Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

The doorman called paramedics who discovered the truth.

Smith carried plenty of identification, and police were ringing Margaret Smith’s front door before 6:30. Carl Remington, the Times’ Washington editor, was awakened by Bethesda, Maryland, police half an hour later with the news. Remington immediately notified the Times’ management in New York.

Meanwhile, after Margaret Smith identified her husband’s body, it was transported to the D.C. morgue, where an autopsy was scheduled for that afternoon.

The autopsy would say exactly what Elliott Parkhall wanted it to say.

Steve Pace found out when he walked into the newsroom a few hours after Margaret Smith positively identified her husband’s body. Glenn Brennan was sitting at Pace’s desk.

“It isn’t enough you’ve taken my beat, now you want my desk?” Pace asked sourly.

Brennan moved to Jack Tarshis’s chair. “Justin Smith died last night,” he said bluntly.

Pace could feel the blood drain from his face. He stared at Brennan, certain his friend was telling the truth, yet desperate to believe it was another of Glenn’s lousy jokes.

“We had lunch yesterday,” Pace said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Greg Hayward called me about half an hour ago,” Brennan said. Hayward was one of the Times’ best congressional reporters. He wouldn’t be wrong about a thing like that. “And it moved on the AP wire a few minutes ago,” Brennan added.

Pace sank into his chair. “How?” he asked.

Brennan shook his head. “Won’t know until after the autopsy this afternoon.”

“What happened?” Pace pressed. He felt a chill, although the newsroom’s air conditioning wasn’t running very high, and a tingling sensation began among the hairs on the back of his neck.

“The speculation is he had a heart attack or a stroke walking home from the Woodley Park Metro stop,” Brennan said. “A jogger found his body in some bushes about twenty-five feet off the street. No sign of foul play. The cops are guessing he staggered into the bushes from the sidewalk and died there. The jogger thought he was a drunk and told the doorman at the Sheraton. EMTs found him after the doorman called it in.”

“I don’t believe this,” Pace said. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

Brennan did a double-take. “What is?” he asked.

“Glenn, if I tell you something, will you promise not to go mouthing off to everybody in the newsroom?” Pace saw Brennan smile. “I mean it, damn it!” Pace insisted.

“Okay.” Brennan nodded.

Pace glared at him. “Never mind,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Hey, I said okay,” Brennan protested. “What’s with you? I didn’t know you and Justin were all that close.”

“It’s not like we were lifelong buddies,” Pace acknowledged. “But we were friends. He told me the other day he was about to retire and that Times editors were looking at me.”

“You’d leave here for the Times?” Brennan asked in disbelief.

Pace waved him off. “I haven’t given it any thought,” he said. “I haven’t been offered anything, and under the current circumstances, I doubt I will be. But I appreciated him telling me. He also told me about an angle he was following on the Dulles accident.”

Brennan closed his eyes and let his head fall back limply. “Oh, Jesus, not that again.”

“That again,” Pace said. “That’s why we had lunch. He wanted to tell me about it.”

“He gave you his story?” Brennan asked incredulously. “Give me a break.”

“No, he didn’t give me his story,” Pace snapped. “He was trying to tell me I wasn’t the only one suspicious of the findings. He had some good tips involving material retrieved from the flight data recorder.”

“And now the story belongs to you.”

“No. I don’t know who Justin’s sources were. But the fact that he was poking around makes me wonder if he really died of natural causes.”

“Oh, come on —” Brennan started to say, but Pace cut him off.

“When Justin left me at the Old Ebbitt yesterday, he was headed to Dulles to talk to Vernon Lund,” Pace said. “Then all of a sudden he turns up dead. I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t suppose you have any witnesses this time, to the fact that you and Justin had lunch together yesterday?” Brennan asked.

“Why would I need witnesses?”

“If you’re going to Avery or Paul with this story, it will help to have somebody who can corroborate at least part of it. Otherwise it’s gonna be like your answering-machine messages—your word against a total lack of evidence.”

Pace shrugged. “I guess the restaurant can confirm Justin had reservations for two yesterday,” he suggested.

“So what? That doesn’t put you there.”

“Our waiter might remember.”

“And if he doesn’t? That’s a busy place.”

“Well, Justin had an appointment with Vernon Lund.”

“And you think Lund would confirm that, if Lund was involved in killing him?”

“All right, maybe not, but somebody at the Times bureau would know where Justin was yesterday afternoon.”

“Maybe. If he told anybody.”

Pace ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, man, I don’t believe this,” he said.

“It ain’t fair,” Brennan agreed, “but right now, it’s so. If you’re going to take this to Avery or Paul, you’re going to have to bring evidence to back it up.”

Brennan wandered off, and Pace reached for the telephone book. He would call the Old Ebbitt and see if he could find anyone who remembered him. It was too early for them to be busy. Somebody would have time to check yesterday’s reservations and run down their waiter.

But when the phone book fell open to the blue pages of the District of Columbia’s government listings, Pace got another idea.

“This is Steven Pace at the Chronicle. Could I have the medical examiner’s office?”

The city operator who answered the call was singularly impertinent. “You can dial that number direct,” she said.

“If I had the direct number, I would dial it,” Pace replied. “Perhaps, if you’ll connect me, the medical examiner will give me his number.”

The city operator cut him off.

“Damn it!” Pace swore as he redialed. This time he got through.

“Can you tell me what your call is in reference to?” one of the ME’s secretaries asked.

“It’s about an autopsy today on a man named Justin Smith,” Pace said.

“Oh, yes, we’ve had other calls about that,” the secretary said. “I’m afraid Dr. Jackson isn’t answering questions. You’ll have to go through the public-information.”

“I’m not asking for information,” Pace said. “I’m calling to give Dr. Jackson some information pertinent to his investigation.”

“You’re not calling in reference to the results of the autopsy?”

“No. I think I already said that.”

“Your name?”

The reporter left his name and phone number. The secretary said she would see that Dr. Jackson got the message.

And Pace sat back to wait.

The last three weeks had been the most bizarre in his life, he thought, from the highest highs to some pretty deep lows. People already were noticing his byline on stories that had nothing to do with airplanes and Glenn Brennan’s name on Sexton stories, even though the two had switched assignments only two days earlier.

Kathy had called him at home the previous evening. She sounded upset for him, and he tried to be philosophical. They talked all around what was on Steve’s mind, and when he finally asked whether she was coming back, he didn’t think he handled it well.