The President's Killers (21 page)

NINETY-FOUR

Bambrick wasn’t fooled. He knew Sal Conti wasn’t leveling with them.

He was a little too eager to please them. Whenever he shifted his weight in the chair, he grimaced. And yet as much as the hip wound hurt, he kept grinning as he looked around the conference table.

“You, okay?” Bambrick asked.

Conti grinned. “I’m okay. Hurts a little.”

“How long you been in the Secret Service, Sal”

“Seventeen years.”

“Like it?”

“Love it.”

“They treat you all right?”

Conti threw up his shoulders. “I can’t complain.”

Bambrick hesitated, doing his best to look as though he was embarrassed to even ask the next question. “Ever been in trouble? In the agency, I mean?”

“Nope.”

It was a damned lie. Everyone in the room knew it.

“Sure about that, Sal?”

Conti glanced at the other two faces staring at him. “Sure.”

Bambrick leaned closer to him. How stupid did this sorry excuse for a government agent think they were?

“Mrs. Brooks, your Director, tells us you’ve got a problem.”

Conti straightened up. “Okay, okay. I know what you’re driving at. Sure, they’re claiming I padded a couple of expense accounts. That’s bullshit. I’m fighting that. It’s all bullshit.”

“Mrs. Brooks tells us you were there when that black kid got busted up at your field office. That kid who was thrown into the glass door.”

Conti shifted his weight and winced. “That isn’t what happened. No way. He wasn’t thrown into the door. He tried to run. Tried to run and he tripped and crashed into the door. I saw the whole thing.”

“You were Groark’s partner, right?”

“Right. But I had nothing to do with what happened to that kid.”

Bambrick adopted a friendlier tone. “What’s Groark doing now, Sal? I haven’t seen anything in the paper about him lately.”

“No idea. I never run into him anymore.”

One of the other Bureau men filled Conti’s coffee cup. When Conti raised the cup to his lips, his hand was trembling.

“This damn hip is sore,” Conti said, trying to divert attention from his hand. “You got any Sweet’n Low?”

“Sure.” One of the others pushed away from the table and left the room.

Bambrick got to his feet. “Kinney has a girlfriend. Pretty young thing named Meesh Walker. Know her?”

Conti shook his head.

“She’s got quite a story. You know what she says?”

He used every detail she had given them, and Conti’s mouth hung open. He fidgeted in his chair, then began to protest. “Bullshit. That’s pure bullshit.”

“Pretty crazy-assed story, isn’t it?” Bambrick said. “I wouldn’t buy the story in a million years. Except there’s one thing I don’t understand, Sal. With all the houses in the District of Columbia, all the houses in Georgetown, Kinney and his girlfriend decide to break into Warren Crittenden’s house. The house of a Secret Service guy who at that very moment is out looking for them.”

Conti looked at the others around the table and shrugged. “Somebody getting Sweet’n Low?”

“Miss Walker.”

Meesh, confused and disoriented, looked up from the leather sofa. They had deposited her in an office near a small conference room and she dozed off. The stocky FBI man was leaning over her.

“Miss Walker.”

All of a sudden she was “Miss Walker”? She sat up and looked at the clock. It was almost 6 A.M.

“We’re going to need to talk to you further,” the FBI man said, “but it’s been a long night. So we’re going to have two of our agents take you over to the hospital where your boyfriend is, okay?”

NINETY-FIVE

Meesh wept when she saw him.

His entire face was swollen, even his closed eyes. One was as big as a tennis ball. His head was wrapped with an enormous bandage. There was a thick clear-plastic tube in his mouth, small plastic tubes in his nostrils, others dangling from his arms.

With quick, deft movements, the tiny, white-haired nurse checked Denny’s pulse and blood pressure. Although she had cleaned him up, there were trickles of watery blood beneath his nostrils. Even his lips were puffy.

The nurse stepped back. “Doesn’t he look good?” she said, smiling proudly.

Meesh was too choked up to reply. She could only nod.

Dr. Rusedski, the neurosurgeon, had warned her that Denny was still in grave danger. The next three days would be crucial. The two greatest dangers were swelling of the brain and infection.

It was almost an hour before Denny began to come out of the anesthesia. She heard him moan, then saw his body twitch.

She put her hand on his. “Sweetheart, you’re going to be all right.”

If he heard her, there was no evidence of it.

The hospital had put her in a room next to his and brought meals to her. The FBI retrieved the clothing and personal articles she and Denny had left at their motel, asked her what else she needed, and sent a young female agent out to buy it.

Meesh was free to come and go between the two rooms as she pleased, but not permitted to go anywhere else. When she was at Denny’s bedside, an FBI agent sat in the hallway outside his room.

When she was in her room, the agent was parked outside her door. He was there when she went to bed at midnight, and when she opened her door at five the next morning, another agent was sitting there in his place.

There was a TV set in her room, but she didn’t turn it on. Only when she logged onto her laptop and Nancy, the little white-haired nurse, brought her a newspaper did she realize the whole country had been following the events of the past twenty-four hours.

The front page of the
Washington News-Journal
made her gasp. Every headline, every story was devoted to the shootout, Denny’s capture, the death of Crittenden, the conclusion of the four-week manhunt. There was a huge photo of police vehicles and uniformed officers outside Crittenden’s house and smaller mug shots of Denny and Crittenden.

“Oh,” exclaimed Nancy, wide-eyed, “you wouldn’t believe all the reporters and TV cameras downstairs. We won’t let them inside. They’re camped outside. You can hardly get in the door.”

The news reports online portrayed Crittenden as a gallant Secret Service agent gunned down in his home in a cowardly attack. Denny was the villain, of course, the vile assassin who had eluded every law enforcement agency in the land.

Two stories contained references to Meesh. Both identified her as “Kinney’s mysterious woman companion.” She was being held by the FBI, the stories said, for questioning.

Reading the stories left Meesh drained, both physically and emotionally. She’d slept only in fitful spurts. When she sat beside Denny’s bed, she would search his face for some sign he might be coming out of the coma. Occasionally, he would moan or an arm would twitch and her hopes would soar.

But there was nothing else, only the steady rising and falling of his chest. The news reports, quoting a hospital spokesman, described Denny’s condition as critical, very serious, or extremely tenuous.

The zesty little nurse was steadfastly upbeat. “Just look at how well he’s breathing,” she would say. “He’s a very strong young man. He’ll come out of it.”

The neurosurgeon was noncommittal. Every few hours he would appear, watch Denny for a few moments, listen to his heart, grunt, and leave without comment.

When Meesh asked a question, Dr. Rusedski would say, “No one can say with any certainty.” Or he’d nod sympathetically and say, “We can only wait and keep our fingers crossed.”

Standing beside the bed and gazing down at the swollen face, Meesh thought of her father, of how suddenly he had died, of how cheated she felt. She held her hand to Denny’s puffy cheek. He was too young, too sweet, to die. She took a deep breath and the tears welled up in her eyes.

Oh, dear God, please don’t take him from me.

NINETY-SIX

FBI Director William Geisler couldn’t wait to talk with the new White House Chief of Staff.

He wanted to get on the good side of the new people who were running things. He waited until 6:45 A.M., then called Weems at his home in fashionable McLean.

“I heard about it on the radio while I was shaving,” Weems said. “Kinney still alive?”

“He’s still alive, but they don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

“Well, that wouldn’t break anybody’s heart.”

After giving Weems a quick account of the shootout at Crittenden’s home, Geisler related Meesh Walker’s bizarre story.

Weems was clearly shocked. “Oh, boy,” he finally said. “You don’t think there’s anything to it, do you, Bill?”

He was pleased to hear Weems use his first name. With less than two years as Bureau director under his belt, he desperately needed the support of the new movers and shakers. And Weems was Merrill’s right hand, closer to the new President than anybody.

“We don’t know enough yet, Chris. We’re still looking for the papers she’s talking about. There’s certainly a bad odor to all this. The fact Kinney and the girl were nailed here in Washington, at the home of a Secret Service agent of all places — that’s pretty bizarre. And we’re not comfortable with what the other Secret Service agent, Conti , tells us.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s in trouble in the agency. Tried to lie to us about it. We don’t think he’s leveling with us.”

“All right. Let me know what you find out. We have every confidence in the Bureau, Bill.”

“That’s great to hear, Chris. The girl is at the hospital with Kinney. Under guard. We’ve got the area wired. If we pick up anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”

On the phone the next morning Director Geisler gave Weems secretary a big hello. ‘”How are you this lovely morning?”

“Just fine, thank you, Mr. Geisler.”

“Is he available?”

“I think so. Just a moment, please.”

Geisler crushed a piece of paper in his right hand and flipped it into his waste basket, a perfect three-pointer.

“Morning, Bill!” Weems greeted him.

“Good morning, Chris. Couple of pretty significant developments I thought you’d want to know about. We’ve recovered the material Kinney and the young woman took from Warren Crittenden’s files.”

For a moment there was no sound. He thought they’d been cut off.

“Oh, yes,” Weems said. “Sorry, I’ve got other things on my mind. Well, well, congratulations, my friend, congratulations!”

“Turns out one of the police officers had taken the folders and given them to his sergeant. And he put them aside somewhere and forgot about them.”

“So what do they tell us, Bill?”

“Well, one thing they tell us is there’s been a hell of a lot of turmoil in the Secret Service. A lot of people in that agency with tremendous hostility towards Colin Patrick.”

“Really?

“There are a couple of notes from agents that are pretty shocking. Comments like, ‘Where’s Lee Harvey Oswald when we need him?’ And, ‘The next time someone takes a pot shot at POTUS it might be one of our people.’ These are hand-written notes by members of the Secret Service.”

“Sure they’re authentic?”

“Yes, we think so.”

“Okay, so there were a couple of Secret Service agents with a hard-on for Patrick. That’s pretty outrageous, but it’s a long, long way from what that Walker girl is claiming.”

Geisler was disappointed. He hadn’t expected the White House Chief of Staff to be so negative.

“Absolutely,” Geisler said. “All we can say at this point is there’s a bad odor here. The notes these agents wrote give a little credibility to the wild story Walker is telling us. We’re going to go through Crittenden’s house ourselves and see what we find.”

“Look,” Weems said, his tone more conciliatory, “don’t misunderstand me, Bill. I’m just playing the devil’s advocate. That’s my job. I have every confidence in the Bureau. You folks are professionals, the best in the world. And we’re damn lucky to have you over there running the show for us.”

“Thanks, Chris. You’ve been very supportive, and I appreciate it.”

“This whole thing is so sensitive. And it’s so bizarre. We’ve got to be very careful, Bill. We better be damn sure we’re right.”

“Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.”

“When are you going to do the search?”

“I’ve got people there already.”

“Fine,” Weems said. “Give me a call if you come up with anything important, will you? I may want to go over there myself.”

NINETY-SEVEN

Two uniformed policemen were posted in front of Crittenden’s gray colonial.

As soon as Weems entered the house, he was greeted by Geisler, a tall, ramrod-straight man with a crushing handshake.

The FBI Director was all smiles. “We’re making tremendous strides. It looks like the Walker girl is telling the truth.”
He led Weems into Crittenden’s den, where two agents in shirt sleeves were poring over documents. The floor was covered with manila folders arranged in neat stacks.

“We shipped Crittenden’s desktop over to our shop.”

Geisler showed him a folder filled with documents.

“These are resumes. Crittenden seems to have gone about hiring a patsy the way a business might look for somebody to fill a job opening. He pretended he was a recruiter, ran an ad on the web, and invited people to submit their resumes. It was that simple. He used a computer at a public library to try to cover his tracks.”

He handed Weems the top document.

“This is Kinney’s resume. People responding to the web ad were asked to send their resume to a post office box number Crittenden gave them.”

Geisler was on a high, proud of what his people had uncovered.

“The fact we found Kinney’s resume in his files certainly corroborates the girl’s story. Our technical people have also determined that Crittenden visited some web sites on Forest Park and hotels in that part of St. Louis. He checked out maps and photos, that sort of thing.”

He picked up another folder.

“I thought you might be interested in this, too.”

The folder was filled with material on Joe Merrill.

“I’ll be damned,” Weems said. “Not surprising, I guess. Crittenden headed up our Secret Service presidential detail for awhile while Merrill was Vice President.”

Weems sat at the desk and thumbed through the material, mostly newspaper clippings. There were several typed documents as well. With Geisler looking over his shoulder, he found an exceptionally long article and began to read it.

“I remember this one,” he said. “A good piece.”

He took his time, and Geisler tired of standing beside him. “Excuse me for a minute, Chris. I’ve got to make a call.”

When he left, Weems glanced at the two agents in the room. Both had their noses buried in Crittenden’s files. He checked the typed material carefully.

One was an announcement of Crittenden’s appointment to head up the vice presidential detail. Another announced his reassignment to the presidential detail.

They were harmless, but there was also a letter from Merrill, written by a staff member at Weems’ direction when Crittenden was placed in charge of the Presidential Protective Detail. The letter heaped praise on Crittenden’s performance when he worked for the Vice President.

Neither of the agents in the room was paying any attention to him. Weems slipped the letter into his breast pocket.

“How are you doing?” Geisler was back.

“Oh, fine, fine.” He rose with a smile. “I’m still amazed, Bill.”

“Yes. It’s a pity. The Secret Service has generally had such a clean record.”

“It’s shocking, but I think you’ve got a case.”

“Oh, we certainly do. And we’ll find more, I’m sure.”

“I think the Bureau has done an outstanding job, Bill.”

Geisler grinned like a little boy. “We have great people. I’m proud of them.”

“As soon as you feel the evidence is conclusive enough,” Weems said, “we’ll want to hold a news conference. We’ll probably want you and the President to go before the cameras together.”