The President's Assassin Part 17

"It was my understanding that he gave them to people in your Bureau who were performing the investigation on Calhoun's suitability. Your Director then carried everything over to the White House."

There was no need to ask what happened at the White House. She could only offer conjecture where we needed facts. But neither was it hard to piece together. Townsend took the disclosures to the President's legal counsel, together they took it to Terrence Belknap, the White House Chief of Staff, who accompanied them to see the President.

They stood around in the Oval Office and stared at those canceled checks and they realized Calhoun Barnes also needed to be canceled. At some point on the merry-go-round, Merrill Benedict, the White House spokesman, probably was instructed to quash the leaked reports about Barnes being a leading candidate, and perhaps to salt the ground with a few hints about Barnes's past, present, and maybe, about his future.

Margaret Barnes looked at me and held out her gla.s.s. I retrieved it and returned to the bar. Over my shoulder I asked her, "How did your husband learn his candidacy was in trouble?"

"He was recalled to Was.h.i.+ngton again, to meet with the Attorney General himself, Not only was Calhoun's nomination scratched, he was told he would also be charged. A task force had been created to investigate, though the evidence was already sufficient to ask Calhoun to resign from the federal bench immediately."

"And did he?"

"No . . . he . . . well, he was shocked and very upset. He asked to be allowed to think about it overnight, and was granted that wish."

Jennie suggested, "He then came home and he told you about all this?" Mrs. Barnes nodded, and Jennie asked, "What did you do, Margaret?"

After a long hesitation, she said, "Well... he was, as I said, upset. . . crushed, actually. I... I allowed him to vent. He cried . . . like a little child ... he kept bawling. I told him I was heartbroken for him, that this was so unfair, that Phillip was a mean and spiteful b.a.s.t.a.r.d." She hesitated a moment, staring off into s.p.a.ce. "I told him we'd get through this, and to go to bed. He ... he said he wanted a nightcap, here ... in the study, to think this out. I wish now . . . well, I wish I had talked him out of it." She stared at Jennie. She pointed up at a beamed rafter, and then at a short stool on rollers beside the bookshelf. "Right here ... in this very room."

It was amazing, I thought, how good Jennie was at this, how falsely sensitive, and how blithely intuitive. I was aware that profilers are trained not only in developing sketches of killers but they are also masters of the art of interrogation. Yet, as in art and war, good training and practice only get you so far. Truly, Special Agent Margold was a prodigy. She placed a hand on Margaret Barnes's shoulder and said, not all that softly, "You're lying."

Margaret recoiled." I ... I don't understand what you mean?"

Jennie said, "You did not tell Calhoun it would be okay. You told Calhoun he had destroyed everything. You told him his career was over, ruined, that he had dishonored himself, and this family. And you suggested there was only one way outonly one way to short-circuit an investigation . . . one simple way to avoid the utter shame and disgrace that would follow. You planted the seed in his head, and you prayed he would do it. Didn't you?"

Margaret stared at Jennie a moment, a bit surprised and a lot shocked that her pal, the good cop, had suddenly become a bad cop and was not really her pal at all. She shook her head in denial. "No ... I did not... I wouldn't"

"In fact," Jennie continued, more harshly, "there was one thing you didn't tell him. You didn't describe how Phillip learned of his bribes, or where Phillip got those canceled checks"

Margaret Barnes was now staring into her sherry gla.s.s. Clearly Jennie Margold had penetrated a great deal further into this family's maelstrom of hatreds and treachery than she was meant to go.

After a moment, Jennie insisted, "You told us Phillip lost his case against Calhoun because he lacked access to the firm records. But aside from that, surely Calhoun was too sly to bribe judges with traceable checks from his firm's account. He would've used your private account. Copies of those checks are in the Bureau's possessionwould you like me to make a call to verify which account they were drawn from? Perhaps you'd rather have me access your phone records during that month, to see if you and Phillip were in contact?"

Margaret wasn't going to confirm this charge, but neither did she try to deny it. Though, in fact, it didn't matter. We needed neither her confirmation nor her disavowal, and suggesting suicide to her husbandno matter how exquisitely timedis not even a misdemeanor, much less a crime.

She continued to stare at Jennie, and in some weird way I thought Margaret Barnes was glad that we knew the whole truth. Her husband had crippled her, destroyed her life, alienated and corrupted her child, and in the end she had turned out not to be the numbingly pa.s.sive lamb she appeared.

I looked at my watch. It was after two. I said, "Mrs. Barnes, when was the last time you heard from your son?"

"Not in years."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, I do not."

"Can you give us the names of any of Calhoun's close friends, anybody who might know?"

"I don't know his close friends."

"If you hear from him, will you call?"

"Certainly" She was lying, of course, I looked at Jennie. "Any more questions?"

"No."

We both stood. I asked Mrs. Barnes, "Do you need a.s.sistance getting to your bedroom?"

"No, I... I believe I will just sit here awhile."

We bid her good night, and left her cradling her sherry in the room where her former husband stored his greatest feats, and where she stored her greatest memory.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Ted awaited us outside, and Ted could keep waiting. Jennie and I both walked halfway down the block, out of Ted's earshot and, in my case, far away from this house of fossilized horrors. We whipped out our cell phones, she called George and I called Phyllis.

Two hours learning about the Barnes family had put me in a foul mood. According to my watch the hour was quarter past two, and I actually looked forward to rousting Phyllis. But she was already awake and apparently she had caller ID, because on the first ring she answered, a little too jovially, "I'm glad to see you've learned your lesson about checking in, Drummond. Have you learned anything interesting?"

"I think it's interesting. Jason's our man."

"You're sure?"

"As close as we can get beyond beating a confession out of him."

"Tell me about it."

So I did. And three feet away Jennie told George about it, and, interestingly, we must have been synchronized because we finished and signed off at nearly the same instant.

Jennie looked at me and said, "George agrees we now have enough to take to a federal judge for an arrest warrant."

"Right."

"Jason's picture will be distributed to the Secret Service, the Bureau, local cops, and every major network and newspaper. Within an hour, the manhunt will be on."

"Good call."

"Thoughts . . . observations?"

I said, "For starters, turning off the recorder was a big mistake."

"Really?"

"No doubt about it. If Jason's caught, that part of the conversationfrom his own mother's lipsany competent prosecutor would have put it to devastating use."

She regarded my face for a moment. "You think?"

"Well... I don't mean to nitpick."

She reached into her purse and withdrew the recorder. Then she reached into the side pocket of her jacket and took out a second recorder. She smiled. "Every veteran agent brings along a backup."

I stared at the second recorder. "Remind me never to cross you."

"I will. Frequently."

"Now, a question." I asked, "Why did she stay with him?"

"The usual reasons. Convention and practicality."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, hers was a social cla.s.s and a generation defined by a successful marriage and a successful husband. Calhoun was regarded as a prime marriageable specimen, and until the very end, he was . . . successful."

"He broke her back. 'Till death do you part' does not mean you part each other. Shouldn't it have occurred to her that theirs was a marriage with a few irreconcilable flaws?"

"I wouldn't expect a male to understand."

"Oh please."

"It's true. Biology dictates to women. It defines our life cycle, and it forms our choices. A divorced woman, bitter, crippled, and infertile, had no hope of attracting another mate. She had become completely dependent on Calhoun, financially and physically. Literally, she felt forced to sleep in the bed she made."

In my view, a life alone was better than the life she had. Yet Jennie was rightI probably couldn't understand. The choices of women from Margaret's generation made little sense to a male, and even less to a modern male, though maybe they made sense then. I said, "He must've been a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Would you like to hear the psychiatric explanation?"

"I. . . is there a Cliff's Notes version?"

She punched me in the stomach. "To start, these things run in families. Incest and spousal and child abuse are like inheritances. Behaviorally, they pa.s.s through the generations. Living in that house was to be inundated in the family tradition. Maybe you noticed that the heirlooms and paintings were all from his family?"

"I noticed that before Calhoun, all the Barnes men married dogs. Did you see the one with the crossed eyes and the wart on her nose?"

She rolled her eyes. "Why do I bother explaining these things to you?"

"You were saying?"

"From the sound of it, Calhoun's specific maladies were a narcissistic disorder, extreme grandiosity, and a manic compulsion for control and order."

"Are we talking about a theory or a person?"

She concluded, correctly, that simpleminded Sean needed a less complicated explanation and brought it down a peg. "If you're interested, Adolf Hitler exhibited similar neuroses and dysfunctions. Think of the things. .h.i.tler did to shape what he considered the ideal society, the ideal race. Calhoun exuded the same fury and ferocity, but on a single target, his son." After a moment, she added, "I would also bet Calhoun's father exhibited similar disorders. Sons learn behavior from their fathers, regardless of their flaws."

"And Jason?"

"You're right. It's intriguing. The chain appears to be broken."

"But he's not married. He has no children. As a result, you can't be sure, can you?"

"Oh, I am sure."

"How? Why?"

"Because we've seen how he lives. Jason's an obsessive-compulsive personality. By definition, he should never have become submissive to his father. He would . . . well, he would vie and tilt with him. See the point?"

"Nope."

"As a child, Jason did become submissive."

"Why?"

"A survival mechanism. A chilling measure of Calhoun's brutality and manipulative skillsbut the point is, Jason chose not to compete, as a child or, later, as an adult. He did not go into law, or even stay in Richmond. He deserted his father's game and his father's playing field, geographically and figuratively." She looked at me and said, "Got it? He fled."

"I don't get it."

Clearly my ignorance was testing Jennie's patience. I had cross-examined my share of shrinks on the stand. I recognized the warning signs.

The human brain. With any other organ in the body, the functions and dysfunctions are fairly objective and readily explainable. The heart is a pump, it shoves blood and oxygen through your arteries, and when it stops working, ditto for you. As it goes with kidneys, lungs, intestines, and so on. The brain is different, endlessly complex, mysterious, even weird. Even when functioning normally, in reality it can still be totally wrong.

It was Jennie's job to a.s.sign a rational explanation to perversely irrational behavior, and she was obviously very good at it. But Jason Barnes was a little twisted, even by her standards, and by my standards he was a dark labyrinth without so much as an entrance.

After a moment, Jennie said, "Here's my point. Margaret told us that Jason admired his father. Idolized him. Does that make sense to you?"

"No."

"Focus on that incongruity, Sean. In Jason's mind his father was a towering figure, a demiG.o.d. Much as the German people elevated Hitler to an almost supernatural plateau, so Jason felt about his father. He fled because he was convinced he couldn't compete with the overwhelming figure in his head."

She looked at me to be sure I understood. "It's curious that Jason has not fulfilled the destiny biology and family behavior ordained for him. You might say Jason is a prediction that should have happened, but didn't."

"People aren't programmed into defined paths, Jennie. We make choices."

"Sean, you had a normal upbringing, whatever that means. You can't understand the monsters that inhabit a dark forest you never pa.s.sed through."

"In the words of C. S. Lewis, 'evil is always man's doing, yet it is never his destiny'"

"Spoken like a true lawyer. But all right, you explain it."

"Simple. According to Jason's bosses and teammates, he was a fairly normal guy and an exemplary agent. He made a choice to be the way he was, and he's making a choice now to be something different. We have to figure out why he made that choice."

"Actually, he was a time bomb placed in cold storage. Many psychopaths exhibit the appearance of normalcy They interact socially, and even succeed professionally" She took my arm and added, "You could be sitting next to one, dating one, or even be married to oneyou'd never know. Wives and neighbors are always shocked when they learn. In reality, Jason's mind has always been a cauldron of suppressed angers, confusions, and pathologies, awaiting a triggering event."

"Calhoun's suicide is that event?"

"No question about it. Recall Agent Kinney telling us that Jason's behavior became odd about six months ago. That coincides with his father's suicide, right?"

I stood a moment and thought about all this. It sounded like those Greek tragedies we were all forced to read and endure in college, where the hero always has some fatal flaw, like hubris or whatever, a brooding germ that lurks in remission until it eventually thaws and, like the Pac-Man, consumes all around it.

Jason's crimes were in the here and now, but the seeds were planted more than three decades before in a poisonous marriage, in a brutally claustrophobic household, and then richly fertilized by the hatred between two monumentally spiteful men.