Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

“The bomb’s firing mechanism had its own power source,” he said. “A nine-volt Duracell battery. We found this fragment. Note here”-the bright red laser dot danced across the figures-“these are the manufacturer’s lot numbers. Duracell records the regional distributors to whom each lot is shipped.”

Emerson frowned. “Yes?”

“We traced this lot to a distributor in Columbus, Ohio. The distributor’s records show that it was broken into three separate shipments to retailers. One to a Home Depot in Montgomery, Alabama, and another to a Lowe’s in Lexington, Kentucky, and a third… here in the District. The Home Depot over in Northeast.”

The door to Tompkins’s left opened, and an assistant slipped in and handed him a folded note.

Tompkins picked his reading glasses up off the conference table. He took his time when reading the note, then glanced around the table.

“A summons,” he said, waving the paper. “The Honorable Frederick Rhinelander requests my presence in his office Monday morning.”

Calkins, sensing his time onstage was over, folded his easel and began putting away his charts. Frank caught Emerson nudging Chief Day’s elbow. Day sat without expression.

Emerson hesitated, then jumped in. “You know what he’s going to want, Your Honor.”

Tompkins raised an eyebrow. “Besides my head?” After enjoying Emerson’s discomfort, he continued. “I suspect, Captain Emerson, he’s going to put the squeeze on me to get this case solved.”

Emerson nodded energetically. “I think you’re right, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Tompkins said dryly. His sarcasm sailed over Emerson’s head.

“Who do you want to go with you?” Emerson asked with the same suck-up enthusiasm.

“Who do you suggest, Captain?”

“Well,” Emerson said, all businesslike, “myself… ah… Chief Day, of course. Perhaps Susan Liberman, our congressional relations specialist…”

“Quite an entourage, Captain,” Tompkins said as he got up. “I don’t think so.” He got an amused look and pointed down the table to Frank and Jose. “I think these two gentlemen will be sufficient.”

Jose looked down the block. Both sides of the street had been restricted to parking for official vehicles.

“We got wheels?”

“Yeah… blue Crown Vic over there.” Frank pointed. “Richardson wanted to give us a confiscated Hummer.”

“And you didn’t take it? Shit, Frank, our chance to get a luxury assault vehicle and you turn it down?” Jose glanced around, checking for anyone within earshot. “Tompkins is gonna be hung out to dry. Steaks on it.”

“Depends on how much Rhinelander squeezes him.”

“Rhinelander’s in the catbird seat. He gets prime time on the tube for beating up on the D.C. government…”

“The D.C. punching bag…”

“And if we close the case, you can bet your ass he’ll grab the credit for that too.”

“Helluva place, that Congress. You don’t have to come up with solutions… All you got to do is point fingers and piss and moan.”

“And hire guys to raise flags on the roof.”

How is he…?” Frank asked. “Long-term prospects?”

Sheresa Arrowsmith stopped and leaned wearily against a column in the long corridor leading to the ICU. She pushed her glasses up to her forehead with one hand, and with the other scrubbed her eyes.

“That’s two questions, Frank. How is he? He’s still critical. Damage like that doesn’t leave a clean wound. But Dr. Michaels saved the elbow and a little over three inches of the forearm.”

“Meaning?” Jose asked.

“Meaning he’s got a chance for a working prosthesis. One that can take advantage of the muscles remaining above the elbow. The second question, long-term prospects, that’s harder. The best prosthesis can only do so much. Rest of it comes from the heart. Overall, for what he went through, he’s lucky.”

“Yeah,” Frank said in soft irony, “lucky Leon.”

In the ICU, a wave of smothering despair swept over Frank. Leon Janowitz lay almost lifeless, his face a waxy white. His right arm, encased in a pillowlike bandage, was elevated by an overhead traction device.

Esther Janowitz was curled up in a chair beside her husband’s bed. Frank recognized the chair as one from the ICU waiting room.

Frank whispered her name.

Esther stirred, was still, then suddenly awake, eyes wide, taking in Frank, only slowly becoming aware of where she was.

“What… what time is it?” Then her eyes fastened on Jose. “You have to be Jose.”

Jose smiled big. “Don’t have to be, but I am. How’s he doing?”

Esther stood and stretched, hand covering a yawn. “He came out of it for a minute or two this morning. Sometime around three.” She smiled wryly. “He told me they were going to discharge him tomorrow. He’s been drifting in and out since.” She gave Frank a grave look. “Each time he asks about you.”

“Me?”

“He thinks you didn’t make it. I tell him you were okay. But I don’t think it sinks in.”

“Does he know what happened?” Frank asked.

“You mean about his arm?”

Frank nodded.

“No. Not yet.” Forlorn, Esther shook her head. “I want to be the one to tell him, but I don’t want to be the one to tell him.”

Frank stared unhappily at his feet.

Her voice somewhat brighter, Esther said, “Let me see if I can wake him.”

Before Frank could protest, she leaned over and put her palm on her husband’s cheek and kissed him. “Leon,” she whispered. Then louder, “Leon?”

Nothing.

Frank held up a belaying hand. Before he could say anything, Janowitz stirred, a slight flutter of the eyelids, then a weak cough to clear his throat. His eyes opened and made contact with Frank’s. His lips moved.

Frank bent closer.

“Yes, Leon?”

“Frank,” Janowitz whispered, “you look like shit.”

“Thanks, Leon.”

“You okay?”

“I’m good. How you feeling?”

“Spaced out… What happened?”

Frank exchanged glances with Esther, who nodded slightly.

“My car was rigged with a bomb,” he said slowly. “It went off when I hit the remote to unlock it.”

It registered gradually with Janowitz. Frank felt he could see the realization bulling its way into Janowitz’s consciousness through layers of drug-suppressed pain.

“Bomb?”

Frank nodded.

Janowitz’s eyes widened in alarm. His left hand scrabbled at the sheet.

“A bomb? I still got my…”

Esther leaned forward and took his left hand. “Everything’s still there, sweetie.”

Leon smiled.

Jose rolled his eyes toward the door. “We’ll be back, Leon. Anything we can get for you?”

Janowitz was having trouble focusing, and his eyelids were fluttering rapidly. “Kill for some ice cream,” he muttered, beginning to drift off. Then, making a visible effort to double-back into consciousness, “You guys check Martin Osmond yet?”

“Today or tomorrow, Leon,” Jose said.

“Important,” Janowitz mumbled.

“Today or tomorrow,” Jose repeated.

Janowitz fought to keep his eyes on Jose and Frank. “You’ll let me know?” he whispered.

“Sure,” said Jose.

“No shit?” The words came faint, barely audible.

“No shit, partner,” Jose said.

Frank turned onto Columbia Road, only partially paying attention to the early-afternoon traffic.

“I wonder how I’d take it… one minute walking down the street, the next thing waking up without an arm?”

Jose pushed his dark glasses higher on his nose with the tip of his finger. “You told him up front about the remote.”

“I don’t think it sank in.”

“It sank in? What sank in?” Jose asked irritably. “That you blew his goddamn arm off? You wallowing in that self-blame guilt shit again?”