The President's Killers (12 page)

FORTY-NINE

The landlady at the big gray Victorian house just off the University of Wisconsin campus took a long, careful look at him.

“Are you a full-time student?” Mrs. Kolb asked.

“Yes,” Denny said.

“Where are you from, Mr. Bayless?”

It was a name he’d heard on the terrace overlooking the lake.

“Scranton, Pennsylvania.”

The short, stern landlady looked at him. He had the feeling she wanted to ask him many more questions but thought better of it.

The university’s fall semester had already begun, and there were room-for-rent signs in the windows of several other large, sprawling houses along Langdon Street.

Her price seemed reasonable enough, although he’d have to scrimp to get by on the money he would have left.

“I don’t permit guests after eleven o’clock.”

“No problem.”

“No loud parties.”

He smiled. “Fine with me.”

The tiny but neat second-floor room looked out on the back yard. There was a twin bed, a table and two chairs, an empty book case, and not much else.

“This is the bathroom.” Mrs. Kolb pointed with obvious pride to the bright new fixtures. “The window will be fixed.”

There was a barely visible crack in the lower pane.

“Looks fine,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

As soon as she left, he stretched out on the bed.

When he awoke three hours later, he went shopping. He bought a plaid flannel shirt, a red University of Wisconsin sweatshirt, black jeans, Timberland boots, and one of the nylon knapsacks that every student toted on his shoulder or back.

Then he went to work. The man he saw in the photograph on TV was McQueen. He was positive it was McQueen. There were people crowded around him but his face and shoulders were clearly visible. The crowd seemed to be in a city street somewhere.

That was all Denny could recall. He had no idea what had preceded or followed that scene. When the bartender finally moved out of his line of sight, there was a beer commercial on the TV.

He would search for the photograph on the web. He missed his laptop, but most university libraries had computers that students could use. There was usually a room or two set aside for that purpose.

He went to the university’s main library, at the base of the huge hill at the end of State Street, but he wasn’t permitted to enter the building.

“You have to have a university ID card,” a student monitor said.

From a student in a State Street bar, he learned there was a university gym near Langdon.

When Denny found it, there were six students changing clothes in the men’s locker room. An older man was toweling himself off. The place reeked of perspiration. In the next room, the showers were operating at full blast.

Bad scene. Too many people around.

He returned a few hours later. This time the locker room was empty except for a brawny kid, hairy and completely naked, planted in front of a full-length mirror, examining his teeth.

Denny sat down on a bench and began to remove his sneakers. He took his time, hoping Muscles would leave.

The kid ambled over to a locker, picked up a towel and bar of soap, and went back to the mirror. His neck was as thick as Denny’s thigh.

Denny unbuttoned his shirt, then buttoned it again, stalling. Finally, the kid disappeared around the wall of lockers, and a moment later Denny heard water splashing in the showers.

He pulled his sneakers back on and patted down the jeans in the kid’s locker. He felt a wallet and removed it. There were several plastic cards inside, including a red student ID card. He slipped the ID card into his pocket.

As he fumbled with the wallet, trying to stuff it back into the jeans, a powerful hand grabbed his shoulder.

He tried to twist away, but a hairy wet arm clamped around his arms and chest.

“What do you think you’re doing, asshole?” Muscles growled.

FIFTY

When she saw the call was from her kid sister, Meesh knew she shouldn’t pick up.

“I can’t believe it,” Beth exclaimed. “Is the guy they’re talking about on TV our Denny Kinney?”

“Where are you?” Meesh was in no mood to humor her.

“Miami. We’re here for the weekend. Are they talking about our Denny?”

“It’s all a stupid mistake.”

Beth squealed. “You mean it is Denny!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God! I can’t believe it. He’s not really involved in all this, is he?”

Meesh was not about to open up to her sister. “It’s all a crazy mistake, Beth.”

“Are you still in touch with him? I mean, do you know if —.”

“We kind of drifted apart. I haven’t seen much of him lately.”

“You better be careful, Meesh. You could—.”

“Beth, I was just going out the door. I’ll get back to you, okay?”

Muscles was digging his chin into Denny’s shoulder. It felt like a vise tightening.

“Hey, your pants fell on the damn floor. I was just picking them up.”

“Like hell you were! You were trying to steal my wallet.”

When Denny tried to squirm free, the thick arms lifted him off the floor and slammed him against the metal lockers.

“I ought to break your neck!”

He slammed Denny against the lockers again, the loud bang reverberating through the room. One of the benches crashed to the floor. Then he jammed Denny against the lockers, pressing him harder and harder against the metal.

Denny was afraid the noise would attract others. Unable to break the guy’s hold, he doubled over, thrust his hand between the massive legs, grabbed the kid’s testicles, and squeezed.

Muscles squealed like a horse in a burning barn.

It was a maneuver Denny had learned at practice matches in his days as a high school wrestler. He broke free and shoved Muscles over a bench, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

“Sorry, buddy,” he yelled as he strolled out of the locker room.

For hours he sat at a university library computer searching for McQueen’s face in pictures of the President in crowd situations.

In several, he saw a man who might have been McQueen, but the pictures showed only the back of his head. There was no way to tell if it was actually him.

Giving up for the day, Denny checked out several web articles on the ability of law enforcement agencies and the National Security Agency to capture and retrieve messages transmitted over the internet or through telephones, cell and land-line phones alike.

Many believed the FBI can remotely activate microphones in mobile phones to record conversations — and can do much the same with laptops. With a judge’s permission, law enforcement agencies can install software at the site of your internet service provider that will monitor transmissions to and from your computer. They can subpoena the records of wireless companies, which keep track of all the messages sent through their systems. They can follow your movements through the signals your cell phone emits, pinpointing the location of a phone even when it isn’t in use. And they have access to software that can convert a cell phone into a radio receiver able to pick up all the messages flying through the air at any given location.

No electronic communication is completely safe. No one outside the NSA knew exactly what its capabilities are, but it seems to have the means to see and hear just about everything. When Osama bin Laden holed up in Pakistan, there were no phone or internet connections in his compound. That was one reason it took so long to find him.

The web research was frustrating and exhausting, and Denny’s eyes began to feel the strain. He left the library and ducked into an Italian restaurant for a beer and spaghetti and meat balls.

As he was leaving, he saw his own face flash on the TV behind the bar. It wasn’t the crude artist’s sketch. It was a photograph.

He hurried to the nearest State Street pub and slipped into a booth at the rear where he could see the TV.

The world knew who he was now. The TV people were identifying him as Denis Kinney. The news reports showed three old photographs of him with a mustache and goatee, pictures the FBI or cops must have seized from his apartment.

He glanced around him. The cavernous pub was dark, its walls decorated with pictures of Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, U2, and the Sex Pistols. The music was booming. There were only eight people in the place, and he was a nerd now, clean-shaven with bronze hair and big eyeglasses. Nobody was looking at the TV or at him.

He watched the news reports for a half hour. When he went outside, the sidewalks were crowded with students. With his head lowered, he started down State towards Langdon.

As he crossed a side street, two white police cars pulled up beside him, tires screeching.

Two cops leaped out of each car, nightsticks in their hands.

“All right, freeze! Freeze!”

He was too startled to move.

“Hold it right there!”

The first cop ran past him. The others followed him.

He turned and saw them grab three teenagers on the sidewalk behind him. They forced them to lean forward and place their hands against the wall of an Indian restaurant. Two of them balked.

“What is this shit?”

“We’re not doing anything.”

“Shut up!” one of the cops shouted. “Just keep your mouth shut, you junkie shit heads!”

FIFTY-ONE

Denny’s small, second-floor room seemed secure, but he knew that was an illusion. The cops could burst in at any moment.

From his window he could see students in nearby houses poring over their books with intent but untroubled faces. He envied them.

Before long, his money would run out. He had a few credit cards, but he was reluctant to use them. He was afraid they’d give away his location and the Feds would descend on Madison like flies on a piece of raw meat.

He thought about turning himself in and taking his chances with the lawyers and the courts. After all, it wasn’t as if he was guilty. He was innocent. It ought to be possible to prove that.

He wondered what Rob would say. His brother had been a cop and might have some thoughts on what he ought to do.

They hadn’t seen much of each other in the past few years, but the bond between them was still strong. They’d been through hell together, watching their father drink himself to death. Rob would help him if he could. He would do anything Denny asked.

He’d been a good cop on the Irvington force in New Jersey. But eventually, of course, he was canned for drinking on duty. Now he was selling insurance, struggling to make ends meet.

The last time they talked he was sober. He seemed to be getting his act together.

What were the chances the FBI or cops would have a tap on Rob’s phone? They probably didn’t even know about Rob yet. It would take them a few days to find out about him, to locate his apartment, and to start monitoring his calls.

He wondered if he should take the chance. It would be nice to talk to someone. Meesh was out of the question. By this time, the FBI was bound to have her under close surveillance.

What the hell, he’d take the risk and call Rob. He drove to a hotel a half block from the State Capitol. There was nobody in the lobby except the desk clerk.

He found a pay phone just off the lobby. The number rang and rang. There was no answer. He let it ring some more. Finally somebody picked up.

“Hello, hello, hello!” It sounded as though Rob was singing.

“Rob, it’s me. Denny.”

“Hey, Little Brother! How the hell is my favorite brother?”

“I’m in trouble, Rob.”

“What’s the matter, Little Brother? Hey, don’t take any shit, man. Don’t let those assholes push you — “

Denny heard a sharp bang, then cursing and a clattering noise.

“Goddamn phone! I dropped the fucking phone.” Rob started laughing.

“Rob… “

“This goddamned phone.” Rob was breaking up with laughter. “I can’t hold the fucking phone.”

“Rob, I’m trying to talk to you. Listen to me.”

“I know, I know. I’m telling you, kiddo. Don’t take any shit.”

“Rob…”

“Me and the Old Man are just the same. We don’t let people push us around. You know what I mean? We don’t take no shit from anybody.”

Denny glanced at the desk clerk. He was reading, oblivious to everything else.

“Rob, listen to me.”

“Those sons-of-bitches. They’re all…”

Denny shook his head. “Listen to me! Take care of yourself, Rob. Do that for me, okay?”

“Don’t let those goddamn assholes —.”

“Love you, buddy.”

FIFTY-TWO

Nursing a beer in a State Street bar the next day, Denny was staggered by what he saw on cable TV news programs.

He watched a desk clerk at a Holiday Inn near Forest Park tell a reporter that a man named Denny Kinney had registered at the motel three days before the assassination.

He watched a chambermaid at the motel recount how she had found four maps of Forest Park on a bed in Kinney’s room.

He saw an FBI official in charge of the agency’s Newark office, tell a press conference Denny had taken part in local demonstrations against gun-control measures and was believed to have made death threats against New Jersey Congressman Jack Stewart.

Although he chose his words carefully, it was clear he thought Denny was a gun fanatic upset by the President’s support of gun-control legislation.

The TV networks had sent reporters to talk to people who lived in Denny’s apartment building, to talk to his co-workers and customers at O’Brien’s, to talk to his teachers in grade and high school. Most described him as an outstanding athlete and a quiet and likeable guy. Two said he had a temper, but no one could believe he was an assassin.

The stunning reports kept on coming. Somehow reporters had learned he was once laid off by a military contractor, prompting speculation he may have blamed the President for defense spending cuts that led to Soltair Electronic’s layoffs. They even quoted an anonymous co-worker who claimed Denny was extremely agitated when he lost his job.

The more he watched, the angrier Denny got. Lott and McQueen had really set him up. They hadn’t missed a trick. Who the hell were they, anyway?

It was clear from the news reports that federal agents and state troopers were still combing the woods southwest of St. Louis, even though few people believed he was still there. The new conventional wisdom was that he’d received help from someone and escaped. Speculation about his whereabouts was rampant.

Everyone had a theory. Many were convinced he’d fled to Mexico or South America. Some thought he’d gone to Canada. Most thought he was still in the United States, hiding right beneath the FBI’s nose.

The news reports prompted him to redouble his search efforts on the web, even though he no longer had much hope he would find anything useful.

Before falling asleep at night he would go over each conversation he’d had with Lott. One night, while rehashing the back and forth when Lott offered him the position with SIG, he remembered borrowing Lott’s pencil to write down Mrs. Shamburg’s phone number.

Lott was explaining the procedures he was to follow, and Denny forgot to return the pencil. He’d stuck it in a pocket and didn’t discover it until he got back to his apartment.

It was a blue pencil, only about three inches long, with a few numbers or letters imprinted on it. He hadn’t paid any attention to the imprint, but it might be an acronym or abbreviation that could help him find out McQueen’s real identity. The pencil must be in his apartment somewhere, probably in a desk.

Now that the FBI knew his name they’d find out about Meesh through their interviews with his neighbors and people at O’Brien’s. Once they knew about her, they’d keep her under close surveillance. They would be able to intercept any cell phone calls or text messages she received.

How could he contact her?