Uzi squared his shoulders and said, “Special Agent Aaron Uziel. FBI.”
Rusch blinked, but said nothing.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words tumbled from Uzi’s lips, but hurt the instant they left his mouth. He hadn’t considered what he would say to the man when he first saw him. Only the investigative questions he needed to ask had populated his thoughts. But he immediately felt the inadequacy of his impersonal condolence. Uzi had once been on the receiving end, and in his fragile state, it irritated him with each successive utterance, like a repeatedly chafed wound. He hoped his delivery was sincere, somehow stained with his own pain.
“What can I do for you, Agent?” Rusch’s voice seemed labored, coarse, and fatigued.
“Mr. Vice President, as hard as this may be for you, I need to talk to you about what happened. In the helicopter.” Uzi was unsure how he should refer to Rusch. Mr. Vice President? Mr. President-elect? He chose the safest one, figuring that at the moment Rusch had more problems to deal with than caring about what title an FBI agent used when addressing him.
Rusch nodded ever so slightly. Uzi took that as a signal to continue.
“Sir, we know that explosives took down both choppers—”
“Then you already know… as much as I do.”
Uzi hesitated. “Is there anything you can add? Can you tell me what happened in the cabin?”
“I lost my wife and daughter.” Each word was undercut by anguish. “Nothing else matters.”
Uzi knew firsthand this man’s pain. He searched for the right words. “There’s nothing we can do to change that, sir, but we want to catch the people who did this. Bring them to justice.”
After a moment’s silence, Rusch said, “I don’t remember much. I heard the explosion — or felt it, I guess. The escort was first. And then… us. Next thing I know, a medic’s bent over me.” His eyes shuttered closed. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“Do you have any idea of who might’ve wanted you dead?”
Rusch focused his gaze again on Uzi. “You’re assuming I was the target.”
“At the moment, we’re looking at everything, everyone. But you always start by giving the most obvious the most emphasis. Someone went through an awful lot of trouble and risk to pull this off. Given that, you’re the obvious target.”
Rusch looked away. “As a prosecutor, I went up against teamsters, mobsters… violent criminals. As governor I signed the death penalty into law.” He took a drowsy breath, smacked his petroleum-glossed lips. “I was a bastard of a VP, fought people… on several volatile issues. Point is… the list of who’d want me dead is… is too long to even keep track of.”
Uzi hoped Rusch would say more, but he merely shut his eyes. Uzi took the hint. He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the cabinet beside Rusch’s bed. “Call me if you think of anything. Thank you for your time, sir.” He turned and headed for the door.
“One thing,” Rusch said, his pain-weary voice barely audible over the whirring medical equipment. “Catch the people responsible, Agent Uziel. Don’t do it for me. Do it for my wife and daughter. For this great country of ours.”
Uzi dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then left.
Uzi stood a dozen feet from the charred and exploded remains of Congressman Gene Harmon’s BMW. He leaned against the moss-covered distressed-brick wall, sucking on a toothpick as the crime scene techs combed the ruins.
He had barely made it out of Glendon Rusch’s room when his cell phone rang.
“Better get your ass over to Kalorama Road,” Shepard said.
“What’s on Kalorama Road?”
“Not what, Uzi, who. Congressman Gene Harmon. Or what’s left of him.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, shit. Big time shit. Director’s out of his freakin’ mind—”
“I’m on my way.” After Shepard gave him the address, Uzi headed for the exclusive neighborhood where congressional representatives, ambassadors, and other foreign dignitaries resided. He made good time, but now that he was at the scene, he realized there was nothing for him to do but watch. And think.
He felt helpless. Though his better sense told him Gene Harmon was only the latest target of their anonymous assassin — or group of assassins — he needed to find the connection… that one strand of evidence that established a relationship between Rusch, Ellison, and Harmon. Then he could begin focusing on motive. And once he had motive, it would only be a matter of time before he fingered the Unknown Subject, or UNSUB.
At least in theory. In practice, nothing was easy. Nothing was merely “a matter of time.” Often it was hard work, intuitive insight, and a lot of luck thrown into a pot and allowed to simmer. How long? Who the hell knew. Sometimes years.
He didn’t have years. He had a little over a week.
Uzi pushed away from the brick wall. One of the technicians, a tall, thick woman with latex gloves stretched over pudgy fingers, held a piece of flat black plastic a few inches in length.
“What’s that?” Uzi asked.
She held it higher, as if getting a better look at it would give him the answer. He shrugged.
“It’s part of the injection mold of a cellular phone.”
Uzi suddenly became aware of DeSantos beside him. He glanced at his partner, then turned back to the technician. “So it’s an injection mold. The congressman had a cell phone. Who doesn’t?”
She held a flashlight against the material and parallel powder burn striations became evident. “Most people don’t have cell phones bearing evidence of an incendiary device. C-4 residue, I’d guess. But that’s preliminary.”
Uzi looked at DeSantos. “That might be our link.”
“Remote device, detonated by a simple call,” DeSantos said. “Leave the phone somewhere, in this case the driveway, and when your target drives over it, you make your call.”
Uzi sucked some more on his toothpick, then said, “So that means our UNSUB was somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for the right time.”
DeSantos nodded, then turned to assess the street. “There’s a lot of tree cover. It’s a short block. Even with NVGs, he’d need a clear view.”
“Well, let’s get started. Short block or not, this is gonna take a while.”
It did not take as long as Uzi had thought. Within the hour, a Metro PD cop found prints in the moist dirt across the street from the congressman’s house, in a narrow easement between two adjacent homes. The crime scene techs were on it immediately and made plaster castings.
If this was, in fact, where the killer knelt an hour or so prior, it was potentially the break for which Uzi had been hoping. At least they could estimate the suspect’s height, weight, and gender, and possibly even determine where he bought his shoes. From such tiny bits of information, major leads were often born.
But for all he knew, the castings were merely an expensive reproduction of the gardener’s work boots. His better sense told him otherwise. For now, he would have to wait — and hope.
Quentin Larchmont stood just outside the impromptu press room at Glendon Rusch’s transition headquarters — formerly the suite of offices used to direct his campaign— a short distance from the White House.