Murder at the Library of Congress (26 page)

His office was spacious and handsomely appointed. Signed photographs covered the walls, interspersed with copper metalwork from Michoacán, Mexico, and a grouping of
milagros
, votive offerings to the saints created from hammered tin and inlaid with semiprecious stones. The fourth wall, dominated by windows, displayed a map of Florida, a U.S. map, and the senator’s family coat of arms.

He hung his jacket on a corner coat tree, invited Broadhurst to take a seat, and folded himself into a high-backed leather chair behind a massive desk.

“Good of you to come on short notice,” he said. To a young female aide who lingered just inside the door: “We’ll need a few minutes alone, Ellen.”

She backed out of the office, closing the door behind her.

“Well, Cale,” Mendendez said, “I’m sure you know why I felt it necessary to get together.”

“The TV report on David Driscoll,” Broadhurst said.

“That’s right. And now this.”

He slid that morning’s
Washington Post
across the desk. The paper was open to a page on which a long article appeared concerning the intrigue surrounding Michele Paul’s murder, the money paid him by David Driscoll, and questioning any possible correlation between Paul’s murder and the disappearance eight years
ago of John Bitteman. Broadhurst pushed the paper back to Menendez. “I’ve read it.”

“Is it true?” Menendez asked.

“That David Driscoll had been sending sizable sums of money to Michele Paul?” Broadhurst said. “We’re investigating further. Unfortunately, it seems to be.”

“How did you learn about it?” asked the senator.

“The police came to me after they’d investigated Michele’s finances.”

“When did the police contact you?” Menendez’s tone had been friendly, pleasantly inquisitive. This question was hard-edged.

“Yesterday,” Broadhurst answered.

“It didn’t occur to you to contact me immediately?”

“No,” Broadhurst said, uncomfortable with the tenor the meeting had taken. “I took immediate action, of course. We’ve been trying to find Driscoll. He’s out of the country. I wish I were. I have my entire staff looking into it, going back over Paul’s work, checking to see whether anyone was aware of what was going on.”

“You approached me, Cale, and asked for help in obtaining funds for those Las Casas diaries. I took immediate action. I started the ball rolling by having my staff draft a special spending resolution laying the groundwork with key colleagues should the diaries turn up. The fact that someone of Driscoll’s stature was involved added to my comfort level in pursuing it. Now, I turn on my TV and read my newspaper and see serious accusations being made against him, and, by implication, the library, and a murder in the wings.”

“If it bothered you, Senator, imagine my reaction.”

“Why was Driscoll sending money to Paul?”

“We don’t know,” said Broadhurst. “David might have been making use of Dr. Paul’s research to locate important collections or manuscripts or books. It hardly
seems likely that pure research would be so valuable to a collector but … you never know. Hopefully, we’ll get a straight answer to that from Driscoll—once we catch up with him.”

Menendez sat back, his brow furrowed, eyes trained on an ornate chandelier hanging directly above his visitor. He said, “I know this is asking for speculation on your part, Cale, but is it even remotely possible that the money Driscoll was sending Michele Paul had something to do with his murder?”

“It’s inconceivable to me, Senator, but the murder was, too. That’s a personal view. David Driscoll and I have been acquainted for a long time, going back long before I became Librarian. You know as well as I do of his generosity to the library over many years, especially in the past ten years or so. That said—and I stress it’s my personal reaction to your question—I don’t know. I wish I did.”

Menendez said, “Again, I ask about the money. If Paul was being paid by Driscoll, that would be a serious breach of Paul’s responsibility to the library, would it not?”

“Of course,” said Broadhurst.

“Do you have any further information that others on your staff might be doing the same thing?”

A nervous laugh came from the Librarian. He didn’t know. “No. Michele Paul was undoubtedly an isolated incident, an aberration. Most librarians do not get rich, ethically or otherwise.”

Menendez ran his tongue over his lower lip, swiveled left and right, then came forward, elbows on the desk. “These Las Casas diaries and map are now tainted.”

“Tainted? They haven’t even been found yet.”

“With scandal. I’m sure you can understand the position I’m in. I can’t very well push for a resolution to release
funds to buy them if they come through a now-sullied source like David Driscoll.”

Broadhurst shifted in his chair and exhaled audibly. “I never thought I’d hear the name David Driscoll and scandal mentioned in the same breath.” He sensed the meeting was about to end. “When I’ve had the opportunity to ask Driscoll why he’s been sending money to Paul, I’ll be better able to answer your questions.”

“When you have those answers,” Menendez said, “I want to be informed first.”

“Before the police?”

“First. In the meantime, I’m putting on hold any further consideration of funding the purchase.”

“Which is certainly understandable,” said Broadhurst.

“Before we break this up, is there anything else threatening to erupt at the library, something that might further contribute to what I’m sure you’ll agree is a brewing scandal?”

Broadhurst paused before responding. Should he mention the unknown person who’d been phone stalking the young intern in the main reading room? The drunk who’d been escorted from the Jefferson Building by library police, and who threatened legal action for violation of his civil rights? The recent technical snafu in the digital library project?

“Not to my knowledge,” Broadhurst said.

“Good.”

Menendez stood, opened the door, and summoned two of his staff into the office. All beautiful smile, he turned to Broadhurst: “Thanks for coming. I think it was a useful meeting.”

Broadhurst walked down First Street to the Madison Building, passing a familiar homeless woman in whose paper cup he often dropped coins. He ignored her. He
crossed against a traffic light and went directly to his office.

“No visitors or calls, please,” he told his secretary.

He hung his tweed jacket on a coat tree, went to the large globe and gave it a vigorous spin, then sat behind his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed Mary Beth Mullin’s extension.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“No.”

“Get some people working the phones and call any place he might be, California, Alaska, Mexico, the South Pole, any place. I want to talk to him now!”

34

Despite not having slept the previous night, Annabel arrived at LC feeling energized and purposeful, as a person sometimes does on too little rest. It’s the second day that terminal fatigue usually strikes. She walked through the door of the Jefferson Building at eight-thirty and was in her space on the upper gallery before Consuela or any of the other Hispanic-Portuguese staff members showed up.

She plugged in her laptop and inserted the last of the five discs taken from the envelope found in the so-called Aaronsen Collection. She’d run out of time at home; another fifteen pages were still to be read and notes taken.

She was so intently focused on the screen that she wasn’t aware of someone standing behind her until that person cleared her throat. Annabel turned to look up at Dolores Marwede. Was she reading the computer screen over Annabel’s shoulder?

“Oh,” Annabel said, shifting in her chair in an attempt to block the screen.

“Early start, huh?” Dolores said.

“Yes. I feel the clock ticking, the deadline for my article looming larger and closer.”

“I heard you’ve found computer discs in one of the collections that might bear on Michele’s case.”

“Actually, Sue Gomara came up with them.”

“Is that what you’re looking at now?”

“Yes. I’m waiting for Consuela to arrive so I can give them to her.”

“What’s on them?” Dolores asked, pulling the chair from what had been Michele Paul’s desk to Annabel’s side.

“A lot of research notes, nothing especially enlightening so far.”

“From what I hear, you told Consuela you thought the discs might belong to Michele.”

“The grapevine is in full flower. Do you know if Consuela is here yet?”

“I didn’t see her when I came in, but she should be.”

Annabel popped the disc from the drive, slipped it into its paper sleeve, added it to the envelope containing the other four discs, and stood. “I’ll go down and check,” she said.

She walked away, aware of Dolores Marwede’s eyes following her as she stepped aside to allow Sue Gomara to pass—“How was the stuff on the discs, Annabel?” “Ah, fine, Sue. Interesting.”—and went downstairs. Consuela Martinez had just arrived. There was no need to say anything. Annabel stepped into the office, closed the door, and laid the envelope on the desk.

“Were they helpful?” Consuela asked.

“I’m not sure yet. I do know that what’s on those discs is disturbing.”

“How so?”

“Consuela, I thought these discs belonged to Michele Paul.”

“And?”

“I don’t believe that now. I think they were the product of John Bitteman.”

“Bitteman? What makes you say that?”

“I compared some written materials I had from Bitteman’s files with the material on the discs. They track.
The discs didn’t come from Michele Paul’s hand because they’re filled with disparaging comments about him.”

“What sort of disparaging comments?”

“Oh, snide remarks, mentions of professional inadequacy, claims that someone known as ‘MP’ stole his research, things like that. He never mentions Paul by name. It’s always initials. The material is filled with initials. I have no doubt that ‘MP’ stands for Michele Paul. But all those negative references aren’t what concern me, Consuela. It’s what’s on the final fifteen pages that really captured my attention.”

Consuela’s wide eyes urged Annabel to go on.

“Bitteman—and I’m convinced it’s Bitteman’s writing—says he knew all about MP’s deal with ‘DD’—”

“David Driscoll.”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“And says he intends to go to LC.”

“LC? Library of Congress?”

“Or Librarian of Congress. He says he intends to go to LC and expose Paul’s financial arrangement with Driscoll.”

“He lays that out?”

“Yes. Portions of what Bitteman wrote are almost like a legal brief, building a case against Paul.”

“You’re the lawyer, Annie—the ex-lawyer. Is it a strong case?”

“I’m not sure because I don’t understand parts of it. I thought you might help.”

“If I’m able, sure.”

“Bitteman—and I’m certain everything on the discs was written by him—has a couple of pages of charts.”

“Charts?”

“Yes. Here. Put this in your computer,” Annabel said,
taking one of the discs from the envelope on the desk and handing it to Consuela. When its table of contents appeared on the screen, Annabel reached over Consuela’s shoulder and scrolled down to
CHART
, hit Enter, and the file became visible. It was arranged in four columns, with a heading at the top of each: “Material,” “Value Pre-MP,” “Venue,” and “New Value.” Beneath the first heading was a list of dozens of books and what appeared to be manuscripts, each having to do with Hispanic or Portuguese subjects.

“We have these books here in LC,” Consuela said.

“I know. I’ve run across a few in my research.”

Consuela concentrated on the list. “I distinctly remember this one,” she said, touching it on the screen. “David Driscoll donated it. I recall it because of talk about it here in the division.”

“Talk?”

“Not exactly controversy, but some questioned its valuation. It’s a nice book, Annie, of genuine but modest value, worth maybe what’s in the second column alongside it.”

“What about the fourth column, ‘New Value’?”

Consuela nodded. “I think that was what Driscoll claimed it really was worth, ten times that first number.” She looked up at Annabel. “What does this mean?”

“Look at ‘Venue.’ ”

Consuela read from the screen: “ ‘Society of Latin American Scholars, 11/89.’ It must refer to the society’s annual scholarly meeting. It’s always held in November.”

“Any idea why that entry would be there under ‘Venue’?”

“No. Oh, wait. We’ve had a speaker from LC at the meeting every year since I’ve been here, probably a lot longer than that. November, 1989. I attended that session. Michele Paul was one of the speakers.”

“Do you have a record of when Driscoll donated that particular book to the library?”

“Give me a minute.”

After rummaging through a file cabinet, Consuela handed Annabel a printed form, its spaces filled in by hand.

“August 1990,” Annabel said. “Nine months after the meeting. Do you recall what Michele spoke about?”

“Not specifically. He tended to ramble, go off on myriad tangents.”

“Did he mention that book?”

“Possibly. As I said—”

“Look at the other items in the first column. Recognize any of those?”

“Sure. Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Just about all of these were Driscoll contributions to the library.”

“Were his other donations ever considered overvalued?”

“Yes, but that’s not unusual. People donating things to charity often inflate their value for tax purposes.”

“Inflate it ten times?”

“It does seem excessive.”

Annabel pointed to another item on the list, a map, and said, “According to Bitteman’s calculations, the map was worth six thousand dollars ‘Pre-MP.’ The new value he assigns it in the fourth column is a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. That’s more than twenty times its original value. Look at what Bitteman lists as the venue—
Hispanic Insight,
6/90.”

“A magazine, well respected in the field.”

“I assume you have back copies.”

“Sure.”

She placed a call to one of the reference librarians, who delivered it within minutes. Annabel went to the index. “Look,” she said, handing the magazine to Consuela, “Michele Paul has an article in this issue.”