Afternoon
Senator Joe Fitch looked out of his fifth floor campaign office’s window upon downtown Nashville’s busy Fourth Avenue. He leased a modest suite one year at a time, beginning about ten months before each election. This was his sixth lease and sixth different suite. He kept all campaign functions completely separate from his state business at the Capitol. Not only was it state law, it was also his ethical preference.
He’d had a full head of dark brown hair when he began serving in the State Legislature but now he’d gone all white. For his age he was still handsome, or at least his wife Laura said so, but he needed to lose twenty-five pounds. Difficult to exercise with state business and a campaign to run.
Fitch was worried: more than during his initial Senate campaign, after two terms in the state House. Facing political opponents he already knew was his forte; he could duke it out over issues and voting records. But facing an opponent whose only public recognition related to society pages... well, that was way out of his league. Plus, a gentleman never fights with a lady. Even if Nancy was no lady.
Fitch had heard the buzz about presumed skeletons in Durocher’s closet long before one of his campaign aides showed him the video bite which hit the local news the day before. The station which filmed it had shown that clip in nearly every news broadcast since Saturday afternoon. “Read my lips.” Nobody with any sense would use that line after the Democrats skewered the first George Bush over saying it.
His trusted campaign manager had been down this road with Fitch for every race he’d run. They knew each other like brothers. Dean had insisted on hiring what he called a “woman consultant”. Fitch had resisted for a while, but was finally convinced: to get in the ring with Durocher, he needed someone who could gauge how his parries and footwork would play with female voters. Would they automatically side with a woman facing a male incumbent? Or could Fitch frame the contest on actual issues, about which individual female voters could make intelligent and independent decisions?
That was Sharon’s job: to advise Fitch on how hard to punch and which areas of The Nancy to stay away from. The last thing he needed was a women’s organization crying foul that Fitch had used a sexist word, or displayed a chauvinistic expression, or done anything else they could interpret as demeaning or dismissive. That was a narrow tightrope to tread upon.
Before he’d reluctantly agreed to let Dean bring Sharon on board, Fitch insisted that she sit down with his wife. Not only did Fitch want and need Laura’s reaction to Sharon’s possible hiring, but he had to be certain Laura would have no problems with him hiring an attractive female consultant.
Laura gave Sharon’s hiring an enthusiastic thumbs-up and the consultant joined their team during the spring. Sharon had worked closely with all the paid advertising, direct-mail flyers, campaign stops, photo ops, and in periodic negotiations about a potential debate. The Durocher team had steadfastly refused a formal debate on the issues but whenever asked by reporters about a debate, Nancy, or her campaign manager, blamed Fitch for ducking her. Their M.O. seemed to be taking those kinds of guerilla potshots with vague allusions to things which somehow sounded negative but had so little substance that nobody, including reporters, truly knew what Durocher was talking about. And whenever pressed to give details, Team Nancy always changed the subject. Of course, none of Nancy’s sound bites had the slightest grain of truth, but they were still effective: they got a flash of media attention but never allowed Fitch an opportunity to respond unless he made a big deal of mentioning it later. Nancy’s camp obviously wanted him to dig away at his own grave, but he and Dean wouldn’t play their distorted game.
Those thoughts were on Fitch’s mind when Dean knocked and entered, followed by Sharon. Fitch remained standing at the window but motioned for them to sit.
“Joe, there’s a lot of buzz about something from Durocher’s camp... an October surprise.”
“I know.” Fitch waved it away. “I’ve heard.”
“We’re running pretty close to the wire, Joe. We certainly ought to have counter measures in place.”
No reply from the window. About the worst they could come up with was that Fitch usually took a Mulligan on the first tee.
“Senator, your opponent has been getting a free pass to say just about anything she wants.” Sharon motioned vaguely to a folder on her lap. “And we’re afraid some of it might stick in the voters’ minds.”
“Nothing she’s said is true.”
“Doesn’t matter, Joe. If we don’t counter any of it, the voter can assume it might be real.”
“I know you started this campaign worried about appearing to bully a female opponent.” Sharon cleared her throat. “But I think, and Dean agrees… that you’re playing Nancy too soft. She’s taking advantage of your hands being tied. She’s tossed out nearly a dozen zingers and we haven’t shot down any of them.”
Fitch moved back toward his desk and leaned an elbow on the high back of his chair. “I’m playing flag football and Nancy’s in pads playing tackle.”
Sharon nodded. “But that’s another example of a word you can’t use.”
The senator was puzzled.
“Pads. If you said that on camera, Nancy’s camp would roast your chestnuts.”
Dean agreed. “Joe, we all know it’s not fair...”
“So you understand why I’m not making any comments about her wild inferences.”
“Yes, Senator... but she’s gaining ground every time you don’t.”
“Joe, it’s like the gods of politics came up with your perfect opponent: no record on issues, no applicable experience... total blank slate. So there’s nothing to criticize except those three things... and her camp has somehow managed to spin those negatives into pretend planks of her platform.”
“She wouldn’t recognize a platform if her country club tea social was being served on it.”
Dean continued: “She’s so protected by gender that she’s getting a waiver on issues and experience. And we’re allowing it, Joe. In fact, we’re actually abetting it.”
Fitch glared briefly, though not at his loyal friend. “I don’t know how to handle her.”
“You’ve seen her read my lips clip.” Dean shifted restlessly in his seat. “Well, it’s all extremely vague, but everybody who knows anything at all about Durocher does believe there’s a skeleton.”
The senator sat wearily, leaned back the chair, and closed his eyes.
“Joe, there might have been a body.”
Fitch’s eyes opened. “Figurative or literal?”
“The way I hear it... this was a cold blood murder.” Dean looked toward Sharon for confirmation.
“You’re not talking a... contemporary killing, are you?” Fitch leaned his forearms on the desk edge.
Dean scratched the back of his head. “Some relation of hers, maybe back in the Wild West days or something. The info’s real fuzzy.”
“But that’s old history... well over a hundred years ago. And even if it’s true that some kinfolk—many generations back—murdered somebody... that’s got nothing to do with the witch Nancy.” Fitch checked his watch; he had to chair a committee meeting early in the morning and wanted to spend some time at home with Laura that evening. “I want to run this campaign with some principle, Dean. If it’s legitimate news about something Nancy’s done…or some crime she’s abetted…then I’ll consider using it. But nothing about any ancestors.”
Dean started to rise.
Sharon kept her seat. “Senator, if Durocher were a man, would you press forward on this?”
Fitch’s head began moving sideways before he spoke. “No, Sharon, don’t think so. None of us can be responsible for anything our forebears did. Whether good or bad. If it was good, we can be proud to be kin to them. If it was bad, we probably wish we didn’t know about it. But neither way does it reflect on us.”
“Joe, I don’t believe the voters think that way.”
“Dean, you know me well enough to understand I mean this.” He paused before phrasing. “I’d rather lose the office than win an election by fighting dirty.”
“Senator, there’s no statute of limitation for murder, is there?” Sharon.
Despite the stress and fatigue, Fitch actually smiled. “A cold case of a few years back is one thing. But vague rumors of some hot headed ancestor are completely different. Plus, that murderer would be long dead by now. Anyhow, like I said, unless Nancy herself killed somebody, I’m not interested.”
“But, Joe, what if Nancy thinks you’re interested in some old, bad news... and she’s actively trying to cover it up?”
The senator’s eyes grew wider and he turned toward the consultant. “Sharon, would you give me a minute with Dean?” Fitch waited until she’d closed the door behind her and then motioned Dean back down in his chair. His trusted aide obviously had a lot more information that he hadn’t yet shared. “Depends. How bad was it? And what’s Nancy doing to cover it up?”
Dean handed him a folder, classified top secret, with an unusual name across its middle: Pandora.
“Who is Pandora... and what’s her interest in this campaign?”
“Joe, that’s a code name for a government ex-operative... a rogue killer.”
“Operative?” Fitch had not yet touched the folder. “Explain rogue killer.”
“Picture the Terminator character in those movies. He takes an assignment and goes way off the deep end to get it done. Doesn’t care about collateral damage. That’s Pandora. Nobody could handle him... but when they got ready to burn him, he disappeared. Until now, anyway.”
“You mean he’s working for Durocher?”
Dean nodded. “I can’t nail it down positively... but it seems pretty likely.”
“Don’t tell me Nancy hired a hit man to take me out...” Fitch scooted his chair farther from the window.
“Can’t rule that out, but it doesn’t seem like you’re the direct target.”
Fitch sighed heavily. “So who is this Pandora going after?”
“It almost sounds like a bad movie, Joe. But this rogue ex-agent seems to be tracking down people who know…or think they know…something about Nancy’s bad egg ancestor.”
“That’s absurd. Only a homicidal lunatic would go to that kind of extreme.”
“Exactly what they say Pandora is—an insane killer.”
Through distinctly confidential sources, Fitch already knew people in high places were sniffing around Durocher’s campaign finances, but he hadn’t heard about this other mess. “Two questions, Dean.” He pointed to the folder. “Does Nancy realize who she’s hired? And how did you find out about this Pandora maniac?”
****
Ed Dillon was behind tightly-closed doors in Nancy’s office, less than four blocks from the Fitch headquarters. Dillon had initially selected this suite because it was so close to the incumbent’s campaign space that someone with a telescope could practically see into their windows. But that had proven unfruitful because Fitch was usually at the Capitol’s legislative offices or in his home just outside the city.
Dillon had just provided feedback to Nancy about the “read my lips” quote which was being played every half hour on the local news channels.
“That’s not what I said.” Durocher tensed her manicured fingernails like cat claws.
Dillon knew better than to respond.
A moment of silence. “Well, it’s not what I meant.”
“Nancy, we can’t let them veer us off script.”
“I know! I got so sick of that bimbo... who was she anyway? Which station?”
Dillon named both.
“Is she with the Fitch camp too?”
“That’s the other thing we need to dial back a bit, Nancy. Not all the difficult questions are plants from your opponent.”
She pointed directly between his eyes. “That was your instruction, from the very beginning.”
“Yes, but we both figured we could get some mileage from Fitch dragging out the media later to explain himself. But he hasn’t been.”
“And the problem is... ?”
“If he’d bothered to refute even a few of those vague allegations, we’d have him right where we want him—on defense.” Dillon mentally tallied how many darts they’d tossed out. “But he hasn’t responded to any. I hadn’t factored on the possibility that he’d ignore us.”
“I... do... not... like... being... ignored!” Her words came out like frostbite.
“Our strategy was to keep them scrambling to counter our inferences. I figured after we got him on camera refuting each allegation that the networks would be running his face looking and sounding guilty, and those charges would start to stick... at least in the voters’ minds.”
“What happened to your grand plan, Ed?” Her syllables were icy.
He just shook his head. “I told you that Fitch’s manager hired a female consultant.”
Durocher gave him a frigid stare and began pacing slowly.
He watched her shapely legs as they passed in front of his chair. “This lady consultant’s been steering him around any potential gaffes which might alienate women voters.”
“Can’t we use that against him?” Nancy looked sincere.
Dillon struggled not to laugh. “If we launch into him for being extra considerate and sensitive to female voters... it would only make him look even more like a saint.”
Durocher plopped suddenly into her leather chair and left her knees slightly parted. When she saw the line of Dillon’s eyes, she slowly closed her knees and her lips curled ever so slightly. She knew!
He’d thought his fascination with her legs was a secret. Dillon gulped quietly and shifted his gaze toward the folders in his lap.
“I’m positively sick of them running that clip.” She pointed toward the television screen, though the volume was off. “How much longer before we launch those nasty surprises? I want every news cycle to show his face looking like he was caught stealing the cookie jar.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to discuss. Fitch has thrown us a curve by not responding to any of our well-placed innuendos, so we have to assume he’ll react differently than we predicted to the potential scenarios we discussed weeks ago.”
“Because of his female consultant.” The way she said it, Fitch might have been consulting a gynecologist.
Dillon waited a moment to be certain she’d completed her observation. In those seconds he watched her legs as she crossed them. She didn’t tug down her skirt hem afterward.
“Remind me—but just the most promising ones.” More frost on her words.
Dillon and his most trusted aide had brainstormed and prepared several options as their manufactured surprise for late October. “Remember, of course, that our timing…and delivery…has to be precise. Close enough to the election that Fitch cannot mount an effective rebuttal... but still giving us a couple of good TV days to capitalize on it.”
“Friday evening before the Tuesday election.”
“Exactly.” Dillon cleared his throat. “Now, any other political candidate would give us a lot more to work with, but Fitch is a special case. So, we’ve narrowed it down to three. One—we hire a bimbo to go public and allege a brief affair with Fitch. Infidelity would be a huge turn off for female voters and most of them wouldn’t hear any of his rebuttals before the election.”
“You’ve already found a bimbo?”
“Not one in particular... but we can use pretty much any of the exotic dancers around the city. They’ve even got a few places way out in the boondocks, east of here, along the Interstate. It might be less traceable to hire one of them.”
“I like that one so far. Fitch gets the shaft and the dancer has fifteen minutes of fame. But how does it get resolved?”
Dillon sighed. It doesn’t actually matter. “Depends how much publicity she wants. She could drag it into a TV movie if certain media get hold of it.”
“But nothing comes back to us.” She spoke like an Arctic drill sergeant.
“Absolutely not. All the contacts go through three parties before the designated tramp even sees a face. And the money goes through four hands. Completely untraceable, even if the bimbo admits being hired.” He tapped his pen barrel against his stack of folders. “Besides, like I say, the election results will be promulgated and officially accepted by the secretary of state before the newly-famous dancer gets through with her media interviews.”
Durocher snapped her fingers to get the remaining options. Dillon explained each one in detail: an alleged child out of wedlock, vague accusations about Fitch’s supposed tax problems, and a disgruntled lobbyist willing to swear Fitch sent contracts his way for unspecified favors. Each had more logistical problems than the dancer story and wouldn’t be as effective at stealing votes from the incumbent.
A smile crept over Durocher’s face as she leaned back in her executive chair and closed her eyes, likely imagining the look on her opponent’s saintly face. “The bimbo. Definitely. We’ll destroy that old silver haired fox with the torrid affair he forgot to tell his long-suffering legislative wife about. You think sweet little Laura will stand by his side at the press conference?”
“Well, if it was a true story, probably not. But since we’re completely making it up, I’d guess she’ll stand by her man.” Sometimes Nancy seemed to forget the blurry lines between fact and insinuation.
Durocher requested an update about the investigator’s efforts.
“Well, it’s a little difficult to get any details... because we both agreed we couldn’t afford to know anything.”
“If we don’t know what’s he’s working on, how do we know he’s doing anything we wanted done?” When she frowned, it looked like her face might crack.
“That’s our price for deniability... we hired him to scrub your family history clean and we have to assume that’s what he’s doing.”
“I don’t like assumptions. You’re sure he understood what we wanted?”
“Pretty certain. In fact, he seemed to be way ahead of me. Real eager to dive right in. He even knew who was working in the Fitch campaign and what they were doing.”
“Well, I don’t like not knowing. Not one bit.” Durocher rubbed her temples. “I’ve never even heard this man’s name. How will we know when he’s finished the job?”
“Our investigator’s most recent report, which I received last night,” Dillon looked at his notes, “said that all the problems have disappeared, except one or two ‘insignificant spills’.”
“What does he mean by spills?”
“I didn’t ask. Suffice it to say, he’s taking care of them immediately.”
“Good... because time is running out.”