief, that idea of yours about parties, maybe we’ve got something. In Kenilworth.”

  Kenilworth lay immediately south of Winnetka. It was more a congregation of old money than an actual town. Too small to have its own police and fire services, Kenilworth contracted them out to Winnetka. Not content to rely on public agencies, however, Kenilworth was also heavily patrolled by private security companies.

  Klara had extended the party-watch alert to the private cops.

  One of the Kenilworth security patrols had just taken into custody a young man named Lindell Ricker. The private cops had been responding to a silent alarm at a lakefront property. The problem was, they told McGill when he was patched through to them, Mr. Ricker claimed he’d done nothing wrong. He was simply staying at his parents’ house. He carried a Virginia driver’s license identifying who he was, and an old student ID from New Trier giving the correct Kenilworth address.

  But he apparently hadn’t known that his father had installed a separate alarm on his wine cellar. The private cops had walked in on him as he was drinking champa
gne and wearing a goofy smile on his face. All alone but acting like he was having his own little party. They asked McGill what they should do.

  He said cuff him; he’d be right over to arrest Mr. Ricker.

  McGill told Lindell Ricker he was under arrest for suspicion of murder and read him his Miranda rights in front of the two private cops, whom he then swore to secrecy. He transported his prisoner back to police headquarters and once again read Ricker his rights in front of Klara and two patrol cops who’d been called in specifically to witness the event. Klara and the uniformed officers were also sworn to secrecy.

  Then, as Ricker declined to say a word to anyone much less request a lawyer, McGill put him in a holding cell and waited for Sweetie. McGill was sure there was a religious element to the killing of Andy Grant, and while he was a first-rate interrogator in most situations, he’d never seen anyone better than Sweetie when it came to dealing with suspects who thought they were doing God’s work. She arrived three hours later, looking both sad and vengeful.

  “The congresswoman come home?” McGill asked.

  Sweetie nodded. “The president let her borrow his plane.”

  “Everything work out okay?”

  “Mr. Grant’s remains were still on-site when she got there. I had to put her in a bear hug. She struggled and yelled some, and the feds looked like they didn’t know whether to spit or go blind. But I kept talking to her quietly … and finally we just prayed for him. Asked God to gather Mr. Grant’s soul into His company. Right there in front of everyone. I think some of the feds even said amen with us.”

  Sweetie had been a novice in a convent before leaving to become a cop.

  “Where’d you take her?”

  “I had one fed drive us to St. Francis and another bring my patrol unit along. She’s in a private room, sedated, under another name. Father Bernini, the hospital chaplain, is there in case she wakes up. A couple feds are out in the hall standing guard.” Sweetie sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I saw someone in such pain.”

  McGill nodded, and said, “We’ve got one of them.”

  Sweetie’s sadness disappeared. All that was left was vengeful.

  “Let’s go talk to him,” she said.

  This time, McGill turned on the video camera. State law for all interrogations. He asked once more if Lindell Ricker wanted a lawyer.

  Having had the time to consider his situation and his buzz to deteriorate into sullen anger, he was willing to answer the question. “I don’t need a lawyer. I answer only to God’s law. I’m willing, no, eager, to become a martyr.”

  Lindell Ricker was twenty-two years old. Righteous and full of himself. He was playing to the camera and completely missed the gleam that came into Sweetie’s eyes.

  “I called your parents while you’ve been here,” McGill said. “The security company had a number for them in Florida. They were really surprised when you came home this summer. Especially after you’d told them the way they live they’re sure to go to hell. You scare your parents. That’s why they went south out of season.”

  “They’re sinners,” Lindell said.

  “Maybe so, but you’re the one who broke into your father’s wine cellar. Didn’t know he’d put a separate alarm on it, did you? Had to protect all that expensive, sinful wine. You pick out a nice bottle to guzzle?”

  Lindell only frowned.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Sweetie said, joining in. “Your parents are sinners, but you’re a would-be martyr?”

  Lindell tried to hold her gaze; couldn’t. But he managed to say, “Like you’ve never seen.”

  “How about like this?” Sweetie asked.

  She undid the top two buttons of her uniform shirt and Lindell looked up. Sweetie took out the St. Sebastian medal she wore on a chain around her neck. She also gave Lindell a glimpse of the scar on her upper chest where she’d taken the bullet for McGill. The scar was sizable.

  “You know what this is?” Sweetie asked, holding out the medal.

  “Papist idolatry.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But do you know the story of St. Sebastian?”

  Lindell didn’t answer. Sweetie told him anyway.

  “Saint Sebastian was actually a little like you. The son of wealthy parents.” Lindell looked up, a hint of interest on his face. “Now Sebastian’s parents, they were good Romans. Believed in all the old Olympian gods. Their son, though … he was a secret Christian.”

  Sweetie had him now.

  “Did I mention that Sebastian was also a Roman soldier? A captain of the guard. His family money gave him clout. His military rank gave him status. He was a golden boy. Could have had anything he wanted. But then the emperor, Diocletian, who hated Christians, started a persecution. Sebastian decided if he was truly a man of faith, he would have to reveal himself. So he did.”

  Sweetie paused and stepped out of the room to get a bottle of water. She came back and drank, not offering any water to Lindell. “You have the conviction to reveal your secrets, Lindell?” she asked. Before he could respond, she held up her hand. “No wait. Let me tell you the rest of the story before you answer.

  “Because of his family’s high standing, the emperor himself asked Sebastian to renounce his Christian faith. He refused. His faith was strong, and he wanted the world to know it. So the emperor had him taken outside the city gates. Sebastian was tied to a tree and shot full of arrows.

  “Only he didn’t die. That ticked the emperor off good. So the emperor had Sebastian taken down from the tree and beaten to death. Now that’s my idea of a martyr.” Sweetie sat on a corner of the interrogation room table, all but on Lindell’s lap. He looked up at her, watched her throat move as she took another drink. Then she asked him in a quiet voice, “You got the stones to match up with St. Sebastian, Lindell?”

  Lindell focused on Sweetie’s medal while he looked for an answer.

  Sweetie inclined her head to the door, and McGill slipped out.

  McGill was on the phone when Sweetie came out of the interrogation room. His face was flushed. “Sonofabitch! That’s got to be them. Yeah, grab them and hold them for us while we get the extradition request started. Yeah, thanks. Come to town sometime, dinner’s on me.”

  He hung up and looked at Sweetie as she took a seat.

  “A boater at a marina in Holland, Michigan, an army vet, called the cops to report a guy on another boat unloading what he swore was a rocket launcher. Got the make, model, and plate number of the vehicle the rocket man and three other people drove off in. Ten minutes ago.”

  Sweetie said, “That’d be a green Toyota minivan, Virginia tag number 405 413J. The people are Erna Godfrey, the triggerwoman, and Walter Delk, his wife Penny, and their adult son, Winston, the accomplices.”

  McGill looked at her and smiled. “You got all that on tape?”

  Sweetie nodded. “And in Lindell’s own hand. It’s being typed up right now.”

  “He signed his Miranda waiver, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sonofabitch, we’re gonna get all of them. That was great, that story about St. Sebastian.”

  “The patron saint of police officers.”

  McGill fell silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, “Of course, with no one in the interrogation room but the two of you, after you turned the camera off, you might have pointed out to Mr. Ricker that our case against him would be much more problematic should he recant his confession. Even with the tape, he might claim duress. He might go free, needn’t be a martyr at all.” Sweetie waited, she knew McGill wasn’t finished. “Which isn’t to say that someone might not tie him to a tree and shoot him full of arrows. Beat him to death if necessary. But I won’t ask you about that.”

  “No, don’t,” Sweetie said.

  McGill was the first person Patti Grant saw when she opened her eyes.

  He didn’t ask how she was, he just told her the news. “We have five people in custody for killing Andy.”

  She didn’t say a wor
d, only started to cry. McGill brought her a box of tissues.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. “I knew Andy for only a short time; I wish I’d known him longer.” He turned to go, but Patti caught his wrist.

  “Who … who are they?” she asked.

  McGill told her, and she said, “There are more, at least one.”

  Patti Grant was sure that Erna Godfrey wouldn’t have killed anyone without her husband — the Reverend Burke Godfrey, pastor of the Salvation’s Path Church — knowing about it and approving.

  That assertion had been voiced flatly, a simple statement of fact. But Patti’s voice turned bitter when she mentioned two more possibilities. “Representative Doak Langdon of Georgia and Senator Howard Hurlbert of Mississippi, cosponsors of the Support of Motherhood Act, and members of my own party.”

  A televangelist, McGill thought he could handle. Two sitting members of Congress … he was glad of the decision he’d made.

  “I turned the case over to the FBI,” he said. He told her that Lindell Ricker noted in his amended confession that he’d put Andy’s copy of the Wall Street Journal into the Grants’ mailbox. He’d done so because he thought there’d be less chance of anyone stealing the newspaper, and the threat it contained, that way. McGill had Ricker make that point clear because Illinois moratorium on the death penalty was ongoing and — “I don’t really know your position on capital punishment, Congresswoman,” he admitted.

  “I’m no longer certain myself.”

  “Well, the feds are pursuing it as a death-penalty case.”

  Patti only nodded, making McGill wonder if she was thinking a plea bargain would be agreeable to her if it got Erna Godfrey to implicate her husband and the two pols. But that wasn’t his problem.

  “I really am sorry, Mrs. Grant. Please accept my condolences.”

  She let McGill’s wrist go and nodded.

  “Thank you. Thank you for …” That was as far as she got.

  She grabbed a fistful of tissues, and McGill left her to grieve in private.