Читать книгу A Memorable Murder - John Schlarbaum - Страница 7

Forgotten by all except the television crew was the morning’s distinguished guest: presidential candidate Douglas Adams. Almost as the gunshot outside had rung out, Adams was forcibly removed from his chair. To the dismay of the audio techs, Adams ripped off his lapel microphone and threw it to the floor, where one of his entourage immediately stepped on it, rendering it useless for all time.

The Nation Today’s co-host, Evan MacLean, sat in his chair across from Adams in stunned silence. He watched Adams’ handlers whisk him into the hall. As the studio door closed behind them, MacLean saw one of the men yelling into a walkie-talkie, “This is a code white situation! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”

As the sidewalk explosives went off, MacLean’s attention was directed toward the huge wall of windows, which shook from the blast.

We’re under attack! he thought as he dove to the floor. They’re going to kill us all!

He risked a look at the street scene and wished he hadn’t. He saw mass confusion as people ran for their lives, many running up to the windows and pounding on them violently. Their faces etched in fear as they realized they were stuck outside.

MacLean wondered what they must have thought seeing a roomful of people secure from the mayhem, staring blankly back at them.

“Heaven help us all,” he said aloud, before closing his eyes to await the next bomb blast that never came.

As the limousine pulled out of the station’s parking lot, candidate Adams’ head was pushed between his legs by one of his guards.

“Is this necessary?” he demanded.

“It’s what you pay us for,” came the reply.

“Don’t take Huntington,” head of security Terry Jameson said to the driver. “They may have anticipated that.”

“Anticipated what?” Adams cried, shoving the huge forearm off his neck and sitting upright. “They weren’t after me, you idiots! They were after the guy asking the question!”

Jameson turned and faced Adams.

“Did you know that man?”

“He was a stranger off the street—how would I know him?”

“We can’t take any chances, sir,” Jameson said. “When we turn this corner there’ll be a blue car waiting for us. I want you to get into that car as quickly as possible. The driver will take you to a safe place.”

Adams looked bewildered.

This is from a bad spy movie, he thought.

“Is that advisable?”

Jameson turned back to the front and said, “This limo is a bit conspicuous, don’t you think?”

Adams failed to reply.

I pay these guys to think at times like these. Trust them. They know what they’re doing.

The limo turned onto Addingham Lane and sure enough, the blue nondescript car was idling by the curb.

“The driver is one of us, so do what he says. I’m staying with this car as a decoy and will meet up with you in a few minutes,” Jameson advised.

The limo door was pulled open by a man dressed in street clothes, who watched over Adams as he ducked into the backseat of the car. As it fled the area, he slumped down in the seat in an effort to make himself invisible.

His thoughts were a mixture of panic and sheer excitement. The Reagan assassination attempt replayed in his mind; how the Secret Service had shoved the President into the back of his motorcade car while others joined the melee to restrain John Hinckley.

A split-second later however, this terrifying thought was overtaken by a more agreeable one.

If the voting public hadn’t known me before, they surely would now. This will be the biggest story of the campaign, overshadowing policies and both parties.

The possibilities were endless. He was now a direct link to a national tragedy. He could take a stronger stand on gun control and not have to worry about backlash from the NRA. He could make it a personal crusade to see that the shooter was brought to swift justice, although he knew he had no real clout over police matters. Regardless, he understood people loved politicians who talked tough.

In light of what happened, he could position himself with the “little guy” who can’t even ask a question of a presidential candidate without having to fear for his life.

This is potent stuff, all right.

With thoughts of sugar plum voters still dancing in his head, the car came to a sudden stop in front of a dilapidated house.

“What are you doing? Why are we stopped here?”

The driver exited the car and opened the back door.

“We’re going inside, sir.”

A black station wagon drove into the driveway and Jameson got out. Seeing Adams still in the car, he instructed, “Out—come on!”

From outside the house looked like a real fixer-upper, but inside resembled something torn out of Architecture Achievements Magazine. Adams was stunned. After downing a shot of scotch in the living room, Adams was relieved to see his campaign manager, Harold Green, enter the large living room.

“Is all this spy stuff really necessary?”

“As there has been no apparent attempt on your life thus far, probably not,” came Green’s reply, stepping to the window overlooking the street. “Pretty efficient though, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t had time to think,” Adams said irritably. His features loosened slightly and he added, “That’s not true. I have been—”

Green cut him off.

“Been thinking about the polls, right? Voter recognition. Name recognition.” He turned on his heel and faced his boss with a mile-wide smile plastered across his face. “You can’t buy publicity like this!” he claimed as he took a seat beside Adams. “Don’t get me wrong—I feel genuinely sorry for that schmuck who got offed. He was probably a drug dealer or something.”

“Is that true?”

“Who knows? Who cares? Who would shoot a guy on national television who didn’t deserve it? And the bomb—don’t forget about the bomb.”

“What bomb?”

“The one that detonated right after the broad blew the guy away.” Green saw Adams’ confusion. “You were probably being led out when it went off. No matter. The fact is this thing was an organized hit. It was meant to send a very—how would you say—persuasive message to an individual out there in TV land.”

“You think it was a mob hit?”

“I don’t care if the guy was killed for stealing candy from a baby. He’s dead, you’re alive and this campaign is about to go through the stratosphere.” With a salute, Green added, “Mr. President.”

Adams was startled by Green’s certainty. The more he pondered the situation, however, the bigger the smile on his face also grew.

“This thing is huge. With only three weeks left, the President is now a lame duck candidate. How is he going to explain to John and Jane Public that after four years people still feel the need to—and have the means to—kill a fellow countryman? He can’t.” Green stood and began to pace the room, his arms flailing in front of him. “Our whole strategy has been to show the administration’s shortfalls and what better way to do that than a guy getting blown away during The Nation Today?”

“That’s all well and fine, but what about right now? How long are we going to stay in hiding?” Adams was becoming edgy about the house, not having a clue where he was.

“Only until the press release is ready,” Green replied. “We should be out of here within the half-hour.”

The thought appalled Adams.

“You’re issuing a statement while that dead man is still warm?”

“We really have no choice. If we don’t get our message of condolence to the family and our commitment to make sure this never happens again out there, the other camp will. And personally, I’d rather have Jason Morris read our statement with the whole nation riveted to the coverage than have him read Travers’ spin on things first. This is politics and I play to win.”

Adams knew his top man was right although the feeling didn’t sit well in his stomach.

“Whatever you have to do, do it. I’ll play along,” he conceded.

Green turned on the giant plasma television set in the corner of the room and switched to NCN.

“There is still no word from the police on the identity of the slain man,” Susan Donallee was saying.

The screen cut to a two-shot.

“This just in,” Jason Morris stated authoritatively. “We have been handed a press statement issued by presidential candidate Douglas Adams.”

Sitting on the overstuffed couch, Adams marveled at how quickly events were unfolding. The statement was relatively short in its length yet long on emotion and commitments. The last line slid out of Morris’ lips as though it were a personal pledge from God himself.

“In the days ahead, I will do everything to ensure that this kind of tragic incident never befalls another citizen of this great country.”

“Ha!” Green said triumphantly. “Try and top that!”

His self-congratulatory mood faded slightly when his cell phone went off.

“Hello. No, candidate Adams cannot speak at this moment. Who is this?”

The female voice on the other end was almost a whisper.

“Tell him Robert Barker’s killer wants to talk to him—privately.”

“Robert Barker?” Green turned to Adams and mouthed, Crank call. “Robert Barker isn’t dead. Now I don’t know how you got this—”

“Don’t you watch The Nation Today?” the throaty voice countered.

“Of course . . .”

Green’s face went blank as the pieces at last fell into place. His worst fears were confirmed as he glanced over at the TV and saw a frozen close-up of the man at the microphone.

It couldn’t be, he thought.

Even though the face was partially covered by his hat, there was something about the man’s sly smile that almost floored Green.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“To talk to the candidate, of course.” There was a pause before the caller added, “I know he’s with you, so don’t give me the runaround.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Green stammered. “Give me a moment.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Seeing Green’s ghostly white face, Adams became very concerned.

“What is it?”

“The dead man is Robert Barker.”

This news caused Adams to momentarily stop breathing.

Before the shock really set in, Green continued.

“Remember how I said the shooting was a message for someone out in the TV audience? It would appear I was right. Unfortunately, that someone is you.” He held the phone out in front of him. “There’s a woman who wants to speak with you. As your campaign manager, I strongly suggest you take the call.”

With hands trembling, Adams took the phone and placed it to his ear.

“This is Douglas Adams.”

“Dougie, how are you holding up? I guess you’ll think twice about appearing on another morning show any time soon, huh? Well, let’s talk the talk for a few minutes. What happened to our mutual acquaintance Mr. Barker is a tragedy beyond compare but also a necessary evil.”

The woman spoke with a quiet intensity. Her manner was almost nonchalant, one moment speaking as if threatening and then switching to a gentler, yet deeply sarcastic tone.

“You see, Mr. President—I hope you don’t mind me being too presumptuous—we have a case of you scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours. Funny thing is I’ve already scratched your back, as you’re now well aware. Okay, enough of you—let’s talk about me and my needs. What I’m looking for in a man, Dougie, is someone who can use all his power to shut down Mantis Pharmaceuticals.”

“That’s Barker’s company,” Adams said, fear falling off each syllable. “How am I going to shut down a dead man’s company?” he asked swiping his brow.

“I’m sure an influential man like yourself can do anything you set your little mind to. Otherwise, the press will be very interested in certain campaign donations—or should I call them by their real name: kickbacks—from the Litchfield Corporation. You know—the guys in direct competition with Mantis for those big government grants you and your cronies are always giving out.”

Green snapped into action, seizing the phone before it hit the floor as Adams sat on the couch, shaking uncontrollably.

“This is Harold Green again. I don’t know what you’ve told Douglas but I assure you whatever it was, we can work this out. We all know what Douglas is after and as his right-hand man, I know whatever you’re after is attainable.”

Green listened intently as the caller reiterated her business proposal.

At its conclusion, he said, “I’m not sure how we’re going to manage that. You have our word though, that as soon as Barker is identified, we will begin to resolve your situation to your satisfaction.”

“Stop with the lawyer jibber-jabber. I know you’ll come through, otherwise Adams will have a lot of explaining to do, won’t he? Kissing the presidency goodbye will only be the beginning of his troubles. Now put the old guy back on.”

“Yes?” Adams said wearily.

“Your yes-man said we’re in business, even though I don’t trust him wholeheartedly, if you know what I mean. So, as a final inducement to get the deed done before Election Day, I want you to remember one thing.” An extended pause almost caused Adams to have a seizure as the anticipation built. “Just so you know, the press kits I’ve made up not only document your questionable dealings with Litchfield, they also contain some lovely photos of you and your wife—oops, a little Freudian slip there. I meant to say you and Robert Barker’s wife, Lynn.”

Douglas Adams’ heart rate skyrocketed. What remaining blood was in his cheeks drained away, leaving him with the facial mask a refrigerated corpse would be proud to call its own.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he wept into the phone.

“Because the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Please leave Lynn out of this. I’ll do anything you want,” Douglas pleaded. “By killing her husband you’ve caused her enough pain.”

The voice laughed.

“Did I say I killed Mr. Barker? Well that is simply not true.”

In a voice now weathered by life, Douglas asked the fateful question, knowing the answer would surely kill him.

“Then who did?”

“I can see the giant headline dancing in front of me as we speak: ‘Wife Kills Hubby on National TV. Senator’s Mistress Hoping to Become First Lady.’” Hearing only Douglas’ laboured breathing, the woman’s tone turned serious once more. “If you play straight with us, you won’t have a care in the world.”

Douglas’ wheezing intensified.

“Think about it, okay? You kill Mantis and we won’t kill your career, your reputation or your mistress.”

The wheezing stopped.

“What do you mean kill my mistress?”

The connection was abruptly terminated.

Seconds later, Harold Green was frantically dialing 911.

“Presidential candidate Senator Douglas Adams is in the midst of a medical attack of some kind and emergency attention is needed immediately!”

* * *

She placed the phone in her pocket and walked to the car.

“How’d it go?” the male driver inquired.

“Let’s just say the campaign manager is currently asking one of the security guards to loan Adams his underwear for the day.”

“That well, huh?”

“Couldn’t have gone better.” She searched through her purse and asked, “Got a smoke?”

“These things’ll kill you,” the driver said, handing her a pack from his shirt pocket.

She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“What do I care? I’m about to become a multi-millionaire.”

“No, I’m about to become a multi-millionaire,” the driver corrected her. “You’re about to become my wife.”

“Keep talking like that and I may soon afterwards become a widow.” She laughed and smiled broadly. “If you know what I mean.”

The drive would take less than half an hour, during which would be a chance to reflect—individually. Talking would come later. Basking in personal satisfaction for a job well done came first.

Their thoughts, however, were nearly identical.

* * *

After the initial adrenaline rush of the shooting and the subsequent getaway, they had to act fast—dumping the Volvo off and then racing back to the motel.

For Melanie Fields, it had been the longest day of her life. Aside from not being able to sleep the previous night, the most frustrating part was the waiting. Once The Nation Today began, the news report, the weather report, centenarian birthday greetings and the always asinine host chit-chat seemed to go on endlessly. It was only after the first commercial break that Melanie made her move.

With the gym bag strapped over her shoulder and the gun in the pocket of her sundress, she made her way to the front of the crowd outside the studio. From the huge monitors above them, the curiosity seekers could see the events unfold through the glass and then how they appeared on TV. When Douglas Adams appeared on screen the onlookers became excited and talked animatedly amongst themselves. For many, this would be the closest they’d ever get to a man who one day soon might become their president.

After Adams restated his various platform positions, Evan MacLean announced that after the commercial break they’d be going outside to get reactions and questions from the voters.

In two minutes it will all be over, Melanie thought, as she placed the bag on the sidewalk.

It was then she saw Robert Barker being positioned in front of the outdoor microphone, that Melanie decided to move a little closer. As she ducked under a wooden barrier, a security guard appeared and told her to stand back.

Without thinking, she said, “I’m with him,” pointing to Barker.

She was terrified that Barker might turn and see her.

Then what?

Luckily his attention was glued to a small television monitor on a table in front of him.

“Okay then,” the guard said as he turned back to the crowd, watching for more gate crashers.

Melanie adjusted her blonde wig and calmly flicked the safety off the gun. Waiting for that idiot MacLean to throw the broadcast to the street became excruciating.

“And now let’s go outside to see what the voters think of your views, Senator Adams.”

The words were music to her ears.

Barker stared at the microphone in front of him, making sure the fedora he was wearing covered much of his face. The idea to wear a hat was brilliant.

I’ll have to thank Jerry when I get to the office, he thought.

The plan was to keep his features obscured as much as possible until he actually asked the first question. He would then discard the hat and look straight into the camera, ensuring Adams knew who he was.

After clearing his throat, he began, “I have two questions for Mr. Adams.”

Melanie quickly took the three steps that separated them and pulled the gun from her dress. She heard a gasp from behind her as she squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet into Barker’s right temple. Before his body hit the ground, she turned and ran toward the street, leaving those behind screaming and ducking for safety.

In a surreal state of mind, Melanie ran as fast as her legs could carry her. The world around her was in chaos, yet she still felt in total control. She had one goal and one goal only: get to the car. Running with the gun tucked against her side, she thought she knew what football players must experience sprinting toward the end zone to win the big game.

She jumped into the backseat of the Volvo, which was driven speedily out of the area. As her accomplice Jerry Steele navigated through the congested morning traffic, Melanie tore off the blue and white sundress, as well as the wig and glasses. After placing them in a bag she changed into a track suit.

“Any problems?”

“Not that I can see,” Jerry said, checking his mirrors.

By the time they neared the airport, the shooting was all over the airwaves.

Jerry pulled into an alley behind a burnt-out bar. After changing the vehicle’s plates, they continued to the airport where Melanie—using her middle name, Alison—returned the car to the rental office. The car was virtually untraceable and if everything else fell into place, the police would soon be looking for Lynn Barker and her car with a vengeance.

Back at the motel office, Jerry intently watched the colour monitor.

“Is she still there?” Melanie asked.

“Yep and sleeping like a kitten,” he said with a smile. “Do you have time to put that stuff in the room?”

“Yeah, no problem. The gas will keep her under for another half-hour at least.”

Melanie grabbed the bag and walked to unit #2. She unlocked and eased the door open, terrified Lynn might be waiting to ambush her.

Lynn, for all intents and purposes, however, was lost to the world.

Using the sunlight coming in from the doorway, Melanie watched Lynn’s chest rise and fall before entering the bathroom to hang the dress and place the wig and glasses on the vanity. As she was preparing to leave, an idea hit her and she walked to the bureau. She switched on the TV, turned it to WCNY, the local NCN affiliate, and set the volume low.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, Lynn. What will the old gang say now, Prom Queen?”

Melanie closed the door behind her, locking it from the outside.

“Sweet dreams, sucker.”