Murder on Capitol Hill (17 page)

Jenkins concluded his statement with an assurance that not only had Mark Adam confessed, he’d given every detail of both murders that had not, in any way, conflicted with known facts. Rather, they’d confirmed them.

MacLoon said, “It’s my suggestion that we immediately conclude this committee’s business and issue a public statement to that effect.”

Silence, until Senator Markowski put in, “Isn’t that a little premature, Will? After all, the suspect hasn’t even been indicted yet, let alone tried and convicted.” He looked at Chief Jenkins. “With all due respect, Chief, simply having someone from the MPD proclaim that the murder we’ve been charged with investigating is solved isn’t, it seems to me, sufficient reason for a Senate committee to fold up and go home.”

“I disagree, this isn’t a court of law—”

“Senator MacLoon,” Markowski pressed on, “the Dallas police
solved
the murder of Jack Kennedy, didn’t they? But that hasn’t precluded Congress from conducting continuing investigations into it.”

MacLoon chewed on his cigar, glared at his younger colleague. “If somebody else wants to come along later and make up another committee, that’s their business. As far as I’m concerned, this committee’s business is finished.”

“As special counsel to this committee I must agree with Senator Markowski,” Lydia said. “It seems to me that the least we can do for the American people we’re supposed to represent is to continue our work until there is a conviction. At that time, after listening to the complete report of the MPD and examining the trial record, we can determine that no branch of government was involved, nor any member of government.”

“Miss James, it should make you feel better to know that your insistence that there was a connection
between Senator Caldwell’s murder and Jimmye McNab’s has been proven right. With that victory in your portfolio, perhaps we can all get on with more pressing matters.”

“I resent that, Senator. Not your manner, which is irrelevant, but your implication that I’ve been after victories, personal vindication. That is inaccurate and I think you know it. So, as you say, let’s get on with more pressing matters than sarcasm and cheap shots.”

“A pretty speech, Miss James. Too bad there’s no jury.” He shifted his attention from her to others at the table. “The advice of counsel aside, I advise that we begin to close down this committee’s activities. Naturally, a report must be written to satisfy the charter under which we’ve been operating. That report can be written in conjunction with Chief Jenkins and his people.”

“I do think,” Jack Markowski said, “that we at least should move slowly enough to keep pace with the MPD’s and the court’s prosecution of the case. I agree with you that there seems little value in having the entire committee continue to function, but the staff, under Lydia’s direction, should stay in place for a while.”

Another senator who’d remained impartial throughout the countless internal debates within the committee said, “I think Jack is right. I’m all for folding up, but if we do it too quickly we’ll end up with the same second-guessing and sniping as happened with the Kennedy assassination. Let Miss James and her staff begin to prepare a report based on progress in the case. I’m sure Chief Jenkins will cooperate with her.”

His comment took Jenkins by surprise. He looked around, checked Lydia for a reaction, then said, “That’s right. Always happy to cooperate with the Congress.” Lydia raised her eyebrows and slipped her notes into her briefcase.

Jenkins intercepted her outside the conference room and offered to buy her a cuppa.

“Thanks, no,” she said, looking at her watch.

“Come on, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

He drove to a nearby coffee shop and they settled into a booth.

“All right, Chief, what?”

“I meant what I said in the meeting.”

“Okay. And…?”

Jenkins shrugged, drank his coffee and said into the cup, “I just wanted you to know, Lydia, that there are no hard feelings. Now that I’ve cleaned this thing up, you’re free to do the job you were supposed to be doing in the first place. I mean, come up with a report to the American people.”

A tinge of sarcasm in his voice? “Which is what I intend to do.”

Jenkins finished the contents of his cup, sat back. “There’s going to be things come out of the indictment that probably should stay between friends, if you get my drift. I’m talking about personal things, family matters. The point is that you’ll hear about some of them and be tempted to put them in your report.”

“And you’re telling me that I shouldn’t?”

“Suggesting it. I don’t think anything is to be
gained by dragging out family dirt, even for the American people.”

Lydia dabbed at her mouth with a paper napkin and grabbed the handle of her briefcase.

“Calm down,” Jenkins said as she slid to the edge of the booth, reached across the table and took her wrist. “What are you so sore at? You act as though you expected a different ending to all of this and are mad at the world it didn’t come out like you wanted…” He glanced around the coffee shop, then leaned over the table. “If you want some juicy gossip, Lydia, I’ll give it to you. Frankly, I didn’t figure you got off on that kind of thing.”

Don’t, she told herself, rise to the bait. Stay in the game. She took a breath, affected a smile and returned to the center of her seat. “All right, I’ve calmed down.” She expanded the smile, which brought one from him.

“This,” he said, “has nothing to do with your report, although I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anybody to add it. Caldwell was going to die anyway.”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know that the autopsy on him was sealed at the family’s request. He had cancer.”

“How bad?”

“Terminal. The doc who did it figured he had maybe six months.”

“Did Senator Caldwell know he had cancer?” she asked, not so much of Jenkins but of herself.

He shrugged. “Could be. It really doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I suppose not.” She spent a few moments lost in
her own thoughts. Finally, she said, “It’s interesting how the Caldwell family tends to pull strings where autopsies are concerned.”

“Why say that? I don’t blame the family for not wanting details played out in the scandal sheets.”

“I wasn’t referring to the senator’s autopsy, Horace. I was talking about the Jimmye McNab autopsy that never was.” She glanced up. He didn’t respond, so she pushed further. “Why wasn’t an autopsy done on Jimmye?”

Jenkins motioned for a waitress to bring their check.

“Why did Cale Caldwell prevent an autopsy on Jimmye McNab?”

“Who says he did?” Jenkins asked as the waitress handed him the bill.

“I do, and so do some other people. Why?”

He shook his head. “Yeah, Caldwell brought some pressure on the department to skip an autopsy. Why, you ask? The way the story goes, the esteemed Senator Caldwell was, as they say, having his way with Miss McNab for quite a while. Who knows, maybe he even made her pregnant. But so what? They’re both dead. If which elected officials were cheating on the side was important after he died or left office, there wouldn’t be space in the newspapers for much of anything else…”

He dropped her off in front of the Senate Building. “Forget the McNab thing, Lydia. That’s really over now. Do your report nice and neat, take the bows and get back to making money. If there’s anything I can do, give me a call. As I said, I’m always happy to cooperate with the U.S. Congress.”

It was the early morning hours and the Quentin Hughes show was in progress. Christa Jones noted that her boss was edgier than usual in his interview with his guest.

It had been a trying day, although no worse than many other days of the recent past. She’d been staying with Hughes in his Watergate apartment for a week, returning home during the day only to feed her cats and to get a change of clothing. The beginning of the week with Hughes had started smoothly enough; in fact, the first few days found Hughes in as good a mood as she could remember. Of course, in the early phase of their relationship he was often relaxed and pleasant to be with. Those early days in Des Moines provided Christa with one of the most pleasant memories of her life…

Her father had deserted the family when Christa was an infant. Her mother, an industrious, uneducated woman, had done what she could to provide a home for Christa and her two younger sisters, but the woman eventually buckled under the pressure. After six months in a state institution, she’d returned home, packed a few belongings and left Des Moines
with a truck driver she’d met only days earlier. Because there were no relatives, the three Jones girls were placed in a state home.

Memory of life in that home could reduce Christa to immediate tears and terror. She’d found a job and taken courses at night at a local community college; she’d always been an avid reader and found herself immersed in her classes, particularly those dealing with communications.

Hughes, who’d become the most successful and well-known broadcaster in Des Moines, lectured one evening at the college. It was, as they say, love at first sight for the orphaned Christa. She was enthralled with his sureness, his ability to spellbind anyone within listening distance, his tall good looks. When they’d talked after class, his slate gray eyes seemed to burn right through her. He was power and authority.

Until Quentin Hughes, Christa had never been particularly interested in how she looked or in what she wore. But after that night at the college she found herself making a conscious effort to look better. She knew even then that she was attractive, tall and fair-skinned, with a figure full enough to encourage appreciative stares from men on the street. Now she did what she could to enhance her attributes, then went to the radio station where Hughes was employed, asked to see him, and to her surprise was immediately ushered into his office.

He hired her on the spot to replace a young woman who’d been his producer and was leaving to marry someone from another city. The pay wasn’t much, but that didn’t matter to Christa. The job created many perks for her, to say nothing of the pride
she felt at being inside the exciting world of radio and television. And, of course, there was the fringe benefit of being close to Quentin Hughes on a daily basis.

She was a virgin when she took the job with Hughes in Des Moines. That lasted two days. Soon they were living together, although Hughes insisted that she maintain a separate apartment for, what he termed, “appearances’ sake.” She hadn’t argued, simply looked forward to when they would be together in a house he rented on the outskirts of the city, six blocks from the home in which he was born and where his mother still lived.

Christa had assumed—presumed, Hughes would say—that one day they would be married. Hughes had been married before meeting her, and had gotten his divorce during the time they were together. Christa understood that to push him would be a mistake, and so she said little, dropping only occasional hints and hoping that he would respond to them. He didn’t. He also occasionally saw other women and, to Christa’s shock, one day announced that he was marrying one of them. That time she stayed away from the station for a week, mostly in bed in her apartment. Eventually Hughes came to visit her, and told her he needed a producer and if she was quitting he’d have to find somebody else.

It wasn’t easy, but she went back to the station. Hughes treated her well, gave her substantial raises and seemed understanding of her occasional flip-outs that made her stay away from the job for a few days at a time. Of course, she was paying her dues to him for such minor indulgences.

And so it had gone for all these years, Christa always there even as he went through his succession of women, marrying some of them, only sleeping with most of them, all during his rise in the broadcasting business to his present position in Washington. Not that Christa was monastic when he wasn’t available. She dated a variety of men, but always found something lacking in them—or in her… She knew it was a failing, but… the only close female friend she’d ever had told her that she was throwing away her life by staying with Hughes, dancing attendance on him. Christa had to agree, but divorcing her emotions from her intelligence was another matter. Somehow, and for no good reason, she had the notion that one day Quentin Hughes would realize the mistake he’d made in not committing himself to her and would do something about it. She was too much like too many women—even in the so-called age of liberation….

She snapped out of her reverie and glanced at her reflection in the glass separating the studio from the control room. She knew she’d been reverting back to her younger years when she’d done so little to improve her appearance. Especially over the past year. At the moment her hair was disheveled. Her powder blue turtleneck sweater had a coffee stain over one breast. A black felt skirt was rumpled and covered with cat hair. She wore no makeup and noticed that a streak of black ink from a Flair pen was still on her hand after she’d inadvertently picked up the pen by the wrong end almost two days ago. My God, Christa, you’re a mess… She considered taking a Valium from her purse but fought the urge. She knew that pills had become too much a part of her life.
They were so easy to get. Always on hand were amphetamines and the depressants, Desoxyn and Plexonal, always something to pick her up from the depths or to bring her down from the heights. There had been other drugs, too, that Hughes occasionally enjoyed using recreationally, particularly to enhance his sexual pleasure. They’d done nothing to Christa, although she never argued with him when he insisted that she share his use of them.

And there was alcohol. As much as she knew how dangerous it was to combine drugs and alcohol, she’d been drinking more heavily than ever. In fact, she’d gotten quite drunk two days ago and had gone through a shaky, painful day-after.

A recorded commercial, then Hughes’s voice through the intercom: “How about some coffee?” Christa went to a small room, drew two cups and delivered them to the studio.

“Thanks, babe,” Hughes said.

She nodded, returned to the control room and remained there for the rest of the show.