"It appears that he is," Townsend replied, also sounding not overly pleased.
But before we could probe more deeply into that dark revelation, Jennie punched off her cell phone and bent forward. She announced, "That was Roy Ellington from forensics." She added, "During our search of Barnes's townhouse, Sean and I forwarded his shoes to the lab for comparison with the foot molds taken from Belknap's garden. We have a perfect match."
George had been quietly sulking and he came out of his funk. "Tell us about that."
"Jason Barnes's running shoes correspond exactly to a set of prints found in the garden, and some partial dirt tracks located inside the house."
George asked the obvious. "Then Barnes was at the house this morning?"
I asserted my lawyership, replying, "It means his shoes were at the house."
"Shoes don't walk without feet in them," George insisted.
Jennie reported, "The lab also discovered traces of the mulch on his shoes. Apparently, afterward, he returned home and changed, before he disappeared."
Mr. Wardell commented, "Look, before everybody… well… the shoeprints… I mean, Barnes worked at that house, and-"
"We considered that, Chuck," Jennie informed him. "But Barnes made a mistake."
"Meaning what?"
"The Belknaps entertained last night. According to the security log, Mrs. Belknap had her yard service tidy up before the party. The grass was cut, the garden was raked, and a fresh layer of mulch was applied around 4:00 p.m.-three hours after Barnes's shift ended."
"Yes, but… I… I know I sound… well, stubborn but-"
"If he returned after his shift," Jennie persisted, "to chat with a colleague, whatever… it's not listed in the security log"
"Maybe they forgot to log him in."
Director Townsend said, "But it's unresolvable, isn't it? That whole shift is dead."
We all nodded at this unimpeachable truth.
But what Wardell, in fact, what everybody, excluding Townsend, Mrs. Hooper, and I, failed to yet appreciate, was why-as in why Jason Barnes might feel impelled to murder the President, his spokesperson, and a Supreme Court justice.
Mrs. Hooper had apparently heard enough. She announced, "It's time to put out an advisory to all federal employees. They should vary their daily routines and their routes to and from work." She paused and looked around the table at the security professionals. "Does anybody disagree?"
Nobody disagreed.
I pictured a bunch of federal employees the next morning kissing their wives, husbands, and kiddies good-bye, wondering if they should be kissing their own asses good-bye. Washington was not ready for this.
Townsend turned to George and somewhat gruffly said, "You've got until morning to discover where these military munitions came from."
George nodded.
Phyllis added, "And perhaps you can ascertain what other weapons or munitions they got their hands on."
Townsend acknowledged this sage advice with a nod and said, "That would allow us to assess what they could reasonably do, our risks, what we need to protect against."
We all thought about that a moment. If the killers had Stinger antiaircraft missiles, Mr. President better stick with trains. If they had more antitank missiles, even the Oval Office was no longer safe. If they had anthrax or a suitcase nuke, we should all be thinking about an excuse to leave town.
Townsend turned next to Jennie and ordered, "Send somebody to Richmond. I want Mrs. Calhoun Barnes interrogated tonight." He added, very forcefully, "Our challenge is to match the speed of our investigation to the velocity of whatever the killers are planning. The federal government does not have a reputation for quickness.
I challenge all of you to overcome that. Oh-and by morning I would like to have some idea who his co-conspirators are."
It was interesting that he said "his co-conspirators," as though there were no longer any doubts or equivocations about what Jason Barnes had been up to that day. Inside this room Barnes was now The Man.
I wasn't so sure about that. In my view, the problem with the FBI is they spend all their time catching criminals, whereas I, a former defense counsel, spent a good part of my career getting them off. It's all about mindset.
As an old criminal law prof used to impress upon us, remember the fifty-fifty rule: Anytime you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, there's a 90 percent probability you'll get it wrong.
Director Townsend looked in my general direction and said, "Drummond, you figure that one out."
Right.
CHAPTER TEN
On that unhappy note, the official part of the meeting ended, and everybody broke into small knots, tidying up loose ends and exchanging whatnots.
Meany, I noticed, was buttonholed by his boss, Townsend, and the loose knot they were transparently tying was George's ass. They stood in the far corner, George, stiff and erect, arms at his sides, occasionally recoiling as his boss spoke with his chin jutted forward, hands locked on his hips.
What I would've paid to overhear that discussion.
Mrs. Hooper of the White House was trapped in the other corner, having her ear bent by frisky little Gene Halderman, who was still struggling to find a purpose, useful or otherwise. The loose end they seemed to be wrestling with was how to break this shower of bad news on the unsuspecting public. I couldn't wait for the morning news shows to see the spin they put on this one. I pictured the anchor saying, "The White House this morning announced that in collaboration with the D.C. mayor's office all government officials are strongly encouraged to participate in a traffic management experiment and to vary their routes to and from work." Pause. "In other local news, local stores have reported an unexplained rush on bulletproof vests and armored cars."
Mr. Wardell had not budged from his seat, and nobody was dropping by to tie knots, trade hints, or even offer bromides. I think it was dawning on him for perhaps the first time that his beloved Service had two feet really sunk in the doo-doo. He was thumbing through the folder on Jason Barnes, rubbing his forehead, and I've seen shell-shocked soldiers who looked more with-it. In fact, he was probably wondering how much worse this could get. Worse, Chuck. Given how much Barnes knows about the security force and procedures protecting the President, your worst nightmare.
I also stuck around for a few minutes to get my marching orders from Phyllis, which did not start off convivially I mean, did she say, "Well, Sean, what a very impressive display of detective work, both at the Hawk's house and on the beltway, and I apologize for my earlier nastiness, because you're really some guy"? No, she withdrew a cell phone from her purse, showed me how the on button functioned, and called to my attention the career benefits of checking in often. The lady was pissed, I could tell. She even threatened to make me produce written reports. I'll take the poisoned cigar, thank you.
As I mentioned, I'm not an easy man to have working for you. I actually felt'a genuine spike of regret for the difficulties and anxieties I had caused Phyllis, and I silently vowed to do better.
In fact, I assured her, "Will do," hoping she didn't see my crossed fingers.
She nodded knowingly and patted my shoulder. "Better do."
"Anything else?"
"Only this. Mort has been combing through the reports pouring in from our station chiefs. It seems word about the bounty was known more universally than we thought."
I nodded.
"But," she continued, "nearly every international intelligence institution discounted or dismissed it-just as we did. They concluded it was a joke or an elaborate hoax."
"And their thinking now?"
"They think we have a very big problem."
"And they're glad it's not their problem."
"Actually… they're worried it might be their problem."