William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

The press moved six different ways at once. Some panicked and ran, some raced forward for a closer look. Talking, screaming, running. Minicams readjusted their focus from the podium to the fallen figure in the grass. Commentators all talked at once. The network reps shouted into their cell phones, urging their bosses to interrupt the regularly scheduled programming.

And standing in the doorway, just beyond the opening, Ben spotted Ray Eastwick.

9

Ben felt Christina appear at his side. “Do something,” she urged. “These reporters will destroy the crime scene.”

Ben moved forward to block their way, but he could see already that he would be inadequate to stanch the flow of the hundred or so press reps bearing down on him. Fortunately, two Secret Service agents emerged from the wings and stopped the traffic. Ben had to admire their quick-witted professionalism. They were here strictly on a ceremonial security detail, never dreaming they would have to take charge of a murder.

“Who is she?” Christina asked.

“Don’t know,” Ben answered, trying unsuccessfully to sneak another glance at what was now clearly a corpse. “I only saw her face for a fleeting instant. But she didn’t look familiar.”

Ben moved toward Roush, who was in turn moving toward Eastwick, who seemed stunned, dazed. Roush started to embrace him, then stopped. Whether it was because he was undoubtedly being filmed, or because Ray had been found in such a compromising location, Ben wasn’t sure.

Just beyond them, through the door, Ben noticed that the illegally parked red Ford SUV he had noticed earlier was gone.

“What happened?” Roush asked.

Eastwick just stared at him, eyes wide. “I…I don’t know.”

Hammond emerged from the doorway and made a beeline toward Ben. “You’ve got to take charge of him.”

“What are you talking about?”

Hammond pointed toward the house. On the street, red flashing sirens created an eerie strobe-light effect.

“The local police will be here any minute. I expect the feds will show shortly after that.”

“Good,” Ben said. “They need to take charge—”

“No, you need to take charge. Of them.” He pointed toward Roush, who was holding his partner by his arms. His eyes were wide and moist.

“Me? Why me?”

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? In real life? Represent the accused.”

“They haven’t been accused of anything.”

“And I expect that condition will last about another five seconds. Go.”

Ben sidled toward the couple, who were still staring at each other speechlessly. “Look,” Ben said quietly, “the police will be here any minute. The press are still watching. Do not, under any circumstances, say anything.”

Roush frowned, obviously confused. “What?”

“The press will be asking you questions. Exercise your Fifth Amendment rights. Say nothing.”

Slowly, Eastwick seemed to come around. “They’ll arrest me.”

“They can’t arrest you just because you were standing in the doorway at the wrong time.” Unless, Ben thought, you were there because you just murdered the woman.

Roush’s voice cracked. “But—all that blood—”

“Stop!” Ben said. “Don’t you see those huge boom mikes?” He jabbed a thumb behind himself. “They can pick up a baby’s gurgle from three hundred feet. When I said say nothing, I meant say nothing. ”

Roush drew himself up. “You want me to take the Fifth. Like some sort of…pimp or something. I won’t.”

“Do you know what could happen to Ray? Even if they don’t arrest him, they could make his life a misery for—”

“Excuse me. Lieutenant Fink, Montgomery County PD.” He was a small man, but muscular and tidy, every hair on his receding hairline exactly where it should be. “Which one of you is the judge?”

An hour later, the local police had the crime scene more or less under control—just in time to thwart the efforts of the FBI to take over. The FBI claimed that the presence of so many congresspersons and executive branch staffers mandated federal involvement, while the police argued that it was a state crime that wasn’t committed on federal property and didn’t involve any element that would trigger a federal crime statute.

The crime scene investigators scrutinized the doorway and the surrounding garden while detectives quizzed everyone present. The garden teemed with hair and fiber experts, soil samplers, blood spatter consultants, coroner’s office interns, and videographers—not that there was any lack of videotape of the crime scene before the officials arrived. Both Eastwick and Roush claimed they did not know the victim. For that matter, neither did anyone else. A housekeeper recalled letting the victim on the premises, but said she didn’t follow the woman around, didn’t get her name, and didn’t tell anyone she was there. A gardening apron was found stashed behind some hedges—covered with blood. Eastwick maintained that he had seen the woman from a distance, her body pinned to the back side of the door by the garden shears. He had approached rapidly but, before he arrived, Roush opened the door.

All around him, Ben could hear various reporters doing live remotes from the scene of the crime, talking about “yet the latest bizarre turn of events” regarding the Roush nomination. Some reported that unidentified senators were already calling for Roush to step down. Roush had no apparent connection to the crime. But his partner was another matter.

Ben was desperate to talk with Roush, or Eastwick, or both, but the police were keeping them incommunicado—and since he had not been asked to represent either of them, he had no basis for interference.

Not that he’d ever let that stop him in the past…

“I guess she’d probably been stuck to that door for some time, huh?” Ben said casually, as he watched Lieutenant Fink examine the body with an infrared scanner.

“Don’t think so. Blood was still fresh.”

“Looked to me like she was killed somewhere else, right? Probably planted on that door by someone hoping to disrupt the press conference.”

Fink pushed up on one knee. “Senator Kincaid…how can I put this? Do I look like a stupid man?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then don’t treat me like one.” He returned to his work. “I’m positive she was D.R.T.—Dead Right There. The killer slashed her throat, then pinned her to that door. What’s your interest in this, anyway?”

“I’m just a friend of Thaddeus Roush. Hope this doesn’t interfere with his nomination.”

Fink gazed up at Ben with a seriously arched eyebrow. “We’ve got no reason to suspect Roush was involved. Anything’s possible, but I’d like to think he wouldn’t have opened the door on national television if he’d known there was a corpse there. Now his little snuggle bunny—that’s another story. Far as we can tell, he was the only one in the rear garden.”

“You can’t know that. There are several ways back there.”

“Eastwick himself said he saw no one.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Not saying it does. I’m just saying…it’s a good thing Eastwick hasn’t been nominated for anything.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Which one? Roush? Sure—we’ve got nothing on him. Eastwick is going to be spending a lot of time downtown.”

Ben found Roush sitting on the periphery of the action, out of the way, but not so far the police couldn’t question him whenever they liked. “You realize,” Ben said quietly, “this changes everything.”

“I won’t give up,” Roush said. His chin trembled a bit, but his expression was resolute.

“I’m not suggesting you should. But you have to realize—this was an uphill battle from the start. Maybe an impossible one. And it just got about a thousand times worse.”