(1976) The R Document (30 page)

Then three years ago, when the madam had died or retired, Tynan had sought a new outlet for his sexual needs. He had to be cautious, but fortunately he had hit upon a brilliant solution. The FBI was beginning to take on more female personnel, not only as secretaries and clerks but as Special Agents and computer operators. When an opening came about for a communications officer in the computer complex, Tynan had suggested that his old sidekick, Adcock, personally screen the female applicants, and run a check on the best of them as to their computer experience - and sexual compliance - and then hire the most talented.

Mary Lampert got the job. Her job ordinarily consisted of five days a week at FBI headquarters and one night a week at Vernon T. Tynan’s suburban home. One evening out of every seven - each Friday night - Mary Lampert, camouflaged by files under her arm, went to Tynan’s heavily secured Georgian house near Rock Creek Park. She joined the chief in three or four drinks. She undressed him. She undressed herself. They played around on the bed. Then she moved her head down between his legs. Like clockwork, once a week, every week, for three years. Who in the hell were those smart-asses to say Vernon T. Tynan wasn’t normal?

Boy, Adcock thought, it would sure shake up those smart-asses in the capital city to know how normal the Director and the Associate Director were - probably the

only normal human beings (except for the President) in this depraved community. And it was just as normal, Adcock thought, for him to sublimate himself to Tynan, for him to be the loyal and devoted servant of the truly greatest man in the United States of America.

That was why he couldn’t disappoint Tynan now in this all-important matter of the Collins investigation.

Yet despite all their concentration and efforts, there had been no break in the case.

He was becoming gloomy and discouraged once more when he realized that Mary Lampert, senior communications officer, was standing before him, beaming down upon him.

With a flourish she laid a fingerprint card and a sheaf of paper-clipped sheets of paper on his lap.

‘Good news, Harry,’ she said. He was startled. ‘What is it?’

‘The Coffins investigation,’ she said. ‘Just came through. See for yourself.’

He took up the sheaf of papers, examined the fingerprint card, puzzled, and slowly began to leaf through the papers, one by one. Quickly his puzzlement vanished.

‘My God!’ he said - and at last he was beaming, too.

*

It was ten minutes to eight in the morning, and Chris Collins stood before the bathroom mirror and finished shaving with his single-edged razor. He lathered his face once more, then ducked low over the bowl, scooped up two handfuls of warm water, and rinsed the soap off his face.

Straightening, he began to hum as he considered himself in the mirror. Lately, the mirror had reflected a long, narrow face that seemed perpetually haggard and made him seem old beyond his years. But this morning his face was - or seemed to be - as healthy and unlined as that of a young athlete.

Perhaps the transformation was due to his still exhilarated mood.

Ever since the call from Chief Justice Maynard two days

ago, when the jurist confided that he was resigning from the high court and preparing to speak out against the 35th Amendment, Collins had been unremittingly cheerful. Not even the later news, the night before last at dinner - Ishmael Young’s warning to him that he was being secretly investigated by the FBI - had cast a pall on Collins’ good mood. Several times yesterday, reflecting on Tynan’s behavior, he had weighed confronting the Director and revealing what he knew. Certainly, that would have embarrassed Tynan and put an immediate end to the investigation. But finally, Collins had decided that he didn’t give a damn. He’d let Tynan play his useless game. For one thing, Tynan would learn nothing. There was nothing in Collins’ past, or in his present activity, to hide. For another thing, his contest with Tynan was just about over. Collins knew that he now held the trump card.

Persuading John G. Maynard to speak out had been the ultimate victory. With this, all tactics of the opposition would be obliterated. Tynan’s dream of glory, of gaining dictatorial power through the 35th, would be ended the moment Chief Justice Maynard raised his voice in Sacramento against the Amendment. Even Tynan’s mysterious weapon, The R Document, whatever it really was, could be forgotten. Despite Baxter’s deathbed warning that it must be exposed, The R Document would be rendered impotent and harmless by Maynard’s statement today in Sacramento. Wiping his face dry, Collins freed a fresh blue shirt from a hanger and put it on. As he buttoned it, he calculated the precise moment of victory for democracy in the United States. The clock on the tiled ledge below his bathroom mirror told him it was exactly eight o’clock here in Washington, D.C. That meant it was five in the morning in California. About now, Maynard would be rising from his bed and preparing for the two-hour drive from Palm Springs to Los Angeles. There, at nine o’clock, as Collins was breaking for lunch here, Maynard would hold his news conference, stun the nation with his resignation, stun all of California with the word that he was flying to the state capital to urge the legislature to vote down the 35th Amendment. There, at three in the afternoon, just as Collins was leaving his office

for home and dinner here, Maynard would be reading his electrifying statement against the 35th first to the Judiciary Committee of the State Assembly, then to the Judiciary Committee of the State Senate.

Mere hours from now, the California Assembly would be voting on the Constitutional Amendment, with the Senate voting after mat. But it would never reach the Senate. It would die forever in its first test in the Assembly. Maynard’s judgment, his influence and prestige, would have carried the day.

Collins found himself whistling, ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah,’ realized that that was pretty corney, and stopped. He had pulled on his necktie and knotted it, preparing to join Karen for a hasty breakfast before hurrying to the office, when he heard a knocking on the bathroom door.

‘Chris?’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s a gentleman here to see you. A Mr Dorian Schiller. He says he’s a friend.’

Coffins opened the bathroom door. ‘Dorian Schiller.’

‘I didn’t recognize the name. That’s why I didn’t let him in. I’ll tell him-‘

Karen had started to turn away, when Collins reached out and grabbed his wife by the shoulder. ‘No, wait, Karen. That’s the assumed name I gave Donald Radenbaugh.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. I’ll explain later. He is a friend. Let him right in. I’ll be there in a second.’

While his wife went off to the front door to admit Radenbaugh, Coffins found his suit coat in the dressing room. Slipping into it, he wondered what Radenbaugh v/anted at this hour. Since their return from Argo City, he had met with Radenbaugh only once, although he had spoken to him daily on the phone. He had settled Radenbaugh in a two-room suite in the Madison Hotel at 15th and M Streets, and had brought him all available notes and research on an alternative plan to combat crime and disorder in the nation. It was an alternative plan to replace the 35th Amendment, one Coffins wanted to introduce at the President’s

first Cabinet meeting following California’s rejection of the 35th.

Radenbaugh’s appearance here this morning was a surprise. Collins had made it clear to Radenbaugh that it would be best that he not venture far from the confines of the hotel, that he stick close to his rooms. He had been too well known in Washington. Although his person had been considerably altered, someone who had known him well might recognize him. That could lead to trouble, possibly even to his extinction. Collins wanted him in Washington only long enough to develop the newly devised crime bill, while an effort was made to find him some kind of reasonable job in a small community in a remote part of the country.

Concerned, Collins left his dressing room, passed through the bathroom and bedroom, strode up the corridor, and entered the living room. He expected Radenbaugh to be seated, but Radenbaugh was on his feet, pacing agitatedly. Karen was at the coffee table, setting down a breakfast tray. ‘Donald,’ Collins greeted him. ‘I hadn’t expected you. You’ve met my wife… ?’

Radenbaugh halted, as if he hadn’t heard, but Karen called out that they had already introduced themselves. She added, ‘I brought you some juice, coffee, toast. I’ll leave you two to talk.’ Karen left them.

Radenbaugh stared at Collins, his face a picture of misery.

‘Bad news,’ he said, at last, ‘very bad news, Chris.’ Before Collins could react, Radenbaugh went on quickly. ‘It’s been on television since six this morning. I always turn on the set when I get up. I tried to call you right away, but I had misplaced your unlisted number. So I came right over.’

Collins did not move. He had a premonition of disaster. ‘What is it, Donald? You look a wreck.’

‘The worst news possible.’ He was breathing like an asthmatic. ‘Chris, I don’t know how to tell you -‘ ‘Dammit, what is it?’

‘Chief Justice Maynard and Mrs Maynard - they were murdered in their beds last night - killed by a common housebreaker.’

Collins felt his knees go liquid. ‘Maynard - murdered? I can’t believe it.’

‘In Palm Springs, California, around two thirty this morning. Maynard and his wife, Abigail, they were in bed asleep. As far as can be reconstructed, someone got in through the service-porch door. The person entered their bedroom. Apparently, Maynard was awakened. He tried to get out of bed or made some kind of move. The gunman shot twice with a Walther 9-millimeter P-38 - got him in the chest and in the head - killed him instantly. This roused Mrs Maynard, and the gunman fired three bullets into her -‘

‘Oh, Christ, I’ve never heard anything like this!’

‘I was shocked out of my skin. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

Collins moved disconsolately around the room, constantly hitting a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘A tragedy like that. Who could have imagined? I mean - not only this senseless killing of one of the nation’s greatest men - really, one of the greatest - but destruction of our last hope to put an end to the threat of a virtual dictatorship. Dammit, what in the hell is this country coming to?’

‘You mean, what will it come to,’ Radenbaugh said. ‘Where’s your television set?’

‘In here,’ said Collins, starting back into the corridor.

Radenbaugh followed him. I gather it’s been on the tube direct from Palm Springs since six this morning. Let’s find out what’s happening.’

They entered the book-lined paneled study. The television set was built flush into the wall. Radenbaugh sat forward on the couch as Collins turned the set on, waited, adjusted the picture and sound.

Collins took the arm of a captain’s chair and drew it up close to the set. Dumbly, he watched what was taking place on the screen.

The camera was panning the front of the contemporary desert house where the tragedy had occurred. A cordon of police was stationed before the walk to the house. Plainclothes detectives kept going and coming through the open front door. Off to one side, dozens of neighbors, many still in nightclothes, stood stricken, observing the scene.

Now the mobile unit’s camera held on the network’s reporter, moved in close on him.

‘This is the scene where the tragedy occurred not three hours ago,’ the network reporter announced. ‘Here, on this quiet, peaceful side street of California’s most famous resort town, nearly abandoned in the heat of the summer, the Chief Justice of the United States, John G. Maynard, and his wife, Abigail Maynard, met death violently at the hands of an unknown assailant.’ The reporter, holding his microphone, gestured toward the house starkly illuminated by both police and television lights. ‘The bodies were removed a little over an hour ago. Not only the bodies of the Chief Justice and his wife, but the body of the as yet unidentified murderer, who was cut down by police bullets before he could escape.’ The reporter held his microphone higher as he squinted straight into the camera. ‘Let me recap once more what is known of what happened here in Palm Springs, California, early this morning…’

Collins sat mesmerized before the screen, listening.

Apparently, the intruder had been acquainted with the layout of the Maynard home. After coming through the service porch, he had headed for the bedroom, intent on getting Mrs Maynard’s valuables. His entrance into the bedroom had awakened Chief Justice Maynard. The police theorized that Maynard, realizing what was happening, had half risen from his bed, reached out, and pressed a silent-alarm button on the wall. The alarm had been installed by the local police a half dozen years before to give their eminent resident greater security. The silent alarm was connected directly to police headquarters. The police had been alerted at once.

Meanwhile, the moment the killer had seen Maynard move, he had opened fire on him. When Mrs Maynard had sprung upright, fully awake, he had opened up on her. The two had been shot to death in a matter of seconds. Then, instead of fleeing, the killer had remained in the bedroom to complete his task. Unaware that his first victim had set off a silent alarm, the killer had ransacked the bedroom for money and jewels. Having pocketed Mrs Maynard’s necklaces and rings, and finally the Chief Justice’s wallet, he had retreated

from the house the same way he had entered. On the front sidewalk, he had started for his Plymouth (rented in Los Angeles earlier) parked two blocks away. Suddenly, he had been caught in the spotlight of a police squad car that was bearing down on him. He had started to run, stopped, spun about, and opened fire on the police officers as they left their car. They had answered him with a hail of bullets, and mowed him down on the sidewalk. Aside from the stolen goods in his pockets, he carried not a thing on his person. His identity remained unknown.

The network reporter had finished his recap. He said, ‘We now return to our newsroom in Los Angeles for the latest developments in the murder of Chief Justice and Mrs John G. Maynard.’

In his captain’s chair, watching, listening, Collins felt utter despair. ‘What’s the use,’ he said.