Try Try Again Page 7

  Soon enough, George knew, Charley would be grilled, because authorities always looked for conspiracy motives, hoped for them, relished them. George hoped Charley’s concern for his daughter would keep him from implicating George.

  Well, suppose Charley did tell them about George, his friend and betrayer? Dukes knew ‘Art Albright’ by sight, but didn’t know anything else about ‘Art’, and nothing at all about a ‘George’. ‘Art’ looked enough different from George, owing to the hairpiece, some reported-description confusion could be counted on.

  Charley didn’t know Sebastian George’s ‘real’ name, George thought, and George would be damn sure never to show his face in the Stirrup Bar and Grill again, ever, or anywhere near it. He might even move out of D.C. Not too far, though, because his profession drew him there frequently. Front Royal, perhaps; or some other quiet place in the mountains.

  He hadn’t told Haskin the name of the assassin he hired, but by now she would have figured out Charley was George’s man. Perhaps she wouldn’t do anything – she should figure Charley had never heard the name ‘Sybille Haskin’, or wouldn’t be able to identify George. Perhaps.

  Upon further review, George felt somewhat relieved. He could have Charley killed in jail, or later in the state prison; but for now, at least, it didn’t seem necessary. If it became necessary, he would arrange it.

  George waited three days, then drove to Grantwood and retrieved his rifle. Even if it couldn’t be traced to him by serial number or fingerprints, it would show Charley had not acted alone – and would raise questions about who the party of the second part was, and that might lead a few people to wonder about a possible connection to Thomas Conning, mightn’t it? And then Sybille Haskin would show her wrath to George, as toweringly furious as the Old Testament word implied. And might do something she wouldn’t regret for a minute.

  He disassembled the rifle and tossed the pieces into the deep parts of several different lakes and rivers.

  A few hours earlier in Washington that day, Thomas Conning had just left a closed ‘Administration Briefing to the Armed Services Committee’s Subcommittee on Readiness and Management Support’. He had learned a few things that might be of interest to ConDyne.

  Just then, his Chief of Staff ran up to him, looking stricken.

  “Senator! It’s Barnes!”

  What the hell…

  “He’s been shot! He’s dead!”

  Conning’s head began to whirl. He felt faint. All his plans: the speech-making, the debates, the advertising blitz, those last-minute, crucial endorsements – wouldn’t be needed, wouldn’t happen. His future for the next month had been planned down to the minute; suddenly that future had disappeared, leaving him nothing at all to do, nothing to say, no one to speak with or to. He felt like one of those cartoon characters who walked off a cliff onto thin air, and only fell when they looked down. He put out a hand toward the nearest wall, and his aide steadied him until he could reach it.

  And suddenly the awful thought came to him, Sybille Haskin must have had Barnes killed. She must have arranged it. Of course she wanted Conning to be re-elected, but – who would believe that a defense contractor would have someone murdered? Well, maybe a few killings in some third-world shithole, but not in America!

  But no. It must have been a nut, or a terrorist. ConDyne would never have authorized this killing, no matter how advantageous; even a strong rumor of their involvement would ruin that corporation. They’d never recover. Right? Right. So why was he still thinking of Haskin?

  But who else…? Conning hadn’t ordered that ‘hit’. He hadn’t even hinted – had he? And she, she hadn’t said anything that would lead him to think – tell me I’m dreaming. She did it. She did it so he’d be elected. He suddenly came to the awful realization that one way or another, he, Senator Thomas Conning, had killed Ezra Barnes. From its initial look of shock, Conning’s face clenched into pure agony. He wavered and slumped to the floor.

  A news crew had been filming in the Capitol that day, and caught Conning’s reaction. Even years later, no one who saw the video, would believe Conning had anything to do with Barnes’ murder. No one had ever seen a politician so stricken by a rival politician’s death.

  Two Capitol policemen helped Conning regain his feet. They led him back to his office, through a gantlet of shouting reporters, and closed the door in their faces. Conning said nothing, just sat down. Don’t do anything right now. Don’t say anything. Wait. He couldn’t trust his tongue right now. An admin said “Sir, your wife’s on the line,” and all Conning could mutter was, “OK – tell Marie I’m OK.”

  Within minutes the Capitol complex had been locked down and every building and room searched. Conning was the only one, for several hours, who didn’t seem frightened. Some thought he was still in shock over Barnes’ death, but he wasn’t – at least, he didn’t think he was. It was Haskin, yes, he was sure now. His own personal protection service. The evil service. She wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Well, fuck. He’d have to call her in and speak with her. Why? She’d just deny everything. Or tell him it was too late. Tell him he was in it, knowing or not, up to his balls and eyeballs.

  Suppose he gave her name to the Capitol Police and asked them to check her out? But Haskin was clever; it was unlikely she could be tied to the crime, or even located. But she could give The Post copies of all those classified documents he’d given her – very bad. Very bad thing to happen. Awful. And Marie – ! She’d be destroyed by it, shunned, and he’d be sent to prison – or worse.

  Conning took a deep breath, and waited. After three hours the lockdown was lifted and he went home. He walked inside and kissed his wife and tumbled into bed fully clothed, falling asleep.

  The arrest of Charley Dukes went out over the wire within five minutes. Suspected Slayer Apprehended was, as they say, ‘breaking’ news, although what was broken was not stated. The manhunt was cancelled, public safety people disappointed someone else had caught him, their chance at glory, gone. Think of something else to bore the grandkids with.

  J.T. Jackson, a local Grantwood webV news reporter, someday hoping to become a ‘News Personality’, paid particular attention to the events. My town, my chance, she thought, like in that old Kirk Douglas movie. Say goodbye to Grantwood; Hollywood, or at least New York, look out!

  She read several wire service reports over the local Grantwood cable news channel, and that was that. But JTJ (as she called herself) was determined to ride this murder to fame.

  But now, she concentrated on what the press was saying about the murder. Because Barnes was investigating what he thought might be corruption (selling votes), some in the press were seriously concerned that his death might have been politically motivated. However, no one suspected Conning of complicity in a conspiracy, just as Barnes hadn’t made that connection either.

  Much of Washington whispered that Barnes had been checking up on Conning, JTJ learned, but Conning had proved ‘clean,” no vote selling or procurement-bending. Another reporter, noting Conning’s prominence on a key Defense-related committee, thought to wonder if he’d been selling confidential procurement information. But a check of large and small defense contractors could find no evidence that any information of this kind had ever been leaked or exploited.

  As soon as Charley was brought into the main Grantwood County police station he confessed again, as he had earlier confessed to the police when his stolen car was intercepted. He just said “I killed the politician,” just like that, calm as could be. Police Chief Scott Gardner, looking forward to a long and difficult questioning, was disappointed. This was too easy; one reporter interview and it would all be over. The sergeant, the lieutenant, and the captain shared the same thoughts with him.

  The Chief was in a different position from the others however, as he had witnessed the crime, and had been wounded in a futile attempt to protect the Congressman. He’d become an instant local hero. Too bad it was his gun hand had been shot, he’d of for sure wasted that
nut; that was the townspeople’s view also, and their diction. Not wishing to engage in hypotheticals, the media were leaving the possibility of the Chief’s saving the Congressman’s life as somewhere between ‘maybe’ and ‘are you putting me on?’

  It occurred to the Chief that Charley didn’t have a lawyer when he’d confessed – had he been read his rights? A call to the highway patrol confirmed he’d confessed, right on the spot and without any prompting, hands where they could see them, fingers locked together behind his head. And then he was read his rights, and told he’d have to confess all over again, which he did. The Chief was relieved to hear this.

  In the next few days, Charley was questioned by City, County, and State authorities, as well as the FBI and the Congressional Security Service. He repeatedly insisted he’d acted alone, but wouldn’t say why. He said yes, he’d killed Barnes. And again, when asked by this other official and that other official, he also said yes.

  He was asked why he had a key-clicker in his pocket, when it wasn’t even for the car he’d hijacked. That caught Charley by surprise – he’d forgotten all about that clicker. Shit! He should have just tossed in into that swamp along with the gun.

  He refused to explain the car key. The police checked it out with the auto maker, got the VIN, checked the VIN against stolen cars, and then all registered cars. Nothing.

  Now, faking a manufacturer’s car key was a lot more complicated than duplicating the grooves and the electronic signal that opened the doors. Yes, copies could be made that would start the car, but they would obviously be copies, because who needs a logo with a couple of red pushbuttons just to lift a car?

  Grantwood car-key research was assigned to the ever lower ranks of police, until there was no one to delegate to. The key ended up in a cardboard box in police department storage. Some years later, a Police cleanup crew, noting the age marked on the item’s container, threw it out.

  Unwilling to publicize something they couldn’t explain, the police didn’t mention the key to the press. Only Charley and George, after a while, remembered there had been a getaway car, even if hypothetical, and a key.

  The clicker, in fact, fit an old heap that had been junked several years before. As often happened in the junk trade, the VIN hadn’t been reported back to the state DMV. So the police didn’t cite what they didn’t know in the copy of the indictment that was passed along to Charley’s lawyer. If they had included it in that report, Charley would have lost faith in George months before he finally did in a moment of blazing recognition that, in time, would determine the fate of Sebastian George, and Sybille Haskin, and ex-Senator and then-newly-elected President of the United States, Thomas James Conning.

  Charley Dukes was not believed when he told authorities he’d just shot the Congressman for no reason. By this time, he’d been identified as a small-time D.C. holdup man, with no possible motive for anything other than money.

  He was asked about the gun. “Where’s the gun? C’mon, Charley, we’re just tryin’ to help ya’ out here. Tell is what ya’ did with the gun and maybe we’ll cut ya’ a break.”

  Charley thought he was lucky to be able, for once, to tell the truth. “I tossed it,” he said, “out of town. I don’t know where I was – just driving around looking for another car to steal.”

  Then, “Why did you do it?” they asked again, “Why did you kill Congressman Barnes.” Once, Charley had the gumption to say; he’d confessed, he’d be tried and convicted, so just be satisfied with that, will ya, huh, y’assholes? That answer aroused some degree of police ire, and within a few minutes, Charley was sorry he’d said it.

  After several days, being kept up all night, for several nights by several sweaty detectives, Charley felt his resolve beginning to crack.

  He remembered a cover story George had given him, to use in case he was caught. It was weak, as even Charley could appreciate; but he had nothing else to say and was getting tired of the near-round-the-clock questioning.

  “It was a drug deal.” he said. “Barnes wouldn’t pay up. The gang made me kill him.”

  “What kind of drugs.”

  “Y’know. Coke. Uppers. Stuff like that.”

  “And when did this drug deal happen? When did you provide the Congressman with these drugs?”

  Charley hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “Ah - July,” he said. “Fourth of July. Big party he wanted to get high for.”

  “Was this in D.C., or here in Pennsylvania, or somewhere else?”

  They’re trying to trap me, Charley thought. If I say “D.C.,” they’ll say he was in Pennsylvania at the time. And if I say “Pennsylvania,” they’ll say he was in D.C. Or they’ll ask me where in Pennsylvania. Or where in D.C. They’ll want all kinds of detail and just confuse me. “I want a lawyer,” he said. “I want a lawyer,” he repeated.

  The local bar association was asked to provide a pro bono, and in the meantime a representative of Legal Aid was summoned for temporary duty.

  Charley’s for-the-minute attorney, a young man, appeared. To Charley, he seemed impressed with himself that he was, at least temporarily, representing a murderer. Police questioning proceeded, although more gently. Charley was advised to say nothing, but he did anyway. The police told the attorney what Charley had said about the drug deal, and no one had believed it. It was important, y’know, to get the real motive out of him right away; other Congressmen might be in danger. The damn Capitol had even been locked down for a while.

  Considering these circumstances, the attorney gave police some latitude, and then some more. Questioning became physical once again, and more urgent than before.

  After only a few hours, Chief Gardner walked into the interrogation room, his bandaged right hand, a badge of honor. He waved it around, as if to emphasize that badge as well as his official one.

  The Chief inhaled to emphasize his powerful chest and a gut a cop could be proud of. “Now, Charles Wayne Dukes,…”

  “It’s ‘Charley,’” said Charley, with a last vestige of pride. “My mom named me ‘Charley.’”

  “Then she’s as stupid as you are, Charley. Look: We don’t believe that story about the drug deal, some drug gang involved with Barnes. Not that they’re aren’t some snorters in Congress, at least I’ve heard that. But not Barnes. And the clincher, hey, was that even if he wanted drugs he’d never get ‘em from some street creep, especially from a loser like you.”

  “Just felt like it,” said Charley. “I hate politicians.”

  “So now that’s it?” the chief said with some outrage, his spittle-spattered face just inches from Charley’s. “‘Just because’? or ‘Just felt like it’? or whatever. Forget that crap, because we don’t believe it, and we won’t believe anything like it, either. There’s got to be money somewhere, Charley. Every item on your rap sheet had to do with money. You never did anything because you ‘just felt like it.’”

  Charley was silent, but he was thinking. What could he come up with next? Give them the Harrisburg phone number? But that might lead them to George.

  The next morning, the Chief visited the accused again. “Now Charley, you don’t strike me as especially crazy. Now you say again you acted alone, didn’t have help, didn’t anyone pay you anything, and since we blew up the drug story; we never believed that one in the first place. Didn’t your mother tell you never to lie, or whatever bitch raised you?”

  Charley’s face turned red and he gritted his teeth, but he said nothing, just wished the Chief would have a major heart attack right there in front of him..

  “So why?” the Chief continued. “Who are you protecting, and why? We’re going to pound the shit out of you – pardon me, counselor, I didn’t say that” he said to an uneasy Legal Aid attorney, “– until you tell us who paid you or promised you something, or some reason I can believe why you’d kill Ezra Barnes!”

  Charley knew he had to say something, or eventually they’d break him, and George would hear about it, and Darlene would be killed, and C
harley’s grandson, too. It occurred to Charley he didn’t even know the kid’s name. Sure as shit they wouldn’t name him “Charley.” The cops were right, he had no reason to kill Barnes and not even the resources and brain to do it all by himself. Desperately, Charley tried to think who he could blame. What bad guys had been on the radio five-minute top of the hour news lately?

  Meanwhile, FBI agents were working on more important things. They’d visited Charley’s haunts, including his cheap room and the Stirrup, but that had given them no leads, the locals denying all knowledge of any “Dukes, didja say that was his name?”

  Being focused on Washington, D.C., the Bureau then decided to look at the murder from a different angle, for the moment ignoring Charley Wayne Dukes. Why would anyone want to kill Ezra Barnes? No corruption or payoffs; the FBI would have known. No cheating on his wife, or the FBI and The Post would both have known, although neither would have broadcast that knowledge.

  What had Barnes been doing? Looking for something to hold over his rival for the Senator, Thomas Conning. That’s what his staff said, anyway. Did Barnes have anything on Conning? Nothing at all they knew for sure, it seems, and no leads; just suspicion. A profound WTF feeling crept through the Bureau. A nebulous but reassuring statement was released to the press.

  At the Grantwood police station, Charley had a thought: “It was the Arabs,” he said, voice shaking. “Terrorists. In D.C. I don’t know why they wanted that guy dead; they never told me. They didn’t walk around in sheets or anything or with a diaper and fan belt on their heads, just dressed normal. There was two of them. They drove me up here and gave me a gun and told me where to go and what to do. And said they’d give me a lot of money if I did it right and kill me if I didn’t.”