'That's unusual,' commented Jennie.
'Yup,' replied Ted. 'A meticulous man. Don't see many like that these days.'
No kidding, Ted.
Jennie turned and asked me, 'Do we know why he killed himself?'
'That's what we're here to find out.'
We had just departed a business section and entered a long and obviously prosperous urban boulevard. Homes of considerable size and grandeur closely bordered the sides of the street, grand manses from another time and another era, when Richmond was widely regarded as the Rome of the South. Times change, the Old South is gone, the New South has risen, and Atlanta and New Orleans have long since eclipsed Richmond as business, cultural, and political epicenters. Richmond has become a backwater, but it remains a lovely, even pleasant place, while Atlanta now has all the character and charm of L.A. sans palm trees. Narrow grass strips divided the thoroughfare, and every block or two stood a statue of a long-dead Virginian hero disinterring old myths and glories. 'Still the best street in Richmond,' Ted informed us. 'Used to be, took tobacco money to live here. Mostly, nowadays, it's lawyers and doctors.'
Jennie commented, 'Darwinism.'
Ted replied, 'Whatism?' apparently missing this anthropological farce. What once gave wealth, prosperity, and optimism to Richmond's finer residents remained a meal ticket, and now it was lawyers and oncologists cashing in.
Ted swung hard to the right, hit the brakes, and we screeched to a sharp halt at the curb of a three-story townhouse. Clearly, Judge Barnes had not been without means. Actually, the guy was loaded. The house was tall, wide, and constructed of sturdy southern clay brick that had browned with age. From the looks of it, the house was circa 1920 or so, and in the architectural manner of that era, was austere, not garish or ostentatious, though still regal and impressive. The building's facade appeared well-kempt and tended, though the grass and shrubbery in front were overgrown and in need of loving care, evidence of a widow as the landlady.
Perhaps it was the darkness, but the judge's house struck me as slightly creepy and claustrophobic, a brooding gothic tableau awaiting a nightmare appropriate to its size and scale. But my imagination sometimes runs away with me.
Ted commented, 'Whew-seven and a half minutes.'
Jennie said, 'Lucky you.'
'Sheeit,' said Ted, surely meaning, Yes, indeed, lucky me.
Two agents stood guard outside the door, and we clearly were expected, as one rushed forward and opened the rear door for Jennie. He informed her, 'Mrs. Barnes is waiting in the home office. Incidentally, she goes by Margaret. I wouldn't suggest you call her Marge, or Maggie.' He added, 'Per orders, we haven't disclosed what this is about.'
Jennie replied, 'Good.' She turned and said to me, 'This is going to be delicate. If we upset her, she'll clam up. Let me handle it.'
'You mean I can't just throttle her and ask how she raised a monster?'
'You cannot.' She smiled. 'Unless I get nowhere. Then she's all yours.'
The agent pushed open the door and we three passed through the threshold with the sure knowledge we were about to ruin Margaret Barnes's night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The first thing I noticed was the silver tray on a small table by the front door. I recalled a time when such trays were fixtures in the homes of senior officers, intended for visitors and guests to deposit business cards and thank-you notes. Agency people don't carry business cards, at least not real ones. And, after we finished with Mrs. Barnes, a thank-you note was probably out of the question.
But tradition has greater meaning in the South than the North, and the home we entered had the aura of a museum, or perhaps a mausoleum. We passed down a long, high-ceilinged hallway strewn with antique furniture and memorabilia that clearly meant something to the Barneses and looked like old junk to me.
A large living room was to our right, and to our left what is called a parlor, which has passed out of favor even in the South and never was in fashion in the less ceremonious North. I noticed that an elevator had been installed off the living room, perhaps the only nod to modernity in this house. Strewn there and about were paintings of the Barneses' ancestors, some women in antebellum gowns-only one real looker in the group-a few stout gentlemen in gray Civil War costumes and old-fashioned business suits, and so forth.
Above the living room mantel hung a more recent portrait of a man in a dark robe I assumed was Judge Calhoun Barnes, before he blew his brains out, I think.
The gent in the portrait was handsome in a florid, broad-faced manner, barrel-chested, silver-haired, with a long, noble nose, a tight, uncompromising mouth, and fiery eyes that seemed to bore not through, but at you. They were eyes that slammed you against a wall.
I felt an immediate jolt of sympathy for any lawyer who appeared before His Honor's bench. In Judge Barnes's features and facial creases, I observed no self-doubts, no sense of humor, no sympathy, no empathy-in fact, no hint of generosity or goodwill. A very talented portrait artist had rendered this pose, and artists are called artists because of their license to interpret reality. But a painter cannot hide, disguise, or absolve the inner essence of his subject, and Calhoun Barnes's inner core was palpable. The man was a bully.
I mentioned to Jennie, after we'd browsed a little more, 'This isn't a home. It's a history lesson.'
She ignored this aside, and me. True to her craft, she was wandering around, immersing herself in the environment from which Jason Barnes was hatched. Having dealt with a few criminal profilers, I don't pretend to understand their skills, and it all sounds a bit psychobabbly, in my view. But they do put a lot of bad guys in the slammer, so I guess they're okay.
Anyway, we reached the end of the hallway, and where I expected the kitchen there was instead a small waiting room, through which we passed into a spacious, wood-paneled office. The agent who had escorted us inside and guided us through this maze of old furniture and dead Barneses stuck his head into the room and announced, 'Special Agent Jennifer Margold is here.' He backed out of the office without introducing me, and left us alone with our subject.
We walked to the middle of the room, where Mrs. Barnes remained seated-actually enveloped-inside a huge brown leather club chair with her legs resting comfortably on an overstuffed ottoman.
As I mentioned, Mrs. Barnes did not rise, nor did she offer her hand or proffer a greeting; she merely waved languidly in the direction of a long leather couch punctuated with buttons.
I glanced at our hostess as we sat-she seemed composed, almost smug, perhaps even expectant, as if we were here for her to interrogate us, rather than vice versa. Was she in for a big surprise.
Anyway, compared to Calhoun's portrait, Margaret Barnes was younger, by perhaps a decade, and at least physically, she and he were an interesting study in contrasts and contradictions. She was tiny and slender, frail actually, with a pallor that was unnaturally pale. In fact, her skin was nearly translucent, unlike so many southern ladies who looked like sunbaked prunes. Her features were beautiful and, were it not for the dark circles and deep crevices that surrounded her eyes and the sagging lines around her mouth, might even be considered youthful. Probably these were scars of grief, though they could be something more, something less immediate, something more intrinsically soul-sabotaging.
She looked at me and said, 'I'm sorry… I didn't catch your name.'
'Sean Drummond.'
'Well, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Drummond. Are you also an agent?'
'No ma'am.'
'Then what are you?'
'Well, I'm…'What was I?
'A consultant,' Jennie cut in. 'He's helping us close some old case files.'
Mrs. Barnes smiled and said, 'Oh… well, that's nice.' She gathered her thoughts and added, 'I don't understand why you chose to come at this late hour. Though as they say, better late than never.'
