housing and feeding the poor. For him it was the law of the jungle. Eat, or be eaten. “Do you know if Charlie was injured or sick?” he asked, as a whiff of hot bread teased with him. He recounted to Miller an edited version of the scene at his office. The overturned chair. The drops of blood.
Miller’s face flashed concerned. “I’m afraid…” Robert’s cell phone interrupted. Thorne. The Bear. More dead bodies. Judge Jonathan Weiss and his wife.
Robert hung up cursing loudly. Miller and the others froze. He apologized, but didn’t mean it. He pulled out a business card and a small roll of bills, and handed them to Miller. “I have to run. If you come up with anything, or see Charlie, call me right away.”
“You don’t have to oil me,” said Miller. “Like I said, no one has seen Charlie in awhile. He stretched out his hand to give back the money.
“Keep it anyway,” said Robert, heading for the exit.
“Remember, Mr. Veil, even the unforgivable deserve forgiveness.” Robert glanced back. So he does know.
He hustled outside and noticed the same weasel-looking man he saw earlier standing across the street from the mission sipping from a bottle and talking to himself. Pressed for time, Robert kept going, reached his car, then drove back by the mission. The weasel stood directly in front looking lost. Miller came outside, put his arms around the derelict and gave him a big bear hug. From his rear view mirror, Robert saw Miller lead the man inside. Jumped the gun. Just another lazy drunk looking for a free ride. Robert hit Pennsylvania Avenue and headed west toward Georgetown.
He shifted gears away from the Kennedy case and Charlie, and focused on the matter at hand. The Bear killed again.
Ten minutes later, he pulled through a swarm of media trucks, reporters, and nosey bystanders, past a young policeman who examined his temporary Justice Department credentials and waved him through.
Police black and whites, the coroner’s wagon, and a crowd of unmarked government vehicles sat in every available space. He spotted Thorne’s Rover parked on a lawn next to a gated swimming pool and managed to squeeze in beside it.
Detectives and agents, their game faces on, scoured every inch of the area, some with dogs. Each townhouse loomed large and impressive, sand-colored in rows of five, about four thousand square feet each.
Eight-foot English-style lamps, the kind one might expect to see in a Jack the Ripper movie, stood sentry in front of each unit. The judge’s lamplight, shattered, posed for the police photographer snapping pictures from multiple angles. The officers and agents barely acknowledged Robert’s presence.
Thorne appeared at the front door, a digital video camera in one hand, a notebook in the other, and quickly walked his way.
“It’s him for sure,” she said. “He broke their necks. Mrs. Weiss was raped.”
Broken neck. A message. Fuck you guys. You’re vulnerable.
“Did you get everything on film?” Robert asked. “We can load it in the computer. Maybe find something these guys missed.”
“That’s a problem.”
“What kind of a problem?”
“The guys are acting a little stranger than usual,” said Thorne. “I was told not to take any pictures and they’ve kept me out of the loop. They won’t even let me get a close look at the bodies. All my information has come second hand.”
“But we’ve been given complete access,” said Robert, grinding his teeth.
“Tell it to them sweetheart,” said Thorne, pointing to the agents working the grounds.
Robert stormed inside the townhouse. Agent Sams appeared, arms across his chest, a smirk on his face. “Sorry Mr. Veil, we’ve been ordered to keep the place clear. You and the Mrs. will have to wait outside.”
Thorne stepped forward. Robert held her back. The officers and agents working the crime scene stopped to look.
“Who issued that order Agent Sams? You?” asked Robert.
“Like I told you and this android you call a woman…” Throne slapped the words back down his throat. Even the agents watching winced.
“Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” snapped Thorne, staring him straight in the eye. Agent Sams stood with his mouth open, stunned.
“I’d pay close attention to her,” said Robert. “Next time she may not be so nice.”
Furious, Agent Sams stepped forward. “I could arrest you for that,” he bellowed.
Robert backed away. “Go ahead,” he said. “I haven’t seen her bend up a fool like you in quite some time.”
Thorne smiled and blew the agent a kiss. “Come on sugga. Let mommy teach you how to dance.”
Agent Sams took another step.
“Agent Sams, stand down,” a stern female voice ordered.
The agent abruptly fell back.
A leggy blonde in a plain charcoal gray business suit approached them. Before she spoke, Robert knew she was FBI or Secret Service brass. Definitely not CIA. Company agents would have let Thorne and Sams fight, then sort it out later.
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Marilyn London, FBI. This morning the Bureau assigned me as lead on this case, and told me to make sure you were given full access.”
Agent Sams sneered and stormed outside.
“Sorry about the inconvenience,” Agent London continued. “You know how it is when you piss in somebody’s pond.”
“We’re invited to this party,” said Robert, shaking her hand. Her grip impressed him. “This is no way to treat a guest.” Agent London smiled, extended her hand to Thorne, and was left hanging.
“I’ll get started Robert,” said Thorne, eyeing the agent suspiciously.
Agent London stood there, mouth agape.
“She’s not one to insult,” said Robert, a sarcastic smile on his face.
“Well, maybe she should get laid,” Marilyn responded, abruptly walking toward the den. Robert eyed her figure. Nice. He shook off the trance. I’m the one who needs to get laid.
The den, as Robert expected, housed columns of shelves, floor to ceiling, lined with walls of books. Loose papers cluttered a round oak table and the judge’s desk. Judge Weiss, clad in a half buttoned tropical shirt and khaki pants, lay dead on the floor behind the desk next to a computer workstation, his head twisted grotesquely to one side, eyes open. Photographers snapped pictures, while Thorne moved about the carnage with her camcorder.
“As you can see, His Honor and Mrs. Weiss were on their way out of town,” said Agent London. “We found two tickets to the Cayman Islands on the dresser upstairs.”
“Anything missing?” asked Robert
“Credit cards and ten thousand in cash were found untouched on the dresser next to the tickets. We checked the judge’s bank records and it’s the exact amount he withdrew on Friday. This is definitely our guy.
Besides, he left us a little gift on the bed next to Mrs. Weiss. I’ll show it to you later.”
Robert removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and knelt down, gently lifting the judge’s head off the floor. It felt loose, like a tetherball on a string. The esophagus, crushed. He lowered the head back down on the emerald green carpet; the crunch of vertebrae vibrating in his hand. Deep black and blue bruises covered the throat. The eyes, open, blank and glassy, glistened like a couple of well-matched marbles.
Robert detected the scent of cologne, Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men.
The half buttoned shirt exposed a small amount of salt and pepper hair on the judge’s chest. Robert opened it all the way. An Air Force skull and crossbones tattoo, surrounded by the words “Mess with the best, die like the rest. AF 463 Vietnam” sat cold. One navy blue deck shoe clung to the judges’ right foot; Robert saw the other underneath the desk. A diamond encrusted wedding band shimmered on the magistrate’s finger. Out of place in such a gruesome scene.
Thorne knelt down to get a better shot of the bruises.
“The judge tried to defend himself,” said Marilyn. “In addition to the broken nose, bruised face and neck,
