The President's Killers (10 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Where were Lott and McQueen? Were they just going to let him twist in the wind?

Denny felt the anger growing deep inside his chest. How in the hell did he get sucked into this mess?

The old Toyota pickup started to shimmy and he had to slow down. There was a lot of slack in the steering wheel, too, which was a little scary, but he knew he was lucky to have the truck.

Each hour on the highway he was putting more distance between him and the swarm of police and federal agents in the St. Louis area.

He wondered how many were tramping through the woods with loaded shotguns at this very moment. They had dogs and helicopters. They were probably stopping cars on the roads and checking their trunks, and going door to door, asking people if they’d seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.

It was incredible. Every cop and federal agent in Missouri was hunting for him.

As he thought about Lott and McQueen, he remembered how tight-lipped they were during that interview at the Short Hills Inn. They hadn’t told him anything, hadn’t answered his questions. It had angered him, but they were with a recruiting outfit, so he wasn’t surprised.

And then there was the business about calling Mrs. Shamburg at SIG.

Who in the hell were these guys? Were Lott and McQueen even their real names? The thought produced a sinking sensation in his chest. If he wasn’t even sure of their names, how could he ever convince anybody they even existed?

Maybe he could call someone. The St. Louis police. Or even the FBI. He could make an anonymous phone call and maybe get them to wondering whether others might have been involved in this terrible assassination.

But how could he do that without getting caught? With every law enforcement agency in the country at its beck and call, the FBI might even be able to trace calls from a pay phone and pinpoint his location.

Within hours, he’d find himself in a jail cell, the media clamoring to take pictures of him. No one would pay any attention to what he said.

Maybe he could call Meesh. No, no, he couldn’t do that. She’d end up in a jail cell, too.

He could call some newspaper or TV station. At least they wouldn’t be able to trace the call quickly. There were scores of news organizations. What about the St. Louis newspaper? Why not call them?

He turned off the highway at the next town. It was little more than a crossroads. Two lifeless streets lined with big oak trees and a dozen wood-frame houses. He found a pay phone in front of a vacant filling station and pulled up beside it.

Then he started to have second-thoughts. How seriously would the FBI take a call to a newspaper? Uncertain what to do, he sat listening to a news report on the truck’s radio from a correspondent at the White House.

The White House! Hey, why not call the White House?

THIRTY-NINE

What were the odds a call to the White House would be traced?

It wasn’t a law enforcement agency. Its operators probably got hundreds of calls a day, and they probably weren’t in the habit of tracing calls.

Denny was in the middle of nowhere. If he used a public phone and kept the call short, maybe it couldn’t be traced. The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him.

The operator fielding the call would probably think he was a nut case. She wouldn’t put him through to anyone in authority, but she might pass along what he said. That might be enough to prompt the FBI to broaden its search instead of putting all the focus on him.

“Do you want the Switchboard, Comments, or Tours?” the information operator said when he asked for the White House number.

“The Switchboard.”

The phone rang several times before a young woman with a friendly voice answered.

“I’d like to talk to somebody on the President’s staff.”

“Do you have a name?”

“No. I don’t.”

“What’s the nature of your call?”

“I’m calling about the President’s death.”

The next thing he knew he was listening to a different woman’s voice, a recording providing instructions for leaving messages of condolence.

Denny swore and tried again. Another woman answered.

“Look,” he said, “I’m Clay Willis, the guy everybody is looking for. I didn’t kill the President. I was set up by a couple of guys who claimed they are federal agents. I don’t know if — “

“Let me put you through —.”

“No, wait.” He didn’t want to stay on the line. “Listen to me. I don’t think they’re really federal agents. The names they gave me —.”

“Hold on, please.”

He was afraid they were going to trace the call. “Just tell someone this, will you?”

“Just one moment, please.”

He hung up.

FORTY

He was half-way through Iowa City, a pretty college town two-hundred-forty miles north of St. Louis, when the cop pulled him over.

Leaving U.S. 61 when it began to follow the meandering course of the Mississippi river, Denny had turned onto a state highway that took him due north to Iowa City. The sidewalks of its business district were filled with young men and women with books and backpacks.

When he looked around for a sign indicating the name of the college, he was startled to discover a white patrol car only a few feet behind him.

He checked his speed. He had no idea what the speed limit was, but other cars were passing him on his right. Ahead of him, the traffic lights turned red. He halted and looked into the rearview mirror. The cop was right behind him.

When the traffic lights changed, Denny turned left onto a tree-lined street that looked as though it might lead to a campus.

The police car followed.

Denny was watching in the rearview mirror when its blue and red lights began to flash.

Damn! He pulled over to the side of the road. In the mirror, he saw the door of the police car open and the officer step out.

Had he come all this way for nothing? The whole world was convinced he was the assassin. The police and the media had already convicted him. And it was obvious he was fleeing. What chance was he going to have if he were arrested?

The Glock was on the seat beside him, under his folded polo shirt. He slipped his hand under the shirt and slid the pistol and shirt toward him.

Maybe he could disarm the cop. Maybe he could force him into the pickup and take him hostage.

No, no, no! If the cop went for his gun, Denny couldn’t shoot him. He couldn’t do that. He released the pistol and placed his hand on the steering wheel.

The officer bent down and looked into the car. He was younger than Denny. Only a kid.

Denny slid his left hand up the steering wheel, trying to prevent the cop from noticing the scratches on the steering column and the fact the ignition cylinder was missing.

“Can I help you?” The cop was smiling.

“What?”

“You look like you’re lost. I noticed the Missouri plates.”

“Oh! Oh, no, I was just wondering what school this is.”

“U of I. The university.” The cop pointed to his left. “The football stadium’s right over there.”

“Oh! Yeah, I see it.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No, but thanks, anyway. I appreciate it.”

His luck had held, but just barely. The old Toyota was too conspicuous. Other people would notice the Missouri license plates.

Besides, whoever owned the truck had probably reported it stolen by now. The longer he kept the old pickup, the more likely state and local cops outside the St. Louis area were to be aware it was stolen.

But what other choices did he have? Airports were sure to be under surveillance. Maybe he could slip onto a cross-country bus without being detected. He was well over two-hundred miles from St. Louis, and everyone seemed convinced he was still hiding in the woods back there.

At the next corner he pulled over to the side of the street to ask a student where the bus station was. Five minutes later, he found it. A small brick building with two big Greyhounds parked at right angles to it.

As he started into the parking lot, he spotted it. A police car, parked near the entrance. He jerked the steering wheel around and veered back into the street.

He didn’t slow down again until he was back on the highway leading out of town. On the northern edge of the city, a big white-and-black banner caught his eye. It was draped in front of Sam’s Auto, a used-car lot.

Two men in white, short-sleeved shirts were standing in front of a small, glass sales office beneath a sign that said “Pre-Owned Center.”

Denny turned off the highway and started around the block. He stopped beside a deep ditch and hid the pistol Lott had given him and his other belongings in the grass.

When he drove into the used-car lot, a pudgy, smiling salesman hurried over to greet him. He introduced himself as Sam Sprowls. He noticed the Missouri plates immediately.

“New student?”

“Yes.”

Sam grinned. “Just sold a nice Honda to one of the football players over there. Big black fellah. Tackle, I think he said he was.”

For fifteen minutes, he led Denny around the lot showing him his wares.

“That there Toyota of yours has been around the track a few times,” he said. “Probably more than 100,000 on her, am I right?”

“Close.” Denny pointed to a green 1997 Mazda they’d inspected. “I like the Mazda. Can I take it out on the road?”

“Sure can!”

Sam fetched the keys from the office and started towards the Mazda.

“If you don’t mind,” Denny said, “I’d like to take it out by myself.”

Sam glanced at the Toyota, which would serve as collateral.

“Go right ahead, young fellah. Take her into one of these gas stations around here, if you’d like. Have’em take a look at her. This here little lady is about as outstanding a buy as you’re going to find.”

Denny drove the Mazda back to the grassy ditch and retrieved the pistol and his belongings. Five minutes later, he was roaring up Highway 1 towards the next town.

FORTY-ONE

Like everyone else in Washington, Margaret Dupree assumed Chris Weems would replace her boss as chief of staff for the new president. She liked Chris and was sure he would do an excellent job. He was not only very nice; he was also a very smooth, unflappable professional.

She waited for the Oval Office meeting to break up to give him the news about the calls coming into the White House from two men claiming to be President Patrick’s assassin.

When she got Chris aside, he took her hand. “How are you doing, Margaret? This is a difficult time for all of us.”

“Oh, I’m a tough old bird. How is Jo — the President?”

“Fine, fine. He’s a tough old bird himself. He’ll come through all this with flying colors.”

Weems was a short, affable man who’d run a small public relations firm in Philadelphia before getting into politics. He’d come to Washington nearly twenty years ago when Pennsylvania voters sent Merrill to the Senate. Although he seemed to know everybody and everything, there were no airs about him.

Margaret handed him the note. “My guy isn’t back yet, Chris. Maybe you should look at this.”

The note said the White House had received two calls from men claiming to be the assassin. The first one said he killed the President because he was destroying America. The other caller claimed he was innocent and had been framed by two men posing as federal agents.

Weems smiled and slipped the note into his folder of papers.

“Predictable stuff. Please tell everyone to keep their mouths shut about these loony-tune calls. The last thing we need is for the media to go off half-cocked.”

In Iowa City, Sam Sprowls looked up at the clock on his wall. His green Mazda had been gone almost three hours. Where did that fool kid from the university go?

He shook his head. Out the window, he saw an elderly couple in an old Buick pulling into his lot. They wanted to replace their Buick and liked the looks of a four-year-old Cadillac at the front of the lot. He greeted them and spent more than an hour trying to close the deal, but they wound up driving away, uncertain what they wanted to do. They promised to return the next day.

Watching them drive off, Sam remembered the green Mazda. Where the hell was that kid? He went over to inspect the young man’s old Toyota pickup. When he opened the door and peered in, he saw the ignition switch was missing.

“Oh, oh,” he said. “Something tells me sonny-boy isn’t coming back.”

He cussed and trudged back to the sales office to call the police department.

FORTY-TWO

Special agent-in-charge Jim Moran pressed the phone harder against his ear. “Denny?”

“Right,” agent Ray Lundstrom said.

“K-i-n-n-y?”

“K-i-n-n-e-y. The rifle was bought four years ago at a sporting goods store in Orange, New Jersey. Kinney gave a Millburn, New Jersey, address. That’s not far from Orange.”

Moran glanced across his desk at Bambrick. “Have you talked to the Newark office?” he asked Lundstrom.

“They’ve already got a couple guys on their way to check the place out.”

“Good. If there’s no one there, get a search warrant. And find out if Kinney has an arrest record.”

“Will do, Jim.”

“Thanks, Ray. That’s terrific!” He put the phone down. “Ray’s in our St. Louis office.”

“An ID on the Remington?” Bambrick said.

“Right.”

“The Remington was bought in New Jersey?”

Moran nodded. “Guy named Denny Kinney.” He could see Bambrick’s mind working.

“Whatever came of that chambermaid’s report? The one at that Holiday Inn next to Forest Park. Wasn’t the character in that room from New Jersey?”

“The guy with the maps of the park in his room?”

Bambrick nodded. “What do we know about him?”

“I don’t think we ever located him. Let me find out.”

Twenty minutes later, Lundstrom called back with the answer. “Bingo!” he said. “We didn’t find the guy, but we have his name on the Holiday Inn register. Denny Kinney. Same spelling. Same New Jersey address.”

Moran gave Bambrick the news. “Looks like we’ve got two suspects.”

“Maybe,” he said, scowling. “Or one suspect with two names.”