“You’re running the show. Have the Fairfax police been in the house?”
“Not yet. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.
We’re only a couple of minutes out.” McMahon hung up, and the next several minutes were punctuated by a nervous silence. The chopper came in at about three hundred feet and circled the neighborhood looking for a place to land. Three police cars with their lights flashing marked the end of Turnquist’s driveway. The chopper pilot knew enough not to land near the crime scene and have his rotor wash send evidence flying.
He flew about fifty yards down from Turnquist’s house and checked the area with his spotlight for wires. He found a spot where the trees weren’t a problem and set the bird down in the middle of the road. The three agents again crouched as they ran away from the chopper. Halfway down the street they were met by a woman with grayish black hair carrying a flashlight. She looked at McMahon and said, “FBI?” Skip stuck out his right hand. “Yes, I’m Special Agent McMahon and these are Special Agents Jennings and
Wardwell.”
“I’m Police Chief Barnes. Follow me, and I’ll show you the way.” All four started down the street. “Have you been in the house, Chief?”
asked McMahon. “No, I just got here.”
“Have any of your officers been in the house?”
“No.” As they walked up to the white sedan, Barnes pointed her flashlight down and illuminated several brassy objects. “Watch your step, we’ve got some shell casings on the ground.”
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She led them to the window of the sedan and shone the light on the dead marshal. The man lay slumped over the middle armrest with shards of glass covering his body. Three bullet holes were clearly visible on the left side of his head. McMahon noted the distance from the shell casings to the car and then looked at the marshal’s hands. They were empty.
“Let’s go look at the house.” The chief told her two officers to stay put and then led
McMahon, Jennings, and Wardwell up the driveway. As they neared the house, another body could be seen on the ground in front of the porch. Barnes shone her flashlight at it and illuminated the dead marshal. When they neared the body, McMahon stuck his arms out and stopped everyone from coming any closer. “Chief, may I borrow your flashlight for a second?” Barnes handed it to him, and Skip stepped closer to the body. Putting the flashlight under his armpit, he put on a pair of gloves and bent over the body. He looked at the bullet holes in the center of the man’s face and then the one in his neck. The marshal’s hands were open and lying away from his body.
Skip looked at his holstered pistol and closed his eyes. Standing back up, he said, “Everyone stay here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He started for the porch steps, and Wardwell shouted at him, “Skip, you’re not going in there alone.”
“Yes, I am. Just stay put. The less people we have traipsing around here the better.”
Jennings pulled out her gun and flipped off the safety.
“I’m going in with you!” Without looking back McMahon said, “No, you’re not!”
“What if someone’s still in there?”
“What do you think. the people that did this are waiting around to get caught? Just stay where you are, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
McMahon walked up the steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked.
Swinging the door inward, he saw the next marshal lying on the floor with one leg still up on the chair. Standing over the body, McMahon’s eyes were drawn to the three red dots marking the dead man’s face and then down to his holstered gun. Sighing, he looked up to shake his head and saw the bright red streak on the wall at the top of the stairs. Only a pair of shoes were visible, and McMahon started the slow climb to the first landing. He’d seen the Congressman on TV before but wasn’t quite sure the body he was looking at was Turnquist’s. Unlike the other bodies, this one was riddled with more than a dozen bullets. It has to be him, he thought to himself.
McMahon’s phone rang, startling him slightly. He reached into his jacket and answered it. “Hello.”
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“What did you find?”
It was Director Roach on the line. “Well, I’m standing over what I’m pretty sure is
Congressman Turnquist’s body.”
“Could you be more precise?”
“The man has a half a dozen bullet holes in his face and chest, but it has to be him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” McMahon stared down at the body by his feet and waited for Roach to speak.
“Any sign of the people that did it?”
“I’d better tell the President before the media catches on. What else do you need from me?”
“Nothing right now.”
“All right, call me if there are any developments.”
“Will do.” McMahon hung up the phone and looked down at the body, contemplating the precision of the wounds in Turnquist’s head.
Scarlatti and O’Rourke were sitting in the corner booth of a new and yet to be discovered Italian restaurant.
