AFTER A BALLS-TO-THE-WALLS, screaming drive from the White House, I finally get to Quinnick Falls, a small park about three miles downstream from where I had found the First Lady’s note. Although it drove me crazy with impatience, I kept off the radio and the phone through the hurried drive to Virginia, not wanting anyone out there with the ears and capability to learn why I was in such a hurry.
And to make this early evening even better, I get a phone call from my neighbor Todd Lawson, with more apologies and excuses, saying another emergency from his sister means he can’t look after Amelia tonight.
Damn, damn, damn.
My male Secret Service driver finds an empty spot near other Suburbans and Humvees, and before the vehicle comes to a complete stop and the engine is switched off, I fling the door open and start running to the mass of men and women gathered in a small picnic area, with wooden tables that are crowded now with ropes, grappling hooks, communications equipment, and other gear.
Scotty spots me and comes over, and I say, “What do we got?”
Scotty nods, looking tired, a set of binoculars hanging around his neck, and he points over to the rushing water, where a man in a wet suit is starting to wade out, a bright orange rope attached to his waist. “About thirty minutes ago, a couple of kids fooling around by the edge of the falls saw a woman caught up in the rocks. Apparently drowned. Right about then a Homeland Security Humvee pulled in, as part of the search effort, and they waved it down.”
“How do they know it’s a woman?”
Scotty looks embarrassed. “Exposed breast, Sally. The blouse is torn away and a breast is exposed…and, well, the body’s a mess. It’s been in those rocks for a while.”
“Binoculars,” I say.
He passes over his set without a word, and I check the turbulent waters. Something heavy, like a fifty-pound chunk of lead, seems to slide down my gullet. Through the binoculars I can see a bloated shape in the water, partially clothed, and an arm flopping around.
I give the binoculars back to Scotty. A power generator roars on, and behind us, a white tent is being set up. Somewhere in that mess of people is Randy Anderson, the Homeland Security officer I had shanghaied to conduct this unauthorized and probably illegal search.
“Where’s her detail?”
“CANARY’s detail? Over there, by that big wooden sign showing the history of the falls.”
“Get them over here,” I say.
Another wet-suited man is in the water, rope attached to his harness, and he slips and nearly falls. Scotty says, “Why?”
“Because when the body gets to shore, I want them and…you, Scotty, I want the four of you to bring her into that tent, for examination.”
Scotty nods. I say, “And another thing. Pass the word around. I see any camera flashes from anybody as she’s being taken away, I’ll shoot them dead, right on the spot. And I’m not kidding.”
“I know,” Scotty says, and he walks away.
I stand there, cold and hungry and just miserable, watching the scene unfold before me. This is not a new experience. In my years of law enforcement, I’ve seen lots of bodies recovered—from drownings like this one, from scores of traffic accidents, from burned-out apartments and trailers—but this recovery is just hammering at me. This one is going into the history books, the documentaries, the news programs, and only by the sheerest and slimmest bit of luck have we avoided having network television helicopters overhead.
The two men are there now, working in the cold, rushing waters, using ropes to secure the body, and then the body is free. The two men work very hard to keep their footing as they come back to shore.
Movement nearby. A metal Stokes litter is by the shore, and Scotty is there, and the three slumped and depressed members of CANARY’s detail: Pamela Smithson, the lead, with Tanya Glenn next to her, and then Brian Zahn, the young male. He appears to be weeping, and no one notices him.
I turn back and—
Wait.
Hold on.
Something just happened.
Movement over there, on the opposite bank.
A little flash of light.
Gone.
But there was definitely movement.
But what was it?
I stare, and stare, and part of my childhood comes back, seeing that old show, The Six Million Dollar Man, and like when I was a little girl, I wish I had that bionic eye that could zoom in.
I now wish for a pair of binoculars, but they’re with Scotty, and I’m not going to disturb him just as the slumped-over remains are brought in. Pamela is holding up a bright-yellow sheet, and when the out-of-view body has been placed into the Stokes litter, she lowers the sheet and gently tugs it into place.
The four of them lift up the Stokes litter and quietly―the only sound being that of the generator―the body is slowly brought into the white tent. No one commands anything, there are no orders, but every male and female agent removes his or her head covering as the body passes by.
The little procession gets into the tent. Near the opening to the tent I see Randy Anderson, and I walk to him, running through my mind how we’re going to get the remains removed from here and brought to Bethesda Naval Hospital—no way we’re going to end up at a civilian hospital—and then there’s a shout and a scream.
Automatically I grab for my SIG Sauer, as Tanya Glenn bursts out of the tent, crying and screaming, and then laughing and yelling at the top of her lungs:
“It’s not her! It’s not her! It’s not the First Lady!”