Brian Haig - President's assassin

Bill examined my face for confirmation. I stared back at him, sort of blankly.

Eventually Bill said, "We know for sure that Clyde Wizner arrived at least thirty minutes later. What did you and MaryLou Johnson talk about during the nearly forty-five minutes you were alone together?"

"Mostly, Bill, we argued about where my cut was to be delivered." Obviously this was a joke. Right? I should work on my comic timing.

Bill did not laugh, or even smile. Bob examined me more closely.

Larry decided I was kidding. He was sharp. He leaned toward me and said, "When Clyde Wizner first called, he specified that you had to be the courier. Why you? And how did he know you?"

"Ask him."

After a moment, Bob also leaned forward and informed me, "The Army would not allow us to view your military records, which they said are classified and sealed. However, the Office of the Judge Advocate cooperated with our request for information. We were informed that although you were never actually stationed at Fort Hood, on three different occasions you were there on temporary duty, once for over two months. Isn't it possible that during those months you might have met Clyde Wizner?"

"Of course, Bob. It's possible."

Larry saw that Bob wasn't doing well, and said, "Here's another thing we find interesting. Agent Sanchez informed us that you initially refused to take the tracking device."

"She called it a suppository. I don't like people looking up my ass. I was joking."

"Yes. That's what she thought at first-a perfectly innocuous misunderstanding. She then assured you it was taken orally and your excuse disappeared."

"Sounds right."

Bob hit his hand on the table and pointed out, "However, a pool of vomit was found beside the van at the shopping center."

"Hank kicked me in the stomach. I blew lunch. It's in my oral statement. So what?"

"So maybe you were trying to dislodge the tracking device. Maybe you stuck your finger down your throat, initiating an involuntary gag."

"I still had the tracking device, Bob."

Larry stopped using conditionals and switched to straightforward accusations. He said, "But you didn't know that. Through the dense smoke you couldn't see whether it came out or not. And considering the hectic circumstances, you were in too much of a hurry to dig through your vomit to be sure it was gone."

Bob wanted back into the action and said, "Nor was there a bomb in the van, as you informed Sanchez and Margold. We've listened to the transcripts of all your phone conversations with the control van. You demanded they remove all coverage, and you threw a fit when you discovered the tails were still on you."

I think Bill was tired of playing the good cop, which wasn't a particularly comfortable fit for him anyway. Ticking off fingers, he said, "As we reviewed the activities of that day, Drummond, you're the sore thumb. Wizner asked for you, and you eagerly volunteered. You tried to refuse a tracking device. Later you tried to get rid of it. You lied about the bomb and tried to get the coverage eliminated." He paused and then, with half-assed melodrama, pointed a finger at my chest. "Where's the money, Drummond?"

Larry, Bob, and Bill sat back in their chairs and studied me. Now I knew what they thought, and I knew why they thought it. Nor did it escape my notice that they hadn't read me my rights or formally charged me. Ergo, they lacked evidence. They had a strong suspicion backed up by a strong circumstantial construction. Period.

Also they suspected that the moment they initiated the rights process, I would clam up and demand representation, and around and around we would go. Smart guys.

So I looked at Larry, Bob, and Bill and, speaking clearly into their recorder, I said, "Sean Drummond has the right to remain silent.." and they sat quietly and watched dumbly as I gave myself a Miranda warning.

When I finished, Bill, with a disappointed pout, said, "That's not helpful."

"It's very helpful, Bill. If I had twelve and a half million bucks salted away, would I confess?"

Bob said, "We know it's not in your possession yet."

"How?"

Nobody answered. Nobody needed to answer. They had staked out my apartment, probably tapped my phones, and surely accessed my minuscule checking and savings account. That meant they had a court order, and that meant I had at least one foot in the crapper.

No further good was going to come from this conversation, so I stood and, directing my words at Larry, announced, "Unless you have a warrant, I'm outta here."

Larry replied, "We don't have a warrant-yet."

Phyllis said to the three gentlemen, "Actually, he works here, and he's not leaving. You are."

Larry nodded. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a business card, and flipped it at me. He said, "If you rediscover your conscience, give me a call." Then Larry and Bob and Bill collected their notepads and recorder, and with nasty expressions filed out the door.

The door closed and there was a moment of silence. Phyllis finally said, "Sean, look me in the eye and tell me you don't have the money."

I looked Phyllis in the eye. "It's mine, all mine. You're not getting a dime of it."

I thought I heard a sigh of relief.

She said, "It's preposterous. I assigned you this case. How could you have arranged this when you had no intimation you would become involved?" She confessed, "I now feel a certain burden of guilt for involving you in this."

I made no reply to that. However, I did make a note in my mental chitpad that she thought she owed me one. I said, "Well… I'm not worried."

"You should worry."

"I'd be very worried if they made me meet them across the river, rather than here. I'm a lawyer, Phyllis. Trust me."

She did not comment on that oxymoron. She said, "They presented a very convincing case, Sean."

"A pile of dough's missing, and the accountants in the basement are demanding a pass from internal investigations. Standard procedure. They have to shake the bushes."

"You're missing something."

"Am I?"

"George Meany He was fired this week. Of course, 'fired' wasn't the expression used, because it seldom is. But you know how it works. A lot of people are dead, and somebody had to take the blame. It was announced that George is the new assistant to the Bureau's spokesperson."

This was news to me. "I had nothing to do with it. George was in charge, and rank and responsibility are a double-edged sword. And at the end he chose to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and ended up without any helpings of glory."

"I believe that what matters is not what you think, what matters is what Meany thinks."

Good point. She continued, "He has a vindictive streak, Sean, and he's not without connections within the Bureau." She added, "Incidentally, Mark Townsend submitted his resignation as Director this morning. The President is going to accept it.

Also, your friend Jennie is now the acting ADIC, and I hear there's a good chance that'll be made permanent."

"She earned it. I'm sorry about Townsend."

"Me too. And about Margold, yes, she did earn it. She did better on this case than anybody" After a moment she added, "As did you."

I had turned toward the door, and I spun around and faced Phyllis. Had I been seated this unexpected praise would've caused me to fall out of my chair. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." She added, "I'll give you two days to get your professional and personal affairs sorted out. The Agency doesn't need this messiness, nor do you. Fix it."

"Yes ma'am."

Actually, I did have a big problem. It was even possible I had two big problems, one personal and one professional. Worse, there was a chance my personal problems were my professional problems. But I wasn't ready to say that yet.