Today, he didn’t think he’d be flying, although after 9/11 it was anybody’s guess.
There are generally five ways that an important story makes the news. A reporter is at the scene and files an account. An eyewitness tells a story to a reporter who then reports. A story pops up through a police reporter. A reporter is given an on-the-record tip by a quotable source. The final option is particularly popular in Washington: A story is leaked by an unnamed source.
And that’s the way the first news about Lynn Meyerson hit The Washington Post.
The FBI is investigating the death of a government staffer who may have been employed in a key administration post. The victim, identified only as a woman in her mid-20s, allegedly suffered a fatal knife attack while jogging in a Los Angeles park. A source says the FBI is investigating whether she may also have had information on a security breach at the White House level. Neither the FBI nor Justice Department would comment.
The eight-line Post news brief was enough to catch Michael O’Connell’s eye 212 miles away.
O’Connell was a reporter for The New York Times. By every account he was on his way to a Pulitzer for his reporting of the Lodge investigation. He’d earned an invitation from then-President Taylor to tag along as the chief executive flew to the Mediterranean to secure evidence that would bring Lodge down. Instead of seeing Lodge’s arrest, O’Connell was a witness to his death.
Unwittingly, the reporter’s glowing coverage of both Lodge and his campaign manager helped further the campaign. Taylor also figured he was the best person to chronicle the real story. His inside account became a series of seventeen front-page stories and the basis for a book that came out on the anniversary of Jennifer Lodge’s death. Not since Woodward and Bernstein had a newspaper reporter been so quickly catapulted to such national, if not international, attention. A residual benefit was that O’Connell now had access to Vice President Morgan Taylor and the man who looked after him the most, Secret Service agent Scott Roarke. He dialed an unpublished cell phone number. It rang twice. “Yes?”
“Roarke,” he blasted into the phone. “O’Connell.” There was no immediate response. O’Connell figured it was either a bad line or the agent was assessing whether he wanted to talk. If he didn’t, it was probably because he’d already made the right call. “Roarke?”
“Yup,” he finally heard through the sound of traffic.
“Are you out on your morning run?”
“Yes.” Roarke was jogging along the Mall. “So, what’s up?”
“Got a question for you.”
“How am I?” Roarke said without breaking stride.
“Naw. You know I don’t care.”
Silence.
“Just read a blurb in the Post. Making the wires now, but without any more details — about a government employee stabbed in Los Angeles. A woman. I thought maybe you might know something about it.”
He waited for a reaction that didn’t come.
“Killed.”
Still no response.
“A woman.”
“And?” Clearly, Roarke wasn’t about to volunteer any information to O’Connell.
“…Information on a security breach at the White House… You don’t see a phrase like that everyday.”
“What?” Roarke said. “What did it say?”
O’Connell knew that What did it say? was a vastly different question than What investigation? He took it as a cue to push more. “Come on, Roarke. What do you know?”
“Haven’t seen the paper yet.”
“So you haven’t heard about a woman in the administration being killed? And nothing about an FBI investigation?”
“What did it say?” Roarke asked sharply.
“See for yourself. Page three.”
A few seconds later O’Connell heard the sound of papers rustling. Must have been a news kiosk nearby. He was certain Roarke uttered a quiet, “Oh, shit.”
“So?” O’Connell asked.
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Not my job.”
“Not your job to help me or not your job to look into it?” the reporter asked.
No reply.
“You know I’ve got to run this down. And I won’t be the only one. A death and a security breach at the Oval Office.”
“It didn’t say that!”
“Pardon me,” O’Connell replied. “The White House. There’s more there.”
“Be my guest,” Roarke said.
“How about an arm’s length relationship. You see what you can find out, we share information. Quietly.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You did it before.”
O’Connell was correct, but it was on Roarke’s terms.
“Come on, off the record, Roarke.”
“On the record. I’ve gotta go. Another time, O’Connell.” Roarke ended the call.
O’Connell stared out into the city room of The New York Times, unable to fathom the full significance of the story or that a killer was going to make a bonus because he would soon put it on the front page.
Scott Roarke flashed his Secret Service ID to the FBI agent posted at the police tape. He was cleared to move into the building. That’s when he spotted Bessolo climbing out of the van. He sucked in a breath and called out. “Hey, Bessolo!”
Ever since their run-in over whether Congressman Lodge was responsible for his wife’s death, the two had been at each other’s throats. The fact that Roarke had been right didn’t ease the situation. Roarke took it on faith that Bessolo was a smart investigator, maybe one of the FBI’s best, but for some reason he had a bug up his ass over Roarke.
Now Bessolo saw Roarke. If he hesitated to think about what he was going to say, it didn’t help. “Hey, Captain America, what are you doing here?”
“Just what I’m told.” That was enough to give him a free pass. Roarke met the FBI investigator, and together they walked inside. “What do you have?”
“Not quite ready to discuss anything,” Bessolo said picking up the pace. He had no intention of briefing Roarke. First, he’d make a report to his boss. Robert Mulligan would then have to notify the president and then the Attorney General Goldman. “So, Special Agent, how about you just run along and take your conspiracy theories with you.”
“Hey, come on. You know why I’m here.”
The arrival of Roarke immediately changed the game plan. “Look Roarke. You work for somebody. So do I. How about I tell my boss what I come up with. Then my boss bucks it up. Just like it’s supposed to be.”
“Tell your boss what?”
Bessolo realized he’d already said too much. “I gotta go.” The FBI man turned away and continued his walk to the entrance of the apartment building.
“Tell him what?” Roarke shouted on the run. Bessolo stopped again and got right in Roarke’s face.
“That she wore pink panties and played with a vibrator,” he said, hoping that would end it.