The President's Assassin Part 8

"If one of the murder weapons turns up in his home, we'd be ... in fact, the whole case would be"

I reminded her, "You don't have a case to protect. A team of possibly professional killers is hunting the President of the United Statesfocus on the problem at hand."

In response to her still hesitant expression, I added, "These people aren't playing by the rules. These people know no rules. In this game, color outside the lines, or you lose."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Jennie played it the way that worked, and the powers that be gave us the search warrant for Jason Barnes's home in Springfield.

Springfield was a mere eight miles away, but it was rush hour, Was.h.i.+ngton traffic, and speed was critical. Jennie therefore ordered a helicopter, and voila, one dropped into the parking lot, we climbed aboard, and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The pilot followed 1-95 South to the Springfield exit, turned right, and we flew at low alt.i.tude over the endless patchwork of red-brick townhouse communities that is Springfield.

I haven't got a clue how the pilot picked the right complex, but he obviously did, judging by the several dark sedans that had cordoned off a landing pad and the agent who approached Jennie and me as we alit on the tarmac.

It turned out he was Special Agent Mark b.u.t.terman, the case officer, mid-fifties, long and thin, salt-and-pepper hair, leathery face, a suburbanized Marlboro man in a gray suit. He walked and spoke with a confidence I hoped wasn't misplaced, was too old to be wet behind the ears, and I recalled Jennie mentioned that he was handpicked because he was one of the Bureau's best and brightest, so somebody had a head on their shoulders. This was not the right opportunity for some youthful, overeager, promising stud to show he could cut it (or not). But it happens.

Jennie introduced us, and we shook. I knew b.u.t.terman was having a particularly c.r.a.ppy day, though he remained friendly and appeared unperturbed by the pressure.

Anyway, Agent b.u.t.terman knew time was precious, and he launched immediately into a fast-paced update on the progress of the investigation. To withundreds of samples and particles had been vacuumed and collected from the Belknap's house, and forensics was concentrating all its resources on that haul, though there had been no significant breakthroughs. Nor, from his tone did he expect any.

It turned out Mrs. Belknap was a big la-di-da in the D.C social circuit, and her home was an endless gathering place for the rich and pompousbook clubs, political fund-raisers, and what have you. Throw into that mix some fifteen Secret Service agents who roamed freely around the home, two maids, three yard people, repairmen, and whoever, and enough fingerprints, hair samples, fiber samples, and DNA traces had been lifted to populate New Jersey.

On a more upbeat note, my tip regarding the disturbances in the garden had panned out; they were footprints, three different shoe sizes and types, two male, and one that appeared to belong to a tiny-footed, narrow-shoed female.

Also the preliminary ballistics tests were wrapped up, indicating that four different, though identical, caliber pistols were used, implying either a quartet of killers or a remarkably talented duo of ambidextrous shooters. Which landed us at the present.

Regarding the here and now, he informed Jennie and me, "The super let us in. Seven agents are inside right now. It's small. Barnes lives alone. Shouldn't take long."

The clock was ticking, and he led us to, and then inside the townhouse, a modest two-floored, brick-fronted, faux colonial job. I wandered around for a moment.

b.u.t.terman was correct; the place was small, though not cramped, and for a bachelor pad, almost comically neat and tidy. The furniture was a sort of mix of modern and traditional, with colors and patterns that seemed to match the curtains, that matched the wall colors and the carpet, and so forth. Actually, there were no colors or patternseverything was pure white. I said to Jennie, "What's that smell?"

"Lemon Pledge."

"Lemon what?"

"Scented furniture pol Oh . . . you're kidding."

Right. Also I was making a point. Regular guys don't live like this, if you know what I mean. Jason's furniture didn't look cheap or expensive, and the art pieces were framed postersa European cityscape I couldn't identify an old movie poster I also didn't recognizethat indicated nothing about the tastes of the inhabitant, beyond a serious preference for Wal-Mart. Jennie noted, "He doesn't seem to live above his means."

b.u.t.terman concurred with her a.s.sessment and informed us, "He rents. Nine hundred and twenty a month, according to the super. Cheap for this area. He drives a used Mazda 323 he bought two years ago for eight grand."

I suggested, "But how he lives today might not be how he wants to live tomorrow."

"The ambition of every criminal mind," b.u.t.terman agreed. He added, "No liquor in the house, not even a Bud in the fridge. A teetotaler. No p.o.r.n, no old magazines or even newspapers. He doesn't even have a TV And if he keeps weapons here, they're gone. The guy lives like a monk."

Actually, as we wandered around, I was starting to wonder if anybody actually did live here. The place was clean as a whistle, so sterile and pristine I expected a Realtor to pop up from behind a couch. To the right was a tiny living room, connected to an even tinier dining area, and what is termed an efficiency kitchenordinarily an oxymoron, though in Jason's case it proved to be a stunning understatement. The counters were clean, bare, and scrubbed, and I detected no clutter, no dirty dishes, not even watermarks in the sink. I peeked inside his fridge and everything was dress-right-dress, a perfectly linear parade ground of milk cartons, yogurts, salad dressings, a cornucopia of low-cal, low-fat, and low-flavor goodies. I felt guilty in the midst of all this order, cleanliness, and health consciousness.

Four guys and gals in blue windbreakers were milling around the ground floor, not aimlessly, though clearly n.o.body appeared to be sure what they were searching for. This was my bright idea and I didn't have a clue what to look for. There would be something, though. Jason Barnes was not the benighted saint his boss thought he was. I was sure of it. Maybe.

Jennie said to me, "Upstairs."

So up we went, and at the top of the stairs was a narrow hallway that twisted to the right, and three doors. We opened the first door and it was a tiny bathroom that smelled like a pine forest, with precisely folded, freshly laundered towels, a spotless mirror, and a toilet you could eat off, were one inclined to do such a stupid thing. Did anybody actually live in this house?

I stepped inside and looked around a moment. A narrow closet was hidden behind the door, and it struck me that this would be the perfect hidey-hole for Jason's darkest secrets and fiitliiest habits. I swung it open and peeked inside, expecting a blow-up doll to fall out, a corpse, something. There were six shelves, and not a square inch of free s.p.a.ce. Laid out on the shelves was a veritable armory of medicines, nasal sprays, antibacterial soaps and shampoos, skin care ointments, and various medical salves, balms, preventatives and devices, from enemas to ear wax cleaning solvents. There must've been three hundred bottles and vials and tubes, all neatly arranged, a harem of things to make sure you smelled good, slew galaxies of germs, and never experienced a constipated moment, or even ringworm.

Jennie, who was more familiar with these things, whistled. She said, "Here's where his money went."

"Hypochondriac?" I suggested.

She eyed the supplies a moment. "Aside from the aspirin, Band-Aids, and antibacterial ointments, these are all preventatives and body cleaning aids. Not a hypochondriac. Still, this is a little . . . odd."

"More than a little."

We backed out, and the next door led to the master bedroom, where two agents were busily defacing another temple of neatness. A ma.s.sive and very ornate carved crucifix hung over the bed. The third door led to another, tinier bedroom that had been transformed into a compact office. Jennie said, "In here."

A female agent was already pulling books off shelves, and she faced us when Jennie asked her, "Anything interesting?"

"Depends what you mean by interesting." She elaborated, "Mostly horror novels and religious books. Lots of Stephen King and Anne Riceall that spooky stuff. He's got the full Tim La-Haye series . . . Armageddon and all that. I don't know how he sleeps at night."

I smiled at the agent and said, "Did you see anything called How to Whack a President?"

She smiled back. "Do you recall the author?" She added, "There's some military manuals on weapons and munitions. I don't know if that means anything. Leftovers from his military service, I guess."

I regarded the manuals a moment. Actually, they meant nothing except that Mr. Neatness had one flawhe was a pack rat. Big deal. I was still carting around a lockerful of manuals issued to me during my basic infantry officer training. But I had a good reason: I could run out of toilet paper someday. You never know.

Jennie commented, "It's never that easy. But you usually learn a few things about people from their reading habits."

I said, "Like what?"

She asked me, "What's on your bookshelf at home?"

"Let's see . . . the collected works of John Donne, Shakespeare's tragedies ... of course, all of Oprah's picks . . ."

She rolled her eyes. Why wasn't I being taken seriously?

On the wall across from the bookcase hung the usual vanity a.s.sortmenta VMI diploma, an officer commission, a few military awards, all of which were low-grade I-showed-up-for-work-on-time medals. In the middle was a presidential photo with a handwritten inscription that read: "To Jason, thanks for your service." Well, we'll see.

Not present were any items or paraphernalia of a personal naturephotographs of Mom and Dad, photo alb.u.ms, desk trophies, mementos, or even any old letters or bills. By itself this meant nothing. Collectively I thought it meant a great deal.

Jennie was nosing through book t.i.tles. She said, "I'll tell you what's discordant. Here's this highly intelligent guy with a tightly ordered, disciplined mind. Yet his reading tastes run toward chaos, make-believe monsters, and destructive visions. It's contradictory."

"And what do you make of that contradiction?"

"Let me think about it awhile."

I advised the agent, "Be sure to flip the pages on the books."

I walked to Jason's desk, sat down, and began browsing through drawers. Every pen, stamp, and paper clip was in the proper place, no loose change, no stray papers, no trash, no clutter or debris whatsoever. The order and cleanliness was manic and implied something. I mentioned, "The future Mrs. Barnes is one lucky lady."

The agent said, "The future Mrs. Barnes is going to go nuts. I did the kitchen earlier. The inside of his silverware drawers are labeledyou know, dinner forks, salad forks. His gla.s.sware and plates are shrink-wrapped inside the cabinets. The guy's garbage looked folded."

I glanced at Jennie Margold. "Your expertise is head cases."

"He displays cla.s.sic a.n.a.l compulsive tendencies certainly Clearly he's neurotic. It's even possible he's bacillophobic. Though I"

"He's what?"

"Fear of germs."

"Why didn't you say so?"

She smiled. I love a woman who appreciates my bad jokes. She said, "I'm talking unnecessary fear. The type who boils his toothbrush every morning."

You can never tell about people. It's interesting. I observed, "So here's a guy who wakes up every morning wondering if this is the day when he has to take a bullet for his boss. You wouldn't think he'd sweat the small stuff."

This got a big laugh out of the agent, though Jennie emitted a groan. She continued, "He's an only child, most likely. A very strict upbringing. Military college and his three years of Marine Corps life probably amplified his imprinted habits. It could relate to the paternal issues Mark Kinney cited. An overbearing father he's still struggling to placate and please. Freud would"

"Excuse me," I interrupted. "The crimedoes this relate to the crime?"

"Oh . . . right." She nodded at me, somewhat surprised. "You know your stuff. Obviously, you remember that I cla.s.sified the Belknap murder as an organized crime. Well, organized crimes are the product of neat, orderly, compulsive minds . . . and"

"Like Jason Barnes's mind?"

"Ostensibly He could fit the personality profile." She-added, "So would a million other males in this country."

"And females."

"Not really. Serial and ma.s.s killing are forms of aggression peculiarly suited to males."

"Oh please."

"I'm not making this up. It's a statistical fact. Do you know there are only two or three female serial killers in prison today?"

"Well. . . maybe women don't get caught."

"You mean women are smarter."

"Women are sneakier."

"I think you mean more clever." She smiled.

We returned to the perplexing puzzle of Jason Barnes. Jennie said, "Let me suggest this. It's early to hypothesize, but an only child with a demanding mother or father, neatness becomes a way to please. Only children tend to be over-supervised, neatness is a visible barometer of obedience, and there's no sibling around to blame for the mess."

I made a mental note to tell my big brother he owed me big-time. What a nit-picking idiot he'd be had not little Sean been around to pin all the raps on.

She continued, "It can be deterministic. They're instinctively neat and orderly, but when they feel guilt about something-tiny thingssome revert. . . become obsessive . . .insufferably compulsive. They feel they can expunge or make amends by ordering and straightening up their external environment. A lot of these people, later in life, they end up on couches."

Interesting. But she was right, you have to be careful, it was too early to reach conclusions. At that moment, we had a suspicion of an inside leak, and a missing agent. I mean, how stupid would we look if Jason showed up in the morning, explaining he had met some hottie in a bar who invited him over to straighten her pantry and iron her undies? Also, a few impressions scavenged from the surface barely sc.r.a.pe the emotional density of a full-blown person. Still, we were starting to tease out a few characteristics about the increasingly peculiar Mr. Barnes. You never know.

"We should take his Rolodex and address book," I informed Jennie. I added, "And get the phone company to give us his records." I pointed at his desktop computer. "You've got people who can unscramble this hard drive, right?"

She nodded. "They'll work all night, if need be."

"Need be."

She stared at me.

"Am I being too"

"Are you ever. Back off. Our people know how to handle this."

"Oh . . . sorry."

"I understand. You want to catch these people. We all do."

Then she thought of something else and turned to the agent leafing through books. "Go to the master bedroom, collect Barnes's shoes, and send them to forensics immediately" She looked at me and said, "We'll compare them to the foot molds from the garden. Yes . . . no?"

"Good catch."

Jennie's cell phone rang again, she punched on, identified herself and then listened. She looked and sounded exasperated.

"I understand . . . right. . . when . . . uh-huh, and where?" After a moment, she said, "The helicopter's in the parking lot. I'll be there inside twenty minutes."

She punched off and stared at the floor a moment. She said, "Wait'll you see this."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Straight ahead and through the helicopter's winds.h.i.+eld, we observed three or four columns of dark smoke curdling up from 495,Was.h.i.+ngton's notorious beltway and below, a long and frustrated parking lot that snaked its way back to northern Virginia.

The pilot twisted around in his chair and yelled back to us, "No place to land. When I get low, jump out. Watch the skids."

He tugged back on his throttle and the machine swooped down about five feet off the ground and loitered. I leaped first and landed on a small patch of gra.s.s, turned, and saw Jennie hurtling into me. I had just enough time to get my hands out, and she landed in my arms. A nearby cop was staring. I asked, "What happened here?"

He replied, "Man, you won't believe this. Some a.s.shole fired at a car." He pointed a finger at a mangled wreck leaking black smoke near the front of the tangled pack. "Therethat thing . . . Used to be a BMW 745i, if you can believe it. Just started cras.h.i.+ng into other cars. Everyone was doing about sixty-five . . . and you got this."

I saw that in addition to the wrecked BMW, "this" included some fifteen cars ranging from dimpled to mangled, a collage of shattered safety gla.s.s, torn steel, and ripped and dented people. Looking badly shaken, the cop remarked, "Probably just road rage . . . but holy s.h.i.+t."