Capitol Reflections (10 page)
“Hey there, roomie,” greeted Henry, standing on his roommate’s left side. “Been to the library again, I see.”
“Jesus, Henry! You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry, buddy.” The athlete’s fingers formed a viselike grip on Jamie’s left shoulder.
“No problem, but I really have to get back to the room, Henry. It’s late, and I haven’t even begun to record today’s data.”
A delivery truck was approaching from the right, headlights spreading a wide cone of light that illuminated the tableaux of bicycle, Henry, and Jamie.
Henry’s grip was excruciating. It was as though the big man’s fingers dug right into the bone. “Come on, Henry. Let up, will ya?”
“Okay, pal. Anything you say.”
With that, Henry shoved Jamie out toward the street.
Stunned, Jamie lost his balance, fell, and looked up in horror at the approaching vehicle.
Brakes squealed and tires screeched as the truck rolled over the aspiring scientist and rendered his bicycle into a twisted heap of aluminum that Henry thought resembled a Picasso sculpture.
Henry knew his next move was to go instantly to his knees over Jamie’s lifeless body. While he was there, he made sure that Jamie was gone. He couldn’t afford the risk of a deathbed utterance.
The driver jumped out from the cab of his vehicle and ran to Jamie.
“Aw, Jesus,” said the driver, a man in his early thirties. “I didn’t … I mean, God Almighty, I was just … You’re my witness, mister. That kid started to cross the street when I was almost on top of him.”
Henry nodded with understanding. “It all happened so quickly, and with the light so bad.”
The driver nodded his head slowly.
“Leonard told me you were a standup guy. Just tell the police how there was no way to stop it and I’ll stand behind you.”
The driver startled. “You mean this is why Leonard told me to drive down this hill when he flashed his headlights. He told me it was just to scare somebody and nobody was going to get hurt. I don’t want nothin to do with no … ”
Henry put his muscular arm around the man’s shoulders and pulled him to the side. Washington Street was otherwise deserted. “Let’s you and me have a talk, okay, pal?”
The driver merely nodded.
Henry fixed him with a hard stare. “You and I know that if you go down as an accomplice to anything, you’re looking at twenty years at least. All this needs to be is a simple pedestrian accident with an absentminded kid who couldn’t wait for the light.”
Henry’s demeanor magically transformed as he reached up to wipe away a tear. “Kid was a like a brother to me.” His chest heaved spasmodically several times. “Was … my roommate. I grabbed his left shoulder and told him not to be in such a hurry, but—” Real tears now rolled down the face of Henry Broome. “But he wanted to get back to our room. I think he was expecting a phone call from his mom and dad.”
13
Henry sat on his bed, a somber look etched across his face. Puffy spots beneath his eyes indicated that he’d been crying. Tom and Alice Robinson sat side-by-side on Jamie’s bed, facing Henry. Neil Rudenstine, dean of the college, sat in the deceased boy’s desk chair.
“We’ve made numerous safety improvements to the campus,” Rudenstine explained, using his most sympathetic voice to diplomatically convey that the university was not inclined to accept culpability for the accident. “In fact, there’s a traffic light and crosswalk not thirty yards from where Jamie was hit. But sometimes these things happen. Kids are always in a hurry.”
Mr. and Mrs. Robinson shot a stern look at the dean.
“Please pardon me,” Rudenstine said. “I meant no disrespect to poor Jamie, who was thought of highly by all his teachers. What I’m trying to say is that tragedies just happen, and only God above knows why. In fact, two cheerleaders from Ryder College were killed just yesterday after their Mustang had a blowout and veered out of control while crossing a bridge. Their car jumped the guardrail and the girls drowned in the river below.”
The dean shook his head and sighed heavily as Alice Robinson broke down and began to sob.
“It’s been a dark couple of days for the university, I can assure you,” Rudenstine declared in a carefully compassionate tone. “The entire campus is in shock.”
Tom Robinson leaned over, looking at the floor vacantly and clasping his hands. “Jamie was the first member of our family to go to college. We thought he’d become a doctor or scientist or something like that.”
Henry got up and seated himself next to Tom Robinson, putting his large arm around the distraught father. “I want you to know that Jamie was a wonderful friend to me—very studious and conscientious. He inspired me to work harder. Sometimes we went out for a burger together. Jamie always talked about how important his family was and how he wanted to make the both of you very proud of him.”
“You were a good friend, Henry,” Alice Robinson declared. “Thank you for being here today.” She looked around the room and shook her head. “It’s going to be hard to pack up Jamie’s belongings.”
“I’ll send two of our dorm advisors up to help,” Rudenstine volunteered. “They’ll bring all the boxes you need and will remain at your disposal for as long as it takes. If there’s anything more that I can do, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
The dean dismissed himself and disappeared down the hallway.
Two upperclassmen arrived thirty minutes later. One put Jamie’s computer into a large box, while the other packed books and clothes.
“What do you want to do with all these plants, ma’am?” the first student asked respectfully.
Alice looked at her husband uncertainly and then at Henry.
“Goodness me, I’m not sure. Jamie always liked to perform experiments, but I really don’t know what to do with all these plants.”
“Your son worked very hard on them,” Henry said. “It would be a shame to just throw them away. That’s just my own opinion, of course. He put his heart and soul into his work.”
Tom rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Jamie mentioned in a letter that you live on some tropical island. I don’t suppose you could—” The grieving father paused.
“I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can,” Henry said, anticipating Tom’s request.
“Well, I was wondering if you could take the plants to that island of yours—Leeki, I think Jamie said it was called—and plant them there. Kind of like a memorial.”
He looked at his wife, who nodded in agreement.
“We’d feel like a part of Jamie was always alive if those plants could actually take root and grow,” Tom continued. “If it’s no imposition, that is. We’d pay for the shipping.”
“The island is called Lanai. My family has owned it for generations.” Henry said politely, “I would be honored to plant them as a tribute to your son. But I won’t hear of your paying for anything. It would be my privilege to handle all the details. After they’re planted, I’ll send you pictures regularly so you can see how they’re doing.”
“I think I’ll take just one plant,” Alice said. “If it doesn’t grow, I’ll find some way to preserve it.” She lifted a single green plant, which was growing in a small container that had the consistency of an egg carton.
Henry and the Robinsons stood as the two dorm supervisors hauled away boxes and headed for the elevator.
“You’re a blessing,” Alice said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss Henry lightly on the cheek. “I hope you’ll visit us one day at our home in Scranton.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Is there anything of Jamie’s you’d like to have?” asked Alice, glancing at her son’s desk, which still had a few personal effects that had not yet been packed.
“No,” Henry replied. “I assure you that Jamie has already given the greatest gift a friend can give.”
PART III
JULY 2005
14
Jack Maulder regarded himself as a patient man. A former Secret Service agent, he’d served on the White House protective detail for ten years. Before that, he investigated counterfeiters, potential threats against the First Family, and high-profile homicides with possible government connections, the kind that caused Washington insiders to play super-sleuth and point fingers at one another. He had met his wife, Gwen, in connection with one such case—a case that was nearly the death of them both.
Jack was methodical, analytical and thorough. He did things by the book—mostly—and prided himself on knowing when to break the rules. An agent didn’t get the call to ensure the safety of residents at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue without having the ability to survey hundreds of people at a glance and pick out the one person who just didn’t look right—a man holding an unusual-shaped package or a woman wearing a winter coat in October. Sometimes it was an individual with a scowl or an unkempt appearance that prompted an agent to speak into his cufflink, alerting sharpshooters on nearby rooftops or plainclothes detail mingling with a crowd as POTUS (President of the United States) pressed the flesh along a rope line. An agent had to be able to make split-second decisions and yet remain cool enough to prevent a rifle from taking down someone who was simply an overeager veteran trying to shake hands with the commander-in-chief.
Maulder had lived a life of high drama, literally rubbing elbows with the powerful and elite men and women who controlled the destinies of nations around the globe. He had resigned his position, however, in order to show Dr. Gwen McBean, old-style family practitioner, that he was serious about staying in one place and putting down roots.
The house on Twin Pines Lane was located in Garrett Park, a small community midway between Rockville and Bethesda. Fortunately, Jack handled a keyboard and mouse with the same finesse as he handled a Glock. He became a computer security specialist, helping companies stay several steps ahead of the latest hacking technology. Today’s outdated firewall was tomorrow’s disaster, and Jack’s innovative ideas were effective because he could think from a hacker’s point of view. As an innate programming genius, Jack figured he’d gotten the best of both worlds: he could remain close to home while still dabbling in a bit of intrigue.
Ironically, Gwen realized that she couldn’t bring house calls and eighteen-hour workdays into the twenty-first century without incurring exhaustion and daily doses of righteous indignation at the ludicrous decisions made by insurance companies and their managed healthcare plans. She simply couldn’t deal with bean counters deciding whether or not a patient needed a CT scan. Shortly after she married what she regarded as a new-and-improved Jack Maulder, she found herself drawn to the Commissioned Corps of the U.S. Public Health Service in order to continue living her dad’s ideals: enhancing people’s quality of life through medicine. She wasn’t going to cast her lot with a medical partnership that double-booked patients into five-minute time slots costing eighty-five dollars a pop. She decided to apply her doctoring skills to the nation as a whole, rather to one patient after another.
It was classic role reversal; Jack leaves public service, Gwen signs up. Their marriage was nevertheless solid, with Jack, by virtue of his first career, understanding the demands and rigors of having to keep unusual hours or pick up and travel at a moment’s notice. Secretly, he thought he was more understanding of Gwen’s lifestyle than she would have been of his if he had remained with the Service. Even solid marriages were subject to personal prejudices.
Jack Maulder, rightly or wrongly, believed patience to be one of his strong suits. That said, he was more than a little concerned about Gwen’s ongoing obsession with the circumstances surrounding Marci’s death. The problem, as Jack saw it, was that there were no circumstances. The young lawyer had died of exhaustion and stress. Period. Maulder was certainly no expert in forensics, but agents of the Secret Service were well-versed in conspiracy theories and suspicious circumstances. In the case of Marci Newman, there was no smoking gun. Nothing to indicate murder most foul. Nothing to suggest a public health hazard.
Zilch. Nada.
Gwen had brought home a vial of Marci’s blood obtained from a New York Medical Examiner. On their first day back, Jack caught her surreptitiously transferring the vial from her coat pocket to the briefcase she brought to the office each day. Speaking somewhat defensively, Gwen claimed that she intended to store the blood at FDA headquarters in Rockville in the event that some significant detail occurred to her, something that warranted further examination of Marci’s collapse in municipal court. Jack didn’t believe her for one minute. He was one hundred percent certain that his wife was going to analyze the blood sample, and this was troubling in the extreme. Not only was he skeptical of the need to pursue analysis in the first place, but, more importantly, she’d never lied to him before.
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