David Baldacci - Split Second

"Thanks, Paul," said Michelle. "We owe you." She gave him a hug.

"Hey, tell your old man everything he said about you was true. Wish my kids had turned out half as well."

Donald Holmgren lived in a townhouse on the outskirts of Rockville, Maryland. His house was filled with books, magazines and cats. A widower now, he was about seventy and had a full head of gray hair and was dressed in a light sweater and slacks. He cleaned some cats and books off his living room sofa, and King and Michelle sat down.

"We appreciate your seeing us on such short notice," said King.

"No problem. My days aren't that busy anymore."

"I'm sure they were much busier when you were at P.D.," commented Michelle.

"Oh, you can say that again. My tenure covered some interesting times."

"As I mentioned on the phone," began King, "the incident we're investigating is the death of the national guardsman around May of 1974."

"Right, I remember that case well. It's not like national guardsmen get killed every day, and thank God for that. But that was some day. I was arguing a case in federal court when the demonstration started. They stopped the court proceeding, and everybody went to the TV sets and watched. Never seen anything like it before and hope I never do again. I thought I was in the middle of the storming of the Bastille."

"We understand that initially a person was charged with the crime."

"That's right. Started at first-degree murder, but as details followed, we were looking at getting it knocked down."

"So you know who handled the case?"

"I did," was his surprising reply. Michelle and King exchanged a look. Holmgren explained, "I'd been at the Public Defender's Service about sixteen years, started back when it was just the Legal Aid Agency. And I'd defended some high-profile cases too. But to tell the truth I don't think anybody else wanted it."

"You mean the evidence was so strong against the accused," said Michelle.

"No, the evidence wasn't overwhelming by any means. If I remember correctly, the person charged was arrested because he was coming out of the alley where the crime took place. Dead body, particularly one in uniform, and a bunch of hippies running around throwing rocks, well, that's a recipe for disaster. I think they arrested the first person they saw. You have to understand that the city was under siege, and nerves were frayed to the breaking point. If I remember correctly, the defendant was some college kid. I didn't necessarily believe he'd done it, or if he had, that he'd meant to. Maybe there was a scuffle, and the soldier fell and hit his head. Of course, the prosecutor's office back then had a reputation for trumping up cases. Hell, we had police officers lying under oath, writing up false charges, creating evidence, the works."

"Do you remember the name of the defendant?"

"I've tried to think of it since you called, but I can't. It was a young man, smart, that I do remember. Sorry, I've handled thousands of cases since then, and I didn't work on that one very long. I remember legal charges and defenses better than I recall names. And it's been thirty years."

King decided to take a shot. "Was his name Arnold Ramsey?"

Holmgren's lips parted. "Why, I couldn't swear to it but I think that's right. How'd you know?"

"It would take too long to explain. That same Arnold Ramsey, eight years ago, shot and killed Clyde Ritter."

Holmgren's mouth gaped. "That was the same guy?"

"Yep."

"Well, now maybe I'm sorry he got off."

"But you weren't sorry back then?"

"No, I wasn't. As I mentioned, back then certain people weren't so much concerned with the truth as they were with getting convictions any way they could."

"But they didn't get one in the Ramsey case?"

"No. While I believed the case was only marginal, I still had to work with the facts I had, and they weren't great. And the government was playing real hardball. Wanting to make a statement, not that I totally blame them, I guess. And then I got taken off the case."

"Why?"

"The defendant got other counsel. Some firm out west, I think. I guess that was where Ramsey, if it was him, was from. I assumed his family had found out what happened and were coming to the rescue."

"Do you remember the name of the firm?" asked Michelle.

He thought for a bit. "No. Too many years and cases in the interim."

"And this firm somehow got the charges dropped?"

"Not only that, I heard they got the record of the arrest expunged, all the details. They must have been really good. In my dealings with the government back then, that rarely happened."

"Well, you said some of the government prosecutors were pretty unethical. Maybe people got paid off," suggested King. "Lawyers and cops."

"I guess that might have happened," said Holmgren. "I mean, if you're going to trump up cases, I suppose you'd be willing to take abribe to make a case go away. The government lawyer on the case was young, ambitious as hell, and always struck me as being way too slick. But he was good at playing the game, looking to jump to bigger and better things. I never saw him cross the line, though others in the office did. I do know that I felt sorry for his boss, who took a lot of the heat when all the crap in that office hit the fan years later. Billy Martin was a good guy. He didn't deserve that."

King and Michelle looked at the man, utterly stunned. King finally found his voice. "And the name of the government lawyer who prosecuted Arnold Ramsey?"

"Oh, that one I'll never forget. It was the fellow who was running for president and then got kidnapped. John Bruno."

King and Michelle went straight from Holmgren's to VCU in Richmond. Kate Ramsey wasn't at the Center for Public Policy. They were able to talk the receptionist into giving them Kate's home phone number. They called, but the woman who answered was Kate's roommate. She didn't know where Kate was. She hadn't seen her since that morning. When Michelle asked if they could come to see her, she hesitantly agreed.

On the way over, Michelle asked, "Do you think Kate knows about Bruno and her father? Please don't tell me that. She can't."

"I have a sinking feeling you're wrong."

They drove to Kate's apartment and spoke with the roommate, whose name was Sharon. At first Sharon was reluctant to talk, but when Michelle flashed her badge, she became far more cooperative. With her permission they looked around Kate's small bedroom but found nothing that was helpful. Kate was a serious reader, and her room was stacked with works that would have taxed most academicians. Then King found the box on the top shelf of the closet. It held a gun-cleaning kit and a box of nine-millimeter shells. He looked ominously at Michelle, who shook her head sadly.

"Do you know why Kate carries a gun?" King asked Sharon.

"She was mugged. At least that's what she told me. She bought it about seven or eight months ago. I hate having the thing around,but she has a license for it and all. And she goes to shooting ranges to practice. She's a good shot."

"That's comforting. Did she have it with her when she left this morning?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Has there been anybody coming to see Kate, other than school-related? A man, for instance?"

"As far as I know she doesn't even date. She's always out at some rally or march or attending council meetings to protest something. She makes me dizzy sometimes with all that goes on inside her head. I can barely make it to class and keep my boyfriend happy much less worry about the shape the world's in, you know."

"Yeah, I know. But I meant an older guy, maybe in his fifties." He described Thornton Jorst but Sharon shook her head.