by Otho Eskin
“Do you care?”
“Not really. But now it’s the Department of Homeland Security. How many government departments are you going to piss off today?”
“How many are there?”
“Try to stay out of trouble.” He cuts off the call.
Almost immediately my phone rings again. The caller ID reads “unknown.”
“Hello,” I answer. I’m instinctively suspicious of phone calls when the caller hides his identity, but this is probably the call I’m expecting.
“Is this Detective Zorn?”
“Could be.”
“My name is Matt Decker. Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the Director of the Secret Service.”
“I understand you want to meet with me.”
“That’s right, Mr. Decker.”
“Pat Grier says he just spoke on the phone with someone from DC Homicide. He said the man acted like a jerk and a major asshole. Could that have been you?”
“Certainly sounds like me.”
“I think we should talk.”
“Good idea,” I say. “How about now? I can be at your office in ten minutes.”
“Good,” Decker says. “I’m looking forward to meeting you, Detective Zorn. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I take a final swig of my beer, abandon my dreary onion rings, drop a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and leave O’Toole’s. Seven minutes later, I’m back in the reception area of the Secret Service headquarters. There’s a different receptionist on duty. He has the same attitude. Before we can get into a pointless exchange about what I want, two men detach themselves from the crowd. “Detective Zorn?” one asks. “Come with us, please.” They lead me to the bank of elevators, and we take one that has a sign that reads: “Reserved for The Director.” We ride silently to the ninth floor. My escorts take me to an office with an impressive door and a nice waiting room.
“This way, sir.” One of my escorts gestures for me to enter. We’re in a standard government-issue office but with more pictures on the wall, all with pretty frames. What distinguishes this office from a hundred others I’ve visited is that it’s filled with guns—machine guns, machine pistols, rifles, shotguns, antique flintlocks. They hang on the walls, decorate the tops of bookcases, end tables, and a large desk. Next to a couch there is a coffee table on which sits a semiautomatic Stoner SR 16 rifle. And, of all things, a hand grenade that looks like a flash-bang type. I don’t like hand grenades, not even flash-bang ones. My experiences with them have not been happy.
Standing behind the desk is a man in his sixties, well built, trim and athletic. He has a thick, distinguished, black mustache. “Detective Zorn,” he says, coming from around his desk. “Come right on in. I’m Matt Decker. Glad to meet you.” He gestures at the couch. “Let’s talk.”
I sit on the couch, a few inches from the grenade and the Stoner. Decker sits in an armchair opposite, legs crossed. I must look anxious because Decker says: “They’re all harmless, Detective. They’re real enough but none are loaded.”
“I don’t like your toys, sir.”
Decker ignores my comment. “What can we do for you?”
“I have questions about the murder of one of your agents.”
Decker leans back in his chair and opens his hands in a gesture of welcome. “I’m sorry things got off on the wrong foot. We want to cooperate with the police. Really we do.”
“Then give me back the items your people seized from the apartment of Sandra Wilcox.”
Decker smiles patiently. “I’m afraid our eagerness to cooperate with the police has its limits.”
“What limits, Mr. Decker?”
“Look, we’re in the middle of an investigation into the death of one of our most valued agents. This investigation is going to be exhaustive.”
“Glad to hear that. I want the computer and documents your people took.”
“I have personally directed the Service to spare no effort in uncovering the truth about what happened to Agent Wilcox. I assure you, when we have completed our investigation, we will share the results with the DC police.”
“And when will that be?”
He makes another vague gesture with his hands. “Hard to say. You know how these things are.”
“No, how are these things?”
Decker shrugs.
“What was Sandra Wilcox doing in the White House on the night she died?”
“I never said she was in the White House.”
“I know you didn’t but she was.”
“Maybe she was at home. Or out with friends.”
“She wasn’t at home. Should I spell out what happened?”
“You can try.”
“At one fourteen Sandra Wilcox was on duty somewhere in the White House. Somebody forced her to leave the building and took her beyond the perimeter security fence, then led her, by force, to the Reflecting Pool in the Mall where, at one forty-six, she was murdered.”
Decker stares at me. “You’re just guessing. How can you know any of that? I have no comment on your speculations.”
“Trust me, I know what happened. I’ve calculated the time between when she was accosted until she reached the Reflecting Pool. I know how long she walked. She had to have come from the White House. What I don’t know is who was with her. I need to see the White House logs showing who came and left the building that night. Who was in the White House between one and two on the night she was killed?”
Decker shakes his head. “The logs are not available to the public.”
“I’m not the public!”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not going to tell me what you know about Sandra Wilcox’s private life. Who she was seeing? Who her friends were? What her outside activities were? You’re not going to give me squat?”
“Sorry. Afraid not. Maybe later.” He leans forward in his chair. “We all follow orders, Detective. You follow orders …”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, I follow my orders.”
“And you’ve been ordered to shut me down.”
Decker smiles. “No comment.”
“How long was Sandra Wilcox in the Secret Service?”
Decker struggles for a moment to decide whether that’s part of the information he’s not supposed to share, then, remembering it’s in the public record, comes clean.
“Five years, I think. I’d have to look up the exact dates.”
“And she was assigned to the Presidential Security Detail. That’s pretty fast, isn’t it?”
“I never said Agent Wilcox was on the Presidential Security Detail.”
“You don’t have to. Let’s say hypothetically that Agent Wilcox was on the Presidential Security Detail. Five years would be pretty fast—hypothetically speaking.”
“I suppose—hypothetically.”
“I understand your agents usually spend six or seven years in various field offices before being assigned to the Presidential Protective Division.”
“That’s normal.”
“The Presidential Security Detail is the most prestigious unit in the Secret Service. How did Miss Wilcox make that assignment so fast?”
“She was talented and disciplined.” Decker has obviously given up the charade. “We reward people like that.”
“I’m sure there are many men and women in the Secret Service who are talented and disciplined.”
“Of course.”
“What was special about Sandra Wilcox?”
“I admit her case was a bit unusual.”
“A bit?”
“Off the record—there was some influence brought to bear.”
“Who by?” I ask.
“Sandra worked out of the Atlanta field office for a while. President Reynolds and his wife made a trip there to attend some political event. The First Lady was given the usual FLOTUS treatment. You know, visiting orphanages and homeless shelters. That kind of do-gooder bullshit. We ran into a personnel problem with the President’s
detail. The detail was short two agents, and we moved two from the First Lady’s shift. Then Mrs. Reynolds decides she wants to visit some goddamn juvenile detention center. An unscheduled change in one of the principal’s schedule. That’s what we call a pop-up. She’s interested in prison reform. You know, ‘hug the hardened criminal and he’ll become a perfect citizen.’ That’s her thing.
“Mrs. Reynolds likes to mix with people,” Decker goes on. “A real headache for us. This afternoon she’s going to some damn book signing to promote her new book. Can you believe? Right now, we’re facing a major threat to the President and First Lady, and she decides to go to a goddamn bookstore.”
“Which bookstore?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere on Connecticut Avenue. Next week she’s attending a Broadway show. These are major headaches for us.”
“Tell me about what happened in Atlanta.”
“We assigned some of the agents from the Atlanta field office to the First Lady’s detail.”
“And one of them was Sandra Wilcox, I’ll bet.”
“Nothing particularly unusual there,” Decker says. “As it happens Sandra was on the shift that accompanied Mrs. Reynolds to the juvenile detention center. The two got into a conversation. That’s strictly against the rules, you understand. It distracts the agent from their job. But if a principal engages one of our agents in conversation, it’s hard not to respond without being rude. As soon as she decently could, Agent Wilcox disengaged. But it seems she made a good impression on the First Lady.”
“What happened?”
“Two weeks after the Atlanta event, Mrs. Reynolds calls me to her private office in the White House. She wants Sandra Wilcox assigned to her protective detail. I said no, of course. We don’t approve of the principals interfering in assignments. It totally fucks up our personnel system. But the First Lady was adamant. She insisted we make the assignment. You ever met the lady?”
“Never.”
“She can be very persuasive. Mrs. Reynolds insisted Agent Wilcox be assigned to her security detail and, in the end, she got what she wanted. As usual. We assigned Agent Wilcox to Presidential Security training at our facility in Beltsville. I have to say, Sandra did very well there. Six months after Atlanta, she was relocated to Washington and attached to the First Lady’s security team.”
“Did the President’s wife explain why she wanted to transfer Agent Wilcox?”
“The security detail is a very peculiar human dynamic and principals react differently. When they’re in a security situation, particularly when mixing with the public, the principals are surrounded by four to six agents. Often very close. The detail leader is within inches of the principal at all times, standing just behind or to one side of the principal. They are there to pull the principal out of the way or may even throw them to the ground in case there’s an incident. So they are almost touching the principal at all times. Mrs. Reynolds was uncomfortable with a man doing that. She felt it was more appropriate if the detail leader were a woman. That’s where we assigned Sandra Wilcox whenever we could.”
“So Agent Wilcox is on the First Lady’s security detail?”
“No longer. Two months ago, the President directed that Agent Wilcox be transferred to the President’s security detail. In the end, the President, of course, got his way.”
“On the night Sandra was murdered, she was on the President’s security detail?”
Decker shakes his head. “Sorry, I can’t go there. Information regarding specific security assignments is off limits.”
“I think that Sandra might have been having an affair with one of your agents. Maybe even an agent on the President’s security detail.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Who would know where Agent Wilcox was on the night she was killed?”
“Sorry, that’s classified. I can’t share that information. Look, you may be focused on a single incident, but we have a lot to deal with just now. We have a credible threat to assassinate the President. The President, accompanied by Mrs. Reynolds, is scheduled to attend a funeral service at Arlington National Cemetery. We tried to persuade the President not to go, but he’s insistent. He says he’s not going to let some lowlife thug bully him out of attending the funeral and honoring an American hero. See what we have to contend with?”
“I don’t think I’m going to get any help here,” I say.
“To you this is a simple case of murder. Very tragic, of course. But there is much more at stake here than you realize. Between us—and this is strictly confidential and must not leave this room—your case involves matters of national security. Of the most sensitive level. Take my advice, leave the Wilcox case alone.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A SECRET SERVICE agent stands at the bookstore entrance watching arriving customers suspiciously. Several more agents are posted inside. One stands next to a collection of books on gardening and another next to the latest cookbooks. I join a long line waiting to buy a book.
At the far end of the room is a table covered by a thick green felt cloth. A few feet away stands a small table stacked with books with bright yellow covers. I wait in line at this table where two clerks are selling the yellow books. I’m disheartened to see the woman in front of me buy five copies. When my turn comes, I buy one lone book. The title reads: The Future Is You America. I think, shouldn’t there be a comma after “You”?
After about ten minutes, there is a stir at the back of the room and several more Secret Service types materialize. Then the famous author herself appears and there is a ripple of polite applause.
Mrs. Marsha Reynolds, the First Lady of the United States, smiles brightly at the crowd, waves in a decorous, ladylike fashion, and takes her seat at the felt-covered table. She has auburn hair, touched with white, cut short and severe. She is dressed in a conservative business suit.
Behind her stand two women and a man. The man and one of the women are young—hardly more than twenty. These are aides or interns or whatever they call them in the White House, there to attend to any needs of the First Lady. Otherwise, they stand back, careful not to take the limelight away from Mrs. Reynolds.
The third woman is different. A little older, perhaps in her thirties, she is striking—tall and slender and graceful, with perfect, pale skin—what old novels used to describe as alabaster—large hazel eyes and platinum blonde hair tied up in a coil at the back of her head. She wears a simple but elegantly cut pants suit and a gray, shimmery silk blouse. She places a plastic water bottle and a glass along with several fountain pens on the table just within reach of the First Lady but not too close. She leans down and speaks softly to the First Lady, and they both look out over the line of people waiting to get their books inscribed, doubtlessly gauging how long the book signing is going to take. The platinum blonde woman’s hands are slender; her lacquered nails a brilliant scarlet.
I notice a man slip in behind the group at the green table. I think for a minute he must be Secret Service. He studies the crowd carefully, watching faces and hands. He’s short and muscular and almost bald on top, dark brown hair on each side. A security type but not Secret Service I decide. He isn’t the neat, buttoned-up package the Secret Service favors. Hired muscle, I suppose, here to protect the First Lady from the middle-aged ladies waiting to get an autograph.
A woman with tortoiseshell glasses and wearing a gray cardigan sweater stands and asks for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she announces in a soft, cultivated voice. “We are honored to have with us here today Mrs. Marsha Reynolds, the First Lady of the United States.” There is warm but civilized applause. No whooping or hollering here. “In addition to her many other accomplishments, Mrs. Reynolds, a lawyer by training, has taken an active interest in reforming the criminal justice system, particularly for juveniles who are victims of drug abuse. She is the author of a new book on this subject. The book has been hailed as an important contribution to the field.” There is more decorous applause. Several among the audience
take pictures with their cell phones.
“Mrs. Reynolds will be happy to sign copies of her new book, The Future Is You America.”
With that, the line begins to inch forward toward the table covered by the green cloth. I’m eighth in line, behind the woman with five copies of the book.
When the woman with five copies reaches her destination there is a lot of animated conversation between her and Mrs. Reynolds. I note that Mrs. Reynolds has adopted a kind of fixed smile. I amuse myself by admiring the platinum-blonde lady. Our eyes meet and I think she smiles at me. That could be my imagination.
When it’s my turn, I place my lone copy of the yellow book on the table. Mrs. Reynolds looks at me with the kind of vacant smile that means nothing. I notice from the corner of my eye the muscular security guy watching me.
“Would it be okay to inscribe your book to my sister?” I ask.
“Of course.” Mrs. Reynolds picks up a pen. It’s a Mont Blanc.
“My sister is a schoolteacher. Once a week she visits the local state prison and teaches basic reading. She is a great admirer of your work, Mrs. Reynolds. She thinks what you’re doing to help America’s children is phenomenal.”
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Mona,” I answer, “Mona Nightly.”
Mrs. Reynolds writes on the inside page of the book, passes it back to me. The inscription reads: “With Very Best Wishes for Mona Nightly, Marsha Reynolds.” This is followed by the date and “Washington DC.” “Please give your sister my best wishes. She’s doing important work.”
I observe the platinum blonde watching me with curiosity. “Thank you,” I say and hurry away, carrying my precious package under my arm. I work my way past the line waiting to have their books signed, through the crowd, past the bored Secret Service agents, out the door, and onto the street.
I feel bad about making Mrs. Reynolds inscribe a book to some phantom named Mona, but it had to be done.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“IT’S A FUCKING war zone out there,” Hal Marshal declares. “A fucking war zone.”