Annie's Verdict

by John Ellsworth

  She ignored the question. "I read the police reports online."

  I didn't bother to ask how she'd come to access the police reports online. Maybe they were posted now; I honestly didn't know.

  "I'll take the shirt with me when I drop you off today," I said.

  “Oh, they took it back to the evidence room after they let me examine it.”

  “Why would they let you examine it?”

  “Because I called the police chief and said I wanted to look at something on the shirt that might help them. It will.”

  “So what happens now? Does the crime lab take a second look at the shirt? Did they tell you?”

  “They didn’t say, Michael. But the crime lab has been remiss, please force them to study the hair and fiber."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing about her grasp of police crime lab inquiries. But there you were; hair and fiber--she had it down.

  "I'll make them take a second look."

  "Thank you."

  I turned to say goodbye when I stepped out onto the front porch.

  But she had already closed the door, and I was left standing there amazed with her. Where does this gift come from? I asked myself. I sighed and clumped out through the snow to my car.

  Out of the mouths of children.

  31

  The senator had responded to the grand jury subpoena. He appeared promptly at nine o'clock the morning after my trip to the Smithsonian with Annie. I called his name for the court reporter to take down and Holt went into the waiting room to retrieve him to come testify.

  Senator Stanley J. Jessup showed up wearing a box gray suit with a yellow tie and oxblood loafers with tassels that bounced as he walked across the room. He smiled at everyone in the place, including me. He was forever seeking votes and always would be, you could just tell. His smile was worth at least thirty-thousand dollars in the dentist's chair, his hair was haphazardly piled on top of his head, and he smiled broadly when he raised his right hand and was sworn by the clerk. He didn't look like the kind of man who would want to perform sex acts with a hooker in broad daylight on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, but do such people ever look the part? I was always surprised when the next normal-looking person came along with yet another bizarre sex accusation causing a file to be prepared by my office and a prosecution undertaken by me.

  Oh well.

  He sat down in the hot seat, ran the palm of his right hand across the small desktop in front of him, cleaning it, and smiled winningly at the grand jury yet again. He refused to look at me, which was common among grand jury witnesses. Prosecutors scare the bejesus out of people--especially the guilty people.

  Without getting up from the table, I launched into my inquiry, having him first give us his name and employment for the record. Then it began in earnest.

  "Directing your attention to January 15 of this year. Did you have occasion on that date to be in the vicinity of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC?"

  "Yes."

  "Please tell us your location."

  "I was looking around the Lincoln Memorial."

  "As you were looking around, as you put it, did you hear one or more gunshots?"

  "At first I thought it was a car backfiring. But then I looked over and saw a man with a gun. Another man had fallen into the Reflecting Pool. I didn't actually see anyone getting shot."

  "Were you with someone else at that time and place?"

  "Yes."

  "Give us her name, please."

  "I don't know her name. Never got it."

  "What were you and Miss No-Name doing?"

  "We were having a kiss."

  "Now, are you married, Senator?"

  "I am."

  "Were you married on January 15?"

  "I was."

  "Was the woman you were kissing your wife?"

  "No, she wasn't."

  "In fact, she was a prostitute, was she not?"

  Just then his face turned red and he stared up at the ceiling. "Can we take a break? I want to speak to my lawyer."

  We took a ten-minute break and the senator ducked into the hallway to meet with his mouthpiece. He returned within minutes and, when the jury was seated again, I started back into my questions.

  "She was a prostitute, was she not? I believe that was my last question before the break, Senator."

  "Yes. Yes, she was a prostitute. But I'm going to ask you to admonish the jury, counselor, that not a word of what is said in here gets repeated outside this courtroom."

  "They know that, Senator. Thank you. Describe what you were doing with Miss No-Name when you heard the first shot. Or the first backfire, as you put it."

  "I was engaged in a sex act with the woman."

  "Halfway up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial?"

  "About halfway up, yes."

  "Please describe the sex act."

  "Fellatio. She was fellating me."

  "She had your penis in her mouth?"

  "Yes."

  "On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial?"

  "Yes. I'm a Democrat."

  My mind raced. What in the world did being a Democrat have to do--then I got it. Lincoln was a Republican. The Lincoln Memorial was not sacrosanct to Senator Jessup like it might be to Senators McCain or Graham or other Republicans.

  "So you had no compunction about having sex on Honest Abe's memorial?"

  "None whatsoever."

  "Did you see the man with the gun well enough to identify him?"

  He knew what my next question and my next would be, so he didn't play hide-the-ball. He just laid it all out.

  "Jonathan Vengrow. The vice president of the United States."

  "You thought it was the vice president who had just shot the man in the pool?"

  "Like I said, I didn't see the actual shooting. But I did see the vice president holding the gun."

  "How was he dressed?"

  "I don't recall."

  "What was he doing when you looked over?"

  "He shot the gun into the pool several more times."

  "How many more times?"

  "I don't know. Maybe five. Six?"

  "Have you told this to anybody before, that you saw the shots at the man in the pool?"

  "No, I didn't. I was afraid to say because I didn't want my name in the paper. If word got out that I was there with a prostitute and that she was fellating me, there wouldn't be any more re-elections for me. My career would be over, kaput."

  "Have you seen the vice president since that night?"

  "Since that evening? Yes, he addressed the senate on the health care amendments last week. I saw him then."

  "Did you speak to him?"

  "No. I mean I might've said 'Hello, Jon,' something like that."

  "First names, you and the VP?"

  "Yes. We served in the Senate together at one point."

  "Senator Jessup, what else can you tell me about that night?"

  "After it was over I ran to my car. I didn't even know I could still run."

  "Where did you go?"

  "To my Georgetown townhouse."

  "Have you discussed this matter with anyone else?"

  "Detective Ronald Holt, Metro PD."

  "Anyone else?"

  "No. Well, there was one."

  "Who would that have been?"

  He looked skyward again. Then, ever so softly, "Miss No-Name."

  "You've been with the prostitute since that night?"

  "Yes."

  "And you discussed what you saw that night?"

  "Yes."

  "You've paid her for sex again?"

  "There's no payment now. We've progressed beyond that. We care deeply for one another."

  "Senator, I think that's all the questions I have."

  "Good."

  He started to rise up. Then I said, "Please remain seated, Senator. The jurors might have questions."

  For the first time since he took the stand, I looked over at the jury. Some were angry, some were astonished, some
were stunned. Not one of them had on their normal face at that moment.

  "Questions, jurors?"

  "I have a question," said a woman in the front row wearing a knit houndstooth suit. "How do you sleep with yourself?"

  At which point one of our stalwart grand jurors, always ready with a comment, said, "Didn't you hear him? He doesn't sleep with himself. He sleeps with Miss No-Name."

  Laughter erupted and I finally dismissed Senator Jessup with the right to recall. He was finished and he all but limped from the room, bruised, broken, and defeated.

  We then recessed.

  Justice had been served that day.

  And I had no stomach for anymore of it.

  32

  Annie attended a special school for special kids. While she left home every day and went out in public, she was entirely safe. She was safe because no one knew what she looked like and no one knew what school she attended. She called me Friday night after I'd returned to my hotel the day of Jessup's grand jury appearance.

  "I have to go to my school play" she stated. "Jarrod doesn't drive. Can you drive me?"

  "Sure," I said, "when is it?"

  "Tomorrow night."

  "What time should I come for you?"

  "Six o'clock. I'm in charge of the lights. I need to get there early and get set up."

  "See you then, Annie."

  I puttered around on Saturday and almost forgot about Annie once I began reviewing lab reports and ancillary police reports on the murders of Gerry and Mona. In fact, the forensic report from Gerry's shirt was back. Annie had been right.

  Driving to the school, I mentioned it to her.

  "You were right about your dad's shirt, Annie. It did have cat hair. How it survived the Reflecting Pool is anyone's guess. Probably came from the back of the shirt and maybe that never went under water though it did freeze. I don't really know. But it's cat hair."

  "I know it. I saw it under my microscope."

  "You have a microscope?"

  "You've never been in my bedroom, Michael. I forgot that. I have a whole science lab."

  "Well, you didn’t have a cat when your dad was still alive.”

  "So we're looking for someone with a cat," she said, finishing my thought. "Or, if you want to parse it out even more finely, we're looking for someone who has been in the presence of a yellow cat. Maybe the killer picked the hair up in someone else's house."

  "Or maybe your dad picked up a cat somewhere and got the hair on him."

  "Wouldn't happen. Dad's allergic to cats. That's why I don't have one or two. Or three."

  "So the killer either had a cat or held someone else's cat."

  "That's a fair way to say it," she said. "What else do we know?"

  "We don't know anything else. I know more stuff, but I'm not allowed to share it with you."

  "How about you feed me hypotheticals, then?" she asked. "Then I can respond."

  "Hypothetically speaking, what would you think about a GoPro camera found at the scene?"

  "I'd think your killer was riding a motorcycle and forgot the camera was mounted on his helmet and it fell off somehow. That's a no-brainer, Michael. I'm sure you had that."

  "I didn't. But I'm making serious mental notes here."

  "What else?" she asked.

  "What would you think if that camera contained four or five seconds of cat video?"

  "I'd say you have your man. Cat, cat hair, video, motorcycle--these are solid clues for you, Michael. And I'll tell you something else."

  "Shoot."

  "Your killer is the vice president of the United States."

  My heart almost stopped. "What!" I exclaimed.

  "He rides a motorcycle--check out his web page. And his wife loves cats. There's your suspect, Michael."

  "There must be a million men who ride a motorcycle and have a cat in the United States. I don't get how you narrowed it down."

  "Listen to your words, Michael. You said, 'In the United States.' This isn't the United States we're talking about. This is Washington, DC. Several other men might fit that description in our little town, but there's one more piece of the profile I haven't told you about."

  "For heaven's sake, what?"

  "Mona spent the night with the vice president. So there's your connection between the VP and my family."

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa. How do you know that about Mona?"

  "I have my ways."

  "Spill the beans, Annie. I need this."

  "All right. It's so simple. When she went out on dates, I would follow her cell phone with her GPS. On more than one night she spent all night at the Naval Observatory."

  "The vice president's home."

  "Bingo! Now you have your man, Michael."

  "How do you track her cell phone?"

  "That's easy. There's a setting, a switch, inside a cell phone that has to be thrown. Then there's an app I use to follow her. She never knew."

  "Were you spying on your sister?"

  "Just looking out for her, that's all."

  "So you're saying your father and your sister were both murdered by the vice president?"

  "Yes."

  "But why?"

  "What's his motive? That's one I'm going to leave for you to decipher, Michael. Isn't that what they're paying you for?"

  "Don't get smart, miss."

  She laughed. "Okay."

  We reached the school and pulled around behind the auditorium.

  Ninety minutes later we were on our way to Annie's house. She lapsed into her customary silence and didn't say two words on the drive home.

  But there was no need. She'd already said enough.

  I had a new suspect, but we had no motive.

  I'm a quick study. Motive was up to me.

  33

  Maxwell Atkins sold pharmaceuticals and cheated on his wife.

  That's what I knew about him the morning of his appearance before my grand jury.

  Detective Holt escorted the frightened man into the grand jury room, placed him before the clerk, who swore him in, then arranged him in the witness chair.

  Atkins was a man of average height, average looks, with hands that visibly shook as he waited for whatever was to come. He had black hair combed back and slicked down with white wings of hair on either side of his head. All in all, he looked like a Soprano's thug, but after a series of introductory questions we in the grand jury room knew he was a Grantland College chemistry major with a masters in health sciences and we knew he'd been married three times.

  "On January fifteen of this year did you have occasion to be in the vicinity of the Lincoln Memorial?"

  "Yes."

  "You were near the Reflecting Pool?"

  "Yes, I was standing off to the side in the shadows behind the lights."

  "Tell us what you saw and heard."

  "Two men came running by me. They were so close I almost could have reached out and touched them. The first man was panting and running in large, staggering strides. The second man was wearing a motorcycle cold-weather onesie with one of those cameras mounted on his shoulder. It was a GoPro."

  "Have you seen one of those cameras before?"

  "Seen one? I have one, Mr. Gresham. I'm a snow skier--a Vermont addict. I wear a camera pinned to my ski coat."

  "Tell us what you witnessed after the men ran past you."

  "Just before the pool, the man behind suddenly stopped, raised a gun I hadn't noticed before, and fired a single bullet into the back of the first man. The first man was knocked face-first into the water and floated there, but the shooter wasn't done. He ran up to the pool and fired four or five more times into the man. That first bullet knocked him down like he'd been struck with a sledge hammer."

  "What did you do?"

  "I stepped farther back in the shadows. The shooter then ran past me the same way he'd come. I was having a melt-down. But either he didn't see me or ignored me. I then left the scene and drove home."

  "Did you call nine-one-one?"

&nbs
p; "I didn't."

  "Why not?"

  "I was scared. But I returned to the scene four or five hours later. Cops were everywhere, and they were cutting a man out of the ice. I guess the pool froze up while I was gone. Maybe it had been partly frozen when the guy was shot; I don't know. But it was cold enough to freeze hard without much effort."

  "Why did you return to the scene?"

  "I had calmed down enough to realize the security cameras in the area probably had shots of me. Arriving at the scene, as I had walked right past the pool myself. I didn't want them to think I'd been involved or anything so I went back and told my story."

  "Who did you tell your story to?"

  "A cop in a black business suit. I think he was FBI."

  "Did he badge you?"

  "Yes, but I was too nervous to make sense of it. As I said, I think it was FBI."

  "Let's back up to when you first go to the scene of the killing. Where were you coming from?"

  "I'm a pharmaceutical rep. I had dropped off some samples at the White House with the White House physician's office."

  "What kind of samples?"

  "The president has joint problems. These were anti-inflammatory drugs like Celebrex."

  "What is the drug used for?"

  "Pain and stiffness. Osteoarthritis symptoms."

  "Were you parked nearby?"

  "Yes. With a trunkful of samples, so I was nervous as hell. Sorry, can I say hell?"

  I ignored that. "Why were you at the Lincoln Memorial at that time and place?"

  "I was meeting someone."

  "Someone who?"

  "I'd rather not give names."

  "Was she ever at the scene?"

  "No 'she.' It was a ‘he.' He was a physicians' assistant assigned temporarily to the White House."

  "Why were you meeting this person?"

  "Why? Do I have to say?"

  "Please say."

  "We were meeting to have sex."

  "Did this physicians' assistant ever join you at the scene?"

  "No, he stood me up. He was an hour late when the shooting happened. But I don't think it was intentional. I think he'd been called upon to treat someone."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "I'm not usually stood-up. Men like me. Lots."

  "Okay, when you went home--who do you live with?"