Washington Masquerade (10 page)

Dolly led the conversation, trying to wring the anger out of the earlier remarks by introducing other topics of interest that did not touch raw nerves. It was futile. Mrs. McBride and Mrs. Newland were at war, and Larry seemed to be fighting collateral damage. Mrs. McBride was getting into an uproarious state, drunk and ready to argue with anybody on any subject.

Dolly, trying to perform as the perfect hostess, attempted to make sure that the discussions didn't get out of hand, but it was increasingly obvious that the poisonous atmosphere that pervaded Washington like a pandemic had arrived on her dinner table.

The food was, as always, excellent, but Mrs. McBride was getting well-oiled and increasingly raucous. Before the dessert was served, in true protocol accuracy, Philip got up and made the usual flattering toasts to the guests using the traditional clichés and platitudes of the ritual. Then Mr. Newland, as senior guest, stood up in response. It was after he sat down that Mrs. McBride chose to rise, her florid face telescoping her confrontational intent. Here it comes, Fiona thought, exchanging glances with Larry, who shook his head despairingly.

“I can't leave this table without remarking that these are dangerous times and that our President is leading us straight into the fires of hell. This is the most corrupt administration on record. The man is an incompetent nincompoop, a beast who should be hung from the nearest tree. As for that poor bastard who got himself killed in the subway, I'd say that the media,” she looked pointedly at Larry, “is nothing more than a bunch of whores, a shill for this administration, and a bunch of sniveling hypocrites. I say get that son-of-a-bitch the hell out of the White House. There I said it!”

Then she glared at Larry.

“Considering that you people in the media are totally without morals, spreading lies most of the time, anything to sell papers, I am really ashamed, worse, pissed off at the way your damned newspaper violates freedom of the press. You are a bunch of ass-kissing lackeys, and I don't mind voicing my disgust.”

She sat down and finished her drink. There was a long silence.

Fiona felt embarrassed for Dolly. It was a rare occurrence, but Fiona had seen it happen before in other contexts. This outburst was pretty vicious, validating the state of Washington social intercourse in these days of anger and intolerance. Before the company could fully recover its social bearings, Larry rose.

Fiona tugged at his sleeve, and he roughly pulled it away. His face was beet red.

“I suppose I'm the designated defender of the third estate against this drunken tirade by this know-nothing, small-minded, right-wing fool….”

“Fuck you,” Mrs. McBride shouted.

“Fuck you, too, you fat-assed whore!”

“Come on, Larry,” Fiona begged, exchanging troubled glances with Dolly. The guests were apparently too shocked to comment.

“Let him flap his gums, guys,” Mrs. McBride said, offering a drunken smile. “This is fucking free-speech America. Go on, Mister, defend your fellow liars.” She paused for a moment. “Anybody with half a brain at your rag would know that—what was his name?—Burns was hit on orders from the President. Two and two makes four.” She pointed a finger in Larry's direction.

“Against shit like that, we don't need a defense….”

“Larry, please.” Fiona begged, again pulling at his sleeve.

This time, he yielded and sat down.

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry.”

He sat down still glaring at Mrs. McBride, who smiled drunkenly and winked.

“Let's just all calm down,” Dolly said, shrugging but maintaining her demeanor.

At that moment, the Congressman stood up.

“Please let's just calm down. No, I'm not going to apologize for Molly's remarks. There is a lot of truth in what she says.” He looked down at his wife and smiled. “I would not put it in those terms though. She is a feisty lady, but….” He turned to Philip, who was ashen, “with all due respect, Mr. Secretary, that man in the White House has hurt us, hurt us badly. We are no longer respected in the world, even among our friends. We are in deep shit, I'm afraid, and it's time we took some aggressive steps to get rid of the man.”

At that point, Mrs. Newland could not contain herself. Mr. McBride was still standing. Coming from a small woman with a tiny voice, her words came out as if they were spoken through a bullhorn.

“You people ought to be ashamed. The citizens of this country elected this good man in a fair election. Don't you people believe in democracy? You should be ashamed, ashamed to talk that way about your duly elected President, a decent man who is trying, despite everything, to keep our people safe in a dangerous world.” She looked up at the still-standing Congressman and his seated wife who was blue in the face. “You just don't get it. We are at war with the most formidable foe we have ever encountered in our history, and you think it's all business as usual. You should be celebrating our President for his courage instead of disparaging him. You people disgust me.”

“That is one crock of shit,” Mrs. McBride shouted, all restraint gone.

“No need for that,” her husband said, smiling, patting her on her hand with an air of mock rebuke. “She's a pistol, my Molly.”

At that moment, Dolly stood up.

“Well now, time to chill out,” she said. “We've all had our say.”

“Yes, we have,” Mr. Newland said, with true diplomatic poise.

“Who was it that said we should never discuss religion and politics? But how can you have a get-together in Washington and avoid politics?” Dolly said with an air of quiet dignity.

“No way,” her husband added, offering a pained smile.

She started it, Fiona thought. Poor Dolly. Poor Philip. He had turned pale at the course the dinner party had taken. Politeness never returned by evening's end, and while everyone took his or her leave with appropriate good-byes, animosity hung in the air like very high humidity.

“Call you tomorrow,” Fiona said, kissing her friend and whispering, “you were wonderful. This will pass.”

“My fault, Fi. Wrong mix.”

In the car, Larry, who was driving, shook his head.

“That big Irish broad is a nasty piece of work.”

“She was plastered,” Fiona said. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”

“The drunken bitch had it coming.”

“You made it worse.”

“I wasn't going to sit by and let that fat pig piss all over my paper.”

“You've heard it all before. Hell, this was my friend's home! You should have kept your big mouth shut.”

“Please, Fi, don't tell me how to act or react. My ex did that to me, and—”

“Better not go there, Larry,” Fiona said.

She had heard that before a number of times from others in her past. Handwriting on the wall, she thought, comparing her to their exes was the first move toward the kiss of death. They were silent for a long while.

“The new Washington—not like it was—everybody beating up on everybody. Something toxic going on,” he said, not realizing how far he had stepped over the line. She did not comment.

The dinner argument and the depth of division were unsettling. Remaining silent on the ride back to her house, she asked herself, what is going on? She forced her thoughts to concentrate on the case at hand and the accusation flung at them by Mrs. McBride. It was clearly a common thought in the minds of many: Burns' death at the hands of the President… no way! And yet, the accusation could not be avoided.

The fact was that there was not a shred of hard evidence to pin such a crime on the Administration, not a shred. Still, she had to fight the inclination that maybe these people were right. In general terms, she held the same political views, albeit more moderate than those expressed earlier by her fellow Democrats. She could not shake her patriotic notions, the Presidency, the flag, America.

She could still get teary-eyed at the passing of the colors and charged with patriotism when she watched a military parade. She had often gone to the Marine barracks to see the Marine Band strut its stuff. She remembered her father choked up with patriotic fervor and emotion when recounting anecdotes from his old submariner days. The night's conversation had depressed her. Suddenly she felt old, nostalgic for the good old days.

They undressed, got into bed, but didn't touch. She fell into a troubled sleep, then awoke, suddenly angry and combative. She shook Larry awake.

“I was not happy with your outburst at dinner last night.”

“You already scolded me, Fi,” he muttered hoarsely, “I said what needed to be said. Go back to sleep.”

“Wrong venue.”

“Can't this wait until morning? I defended my paper. Just don't tell me how to act.”

“Mr. Macho. And who do I remind you of?”

“Leave it alone, Fi. Besides, you know I carry baggage.”

“That's your baggage, not mine.”

“Go to sleep. I've got work tomorrow.”

“You should have left it alone.”

“Stop harping, Fi, I've been there before.”

“So have I,” Fiona shot back.

She felt rage rise in her gut. She turned to confront him. She looked at him for a long moment, and suddenly as if a bolt of lightning had struck, he seemed diminished, lesser. Something deep in her psyche was fighting to reject him. Was this a repeat of all her previous rejections, some of which she had regretted after the split? Over this? Unfortunately, her emotions were reacting forcefully, forming a clear message that had its own logic. Larry Porter was not on her wavelength. His light was dimming. He must have sensed the change when he said:

“Are we creating grounds for a parting of ways?”

“You, not me,” she acknowledged.

“Over what?”

It was exactly the question she had asked herself.

“Call it the trigger.”

“You owe me an explanation, Fi.”

“Recycle your memory, Larry. I'm not a historical footnote.”

He let it sink in. Moving closer, he put his arms around her. She remained unyielding, feeling nothing. Sensing her obvious indifference, he got out of bed and backed away.

“Let's do this in the morning, Fi.”

“Fine,” she said. But she knew the fire was cooling. “In the spare room.”

Closing her eyes, she turned away and heard the door slam.

In the morning, she was relieved that she didn't have to face him. He too, had felt similar distaste for any further battle and had gone off early to avoid it. After three cups of coffee, Fiona recovered the mental resources to shed irrelevancies of other people's opinions, including Larry's, and get back on the investigatory track.

Izzy picked her up. Heading downtown, he explained that he had had a eureka moment and had made an appointment to meet with Dr. Barton, the medical examiner, one of Fiona's good friends in the department. When she asked him to reveal his idea, he raised a finger and playfully suggested that it be kept fresh until they met with Dr. Barton. After her dreary night, she decided that the suspense might be curative, and she fell into a long silence as she speculated what that eureka moment might be.

Barton leaned back in his chair and listened carefully as Izzy, with an occasional glance at Fiona, revealed his theory.

“Approximately ten months ago, Burns got rid of his assistant. At about the same time, he began to postpone his squash games because, as his buddy Jack Perkins told us, his knee was inhibiting his game, and he had to beg off the matches. We don't know why he got rid of his assistant. Perkins gave us an alleged reason for his postponements.”

“And you want to know if that alleged reason was accurate,” Dr. Barton offered.

A dignified, white-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman with light coffee-colored complexion and blue eyes, the mark of his New Orleans heritage, Dr. Barton spoke slowly, thoughtfully, weighing his words, which were delivered with a sense of authority in a deep bass voice.

“In going over your report,” Izzy said, “I saw no reference to a knee problem.” He shot a glance at Fiona who noted that he had made every effort not to be confrontational or suggest that Dr. Barton had missed something.

They watched as Barton called up his report on his computer and read it carefully.

“You're absolutely correct. There is no mention of an injured knee in the report,” Barton said.

“It made me kind of wonder,” Izzy said.

“About the truth of Perkins's assumption?” Dr. Barton asked. He considered the idea, rubbed his chin, leaned back in his chair, and then made a cathedral with his fingers.

“What exactly did Jack Perkins tell you?”

Fiona remained silent, watching and listening.

“As I said, Burns had a knee injury that periodically prevented him from playing squash. Not always, understand. Perkins also mentioned that Burns' doctor had advised arthroscopic surgery, which he was seriously considering.”

Dr. Barton contemplated the information, nodding. Although he was a busy man, Fiona knew he was accurate to a fault in remembering the details of all autopsies he had performed.

“What I found in the case of the late Mr. Burns was a healthy male of forty-three in excellent shape for his age. I can say without reservation that he did not have a knee problem. I looked rather carefully. As you know, the man fell from the station platform in front of a subway train. When such a situation occurs, I always check the limbs, particularly the legs, both knees and ankles, since the possibility exists that the person who falls in front of a moving vehicle or from a height could have fallen as a result of a faulty action of a limb, which might have created an accidental misstep.

In this case, he could have leaned too far over the edge, for example, and the movement might have caused the knee or ankle to collapse, throwing him off balance. I found no evidence to sustain that possibility. No way. Both knees were in excellent condition. There was not any abnormal deterioration in his knee or ankle joints. He could not have fallen because of a physiological aberration. I believe I did mention that his heart and brain function were normal and showed no signs of a sudden stroke or heart malfunction that could have caused him to collapse and fall into the path of the train.

I was careful to say that nothing forensically indicated that the man had fallen or was pushed. There were no contusions, bruises, or any other signs that might have resulted from a hard push or a fierce struggle. As near as I can determine the only logical explanation for his death was that he propelled forward into the path of the moving train.”

“Propelled forward?” Izzy questioned. “Self-propelled or pushed?”

“Either,” Barton said, nodding. “At the mercy of the laws of gravity.”

Fiona cut Izzy a victorious glance.

“If I had knowledge of that detail, I would have put it in my report,” Dr. Barton said.

“We're the ones who should have informed you. Right, Fi?”

She nodded.

Dr. Barton smiled and raised a hand in protest.

“No offense taken, Officer. Indeed, I congratulate you on your deductive skills.” He turned to Fiona. “You've got yourself a smart partner, Fiona.”

“Be careful, Doc. I don't need a swelled head to contend with. Fact is Izzy's ‘eureka moment' has opened up yet another can of worms. The popular assumption is that the man was murdered.”

“By Presidential fiat,” Izzy added.

“I don't live in a vacuum, Officer.”

“Have you got a best guess, Dr. Barton?” Izzy asked.

Fiona smiled.

“He never has a best guess. All he knows is what the dead tell him.”

“They whisper in my ear.”

“He likes to make jokes about his profession, says it keeps him sane.”

“All I want is the
emmis
, Dr. Barton.”

He looked at Fiona with some confusion.

“It's a Yiddish word meaning the truth,” Fiona said, “the real skinny. He's Jewish.”

“
Mazel tov
,” Dr. Barton said, showing no surprise. “As I said, I don't live in a vacuum.”

“Okay, then, the
emmis
.”

Putting aside the banter, Dr. Barton, who had deconstructed his finger cathedral, reconstructed it again.

“I have seen the results of suicides who jumped both feet-first and headfirst in front of moving trains and vehicles. If he jumped from a high place, like a high window or a bridge, for example, the way he fell would be arbitrary, depending on such factors as height and wind. In this case, I could not be definitive. He simply went over like a falling tree.”

“So he could have been pushed?” Izzy pressed.

“As I said,” Dr. Barton said.

“Then it is a possibility?” Fiona posed.

“Of course. The one thing I cannot get into is what his thoughts were at the time of death. That is one area that is still a mystery to us humble coroners. I understand there was no note.”

“That is not unusual,” Fiona said. “Although….” She paused.

“It would be helpful if you made the knee finding an addendum, Dr. Barton,” Izzy said. “We might need that fact someday, and it would save the possibility of exhumation.”

“The way this case is going, I wouldn't rule that out,” Fiona said. “We're in the eye of a storm here. If we don't crack this case to everyone's one hundred percent satisfaction, expect a firestorm. Worse, we might find ourselves the scapegoats in a political brouhaha.” Fiona suddenly was assailed by memories of the night before. “If this case stays open without absolute closure, expect nothing but harassment. Above all, Doc, stay away from reporters.”

“As always, Fi,” Dr. Barton said.