The Pelican Brief (6 page)

“The Montrose Theatre, at midnight,” Callahan repeated.

“Where is it?” she asked. Callahan had finished law school at Georgetown.

“Not sure. But I think it’s in the gay section.”

“Was he gay?”

“I’ve heard rumors. Evidently.” They were both sitting on the end of the bed with the sheets over their legs. The President was ordering a week of national mourning. Flags at half-staff. Federal offices closed tomorrow. Funeral arrangements were incomplete. He rambled for a few more minutes, still deeply saddened, even shocked, very human, but nonetheless
the President and clearly in charge. He signed off with his patented grandfather’s smile of complete trust and wisdom and reassurance.

An NBC reporter on the White House lawn appeared and filled in the gaps. The police were mute, but there appeared to be no suspects at the moment, and no leads. Yes, both justices had been under the protection of the FBI, which had no comment. Yes, the Montrose was a place frequented by homosexuals. Yes, there had been many threats against both men, especially Rosenberg. And there could be many suspects before it was all over.

Callahan turned off the set and walked to the French doors, where the early air was growing thicker. “No suspects,” he mumbled.

“I can think of at least twenty,” Darby said.

“Yeah, but why the combination? Rosenberg is easy, but why Jensen? Why not McDowell or Yount, both of whom are consistently more liberal than Jensen? It doesn’t make sense.” Callahan sat in a wicker chair by the doors and fluffed his hair.

“I’ll get you some more coffee,” Darby said.

“No, no. I’m awake.”

“How’s your head?”

“Fine, if I could’ve slept for three more hours. I think I’ll cancel class. I’m not in the mood.”

“Great.”

“Damn, I can’t believe this. That fool has two nominations. That means eight of the nine will be Republican choices.”

“They have to be confirmed first.”

“We won’t recognize the Constitution in ten years. This is sick.”

“That’s why they were killed, Thomas. Someone or some group wants a different Court, one with an absolute conservative majority. The election is next year. Rosenberg is, or was, ninety-one. Manning is eighty-four. Yount is early eighties. They could die soon, or live ten more years. A Democrat may be elected President. Why take a chance? Kill them now, a year before the election. Makes perfect sense, if one was so inclined.”

“But why Jensen?”

“He was an embarrassment. And, obviously, he was an easier target.”

“Yes, but he was basically a moderate with an occasional leftward impulse. And he was nominated by a Republican.”

“You want a Bloody Mary?”

“Good idea. In a minute. I’m trying to think.”

Darby reclined on the bed, sipped the coffee, and watched the sunlight filter across the balcony. “Think of it, Thomas. The timing is beautiful. Reelection, nominations, politics, all that. But think of the violence and the radicals, the zealots, the pro-lifers and gay haters, the Aryans and Nazis, think of all the groups capable of killing, and all the threats against the Court, and the timing is perfect for an unknown, inconspicuous group to knock them off. It’s morbid, but the timing is great.”

“And who is such a group?”

“Who knows?”

“The Underground Army?”

“They’re not exactly inconspicuous. They killed Judge Fernandez in Texas.”

“Don’t they use bombs?”

“Yeah, experts with plastic explosives.”

“Scratch them.”

“I’m not scratching anybody right now.” Darby stood and retied the robe. “Come on. I’ll fix you a Bloody Mary.”

“Only if you drink with me.”

“Thomas, you’re a professor. You can cancel your classes if you want to. I am a student and—”

“I understand the relationship.”

“I cannot cut any more classes.”

“I’ll flunk you in con law if you don’t cut classes and get drunk with me. I’ve got a book of Rosenberg opinions. Let’s read them, sip Bloody Marys, then wine, then whatever. I miss him already.”

“I have Federal Procedure at nine, and I can’t miss it.”

“I intend to call the dean and have all classes canceled. Then will you drink with me?”

“No. Come on, Thomas.” He followed her down the stairs to the kitchen and the coffee and the liquor.

6
________

WITHOUT REMOVING the receiver from his shoulder, Fletcher Coal punched another button on the phone on the desk in the Oval Office. Three lines were blinking, holding. He paced slowly in front of the desk and listened while scanning a two-page report from Horton at Justice. He ignored the President, who was crouched in front of the windows, gripping his putter with gloved hands, staring fiercely first at the yellow ball, then slowly across the blue carpet to the brass putting cup ten feet away. Coal growled something into the receiver. His words were unheard by the President, who lightly tapped the ball and watched it roll precisely into the cup. The cup clicked, cleared itself, and the ball rolled three feet to the side. The President inched forward in his socks to the next ball, and breathed downward at it. It was an orange one. He tapped it just so, and it rolled straight into the cup. Eight in a row. Twenty-seven out of thirty.

“That was Chief Runyan,” Coal said, slamming the receiver down. “He’s quite upset. He wanted to meet with you this afternoon.”

“Tell him to take a number.”

“I told him to be here at ten tomorrow morning. You have the Cabinet at ten-thirty, and National Security at eleven-thirty.”

Without looking up, the President gripped the putter and studied the next ball. “I can’t wait. What about the polls?” He swung carefully and followed the ball.

“I just talked to Nellson. He ran two, beginning at noon. The computer is digesting it now, but he thinks the approval rating will be somewhere around fifty-two or fifty-three.”

The golfer looked up briefly and smiled, then returned to his game. “What was it last week?”

“Forty-four. It was the cardigan without the tie. Just like I said.”

“I thought it was forty-five,” he said as he tapped a yellow one and watched it roll perfectly into the cup.

“You’re right. Forty-five.”

“That’s the highest in—”

“Eleven months. We haven’t been above fifty since Flight 402 in November of last year. This is a wonderful crisis, Chief. The people are shocked, yet many of them are happy Rosenberg is gone. And you’re the man in the middle. Just wonderful.” Coal punched a blinking button and picked up the receiver. He slammed it down without a word. He straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.

“It’s five-thirty, Chief. Voyles and Gminski are waiting.”

He putted and watched the ball. It was an inch to the right, and he grimaced. “Let them wait. Let’s do a
press conference at nine in the morning. I’ll take Voyles with me, but I’ll keep his mouth shut. Make him stand behind me. I’ll give some more details and answer a few questions. Networks’ll carry it live, don’t you think?”

“Of course. Good idea. I’ll get it started.”

He picked off his gloves and threw them in a corner. “Show them in.” He carefully leaned his putter against the wall and slid into his Bally loafers. As usual, he had changed clothes six times since breakfast, and now wore a glen plaid double-breasted suit with a red and navy polka-dot tie. Office attire. The jacket hung on a rack by the door. He sat at his desk and scowled at some papers. He nodded at Voyles and Gminski, but neither stood nor offered to shake hands. They sat across the desk, and Coal took his usual standing position like a sentry who couldn’t wait to fire. The President pinched the bridge of his nose as if the stress of the day had delivered a migraine.

“It’s been a long day, Mr. President,” Bob Gminski said to break the ice. Voyles looked at the windows.

Coal nodded, and the President said, “Yes, Bob. A very long day. And I have a bunch of Ethiopians invited for dinner tonight, so let’s be brief. Let’s start with you, Bob. Who killed them?”

“I do not know, Mr. President. But I assure you we had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you promise me, Bob?” He was almost prayerful.

Gminski raised his right hand with the palm facing the desk. “I swear. On my mother’s grave, I swear.”

Coal nodded smugly as if he believed him, and as if his approval meant everything.

The President glared at Voyles, whose stocky figure filled the chair and was still draped with a bulky trench coat. The Director chewed his gum slowly and sneered at the President.

“Ballistics? Autopsies?”

“Got ’em,” Voyles said as he opened his briefcase.

“Just tell me. I’ll read it later.”

“The gun was small-caliber, probably a .22. Point-blank range for Rosenberg and his nurse, powder burns indicate. Hard to tell for Ferguson, but the shots were fired from no farther than twelve inches away. We didn’t see the shooting, you understand? Three bullets into each head. They picked two out of Rosenberg; found another in his pillow. Looks like he and the nurse were asleep. Same type slugs, same gun, same gunman, evidently. Complete autopsy summaries are being prepared, but there were no surprises. Causes of deaths are quite obvious.”

“Fingerprints?”

“None. We’re still looking, but it was a very clean job. Appears as if he left nothing but the slugs and the bodies.”

“How’d he get into the house?”

“No apparent signs of entry. Ferguson searched the place when Rosenberg arrived around four. Routine procedure. He filed his written report two hours later, and it says he inspected two bedrooms, a bath, and three closets upstairs, and each room downstairs, and of course found nothing. Says he checked all windows and doors. Pursuant to Rosenberg’s instructions, our agents were outside, and they estimate Ferguson’s four o’clock inspection took from three to four minutes. I
suspect the killer was waiting and hiding when the Justice returned and Ferguson walked through.”

“Why?” Coal insisted.

Voyles’ red eyes watched the President and ignored his hatchet man. “This man is obviously very talented. He killed a Supreme Court Justice—maybe two—and left virtually no trail. A professional assassin, I would guess. Entry would not be a problem for him. Eluding a cursory inspection by Ferguson would be no problem for him. He’s probably very patient. He wouldn’t risk an entry when the house was occupied and cops around. I think he entered sometime in the afternoon and simply waited, probably in a closet upstairs, or perhaps in the attic. We found two small pieces of attic insulation on the floor under the retractable stairs; suggests they had recently been used.”

“Really doesn’t matter where he was hiding,” the President said. “He wasn’t discovered.”

“That’s correct. We were not allowed to inspect the house, you understand?”

“I understand he’s dead. What about Jensen?”

“He’s dead too. Broken neck, strangled with a piece of yellow nylon rope that can be found in any hardware store. The medical examiners doubt the broken neck killed him. They’re reasonably confident the rope did. No fingerprints. No witnesses. This is not the sort of place where witnesses come rushing forward, so I don’t expect to find any. Time of death was around twelve-thirty this morning. The killings were two hours apart.”

The President scribbled notes. “When did Jensen leave his apartment?”

“Don’t know. We’re relegated to the parking lot, remember. We followed him home around 6 P.M., then watched the building for seven hours until we found out he’d been strangled in a queer joint. We were following his demands, of course. He sneaked out of the building in a friend’s car. Found it two blocks from the joint.”

Coal took two steps forward with his hands clasped rigidly behind him. “Director, do you think one assassin did both jobs?”

“Who in hell knows. The bodies are still warm. Give us a break. There’s precious little evidence right now. With no witnesses, no prints, no screwups, it’ll take time to piece this thing together. Could be the same man, I don’t know. It’s too early.”

“Surely you have a gut feeling,” the President said.

Voyles paused and glanced at the windows. “Could be the same guy, but he must be superman. Probably two or three, but regardless, they had to have a lot of help. Someone fed them a lot of information.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how often Jensen goes to the movies, where does he sit, what time does he get there, does he go by himself, does he meet a friend. Information we didn’t have, obviously. Take Rosenberg. Someone had to know his little house had no security system, that our boys were kept outside, that Ferguson arrived at ten and left at six and had to sit in the backyard, that—”

“You knew all this,” the President interrupted.

“Of course we did. But I assure you we didn’t share it with anyone.” The President shot a quick
conspiratorial glance at Coal, who was scratching his chin, deep in thought.

Voyles shifted his rather wide rear and gave Gminski a smile, as if to say, “Let’s play along with them.”

“You’re suggesting a conspiracy,” Coal said intelligently with deep eyebrows.

“I’m not suggesting a damned thing. I am proclaiming to you, Mr. Coal, and to you, Mr. President, that, yes, in fact, a large number of people conspired to kill them. There may be only one or two killers, but they had a lot of help. It was too quick and clean and well organized.”

Coal seemed satisfied. He stood straight and again clasped his hands behind him.

“Then who are the conspirators?” the President asked. “Who are your suspects?”

Voyles breathed deeply and seemed to settle in his chair. He closed the briefcase and laid it at his feet. “We don’t have a prime suspect at the moment, just a few good possibilities. And this must be kept very quiet.”

Coal sprang a step closer. “Of course it’s confidential,” he snapped. “You’re in the Oval Office.”

“And I’ve been here many times before. In fact, I was here when you were running around in dirty diapers, Mr. Coal. Things have a way of leaking out.”

“I think you’ve had leaks yourself,” Coal said.

The President raised his hand. “It’s confidential, Denton. You have my word.” Coal retreated a step.