by David Shobin
Not finding what he wanted, Jon went online.
Mireille wheeled Tommie back into the room. Both were smiling, and Jon was glad to see that Tommie looked none the worse for wear.
“How’re you feeling, kiddo?”
“Good. Can we go now, Daddy?”
“Give me a few minutes. I have to check on something.”
“I think the injection’s working already.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I just do.”
As the women resumed chatting, Jon logged onto a physician’s medical information system. Through it, he was able to access most major medical journals online. Using the keywords “breath,” “halitosis,” and “disease states,” he began a literature search. Soon he had several dozen computer hits. He briefly looked at the abstracts.
There were a number of references to breath in specific diseases. Foul Breath was common in children with tonsillitis and sinus conditions. In substance abuse, various inhalants had specific odors. Diabetic ketoacidosis was associated with a characteristic fruity odor. Certain poisonings, like the cyanide with which he was all too familiar, had distinctive smells. Under the general heading of poisonings, certain heavy metals could produce distinctive breath smells. Jon pondered that, frowning.
“I’m ready to make that snack, Jon,” Mireille said.
“How much longer, Dad?”
“Almost finished, guys. Give me a minute.”
He suddenly recalled something about the president’s halitosis. Unless he was mistaken, Meredith’s breath had a vaguely metallic odor. Could that be significant? Certainly, there were types of inadvertent metal intoxications that might be related to the president’s symptoms, but…he’d have to read up on that. For the sake of completeness, he’d have to check it out.
Jon picked up his phone and called the lab, asking for the manager. The lab’s head, Chris Leadbetter, was a longtime patient and loyal friend. All of the president’s lab specimens were closely guarded and stored for months, perhaps years.
“Chris, this is Jon Townsend,” he said. “I want you to do me a favor. This is probably a wild goose chase, but I’d like you to get hold of what’s left of the president’s serum from the bloods I ordered. You still have it, right? I want you to test it for heavy metals. That’s right, lead, manganese, mercury, the works.”
That night, Jon slept alone. Victoria had returned, and Jon took his daughter back to her mother. After the injection, Tommie had no lingering side effects. Mireille, also, spent the night in her own apartment. As the night hours slowly passed, Jon tossed fitfully in bed, listening to the house’s every creak and moan. The shotgun was propped up at his night table. In his fantasies, a crazed gunman might break into the house at any minute.
Just before he was about to get up at six, the doorbell rang. Jon wasn’t expecting any visitors. He grabbed the shotgun, put on a robe, and cautiously approached the front door.
Three men were visible through the peephole. With their inexpensive suits and short haircuts, they had the look of government employees. Shotgun under his arm, Jon unlocked the deadbolt and cracked open the door. The man in the lead thrust his ID into the opening almost immediately.
“FBI, Dr. Townsend. Special Agent Johnson. May we come in?”
Jon glanced first at the ID, then at the man. He’d seen enough FBI credentials to think this one legitimate. “Who’s with you?”
Both men produced IDs. “This is agent Fitzpatrick,” Johnson said of the man behind him. “And this is Special Agent Lewis, of the Secret Service.”
Lewis was black, and he looked familiar. As he scrutinized the man, he recognized him as one of the agents who’d attended the president the night Jon performed the Heimlich maneuver. Lewis met Jon’s gaze, then looked away.
“We know what happened the other day,” Johnson continued. “We’d like to go over that with you. And I’d appreciate it if you’d put that weapon aside.”
Jon leaned the shotgun against the wall and opened the door. The men followed him inside, and he led them to the living room. He and Agent Johnson took seats, but the others preferred to stand.
“Are you working today, Doctor?” Johnson began, removing a small notepad.
“I hope to.”
“This shouldn’t take very long. There are a few things we want to clear up, okay?”
“Go ahead.”
“First, about the cyanide. We’ve gone over the detectives’ reports, and one thing that puzzles us is how the stuff came to be in your house.”
“It didn’t walk in, I’ll tell you that.”
“Then how did it get in here?”
The question puzzled Jon. “Obviously, whoever put that metal thing in my bathroom brought it in with him.”
“But you see,” Johnson continued, “there were no signs of forced entry, and there weren’t any footprints outside. You told the detectives you were sure everything was locked when you left, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Is it possible that your daughter or Miss Courtois left something open?”
Jon didn’t like bringing either of them into this. “No, it’s not.”
“Help us out here, Doctor. We’re trying to make some sense out of this.”
“So am I. The way I see it, whoever did this is a professional who knew how to break in without leaving any traces. I’m sure that sort of thing happens all the time.”
“Not as much as you think. Most break-ins leave some evidence, and the cops who investigated were pretty damn good. They didn’t find a thing.”
Agent Lewis, who’d been looking around the room, slowly strolled into the hall. “Excuse me,” Jon called, “can I help you with something?”
“Just trying to get a feel for the place, sir. Okay if I look around?”
It wasn’t, but Jon didn’t want to appear uncooperative. “You’re not going to turn my closets inside out or anything like that?”
Lewis laughed. “No, sir. Nothing like that.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“You’re right about it being professional,” Johnson went on. “What’d you major in college, Doctor?”
“Biology.”
“Know much about electrical circuits?”
“No, but I can change a light bulb.”
“Whoever was in your medicine cabinet rigged a sophisticated timer hooked to a temperature sensor. The sensor was in your showerhead. When the water temperature hit a hundred twenty degrees, a three-minute timer was tripped. There was a lever in the gas generator that supported the cyanide. A hundred and eighty seconds after the water got hot, the lever dropped the cyanide into the acid. Simple and effective.”
“Not completely effective, thank God.”
“And you say the reason the gas didn’t kill you,” Johnson said, “was because you knew what it was?”
“It has a very distinctive smell. If you ever smelled it, you’d recognize it. But I was lucky. I’m sure you know about the antidote.”
“Just happened to have it lying around, huh?”
Jon didn’t like the suspicious tone of the question. “It was my father’s. Check the prescription label. It’s real.”
“Where is your father now, Doctor?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Johnson paused. “I’ve heard people also use amyl nitrite poppers in recreational sex.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What about you, Doctor Townsend? Ever use it that way?”
“I don’t have recreational sex, Agent Johnson. Mine is the serious variety.”
“Do you mind if I ask with whom?”
“Yes, I do mind.”
“Other than Miss Courtois, I mean.”
“If you’re trying to be objectionable, you’re doing a great job.”
Johnson flipped the pages of his notepad. “Doctor, do you have access to cyanide, in your work or otherwise?”
“Now wait a minute! I re
ally resent the direction this is headed. Do you honestly think I’d try to commit suicide and make it look like murder?”
“I don’t think anything, Doctor. It’s my job to ask questions.”
For the first time, Fitzpatrick spoke up. “Some people think it’s peculiar that you just happen to recognize the smell of cyanide, Doc, and you just happen to have the cure in the next room.”
“I see. So now I did it on purpose, huh? I’d just come home from a great day with my friends and my kid, and out of the blue, I try to set up my own murder, is that it?”
The agents stared at him, saying nothing.
“Why on earth would I want to do that?” Jon said.
“I don’t know, Doctor,” Johnson replied. “Why would you?”
Jon watched Agent Lewis return to the room. “This is ridiculous!” Jon continued. “I don’t know what you guys are after, but I sure as hell didn’t do what you’re implying. And I suppose I imagined the people who were following me?”
“You tell me, Doctor. You’re the only one who saw them.”
“That’s just great,” Jon said, shaking his head. “Next thing I know, you’re going to accuse me of being involved in the first lady’s attempted assassination.”
The three agents shared a look. “Now that you brought it up, Doctor,” Johnson said, “maybe you should tell us where you were the night of her shooting.”
Jon leapt to his feet. “You’re out of your mind!”
“Sit down, Doctor Townsend. This shouldn’t take very long. I’m sure you’re more comfortable talking about it here than at the agency.”
Jon sat down, fuming. Indeed, the remainder of their questions took all of five minutes. Jon told them his alibi, which he believed unshakable. His increasingly hostile attitude made it hard for him to be the least bit cooperative. After the agents left, the first thing he did was to phone Dave Saunders. Saunders wasn’t available, and Jon left voice mail to call as soon as possible. Ten minutes later, while Jon was getting dressed, Dave called back. Jon quickly explained what happened.
“I know Fitzpatrick and Johnson, but I never met Lewis,” Dave said. “The first two are behind-the-scenes types. They don’t pull regular details. I can try to find out what they’re after.”
“I told you what they want. They think I set up my own murder, and they think I’m involved in Roxanne’s assassination attempt!”
“Take it easy, Jon. They probably have an ulterior motive.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. But it’s standard interviewing technique to try to provoke someone, to see what kind of response you get. Sounds like they succeeded.”
“That’s just wonderful. So, what am I supposed to do now?”
“Go to work, as usual. You have three reasons not to worry about a thing.”
“What reasons?”
“First, they’ve got no evidence. Second, you’ve got a powerful alibi. Finally, you didn’t do it. So, stop worrying.”
That was easier said than done, for worrying was second nature to a physician. Nonetheless, Jon managed to finish dressing and get to work on time. His first appointment that morning was Senator Friedman. Stylishly dressed, not a hair out of place, the senator greeted him warmly.
Hands folded in her lap, she looked at Jon across the desk. “It may not be my place to ask, Doctor, but you seem distracted. Is everything all right?”
He didn’t know it showed. “Just year-end loose ends, Senator. Budget, supplies. I appreciate your asking. So, how long have you been on the medication now?” He opened her chart. “A month?”
“Five weeks. I have to tell you, I can definitely notice the change.”
“In what way?”
“My movements feel smoother. More relaxed. For some reason, I feel calmer. Is that unusual?”
“To be honest, the most common side effects go in the other direction—depression, even psychosis,” he explained. “But I’ve seen a whole spectrum of reactions. Some patients get euphoric. I’m glad what you feel is positive. You don’t have any twitching, or unusual movements?”
“None at all.”
“Great. Come on, let’s check things out, do some blood work, and get you out of here.”
The senator’s brief exam was encouraging. Her fine tremor had become undetectable. Her prior muscular rigidity was significantly reduced, and her hint of spasticity was no longer there. Soon, they returned to the consultation room.
“Your exam is as good as can be expected, Senator. Assuming your liver function tests are okay, we may as well keep your medication right where it is. At some point, things may change. But we’ll deal with it at that time, all right?”
“I’m very satisfied with the way things are turning out, Doctor. But I’m not a Pollyanna. We’ll see what the future holds, and I’ll take your suggestions. Speaking of which, the vote on fetal stem cell research should be coming up soon in my committee. I’ve already spoken with other members, and I think you can count on majority support. When the legislation comes up, it should easily clear the Senate.”
“I appreciate your help, Senator. And your friendship.”
Shortly after she left, his phone rang.
“Jon, go out to the bank of pay phones,” said Dave Saunders. His voice had an urgent tone. “I know the numbers. I’ll call you in thirty seconds.”
“Dave, what’s—?”
“Just do it.”
In the nearby lobby, one of the wall phones near Jon’s office rang. He immediately picked up. “What’s going on, Dave?”
“Listen closely, because I can’t talk long. There’s something weird going on around here. I’ve talked to a few people about Johnson and Fitzpatrick, and I’m hitting a brick wall. Nobody I really trust knows a thing, but everyone else is stalling. I’m worried. I don’t really know how to explain it, except that you get a feel for these things.”
“Does it involve me?”
“Maybe, but I can’t say for sure. All I know is, I’m running into major stonewalling over pretty insignificant questions. That shouldn’t happen. We’re all supposed to be working together around here.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Dave. “And I’ve got to go slow. If I push it, I’ll be going out on a limb more than I already have. Jon, listen to me. I may be wrong, but consider all your phones tapped—”
“Are you serious?”
“Serious as a stroke, my friend. Work, home, or car phones. My guess is your ex-wife is bugged too, and probably Mireille. This is what I want you to do. First, if you have to call me, I have a new, untraceable beeper number. Got a pen?”
“Go ahead.” He quickly scribbled down the number.
“Get yourself a new cell phone today,” Dave quickly continued. “May as well get one for Mireille, too. Try not to talk on it for more than thirty seconds. Use cash to buy them, not credit cards, okay?”
“Jesus, who can live like that?”
“The point is, Jon, you may not live without it. Whoever they are, they already tried once, and you can’t afford a second time. They might not miss. So, just do what I say.”
As soon as the agent rang off, Jon called his daughter. He’d been in twice-daily contact since her injection, so his calling wasn’t unusual. But given what Dave had said, he just wanted to hear the sound of her unfettered voice. Judging from her words and tone, nothing was amiss. He found this very encouraging. In the back of his mind, Jon was toying with an idea involving the president’s wife. Every bit of good news about Tommie was a step in the right direction.
The morning dragged on until Jon finished with his last patient at noon. Instead of going out to lunch, he drove to the area’s largest mall. The holiday week was shopper’s heaven, and the mall would be packed. Being able to lose himself in the crowd was precisely why Jon had chosen to shop there. In general, he couldn’t tell if he was being followed, and he could ill afford being trailed to some isolated electronics store, where his
purchases and new phone numbers could be easily learned by someone with the right credentials.
The mall was wall-to-wall shoppers. Joining the throng, Jon was reasonably sure he was inconspicuous. Ducking into a telephone retail store, he purchased two quality cell phones and had them activated. He put them in his pockets. He didn’t want to be seen carrying around an incriminating shopping bag.
When the day’s office hours were finished late that afternoon, Jon drove to the White House, ostensibly to see the president. He knew full well that the chief executive was out of town on a campaign swing. Mindful of Dave’s words, Jon hadn’t wanted to phone Mireille, hoping to speak with her in person. But as he walked through the halls heading for the kitchen, he bumped into the chief of staff.
“What are you doing here?” asked Forbes, looking surprised.
“Happy holidays to you too, Mitch.”
“Sorry,” said Forbes, stung. “Merry Christmas. I didn’t expect you to be here when the president’s away.”
“So I just found out. I should’ve called ahead, but I thought I’d just stop by to see how he’s doing. How does he seem to you?”
“About the same.”
“Which means, not so good. Every time I see him, the president seems a little more forgetful, a little more irritable. He sticks to quick stump speeches he doesn’t even write. I think the reason nobody’s caught on is because they’re still treating him with kid gloves after Rocky’s shooting.”
Forbes shrugged. “You’re the doctor. But what about his test results? Didn’t you say they’d be in by now?”
“In fact, they are—at least, all the original tests. I asked the lab to run one more.”
“There’s always one more with you, isn’t there?”
“Mitch,” Jon said with an innocent sigh, “these things take a while.”
“How do the original test results look so far?”
“Come on, Mr. Forbes. You know the rules. As soon as I find everything out, I’ll tell the president, then you.”
Forbes eyed him icily. “I know the rules, all right. The question is, do you?”
He stormed away, leaving Jon to wonder what he’d done to incur the man’s enmity.