“Listen, Chris, if there’s even a remote possibility that I might be right-”
“Is there anyone here who feels as Agent Thorsen does?” Manning looked around the table. Not even Stu Coyote rose to Bo’s defense. Manning again addressed Bo. “I’m willing, for the sake of the First Lady’s safety, to grant you some leeway here and to take precautions as far as she’s concerned. But our responsibility ends there. Yourresponsibility ends there. If you lose your focus on the security here, I will have you removed from this detail. Do you understand? Now, you indicated you sometimes put agents in the orchard to patrol the perimeter.”
“Yes.”
“Do it,” Manning said.
During the rest of the briefing, Bo spoke no more about his concern. Afterward, Stu Coyote pulled him aside. “Sorry, Bo. Manning’s a jerkoff, but he’s right.”
“No,” Bo said. “I may be wrong, but Manning’s not right. Tom Jorgenson needs protection.”
The First Lady and Annie headed to the hospital at 10:00A.M. Shortly after that, Bo directed Jake Russell to take charge of the Op Center, then he went to see the Washington County sheriff. Doug Quinn-Gruber repeated what Manning had reported.
“Which stairwell was O’Meara found in?” Bo asked.
“South. Between the third and fourth floors.”
“That means O’Meara fell down the stairs from the fourth floor. That’s where Jorgenson’s room is,” Bo pointed out. “South wing.”
“And geriatrics, where Mr. Cooper is a patient, is on the third floor, south wing. Look, Bo, it all fits. The marbles. Mr. Cooper. Nobody saw anything unusual. And I got a call from the medical examiner a little while ago. O’Meara’s broken neck and other injuries are consistent with a fall down the stairs. Look, if someone were going to kill Tom Jorgenson, why not just kill him? Why kill the guard?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because this is Tom Jorgenson, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind. But there continues to be no concrete evidence of an assault, or even a motive for one. Still, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put a deputy outside his hospital room, at least until we’re absolutely certain there’s nothing funny going on. How’s that?”
“Fair enough, Doug.”
“Detective Timmons is checking a few other possibilities. If he comes up with anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
Before leaving the sheriff’s office, Bo got an address for Maria Rivera, the head nurse in ICU the night before. She lived in a town house in one of the new subdivisions of Stillwater. Although it was a little past noon when he rang her doorbell, Bo was concerned that, because of her late working hours, she might still be sleeping. He needn’t have worried. When Maria Rivera opened the door, she looked as if she hadn’t been able to sleep at all.
“You’re Secret Service,” she said, squinting at him in the sunlight. She wore a white terry cloth robe, no slippers. Her black hair, streaked with silver, was unbrushed.
“Yes, I spoke with you yesterday afternoon,” Bo said.
“What do you want?”
“To ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
She stood aside and let him in.
It was a clean, well-kept home. White carpeting, vacuumed. Nice light-maple furniture. A new sofa, pastel floral design. A crucifix carved of dark wood hung prominently on one wall. Atop a bookcase sat framed photographs of what Bo imagined were children and grandchildren. In the center was a photo of a younger Maria Rivera with a handsome Hispanic man. They were smiling happily.
She saw Bo noticing. “My husband, Carlos. He passed away two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He is in God’s hands now.”
As Bo had noticed the previous afternoon, she spoke with a slight accent. “I’d like to ask about last night,” he told her.
“I feel terrible. I should have insisted Mr. Cooper be restrained.”
“Did you see Mr. Cooper last night?”
“No. But often we don’t. He’s so quiet, like a cat. For an old man, so quick.”
“He denied taking the marbles?”
“No. He said he didn’t remember. He often claims he doesn’t remember.”
“Claims?”
“Who can say?”
“As nearly as the sheriff’s people can tell, the accident occurred sometime between ten and eleven-thirtyP.M. After visiting hours. Did you, or anyone else, notice someone on the floor who shouldn’t have been there?”
“No. I didn’t anyway. And I don’t recall anybody mentioning anything like that.”
“But someone would have noticed?”
“Probably.”
“How about regular staff? Would you have noticed regular hospital staff on the floor?”
“What do you mean?”
“A stranger you would have seen. But someone who should have been there, say for example Randy O’Meara, would you have noticed?”
“Not necessarily. Unless he stopped to talk.”
“Who else?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Who else comes onto the floor that you might not notice if they were just doing their job? Particularly between ten and eleven-thirtyP.M.”
“Let’s see.” She thought a moment. “Orderlies. But usually we’ve requested their help. Housekeeping, although they’re normally finished on the floor by ten. Central Service staff, but only if we’ve ordered supplies. The laundry man. Maintenance, sometimes. Sometimes a doctor. Why are you asking?”
“It’s the nature of the job, Ms. Rivera. I ask a lot of questions, then I sort through answers.”
“You’re responsible for the First Lady’s safety. What does the accident have to do with her?”
“Probably nothing, but we need to be certain, you understand.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your time.” He turned back toward the door. As he stepped outside, he offered her his hand in parting and said, “I hope you’re not taking the responsibility for what happened to Randy O’Meara on your shoulders. No one could have predicted it.”
“Everyone says that. Why don’t I believe it?”
She let go of his hand and closed the door.
Dee Johnson, assistant director of human resources for the St. Croix Regional Medical Center, greeted him cordially. “Come in, Agent Thorsen. Please sit down.” She was a tall, handsome woman, a big-boned Scandinavian with a small-town demeanor, open and friendly. “Thorsen,” she said, taking her seat at her desk. “There are lots of Thorsens out where I grew up.”
“Where was that?” Bo asked.
“Blue Earth.”
“No kidding. Ever hear of Harold and Nell Thorsen?”
“Oh, sure. They had that farm out north of town. Took in all those foster kids.”
“I was one of those foster kids.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake. Can you beat that? Foster, you say? But you have the same last name.”
“I changed it legally.”
“Well, what do you know? Did you graduate from Blue Earth High?”
“I sure did.”
“I don’t remember you. But you look like you were probably a few years behind me. Go Cyclones,” she said
