Reginald Cook - Veil

“I need to follow-up and make sure he’s okay.” Miller stroked his chin, grabbed a few more jellybeans, and shook them like dice.

“It’s kind of strange,” he said, as if thinking to himself. “Charlie’s been coming and going for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been working on these streets for almost twenty-five years. Hell, I spent two or three sleeping on them myself. But as long as I can remember, I’ve never known Charlie to reach out to anyone.” Miller’s face colored with uncertainty. Robert looked him directly in the eye. “You don’t know me from Adam,” he said. “But trust me.

Charlie needs my help.” He grabbed a fistful of jellybeans from the jar and tossed a couple in his mouth. I haven’t eaten all day.

Miller hesitated, tapping his desk. “He stays here sometimes,” he finally said. “We haven’t seen him in awhile. That’s not unusual for most of the people around here. We only allow them a bed for forty-seven consecutive nights before they have to move on, sixty if it’s a woman with a child. If they get lucky, they may get back in after three or four months. So they come and go.”

“What about Charlie?” asked Robert, finishing the jellybeans and grabbing a few more.

“Oh he’s as regular as clockwork. He shows up every spring and stays as long as we let him, then moves on. Sometimes we see him twice a year. From time to time he even helps out around here.”

“Helps out?” asked Robert.

Miller’s eyes flashed upward, narrowed, then relaxed. A sign of truth. “Yes,” he continued. “Charlie’s quite a unique fellow. We get all kinds in here, stockbrokers, government workers, business executives, even one or two White House aides over the years. Talented people who for some reason end up on the street burned out.” Robert wanted more jellybeans but didn’t want to be greedy. “And Charlie?”

“That’s what makes him so different,” said Miller. “Most of the time he’s very sharp, clear headed, even shows signs of extreme intelligence.

He’s never told anyone what he did for a living, but I imagine he was good at it.”

Yeah, Robert thought. Real good. “Are there any other places, other missions, where he may have stayed occasionally?”

“None that I know about, but like I said, people come and go. Some make their way across country and back, year after year. There’s no telling where Charlie is when he’s not here.” Robert grabbed more jellybeans anyway. “Did he have any friends or groups he ran with?”

“Now that was one thing strange about Charlie,” said Miller. “Most people out here run in groups, or at least have a partner who’ll have their back in a pinch. Know what I mean?”

Robert thought of Thorne. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Charlie kept to himself,” continued Miller. “He’d help out, but never seemed to get close enough to anybody to say he had any real friends. Miller smiled and popped a jellybean in his mouth. “Then again, I don’t know everything.”

The phone rang and after the call, Miller asked Robert to join him down in the kitchen where the cooks and kitchen staff, all dressed in white, moved at a pace just short of frantic. From what Robert could surmise, they were getting ready for the dinner rush.

Miller glided through the kitchen tasting food from several pots, smiling, and patting workers on the back. The rich smell of beef stew, baked bread, and apple pie made Robert’s stomach rumble violently.

Miller offered him a small bowl of stew, which he scarfed down while the director dealt with questions from the staff. The stew was surprisingly good.

Miller looked around the kitchen and smiled. “This is what it’s all about,” he said. “We serve over a thousand meals a day. When you’re out on the street, a decent meal is like gold.” Robert didn’t share Miller’s enthusiasm for housing and feeding the poor. For him it was the law of the jungle. Eat, or be eaten. “Do you know if Charlie was injured or sick?” he asked, as a whiff of hot bread teased with him. He recounted to Miller an edited version of the scene at his office. The overturned chair. The drops of blood.

Miller’s face flashed concerned. “I’m afraid…” Robert’s cell phone interrupted. Thorne. The Bear. More dead bodies. Judge Jonathan Weiss and his wife.

Robert hung up cursing loudly. Miller and the others froze. He apologized, but didn’t mean it. He pulled out a business card and a small roll of bills, and handed them to Miller. “I have to run. If you come up with anything, or see Charlie, call me right away.”

“You don’t have to oil me,” said Miller. “Like I said, no one has seen Charlie in awhile. He stretched out his hand to give back the money.

“Keep it anyway,” said Robert, heading for the exit.

“Remember, Mr. Veil, even the unforgivable deserve forgiveness.” Robert glanced back. So he does know.

He hustled outside and noticed the same weasel-looking man he saw earlier standing across the street from the mission sipping from a bottle and talking to himself. Pressed for time, Robert kept going, reached his car, then drove back by the mission. The weasel stood directly in front looking lost. Miller came outside, put his arms around the derelict and gave him a big bear hug. From his rear view mirror, Robert saw Miller lead the man inside. Jumped the gun. Just another lazy drunk looking for a free ride. Robert hit Pennsylvania Avenue and headed west toward Georgetown.

He shifted gears away from the Kennedy case and Charlie, and focused on the matter at hand. The Bear killed again.

Ten minutes later, he pulled through a swarm of media trucks, reporters, and nosey bystanders, past a young policeman who examined his temporary Justice Department credentials and waved him through.

Police black and whites, the coroner’s wagon, and a crowd of unmarked government vehicles sat in every available space. He spotted Thorne’s Rover parked on a lawn next to a gated swimming pool and managed to squeeze in beside it.

Detectives and agents, their game faces on, scoured every inch of the area, some with dogs. Each townhouse loomed large and impressive, sand-colored in rows of five, about four thousand square feet each.

Eight-foot English-style lamps, the kind one might expect to see in a Jack the Ripper movie, stood sentry in front of each unit. The judge’s lamplight, shattered, posed for the police photographer snapping pictures from multiple angles. The officers and agents barely acknowledged Robert’s presence.

Thorne appeared at the front door, a digital video camera in one hand, a notebook in the other, and quickly walked his way.

“It’s him for sure,” she said. “He broke their necks. Mrs. Weiss was raped.”

Broken neck. A message. Fuck you guys. You’re vulnerable.

“Did you get everything on film?” Robert asked. “We can load it in the computer. Maybe find something these guys missed.”

“That’s a problem.”

“What kind of a problem?”

“The guys are acting a little stranger than usual,” said Thorne. “I was told not to take any pictures and they’ve kept me out of the loop. They won’t even let me get a close look at the bodies. All my information has come second hand.”

“But we’ve been given complete access,” said Robert, grinding his teeth.

“Tell it to them sweetheart,” said Thorne, pointing to the agents working the grounds.

Robert stormed inside the townhouse. Agent Sams appeared, arms across his chest, a smirk on his face. “Sorry Mr. Veil, we’ve been ordered to keep the place clear. You and the Mrs. will have to wait outside.”

Thorne stepped forward. Robert held her back. The officers and agents working the crime scene stopped to look.