Forgotten Witness Page 2

  Ian did not stop.

  He ran for the tall woman. He was so sorry, but it had to be done. Just as she made a sound that seemed to deny the inevitable, Ian threw himself at her, his clasped hands hit her breastbone, and he fell upon her.

  His face was so close to hers that he could see her long lashes, the golden tan of her skin, and the flecks of dark in her blue eyes. Josie looked into Ian Francis’ flat brown eyes, felt the heat of his breath, and noted the fine structure of his face. His wide mouth moved so quickly he didn’t seem to breathe. The veins at his temple pulsed as if they were struggling to push his thoughts forward.

  Josie had braced herself for an assault but when the man went limp, she couldn’t stand her ground. She grasped his hands in both of hers as they fell: Josie landing on her hip, the man dead weight on top of her. The blond girl screamed. Journalists scattered. Spectators fled. A photographer snapped a picture and, in the second before the security guards hauled Ian Francis off Josie Bates, he put something in her hands, his lips touched the edge of her ear and he whispered:

  “I know where she is.

  “Where are you taking him?” – Girl

  “Do you know who he is?” – Capitol Police

  “He just seems sick. He shouldn’t go to jail.” – Girl

  “We’ll take care of him. You sure you don’t know him?” – Capitol Police.

  “No. No. But where are you taking him?” – Girl

  ***

  “Pick up! She’s here, Archer. Call me back.” – Voice mail, Josie to Archer

  CHAPTER 2

  Eugene Weller was a pain in the butt because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. That proclivity also made him invaluable to Ambrose Patriota.

  They had met when Eugene interned in Patriota’s office during the senator’s second term. That term was a mere shadow in the senator’s memory, but it was as bright as the Big Bang in Eugene’s. The moment Eugene walked into Ambrose Patriota’s chambers, the second he touched the politician’s hand, Eugene Weller became a true believer, an apostle, a follower of a man he considered no less than a political god.

  Fresh out of a college that had no claim to fame and was planted in a town in a fly-over state that was equally without color or celebrity, Eugene had graduated nearly friendless. That was fine with him. The people he hung with were of no real interest to him in the same way Eugene did not inspire them. Having served their purpose to one another, they scattered like seeds. Most of them would root, grow anemically, and die the predestined death of the mundane middle class. Eugene would be the exception, not because of any specific ambition but because he had a keen self-awareness, a crystalline understanding of his role in life. He would never be a king or a kingmaker, but he would be a hell of a king’s minister. That was not to say Eugene Weller was a sycophant; he simply longed to be an apostle to a worthy prophet. He had talents to offer a person of worth but his ungainly appearance and his inability to grasp the subtleties of social interaction kept many people from recognizing his intelligence, his potential for unwavering devotion, and his keen strategic sensibilities. Eugene was convinced, in the way that some people can be, that a great and true destiny awaited him and that he would recognize it when he saw it. Six months before he graduated, Eugene spied a notice on the placement office bulletin board announcing internships in Washington D.C. He was enthused enough to mention this to his long-widowed mother.

  Unbeknownst to Eugene Weller, his mother was not only tired of her wraith like son taking up space in her home, she was also screwing her married congressman whenever possible. During a particularly satisfying encounter with the congressman who had been a fairly successful pig farmer before his entry into politics, Eugene’s mother determined the time was right to ask for a favor. Her request that he help Eugene get the internship was one that pleased the congressman to no end. First, he could actually accomplish the task and second, the local press would eat up the story of a local boy going to the Capitol. Add all that to his paramour’s deepest gratitude and it was a win/win. The pig-farmer-turned-politician didn’t know it at the time, but Eugene’s appointment would be the last favor he ever did. He would lose the next election to a pretty housewife who stood on an inane platform that would, nonetheless, capture the voters’ fancy.

  But the stars aligned for a moment and Eugene Weller arrived in Washington as one of six interns assigned to Senator Patriota’s office. Four of those interns left Washington never to return, one committed suicide in the bedroom of the Secretary of Education, and Eugene found his prophet. Like Saul blinded by the light of God, stricken off the back of an ass, Eugene Weller fell figuratively at the feet of Ambrose Patriota and embraced the city that would be his Damascus. Eugene was not particularly religious, but he was so fond of the analogy that he would often expound on it at cocktail parties, fundraisers, and the occasional White House dinner where he was a placeholder due to his GSA seniority and affiliation with Senator Patriota.

  Eugene never noticed attention waning and smiles freezing as he spoke of this because he was a true believer and there weren’t many of those in Washington. Most people were there for the freebies, to bask in the light of power, secure a government job from which it would be almost impossible to get fired, or wrangle a contract they could milk. Yet, people listened because in his official capacity Eugene Weller was a person of power. He carried out Senator Patriota’s wishes, anticipated his every need, and proved himself worthy of the man’s patronage every day in every way. At that moment, Eugene was doing what he did best: following up, checking a loose end, heading a problem off at the pass, chasing a dot that might need connecting.

  He walked with a brisk step down the long hallway in the basement of the building, passing closed doors behind which men and women labored to feed the bureaucratic monster that was Washington. These people made no decisions, they analyzed nothing, they simply processed and programmed, never questioning their work or their worth. The closed doors were marked with numbers and discreet designations. Room 1201: Senate Accounting. Room 1224: Senate Janitorial. Room 1310: Senate publications and communications.

  Eugene made a sharp right and found himself in another even longer, long hall. Fewer doors pocked the walls and the ones that did had numbers but no indication of what lay behind them. Eugene did not slow his appropriately measured pace when he approached the door of the room at the end, his eyes did not flick to the cameras at the top edge of the door frame, he did not smile for the person monitoring the screen on the other side as he punched in the code that would open the door. There was a two second lag before the lock clicked giving him just enough time to grasp the handle and push the door open.

  Once inside the door closed, locking him in a rectangular space that was exactly six feet long and four feet wide. There was a door directly in front of him and more cameras above him. He took three steps, paused as his fingers performed another digital tap-dance on another keypad, and listened for the lock to give way. When it did, he walked into the offices of The Sergeant at Arms and Doorkeeper, Chief Law enforcement officer of the Senate and overseer of U.S. Capitol Police whose power encompassed the right and charge to arrest and detain anyone interfering with Senate Rules. Certainly the man who had thrown himself at Josie Bates, a guest of and witness for Senator Patriota, had interfered grossly with senate business.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Weller.”

  The receptionist smiled at him. He smiled back perfunctorily as was his habit. He had no idea what this woman’s name was, nor did he care. What he did know was that she had been a receptionist for over five years. She would never go further than the GSA level in which she found herself and would never leave her mark on anything. Eugene could spot the middling folk a mile away. However, if the security doors were ever breached she would be the first one taken out. He wondered if she ever considered that.

  “Which room?” he asked.

  “Six,” the woman answered.

  “Thank you,” Eugene responded and off he
went.

  He passed rows of grey desks where information specialists tapped away at their computers, inputting data, pulling up images and graphs and statistics, interfacing with other agencies, and basically doing a fairly decent job of keeping everyone in the building safe. Eugene went by two offices separated from the fray by glass walls. In one, a woman wearing pearls and a dark sweater set spoke quickly into her headset. Her face was a bloom of red and purple. She was a prime example of the perpetually angry, frustrated women who lived in this city where sexual and power scales tipped heavily in favor of men. He wondered why women stayed here, banging their heads against a ceiling that would probably never crack for them much less break.

  In the other pseudo-office a man unleashed his rage on a kid in a cheap green shirt and dark pants who eventually slunk off clutching a stack of papers. Eugene would hate to work in such an environment but he presumed anger and frustration were the nature of the security beast.

  On he went, considering that it was much more productive to let people know what you expected and then take nothing less. In the tangle of government people looked for surety, consistency, and assurances that their decisions were correct and valued. That’s how his senator conducted business. Eugene almost laughed at that familiarity. His senator, indeed.

  “Hey, Genie! Didn’t take you long to poke your nose in!”

  Eugene stopped abruptly and turned stiffly, knowing who hailed him even before he saw the man’s lumbering mass coming down the hall. Eugene disliked Officer Morgan because he was disrespectful, out-of-shape, and generally base. Sadly, Morgan was of sufficient rank that Eugene could not complain about his slovenliness and his reasonable requests that he should be addressed as Mr. Weller by all security personnel had only resulted in the Genie moniker being picked up by others in the department. Most had the courtesy to call him that vile nickname behind his back. Morgan was the exception. Eugene originally thought this rudeness was a form of social Tourette’s and the man did not understand how unseemly it was. He was wrong. Morgan knew exactly what he was doing. Eugene, though, knew when to pick a fight. The right time was when you knew you would win.

  Morgan pulled to a stop and put his hand on the wall as if to keep from tipping over once he came to a standstill. He was an oddly shaped person who carried his weight in his barrel chest. His head was comparatively small and his legs bowed. He was an inverted triangle of a man whom Eugene knew to be unattractive and yet there was a Mrs. Morgan out there somewhere who thought him decent looking enough to marry.

  “Figured you’d be down here,” Morgan chuckled. “Hate to tell you, you wasted a trip. Poor guy’s just a loon off the street.”

  “If he came in off the street how did he get into chambers, Morgan? Everyone is supposed to have a pass. Could it be your officers can’t even handle something as simple as a vagrant?” Eugene cut his eyes to the man’s hand still splayed against the wall. That hand bothered him immensely. He didn’t like the way Morgan’s cheap wedding ring cut into his fleshy finger, or his ragged nails, or the dark hair tufting at his knuckles.

  “I didn’t say he was a vagrant.” Morgan found his center, let loose of the wall, splayed his legs to balance himself, and passed over a slim file. “And my officers handled everything just fine. The guy had a pass. Officer Craven tagged him when he walked in ’cause he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Hell, we all look like that half the time,” Morgan laughed. “Anyway, since he was quiet while he was watching, there wasn’t anything to worry about.”

  Eugene flipped the folder open. Inside was a picture of the man in custody. There was also a computer run on his name. The capitol pass was clipped at the top.

  “This information is ancient. And the pass!” Eugene was annoyed. “1990? How did he get by with this?”

  Morgan shrugged. “It’s still valid. The computer says so. It’s a pass issued to personnel.”

  “Personnel? That man works here? In what capacity? I want to talk to his supervisor,” Eugene snapped.

  Morgan pointed to the read-out. “He was an adjunct to the Department of Defense out of Texas A & M. We’re running it down. He says he’s a scientist. I don’t have a lock on it, but ’90 is the last year he was on the payroll.”

  “Then why was he here today? Why does he still have a pass?” Eugene closed the file, terribly annoyed by what he considered systemic ineptitude.

  “It’s the government, Genie.” Morgan stuffed his hands into his pockets. One had a small tear at the corner. “When are you going to learn we are only 4.8% efficient? I read that in that magazine they send around here. Weird they even wrote about it. Usually, they spin all the news so it sounds like we’re goddamn geniuses. Guess it was hard to put a good spin on that little statistic.”

  One hand came out of his pocket and he flicked the pass clipped to the file.

  “There’s a zillion of these floating around. Maybe he kept it as a souvenir. You should bring it up with Patriota. Somebody should invalidate these things, especially these days. Anyway, he’s in there. You can see him, but I don’t know what good that’s going to do. He’s just some wonk off his rocker. Still, if you want to see how harmless he is be my guest.”

  Morgan went around Eugene, opened the door to room six, and gave Eugene a little nudge.

  “Always nice to have a second opinion from the guys who make the laws, Genie. Down here, we just try to enforce ’em.”

  “I wouldn’t make light of this, Morgan,” Eugene warned. “That man disrupted a senate hearing. He accosted a witness. I’m sure someone got a picture. This is no small matter, and if you think it is you’re in the wrong job.”

  Eugene walked into the interview room and closed the door knowing that Morgan probably found all this fuss delightful. At least he had been truthful. Ian Francis appeared harmless lying on the couch, one leg on the floor, one arm mashed between him and the back cushion as he slept. Eugene walked over to the sofa, stood above him, and when the man didn’t open his eyes Eugene pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “Wake up, sir. Mr. Francis,” he ordered. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Ian Francis’ eyes opened on command, but Eugene was not prepared for what happened next. With startling speed, the man grabbed Eugene’s lapels and wrapped them in his fists.

  “Don’t touch me! What are you doing?” Eugene stood up abruptly, knocking the chair to the floor as he tried to extricate himself, but Ian Francis’ grip was tight and he was pulled up like a fish on a hook as Eugene threw himself backward.

  “Chatter,” Ian whispered frantically.

  “Morgan!” Eugene screamed even as he grappled with the man’s hands. Still Ian held tight.

  “Chatter. Artichoke. Marigolds.” Ian hissed and spittle sprayed over an ever more terrified Eugene Weller. “Chatter. Marigolds in the house. In the house!”

  “Morgan!”

  Eugene screamed again just as Morgan hurdled through the door. The cop took hold of Ian’s shoulders but the man clung like a barnacle, pulling himself closer and closer to Patriota’s aide.

  “My girl,” Ian sobbed. “Marigold.”

  “Get him off me, Morgan!” Eugene cried out, knowing there were mere seconds before he peed in his pants. “Help anyone!”

  Eugene’s head whipped around to look for reinforcements since Morgan was proving useless. Then everything changed. When he looked back again Eugene saw a different man. Ian’s fingers loosened, his knees gave way, and he slumped. Eugene threw away his hands as Morgan scooped the man up before he hit the floor. With surprising gentleness, the cop settled him back on the rock-hard sofa.

  “Told you, Genie,” Morgan said quietly. For Ian he had an even kinder voice. “Poor guy. You’re just not all there, are you?”

  “Harmless. That man is not harmless.” Eugene huffed, embarrassed that he had needed rescuing and that he had panicked like a woman. “He could have killed me.”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Morgan pointed out. “I’ll stay with him for a whil
e and see if I can find out where his home is.”

  “I doubt he has one,” Eugene muttered as he tugged at his jacket and then swiped at his lapels. He would have to have this suit cleaned. It felt like the man had left crazy all over him.

  “Everybody lives somewhere.” Morgan stuck his hands into Ian’s pockets and came up with a key attached to a piece of white plastic. Morgan smiled and Ian Francis mimicked him. “Is this yours, buddy? Where are you staying? You want to go home, dontcha?”

  “Yes. Please. I need to get back to my girl. It’s cold here,” Ian muttered.

  “Yeah, you should have a coat. Is she there? Your girl? Will she take care of you?” Morgan glanced at Eugene. “The guys who brought him in said some girl was asking about him. Maybe she’ll be back.”

  “Good grief, your guys are inept. This man just spooked a hundred people in a hearing, assaulted a witness, assaulted me, and you let the one person who showed interest in him leave? The inmates are running the asylum, Morgan.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Morgan deadpanned.

  On the couch, Ian Francis shook his head, nudged his glasses up his nose, and beetled his brow as if trying to hold on to one cogent thought. He looked up at the two bickering men. If they had bothered to look, they would have seen tears in the crazy man’s eyes. Instead, as Ian sat up Morgan clapped him on the back and rubbed it hard, rattling his brain.

  “My brother’s kid has some problems. He gets agitated and such. You give ’em a rub and everything’s good,” Morgan said to Eugene.

  “Artichoke? You know? A few marigolds still…” Ian spoke to his clasped hands.

  “Guess he’s hungry.”

  Morgan laughed but Eugene wasn’t listening. He was staring at Ian Francis. Slowly, he put his hands on his knees and brought his face close to that of the befuddled man.

  “Artichoke. Chatter. Marigolds,” Eugene said.