Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Hackbarth said, “I can understand your mother’s mixed emotions.” She turned a faintly amused smile on him. “If you were my husband... even my ex -husband... we’d be discussing your propensity to jump in front of bullets.”

Reeder grinned. “Amy’s mother and I have had that discussion.”

“But speaking not as a hypothetical wife, ex or otherwise, rather as United States Senator... I am grateful for your bravery, Mr. Reeder.”

“Make it Joe, please. And thanks.”

“Dad,” Amy said, uncharacteristically bubbly, “Senator Hackbarth just invited me to be her guest at the State of the Union speech — did you ever hear anything more cool?”

“Short of this weather we’re crazily out talking in? No. Thank you, Senator, that’s generous.”

“You have a very intelligent daughter, Joe, who works hard.”

“Great to hear,” Reeder said. “But credit her mother.”

Amy gave him an amused smile. “If you’re expecting me to report that remark back to Mom... I will.”

He smiled back at her, then said to the senator, “You’re on your way somewhere and so are we. We’d better get going before we all freeze into just so many more DC statues.”

Everybody laughed a little — politely, he thought — and they made their good-byes, he and Rogers repeating their gloved handshakes with the senator, then going their separate ways.

Reeder and the FBI agent took the stairs down to the lower entrance where all visitors passed through security, beyond which a dark-blue-uniformed Capitol Police officer waited to walk them through the labyrinth of corridors to the chief’s office. Wordlessly the officer led them through a small reception area with a currently unmanned reception desk and a handful of empty chairs, and right up to the frosted-glass door, where he knocked twice.

This was a modest satellite office of the chief’s — the main HQ of Capitol PD was over on D Street NE — reserved for meetings like the one AD Fisk had scheduled for them.

“Come,” a voice within said, and the officer opened the door for them, giving them a nod as crisp as his dark-blue tie; when Reeder and Rogers were inside, their escort pulled the door shut behind him.

“Chief Ackley,” Rogers said with her own crisp nod. “Special Agent Rogers. This is—”

But the big man at the desk in the small, nondescript inner office was already on his feet and coming around. “How the hell are you, Peep?”

“Old and hurting, Bob,” Reeder said with a grin, as the two men shook hands. “But then you know the feeling.”

Chief Robert Ackley, in uniform from badge to dark-blue tie, the pepper of his black hair heavily salted, was around Reeder’s age but looked older, the price of decades of tough, challenging police work.

The chief got behind his desk again, and Reeder and Rogers took two of a trio of waiting visitor chairs.

Before they got to it, Reeder asked about Ackley’s wife, Margie, who’d been fighting breast cancer. Ackley said everything was fine now.

“We just try to find a way to enjoy every day,” Ackley said. “Easier to do that at home, on a day like this.”

“When is it ever easy in this building?”

“There isn’t always this bullshit,” Ackley said, gesturing to a medium-size monitor on the wall.

Adam Benjamin, in a red, gray-trimmed Ohio State letter jacket, stood with a hand mic on the stairs of the West Front, a cadre of reporters before him with rows of supporters in back of them. Positioned behind the speaker, fanned on the stairs, were a quartet of hard, tough-looking men in black suits and black ties, with ear mics and sunglasses, suggesting Secret Service minus any sense of discretion.

“The biiiiig announcement,” Ackley said with quiet sarcasm. “Was saving that clown really necessary, Peep?”

“He’s a good man, Bob. Very down-to-earth for a billionaire. Anyway, I have to do something to keep myself out there.”

“Wouldn’t buying commercial time be easier?”

Reeder grunted a laugh. “So he’s running for president, huh?”

The chief said, “What a shock.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Ackley used a remote to unmute the sound.

Benjamin was saying, “ I know many of you here today are expecting me to announce my candidacy for the presidency of the United States. If so, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. ”

Moans, groans, and no’s from the crowd. Reeder and Ackley shrugged at each other.

Benjamin held up a hand, as if being sworn in to office. “ I will let the Common Sense Movement dictate who their candidate will be, and if they choose to draft me, well, we’ll see. For now, I am here to offer my humble thanks to the brave man who died protecting me at Constitution Hall — I would rather it have been me. ”

Ackley said, “Now we’ve moved from bullshit to horseshit... Apologies, Agent Rogers.”

“Not necessary, Chief.”

“ On this day of mourning,” Benjamin was saying, “our thoughts and prayers should be with the family of Jay Akers, former Secret Service agent and a patriot who gave his last full measure of devotion for the Common Sense cause he believed in. Thank you. ”

The solemn man in the letter jacket strode away, even as questions came fast and heavy from the reporters. He answered none of them, his bodyguards in black surrounding him and hustling him away.

Ackley muted the TV. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“I’d call it well played,” Reeder said.

“For building his poll numbers, I guess,” Rogers said. “But with the spotlight on him, why not announce?”

Reeder shrugged a shoulder. “He’s playing the long game. There’s no Common Sense Movement convention, but he can create the illusion that he’s been ‘drafted,’ when the numbers are right.”

Rogers cocked her head. “I thought you liked the guy, Joe. Everything you say about where this country’s heading, he says, too... better, of course.”

“Thanks. Don’t read my pragmatism for cynicism.”

Ackley said, “But, Peep, you are cynical.”

“Oh yeah.”

A knock came to the door. Apparently the whole world hadn’t been watching Adam Benjamin’s big moment.

“Come!” Ackley said.

A birdlike man in his late forties entered, widow’s peak hair combed straight back, its brown invaded by gray. He wore a work jumpsuit with a Capitol crest, but the creased pants and spotless appearance indicated these threads had never seen a real day of blue-collar work — the same could be said for its wearer. The walkie-talkie in a belt holster, however, had seen plenty of action.

Ackley said to Reeder, “This is Ronald Murton, Lester Blake’s supervisor... Ron, have a seat. This is Joe Reeder, who’s consulting with FBI Special Agent Patti Rogers, here.”

Reeder and Rogers stood, hands were shaken, and then everybody sat down.

Murton, perhaps slightly intimidated by FBI presence, asked, “Bob, what’s this about?”

The chief said, “Special Agent Rogers, would you like to handle that?”

Murton turned to her.

Rogers said, “I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Murton, that Lester Blake, of your department, was murdered.”

“You said... murdered?” Murton said, frowning, obviously trying to turn the abstraction of the word into something real. “Of all things. How? Where? This was last night?”

“His remains were found last night. We don’t know the time or even date of death as yet, and the specific cause has not been released.”

“That doesn’t make sense ...”

“All I can say is, we’ve positively identified Mr. Blake, and murder is strongly indicated.”