Tom Wexler tapped the papers on his desk into a neat pile, snapped off the desk lamp, and stood. It was late and he wanted to get out of the office and climb into a tall whiskey and soda. Between a bus rollover on I-81, a suspicious death in Lexington, and the Schwartz business with its incessant interruptions from cops from all jurisdictions, not to mention reporters, his patience had worn dangerously thin. As for the Schwartz thing, the DNA results had come back and there was no way he could hide the fact. Now, he faced the problem of finding another excuse to delay Ike Schwartz’s interment. He wished he’d never agreed to this charade. He picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. A stranger stood in the door.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said. “Are you the county medical examiner?”
“That’s what the title on the door says.”
“I can read. I’m asking if the title on the door is yours.”
“And you are…?”
The guy reached into his coat. Tom had a permit to carry a gun. It came with the job, although why a medical examiner would need to pack was unclear, television depictions of the job notwithstanding. When he lived in Detroit he’d often carried a weapon, but not because of his job. It was Detroit, after all. Rockbridge County, Virginia, was not Detroit, so his Glock, still in the box it came in and coated with Class C Cosmoline, sat perched on the top shelf of a closet in his bedroom. Right now he wished he hadn’t put it there. Tom reached for the alarm button on his desk instead. The man paused and held his hand palm out, and then produced a wallet. He flipped it open.
“Franklin, FBI,” he said and snapped it shut again. Quickly—too quickly, but the shield looked legit.
“Okay, Franklin, FBI, what can I do for you? And yes, I am the ME.”
“I just need to double-check. Is the stiff from the explosion…is it Schwartz?”
“Dental records say it is.”
“I already heard that. I need something better. DNA?”
“Just arrived. See for yourself.” Tom pulled a sheet from a manila folder and handed it to the agent.
“I can’t read that. What’s it say?”
“The DNA sample from the body matches a sample on file.”
“It’s Schwartz?”
“Like I said, the samples match. Is there anything else?”
“Nope, that’s all I need.”
Franklin turned and left. Tom waited until the door swung shut and picked up his phone and called the security office.
“This is the medical examiner. Do you have surveillance footage for the last hour?”
“Yes sir.”
“How often do you overwrite the tape?”
“Unless we get a request not to, every three weeks or so. Depends on the tape and if the system is down or something. I don’t know, so, yeah about three weeks.”
“Okay, I need a secure copy of everything from an hour ago until my last visitor leaves. Got it?”
“Well, yeah, I can do that. Is there a problem? The guy just walked out the door. Do you want me to apprehend him?”
“No, not necessary. I just need a copy made and locked up in a safe place for a while.”
“Sir?”
“It’s okay, son. Maybe I worked the big city for too many years. I have a feeling. If I’m wrong, we’ll dump the copy later.”
“Yes, sir. Copy will be made.”
Franklin, FBI, he says…flips open the badge wallet and closes it. Nothing else…What’s wrong with this picture?
Tom was a belt and suspenders man. You can never be too sure. You make a copy of everything.
***
Ruth and Ike stared at the phone willing it to ring and maybe hoping it wouldn’t. It did. Three rings, pause, one ring…Ike picked up.
“Hello, Charlie, what have you got?”
“Nice to hear from you, too, Ike. I can assume that since it is you and not Ruth that answered the phone, that the reports of your death were grossly exaggerated?”
“You can, but you may not.”
“Ah, English 101. Got it. You are officially dead. I may not deny that, yes. Good. Would you like to know what I discovered about your most recent call?”
“Of course.”
“Well, unfortunately there is a difficulty. Whoever contacted you definitely did not want to be traced. We were able to connect the dots that bounced all over the grid and all the way to Idaho and there the path ended. It seems the line ended at a radio translator near the Idaho-Montana border. We couldn’t get past that. The people in the trace group said they will have to do some analysis of the tower in question to see if its signal is directional and determine its strength. Also it likely scrambles the signal. Right now that isn’t a problem because we aren’t into tapping the line, but we might be later. So, depending on what they discover about direction and strength, we might be able to narrow down the general area and ultimately the sender.”
“Idaho? What’s in Idaho except for Boise State football, skiing, and movie stars on the lam?”
“Much more, mon frère. Rich plutocrats with their—you should pardon the expression—‘hunting camps.’ How two hundred acres can be considered a ‘camp’ boggles the imagination. Then there are the McMansions with stables of expensive ponies, some very nice scenery, and a smattering of survivalists of the ultra-conservative stripe, and oh, mustn’t forget it’s the Potato State.”
“So, eliminating the possibility of an overcooked French fry, you’re suggesting an irate movie star, a ski bum, a plutocrat with an itch to shoot elk out of season, or a survivalist is out to see me dead?”
“How many movie stars have you annoyed in your lifetime?”
“None that I know of. Many have annoyed me, but not the other way around.”
“Okay, we eliminate Hollywood. See how easy this is going to be?”
“Cut the crap, Charlie. What have you got?”
“Beyond the radio tower in Idaho, nothing. Oh, wait, maybe one, no two other things. The FBI picked up a suspect at Dulles the morning after the attempt on your life. They couldn’t hold him forever so they kicked him loose. They did keep him under what they called ‘close surveillance’ but didn’t bother to watch the alley behind the motel and—”
“He slipped the noose.”
“Not quite. Someone popped him through the bathroom window. It was an eight-by-ten-inch window. That’s why the feds neglected the alley. He had a portly physique and they figured he couldn’t squeeze through it. They only watched the front door. By the time they heard the shot or shots and hustled around the back, the shooter was long gone.”
“Embarrassing for them.”
“Indeed. Ike there is only so much I can do here. The Agency has its limitations when it comes to domestic stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah, like you care. Charlie, even you don’t believe that. If this was a known terrorist organization, your people would be all over it, jurisdictional niceties or not.”
“Well…okay. Listen, you should know this. Your old buddy, Samantha, is in Picketsville and working the wire, so to speak. So, that is good news. We have communicated. Both of us are looking for a phone.”
“What phone?”
“The FBI dumped the dead suspect bomber’s phone. There was nothing on it, which means somewhere out in the countryside there is a burn phone with stuff on it that could lead us to his employer.”
“And you know that even if you find that needle in a haystack, it will probably lead to that tower in Idaho.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it would at least be a confirmation. Leave the tower to me. The larger question is: Do I tell Sam and the rest that you are alive?”
“I will have to give that some thought. Lord knows I need a blanket, but how and who to tell?”
“While you muddle over that, what did you do with the dead guy’s car?”
“It’s parked out here under a tarp. Ruth and I were planning on whisking it away to Roanoke tomorrow night.”
“Bad idea. Leave it to me. I will send a cleanup crew tomorrow. You wait for a wrong number on Ruth’s cell phone and then take a cross-country jaunt in your little Jeep. Ride some trail where no one ever goes—at least this time of year no one does. Where was your contact headed, by the way?”
“Norfolk.”
“Then that’s where the car will mysteriously appear. Okay, think about the ‘who and how.’ I will check back later—on Ruth’s phone. This one is going dead again.”
Charlie hung up.
Ike replaced the receiver and looked at Ruth. “You finished your soak?”
“You got the wine?”
“I do. Ditch the towel?”
“Maybe later. Pour and tell me what the ‘Evil Genius of the Potomac’ had to say.”