William Krueger - The Devil's bed

“Not legally. But official papers don’t always tell the whole story.”

“They don’t, do they,” Dixon said.

After they’d eaten, the president suggested a walk in the rose garden, which was odd, for it was a muggy day out. After a bit, Clay Dixon removed his suit coat and slung it over his shoulder as they strolled. In a few minutes, they were joined by Lorna Channing.

“Bo,” the president said, “you came close to being killed saving my wife. How do you feel about that?”

“About protecting her, pretty good. Not so good about some of the rest of the incident.”

“The agents who were killed, were they friends of yours?”

“Some, yes.”

The president paused and stared across the bright green lawn, beyond the Ellipse, toward the Washington Monument, jutting like a bony finger above the trees.

“I asked you here because I believe you’re a man of great integrity, and I need your help. I was supposed to leave for the Pan-American summit first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve delayed departure so that I can attend Robert Lee’s funeral.”

“I was sorry to hear about his death.”

“I know Lorna explained to you already that I don’t think Bobby’s death was an accident.”

“I thought the FBI determined it was.”

“As you said, official papers don’t always tell the whole story. At the risk of sounding paranoid, I think there’s something going on that may have compromised the integrity of the FBI investigation.” He glanced at the White House. “And the integrity of my own security as well.”

For the next dozen minutes, Dixon related the events that had brought him to that startling conclusion.

“What is it you want from me?” Bo said.

“To find out what Bobby knew or was about to learn that made it incumbent on someone to have him killed.”

“Someone? Mr. President, from what you’ve told me it sounds as if you think your father is involved.”

“I do. I’m concerned about the integrity of the White House staff as well.”

“Why me?”

“You’re a trained investigator. You risked your life in the line of duty. And you’re outside the network here.”

“There’s no one here you trust?”

“Someone I trust may already have betrayed me.”

Bo looked behind him. Under the pillared colonnade, two Secret Service agents stood post near the French doors that opened into the Oval Office. He didn’t know them. They looked grim and focused. He wondered what they thought of Dixon, the man whose life might someday require the sacrifice of their own.

Dixon said, “I don’t know what you think of me personally, but this situation transcends any personal consideration. It’s a matter of national security, with implications far beyond who I am as a man or as a president. Your country needs your help, Bo. Will you give it?”

Bo said, “Yes.”

“Thank you.” The president warmly shook his hand.

Bo glanced at Channing. “I’ve given this some thought. I’ll need a way to communicate with the White House that doesn’t raise suspicions.”

“You can communicate with me directly,” Channing said.

“I should use a code name,” Bo suggested.

“All right.”

“How about Peter Parker?”

Channing cast him a questioning look.

“Are you familiar with the comic book hero Spider-Man?” Bo said.

She shook her head.

The president smiled. “Peter Parker is Spider-Man’s real name, Lorna.”

Channing said, “Peter Parker it is.”

Bo left the White House carrying a large manila envelope, and he went straight to his hotel. He took off his blazer, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his white shirt. He bent to the small refrigerator and took a bottle of Heineken from the refreshments supplied by the hotel. He popped the cap off and carried the cold beer to the desk near the window. He picked up the envelope, dumped out the contents, and sat down to work.

The president had supplied him with a copy of all the documents related to Robert Lee’s death and the preliminary investigation. Although a number of jurisdictions had been involved, the paperwork wasn’t overwhelming, a sign that thus far in the thinking of the investigators, there was nothing unusual about the case.

The initial radio transmission had been picked up by the Coast Guard at 1902 hours and relayed to the sheriff’s office in Easton, Maryland. A boat had been dispatched, arriving on the scene at Bone Creek Cove at 1927 hours. The eyewitness who’d reported the accident directed divers in their effort to locate the victim. The body was pulled from the water at 2010 hours.

The sheriff’s people made a tentative ID from both the boat registration and a driver’s license found among the personal belongings aboard the victim’s sailboat. When they discovered that they had the president’s legal counsel under a blanket, they called the FBI, who took over the investigation from there.

The autopsy showed a depressed skull fracture and acute subdural hematoma beneath the right temporal bone, consistent with a blow to the head. No other wound or unusual marks had been noted. The lungs were filled with brackish salt water. (An accompanying lab report indicated the water in the lungs was chemically and biologically similar to samples taken from Bone Creek Cove.) The cause of death had officially been listed as drowning.

According to the statement given by the only eyewitness, a woman named Jonetta Jackson, Lee had been sailing across the inlet, north-by-northwest with the wind. She happened to be following him, a hundred yards back and slightly east, also running with the wind. They were the only boats in the area.

There’d been a lull in the breeze. Both sailboats had come to a stop, sitting dead in the water. Then the wind picked up again, only it had shifted, coming now from almost due north. As she prepared to come about, her attention was focused on her own boat. When she glanced again at Lee’s sailboat, she saw him begin to stand, his attention apparently grabbed by something on the shore. At that moment, the boom swung around and caught him in the head. She saw him go overboard.

Ms. Jackson had sailed as quickly as she could to his location. By the time she reached his boat, he had gone under. She immediately radioed the Coast Guard. In her statement to the FBI, she indicated she was a very good swimmer, and she had entered the water, hoping to locate Lee. Unfortunately, the murky water of the inlet prevented her from seeing anything below the surface. She’d held her position until the sheriff’s boat arrived, and she’d directed the divers in their efforts. According to the notes of the agent who’d interviewed her, she seemed quite shaken by the whole experience.

The Bureau had done a routine background check on Jonetta Jackson. The eyewitness was a consultant with a firm called Hammerkill, Inc. that specialized in high-tech security issues. Prior to that she’d been a special agent of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, a veteran of twenty years, who’d been cited for meritorious action at Waco. Her love of sailing was well known. Her credentials as a witness were impeccable.

Given all the evidence, the FBI was comfortable with a determination that Robert Lee’s death had been the result of a tragic accident and nothing more.

Looking at the evidence himself, Bo thought the same thing.

However, the president was convinced otherwise.

Bo walked to the window. He had a good view of the nation’s capital, a city that quivered in the heat of the August afternoon in a way that reminded Bo of a mirage in a movie. It was a city built on promise, on compromise, on inspiration and empty rhetoric both, on history poorly remembered and easily bent, and once in a while, on good people with the best of intentions who battled against the distrust, misdirection, and deceit that was politics as usual.