Not so this time. The President was involved in a touch-and-go election campaign, plenty of people would remember, and he. already had enemies by the bushel. I said, 'Got it.'
'I shouldn't have to explain these things to you.'
Right.
It's never pleasant getting your butt chewed by the boss. But I didn't really want to get into it with this lady who might lace cyanide into my cigars or something. And for the record, if you'll pardon the pun, the lady was dead-on. Bodies were piling up, and Sean Drummond's singular contribution was to explain how. What mattered was why, and from there you might get to who.
I asked her for an update on the bounty, and she informed me that no progress had been made, though reports were still filtering in from around the world, and she would let me know. In other words, piss off.
She closed by informing me that Jennie, Meany, and I needed to be back at the Incident Command Center in time for a nine o'clock session of the oversight cell.
I began to wonder if this day was going to end.
CHAPTER NINE
The 9:00 P.M. session opened with an overview from a plump and pasty-faced Bureau pathologist, who brought along a number of visual aids to jog our imagination and encourage discussion. The information wasn't all that helpful, really. But I guess it's good for morale to allow everybody a moment in the sun.
Also, the day had been long and grueling, the hour was late, and a pathology lecture is a lot like a sixth-grade sex-ed class- it's all in the pictures.
At least the bureaucrats seemed to be catching up to the killers' frantic pace, and there was no unseemly melee as everybody tried to figure out who sat where. Name placards had been prepared; legal pads, sharpened No. 2 pencils, and even bottled waters were arranged. The same players from the morning session were present and accounted for, excluding my big cheese, James Peterson, who I guess was lurking in the shadowy corridors of Langley plotting something. More likely, he was exercising his option to keep his distance from this thing. Smart guy
In fact, I was a little astonished to see Director Townsend drumming his fingers on the end of the table and watching the mass assemble. But it made sense, I guess. With the White House Chief of Staff, the presidential spokesperson, a Supreme Court justice, and assorted others filling drawers at the morgue, taking in a Kennedy Center musical was probably not the best of ideas. Still, I think it said something about the man that he did not keep his bureaucratic distance, that he was staying in the thick of things, and if-or, as it now looked-when the shitstorm hit, he was going to be front and center, with no prophylactic layers of bureaucracy for cover.
Also, I was relieved to see that Mr. Townsend did not appear pissed, distraught, or even moody; he actually looked collected and impassive, as though this was just another day, another investigation, another job to be done. Of course, it wasn't. But good leadership is four-tenths being there and six-tenths looking the part.
Anyway the day had been a scorcher-literally and otherwise-and nobody had changed clothes, or showered, and the room was windowless, so it smelled a little ripe, though that was the least of our worries.
In fact, two minutes into it, everybody was stone-cold sober, stealing glances at their watches and waiting for Dr. Death and his nasty pictures to go away, when he got to something I found interesting and useful.
We had finished reviewing the anatomical donnybrook at Belknap's house and a new corpse flashed onto the screen: an aged and scrawny body sprawled on his left side across his front porch.
One glance and you knew this guy had scribbled his last illegible dissent. The doc pointed at the slide and said, 'See here how Fineberg was blown nearly in half. Really the only thing holding him together is his spine. Even a layman can detect from the severity of trauma that his death was virtually instantaneous. Until the autopsy's complete I won't venture the exact cause of death… but see here.' He pointed at a fresh slide. 'The right side of Fineberg's body, the hollowed-out side, took the brunt of the blast.'
There followed a number of lavish close-ups of Phillip Fineberg's oozing entrails, exposed rib cage, and so on.
'The depth of the tissue damage,' the doc continued, 'and the heavy accretion of gunpowder on Fineberg's skin suggests the device exploded, we estimate, within three feet from his body Of particular interest, judging by the angle of the entry wounds, the device was some three feet off the ground when it exploded. This is curious, yes? The explosion occurred at approximately the same height as the doorknob.'
He paused to allow everybody to consider this novel possibility. Mr. Gene Halderman of Homeland Security was thoughtfully stroking his chin, no doubt thinking, 'Ah-hah-the old bomb in the doorknob thing.'
The doctor then said, 'But when we found no trace of brass, or even brass enamel, we ruled that out. The device dispensed hundreds of particles composed of iron bauxite, a mixture of tiny pellets and some coarser pieces with sharp, uneven edges, perhaps from the shell of the device. What this means, we don't know. We do bodies, not bombs. So we've forwarded shrapnel fragments and powder residue over to-'
George Meany suddenly pushed back his chair. 'Wait!-hold on a minute…' He regarded the picture a moment before he informed the good doctor, 'From what you're describing… I think…'He paused until he had everybody's undivided attention. 'That… that sounds like a Bouncy Nancy' His eyes roved around the table, and in response to the confused expressions he added, 'If you're unfamiliar with this device, it's…' and proceeded to give the unwashed and unknowing a brief description of Bouncy Nancys and how the weapon matched the damage inflicted on Fineberg, and so forth.
He summarized by saying, 'Incidentally, I should mention another suspicion I've been toying with. Regarding the Merrill murder, the police investigators were of the opinion that a rifle was used to send his car out of control. I looked at that car-it was pretty banged up, and had caught on fire. Hard to say for sure, but I suspect an antitank weapon might've been used.'
George was scoring big-time points with his boss, Director Townsend, who sat nodding and wide-eyed throughout.
Mrs. Hooper stared with newfound awe and admiration at the deductive wunderkind.
Gene Halderman leaned back in his chair, hands sweeping through his pompadour, no doubt thinking, 'Wow. When I grow up…'
Jennie shot me a bemused smile. I smiled back.
That George. What can you do?
George said, 'In fact… I think… Well, this might be a new and very critical lead. How did these people get their hands on controlled and sophisticated military hardware?'
Nobody had a ready answer to that question.
After a moment Townsend asked, 'Did you serve in the military, George?'
'No… I entered the Bureau out of college.'
'And your apparent familiarity with military munitions, how did you come by that?'
'I try to stay up on things, sir. I recall reading about mine types. And as the doctor was describing the judge's injuries, it struck me th-'
'Were you aware I was a Marine platoon leader in Vietnam?'
'Yes… I think I knew that.'
'That I still carry shrapnel in my left hip? In fact, it might interest you to know the shrapnel came from the very device you're trying to describe.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. Is it painful?'
Those unblinking eyes regarded George. 'Bouncy Nancy? The proper nomenclature is a Bouncing Betty.'
George glanced very briefly at Jennie Margold, who had become curiously occupied dislodging something from under a fingernail. Then he returned his boss's stare. 'I misspoke.' After a moment he added, 'Of course I meant a Bouncing Betty.'
'Of course you did.' Those dead-fish eyes turned to me. 'Drummond, right?'
'Yes sir.'
'You were at the crash site?'
'I was.'
