Killing Plato

it.

A little later I stood up and walked over to my breakfast tray and poured another cup of coffee.

The coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway.

THREE DAYS AFTER that, late in the afternoon, I took the Mustang and drove out the George Washington Parkway to look for Ft. Macy Park. The day was overcast and bloodless and the Potomac River oozed lazily toward the Atlantic under a distant pewter sky.

The entrance to the park was marked by nothing but a small highway sign half hidden by a curve. I almost missed it.

A narrow asphalt road ran slightly uphill from the Parkway through a thick forest of oak and birch trees and it ended in a small parking area surrounded by a low, grassy bank. A deep coating of dead brown leaves covered the asphalt. They crunched under my tires as I parked the car.

Ft. Macy had been part of Washington’s defensive perimeter during the civil war, but there was little recognizable left of it now, just a few forlorn-looking cannons and some earthwork mounds heavily overgrown with weeds. As I stood in the parking area looking around, I couldn’t see any obvious pathways or jogging trails leading into the interior of the park, but I had brought a copy of TIME magazine that had a detailed story about Billy’s death, so I took it out and folded it back to the page with a map of the park that illustrated where his body had been found.

The climb up the bank surrounding the parking area was harder than it looked and my loafers slipped and slid on the decaying leaves. Eventually I hauled myself up to the top by pulling on a dead branch that was hanging off a birch tree. On the other side of the bank was an undulating beige and yellow ocean of leaves that stretched all the way to the Potomac River broken only by clumps of tall, spindly trees mostly bared of their leaves, a few rusted iron cannon supported by wooden wagon wheels, and one lonely-looking picnic table.

I consulted the map in TIME again, turning it to match the contours of the land, and I traced a course with my eyes toward the spot where Billy’s body had been found. Starting down the back of the slope in that direction, I slipped on the leaves and fell, but I caught myself with my hands before I was completely down and kept going. My feet made crackling noises in the dead grass and far in the distance I could hear the sound of the Potomac River where it squeezed through a rocky narrows just below the park.

According to the magazine, Billy was stretched out on his back on a grassy slope about two hundred yards into the park, so neatly placed he might have already been embalmed and laid out for viewing. He looked as if he had shot himself once in the roof of the m? inouth with a.38-caliber revolver. The bullet went straight into his brain and he died almost instantly. There had been very little blood.

The slope wasn’t very hard to find. It was near the river, just past the one lonely picnic table, but it was covered with tall weeds rather than grass and it was more like three hundred yards away from the parking area, not two.

On the whole, it was a strange place for a suicide. If you intended to kill yourself, why would you work so hard to get to a place that had so little to recommend it? Why would you stumble hundreds of yards in the dark through rotting leaves and up and down pathless slopes before you sat down in a patch of weeds, put the gun barrel in your mouth, tasted the sour metal and your own fear, and pulled the trigger?

I stood on that slope for a long time looking down at the place where Billy’s body had been. There was a fresh coating of leaves over everything now and no suggestion at all that anything out of the ordinary had ever happened there. Still, I had no difficultly picturing it. I could imagine Billy’s body laid out right there, neatly dressed in a white shirt and dark suit, stark in its contrast against the yellow and tan leaves.

I took the cassettes Plato Karsarkis had given me out of my pocket and juggled them back and forth, shuffling them from one hand to another. Just three little plastic boxes capable of doing more damage to the White House than the biggest truck bomb.

But now that Billy was dead, what were the tapes? Proof that someone close to the president had gone too far? That someone with the president’s ear may have been behind some slick and shadowy operation and then tried to cover it up when it spun out of control? That someone so racked with guilt over what he had done had gone out in the dead of night and shot himself through the head?

That would be that, wouldn’t it? Mystery solved, blame assigned, case closed.

You deserve a better epitaph than that, Billy, my friend. You really do.

I began unspooling each of the cassettes with my fingers. As I worked I watched the narrow brown tape slide through my hands and snake to the ground. Curling into the rotting leaves right on the spot where Billy’s body had been found, it fell in masses of loops and whirls almost invisible against the russet-colored compost.

Just as I finished it started to snow. The flakes were big and wet and turned to water as soon as they hit. I pulled up the collar of my jacket and wiped the wet snow off my face.

I would like to say it was over then, that it ended there.

But it wasn’t, and it didn’t.

Billy Redwine hadn’t committed suicide, of course. He was murdered, shot in the head and dumped in a rundown park because somebody bigger than he was thought it would be better that way.

There was always somebody bigger, wasn’t there? There was always one more rung on the ladder.

It was never over. It never ended.

I jammed my hands in my pockets and started the long walk back to the car.