Fate of the Union

Eleven

The Special Situations Task Force worked through the weekend, but their efforts produced no new leads. Plowing through security footage — from both the Skyway Farer motor hotel and various businesses in the Bryson Security strip mall — made for tedious, eye-strain-inducing work; but that had been Reeder’s assignment.

The task force boss, Patti Rogers, was doing the same shit duty herself, while Miguel Altuve had taken up a desk in the bullpen to work his computer magic (somewhat surprisingly, no goats were sacrificed). The two teams of agents — Lucas Hardesy and Anne Nichols, Jerry Bohannon and Reggie Wade — were out talking to friends, neighbors, and work associates of both Chris Bryson and DeShawn (aka Karma Sabich) Davis.

Behaviorist Trevor Ivanek had begged the day off, having worked the weekend before, and got it. With the serial killer theory pulled out from under him, Ivanek seemed to Reeder frankly a little lost.

So far, Monday morning had been taken up by another conference-room meeting where everybody reported in on what they’d found, which was the same thing: nothing. Or at least nothing that seemed to move them even one move ahead on this chessboard.

With his head in the investigation, Reeder had all but forgotten he’d agreed to join Adam Benjamin at the big “A Citizen’s State of the Union” event; and until his cell vibrated, Benjamin’s private number on caller ID, he’d lost track of how fast the speech was coming up.

Tomorrow night, in fact.

“Joe, Adam Benjamin. Sorry to interrupt if you’re working. I hoped we might chat briefly about tomorrow night.”

Benjamin, in good assume-the-sale salesman form, hadn’t asked if he was still coming.

Reeder was searching for a diplomatic way to decline an invitation he’d already accepted when the billionaire said, “Joe, your support is extremely important to me. Not to embarrass you, but you’re an American hero. Admiration for you crosses party lines, which is a perfect fit for the Common Sense Movement.”

“Not so long ago,” Reeder reminded him, “I was a pariah on the right.”

“Yes, because you had the balls to criticize the president you saved.”

“If by ‘balls’ you mean poor judgment, yes.”

Benjamin snorted a laugh. “That’s forgotten and forgiven by the American people. Your approval rating is 92 percent — do you know what any presidential candidate, hell, any president, would do for that level of public approval?”

“Who’s taking my approval rating, anyway?”

“Well, frankly... I am. Or my polling people, anyway. Look, your presence at the rally would be comforting to voters. Not necessarily seen as a seal of approval, but would lend me credibility.”

“You already have plenty of that, Mr. Benjamin.”

“None of that ‘Mr. Benjamin’ crap. Adam. Okay, Joe?”

“Okay.”

“Then I can count on you?”

“You switched up questions on me, Adam. You are a politician now.”

The chuckle lost none of its warmth over the phone. “Perhaps I am. But it’s a necessary evil. I know we think alike in the need to wrest this country out of the hands of special interests, and back to the hands of real people.”

“Are you reading that?” Reeder asked lightly. “If not, write it down. It’s pretty good.”

Another warm chuckle. “Joe. I’m counting on you.”

“Adam, I don’t view myself as someone who can... deliver votes.”

“It’s not how you view yourself, Joe — it’s how the people view you.”

“I’m just a guy who got hot for a couple of news cycles. Which I’m glad cooled down.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Joe. No cooling off, according to my pollsters. The vast majority of Americans respect you, and consider you the kind of old-fashioned hero we haven’t seen in a very long time.”

“Just doing my job.”

“Which is what every great hero says... but usually that job is something most people can’t, won’t, or wouldn’t do. I’m not asking for your endorsement, just your presence. Come listen to the speech, be seen there, and if the media sticks a mic in your face, and you want to say I’m a huckster or a fool or a fraud, well... that’s your privilege. At least they haven’t taken our freedom of speech away yet.”

Maybe he was reading some of this stuff...

“Joe, I’ve reserved good seats for you and a guest. Join us, please. This might... just might... put you on the ground floor of something historic.”

Of course Reeder didn’t need to attend this rally, or hear the speech, to know what Benjamin had to say. He’d read the man’s book, heard him give interviews. But Reeder remained curious to see how this Midwestern populist would play in front of a crowd in a frankly political setting. It was just possible this was history in the making.

Or maybe it was just another fart in the wind, like Ross Perot.

Either way, should make for good theater.

“Joe...?”

“Yes, Adam. You can count on me being there.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful. Call this number when you arrive at Constitution Hall. My man, Frank Elmore, will have this phone. He’ll make sure you get in and get to your seats. Thank you, Joe.”

Reeder paused, not sure whether to thank the man back, or say “You’re welcome”; but then Benjamin clicked off.

Rogers came over to Reeder’s desk, toward the back of the bullpen, and leaned in. “That seemed fairly intense. Breakthrough on the case?”

“No. Pull up a chair, though.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.”

She pulled a chair over.

He said, “Whose turn is it to buy?”

“Mine. Unless you don’t count the barbecue the whole team went out for last night where you picked up the check.”

“No, that’s its own thing. Your turn to buy. But how would you like to get off cheap and yet have a unique evening of entertainment?”

“What, are we checking out Les Girls?”

He smiled. “No,” he said, and invited her to be his plus-one at the “Citizen’s State of the Union” rally.

She immediately said yes.

“Really?” he said. “I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”

“No, I’m a Benjamin fan. You may not realize it, but you and I don’t usually vote for the same side of the ticket.”

“Oh, I know you’re a Republican.”

That surprised her. “Really? More ‘people reading’?”

“Betting that an FBI agent is a Republican is not exactly long odds.”

“Hey, I’m not one of these crazy right-wingers or anything, like that Spirit bunch. But some of the changes that President Bennett made — you remember him, right, guy you saved? — are just fine by me.”

“I know. You’re the kind of traditional Republican that my father was. Which makes you a Commie pinko in the eyes of that Spirit crowd.”

She smiled a little. “You’re overstating it, but kind of, yes.”

“They’d feel the same about Ronald Reagan, if they actually studied his presidency. So — you like what Adam Benjamin has to say?”

“Based on what I’ve picked up, yeah. It’s like he says, common sense. Joe, I’d love to be your date. Finally a real date, huh?”

“We’re going to have good seats, I’m told, probably down front, so that leaves out necking. And you can take me to a Wendy’s drive-thru after.”

“No way! I do have some class, Joe Reeder.”

“Do you?”

“Sure. Wendy’s, yes. But we’ll eat inside.”

Chill January wind from the west greeted Reeder and Rogers as they walked from a parking lot to DAR Constitution Hall on D Street NW. Built by the Daughters of the American Revolution one hundred years ago, the auditorium was still a much-used concert venue, and served Benjamin’s political purposes well, practically set as it was on the south White House grounds.

“Nothing like thumbing your nose at the President of the United States,” Rogers said, “from his own front lawn.”

She was in a gray sweater coat over a black ensemble — turtleneck with jacket, slim skirt, tights with boots.

“Benjamin wasn’t the first,” Reeder said, “and certainly won’t be the last.”

Reeder was in his Burberry trench coat over a Brooks Brothers navy suit and (what the hell) red-white-and-blue striped tie.

They paused at the foot of the short series of steps to the front doors. Reeder got out his cell, turning east onto a view of the Capitol and the web of scaffolding that surrounded it. Even during renovation, the building had a classic beauty that stirred the patriotic kid in him. He punched in Benjamin’s number.

“Frank Elmore,” a rough-hewed voice replied.

“Frank, Joe Reeder. We’re here.” He told Elmore where exactly.

“Our security chief will pick you up,” Elmore said curtly.

“Thanks,” Reeder said, but Elmore clicked off halfway.

Rogers picked up on that. “Benjamin’s majordomo?”

“Real sweetheart. Somebody you might consider dating.”

She crinkle-smiled and elbowed him.

Perhaps a minute later, a tall man in a navy suit approached, earbud in, mic attached to his cuff. Short dark hair, brown eyes, angular no-nonsense features, the security man was someone Reeder knew well: former Secret Service agent Jay Akers. Akers, usually affable, wore a vaguely troubled look that few but Reeder would have picked up on.

Still, Akers managed a smile. “Peep, how the hell have you been? Been too long.”

They shook hands. Reeder wondered if perhaps Akers sensed he was on his way out as security chief, the Benjamin spot that Reeder had turned down. Too bad for Akers — he was a smart, decent guy and an able agent.

“Jay, meet the FBI’s finest,” Reeder said, gesturing to his companion. “Special Agent Patti Rogers. Patti, Jay Akers — he and I worked presidential detail together, a lifetime or two ago.”

Akers smiled, said, “No need for an introduction, Agent Rogers. You’re almost as famous as Peep here.”

“Almost,” she said with her own little smile.

Akers let out some air. “Better get you two inside.”

As they headed up the steps, Rogers on his left, Akers on the right, Reeder said to the ex-agent, “So you’re head of security, huh?”

“That’s the job description.”

“Do I detect discontent?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine.”

Something in the man’s voice, however, said just the opposite to Reeder. So did the anxious micro-expressions that Akers never would have guessed he revealed.

They were inside now, past the metal detectors, the crowd all around them as they made the shuffle toward the auditorium. He and Rogers had both dressed up somewhat for the evening, but around them was everything from near formal wear to baseball caps and running pants.

Keeping his voice low, but up over the crowd murmur, Reeder asked, “Jay, what’s wrong?”

“Who said something was wrong?” Akers said with a smile that said something was wrong.

“Don’t shit a shitter, my friend.”

The smile disappeared. “Call you tomorrow — we’ll get a drink. Catch up.”

“Don’t blow me off, buddy.”

“No. We should talk. We will talk.”

Akers led them into the auditorium and the three went down the center aisle toward the stage.

Reeder said, “Jay, if there’s something pressing we should...”

“It’ll keep,” Akers said.

The hall was festooned in red-white-and-blue bunting, seats filling up fast with such a cross section of Americans, the attendees might have been selected to represent every segment of American life. Had they been? Those pollsters of Benjamin’s at work, maybe?

On stage, a simple podium was adorned with a seal not unlike the presidential one, but saying “Common Sense.” The backdrop of satin-looking curtains of red, white, and blue were draped elegantly. Between the patriotic curtains and the podium were risers arranged with chairs, which (with the front row on the stage floor) added up to five rows. That was where the rich friends would be seated, Reeder knew, and any true-believer celebrities in attendance.

The hall had the political-extravaganza feel of a major political party convention. Above were nets brimming with balloons, as if Benjamin was about to win the nomination of some party or other. In a sense, maybe he would, since this appeared to be the de facto coronation of Benjamin as the Common Sense Movement candidate for president.

The speech would be broadcast by all the news channels, and the networks, too — the latter had declined to interrupt their programming until Benjamin bought an hour of prime time. Adding in live Internet streaming, the expected audience was in the double-digit millions.

In twenty-four hours — if Benjamin was as convincing a public speaker as he’d been in private at the Holiday Inn Express — everybody in America, and many worldwide, would know he was a serious political player. Those who hadn’t heard the speech live would catch YouTube highlights and hear water-cooler conversations and be caught up in the Big News that the Common Sense Movement had become.

Impressive what a down-to-earth small-town former professor could pull off with a persuasive, folksy gift for gab...

... and billions of dollars.

Hell, at least Benjamin had earned them. And the bill of goods he was selling was, for a change, a damn good one.

Akers led Reeder and Rogers over to a half flight of stairs up onto the stage at left. Looming over them was Frank Elmore, at the edge of the stage apron; he wore a dark-gray suit and a somewhat oversize American flag lapel pin, the scar on his cheek shining pink under the bright TV lights. On left and right, taking up some audience seating, were platforms on which were positioned manned TV cameras on tripods, the space also home to reporters seated at banquet tables.

Reeder touched Akers’s sleeve. “Jay, we’re not seated up there on stage, are we?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’m not comfortable with that. My presence will be taken as an endorsement.”

“Those are the seats reserved for you, Peep. Look, take it up with Frank. I have to go see if these amateurs they gave me to work with are at least correctly positioned... We’ll talk tomorrow at the latest.”

“Counting on it,” Reeder said.

Akers nodded and headed back up the aisle.

Reeder said to Rogers, “Are you okay with this? They’re playing off who we are.”

“We’re here,” she said with a shrug. “If we don’t like what we hear and see, there’s not going to be a muzzle on us. We can speak our mind.”

“Okay.”

They climbed the five steps and were met by Elmore.

“Joe,” he said, shaking Reeder’s hand, with a smile that looked like it hurt, “Mr. Benjamin is very pleased you’re here with us tonight. We all are.”

“Thank you, Frank. This is Patti Rogers, the FBI agent I worked with last year on the Supreme Court case.”

He gave her a crisp nod but did not offer a hand. “Pleasure, Ms. Rogers. If you’ll come this way...”

Elmore led them to the nearest two chairs, in the front row of those set up on the stage.

“I don’t know about this,” Reeder said.

Elmore shrugged, gave up another forced smile. “Mr. Benjamin said to make sure you had good seats. These are assigned to you, and we start in less than ten minutes, so making a change isn’t really possible.”

Reeder flashed Rogers a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here look, but she only shook her head gently and took him by the arm. She deposited him in the seat nearer the podium and took the chair on the end for herself.

Elmore said, “Some last minute things to do — if you’ll excuse me.”

The majordomo didn’t wait for a reply, leaving so quickly Reeder half expected a vapor trail.

Reeder said to Rogers, “At least we’re on the end. Maybe we won’t be taken for major supporters.”

“Right,” she said, amused. “Really low profile.”

A crowd this size — he’d estimate well over three thousand, near capacity — turned individual chatting among attendees into a roar, an ocean-worthy tide threatening to wash over the stage. His old Secret Service juices were flowing as he tried to look out into the hall, particularly the seating toward the front, but the TV lights were so bright that the audience was mostly a blur.

Even finding spaces between bursts of brightness, he was not positioned to see much of anything, not there on stage, risers climbing behind him. Up on the top row, he’d have had a much better view of floor seating, which lacked the slope of a more modern theater — from here, a short person seated behind a tall person became invisible.

From a security standpoint, especially from the stage, Constitution Hall had always been a nightmare venue. No wonder Akers seemed troubled — Reeder would be, too, if he were among those in charge of Benjamin’s safety.

Around them now were wealthy donors, few of whom Reeder recognized; they tended to be former backers of conservative candidates. In more prominent evidence were some A-list TV and movie stars known previously as supporters of liberal candidates.

The house lights went down and the applause came up, and within seconds, the hall was on its feet, including those around them, which forced Rogers and Reeder to their feet as well. Rogers didn’t seem to mind, but Reeder felt manipulated.

But he applauded anyway. Despite the bright lights, Reeder could make out waving signs with such slogans as COMMON SENSE FOR AMERICA and BENJAMIN FOR PRESIDENT. As the seconds dragged into minutes, the audience only intensified its applause.

Finally, just as the thunder seemed about to diminish, Adam Benjamin, in a blue off-the-rack suit with white shirt and red tie, strode out from the wings, beaming to the crowd and waving, walking right by Rogers and Reeder. Now the applause rose to its former apex and beyond.

Akers emerged from the wings, close on Benjamin’s heels, and took position at the top of the stairs just to the right of Rogers.

A spotlight followed Benjamin and stopped with him as he paused to stand and wave, poised between Akers and Rogers, the speaker nodding to the crowd in humble acceptance of their adoration.

Just as the applause began to diminish, Benjamin turned, nodded to Reeder, then strode to the podium. He patted the air to silence the crowd, which of course only inflamed them further.

Benjamin stepped away from the podium, smiled at the crowd, shaking his head, finally putting a big show of putting his finger to his lips. They laughed, and applauded even more, the crowd well aware of its costarring role in the spectacle.

Finally Benjamin moved to the podium and the crowd took their seats.

“Usually,” he said, in his casual way, “a speech like this begins: ‘My fellow Americans.’ But the politicians who address you that way don’t view you as their ‘fellow’ anything. They view you as, well, I guess... a kind of obstacle. Those hypocrites calling you ‘Americans’ is almost an insult, because these politicians... not all, but many... don’t really believe in America. At least not the Common Sense version that the founding fathers had in mind.”

He paused to let them applaud again and seemed flattered when the crowd again got to its feet. When those on the stage did the same, Reeder reluctantly joined them. Just because he liked what this guy had to say didn’t make him any happier about being played like this.

With a palm, Benjamin quieted the crowd and the applause gradually thinned and seats were again taken.

But one man was still on his feet.

One man was in fact coming down the left outside aisle, quickly, applauding as he came, as if his enthusiasm couldn’t be contained. The spotlight on Benjamin meant some of the other bright lights were off now, and Reeder could see the guy pretty clearly.

Akers apparently hadn’t seen the man, his eyes on the front row where two audience members were on their feet and coming toward the stage, applauding, maybe just wanting a closer look. One of Benjamin’s security staff cut in front of them and the pair backed up to their seats.

At the podium, Benjamin was saying, “Our two once-great political parties have been driven to the far left and far right, leaving the rank and file among us alone in the middle, without representation.”

The two at right taken care of, Reeder swung his attention back to the guy in that outside aisle, who was now almost to the stairs onto the stage at far left. Surely security near the stage would grab him — but where were they? The audience member approaching, applauding, looked respectable enough — navy blue suit, white shirt, shades of red-striped tie, echoing the speaker’s own wardrobe. A thirty-something professional, sandy hair cut short.

“Everybody tells me,” Benjamin was saying, “that it’s impossible for a third-party candidate to win. But what if that third-party candidate represents the vast majority of Americans in the common-sense middle?”

Could this be Reeder’s attacker at Bryson Security?

Was it the blond from the SIM card?

At this distance, and with the bright lights, Reeder couldn’t be sure. Half out of his chair, he was about to yell to Akers, to alert him, but the security man was turning toward the left side of the stage, having apparently spotted the guy, so yelling might only distract Akers, who had this.

Then the approaching figure’s hand slipped under the suit coat and came back with something.

“Gun!” Reeder yelled.

A collective gasp came up from the crowd, sucking the air from the room and silencing the speaker as Akers reached for his own piece on his hip under his unbuttoned suit coat...

... but too late.

The sandy-haired figure pointed a sound-suppressed automatic at Akers, who fell to his knees as if pleading to the man not to shoot.

Only Akers had already been hit, the silenced shot inaudible over the noise of the crowd, who were now reacting in screaming horror and yelling amazement.

But Reeder had seen the reduced muzzle flash and, instinct taking over, he leapt from his chair, Rogers rising, too.

Gun still in hand, Akers was trying to get up, the bullet having hit him in his Kevlar vest, but the sandy-haired man — up on the stage now, at Reeder’s far left — leveled what was probably a .45, wearing the bulky extension of a sound suppressor, right at the agent, hitting Akers twice in the side, under the arms, where the Kevlar didn’t cover.

Then the sandy-haired man (not the SIM card blond at all) wheeled toward Benjamin at the podium, the big automatic with its extended snout pointing the speaker’s way.

Three thousand — plus were on their feet shrieking now, like a hellish choir, while members of Benjamin’s security force were coming toward the stage, too little, too late.

This time Reeder heard the cough of the silenced weapon, and the crunch of metal meeting wood as the bullet slammed into the podium just as he threw himself at Benjamin, taking him to the floor, onto his side, covering him as he would a president, bracing for the impact of any rounds from the assassin that might try to get through him to their target.

Reeder flinched at the whipcrack of a round, fired nearby, but not a silenced one, a Glock round, and knew he was all right.

Confirming that came: “Clear!”

Rogers.

Staying on top of Benjamin, who was still on his side, face to the crowd, Reeder shifted enough to see the would-be assassin sprawled on the stage, eyes open wide and a black-rimmed, scarlet-dripping hole in his mid-forehead.

Rogers, on stage, Glock gripped in both hands, swiftly scanned the crowd for other shooters. The hall was half-empty now, many having fled, others frozen on their feet at their seats, some recording the pandemonium with their cells, while the camera crews on their platforms left and right kept rolling. The reporters, on both the left and right of the hall (and politically as well, for that matter), were to a man and woman hiding under their tables.

Frank Elmore materialized and leaned in to say, “Mr. Reeder, we’ll take it from here,” and Reeder rose while four security men in “COMMON SENSE” windbreakers helped the stunned Benjamin to his feet, and formed a phalanx around him, hustling him offstage.

Reeder rushed to the fallen Akers, where Rogers was already down at the man’s side, trying to staunch the bleeding with her jacket. As Reeder knelt opposite her, Rogers lifted her bloody jacket so Reeder could appraise the red-gushing entry wounds under the man’s other arm.

She gave Reeder a look.

He gave her one back.

She returned to keeping pressure against the fallen man’s side with the jacket, for what good it would do.

Akers, his flesh now a wet-newspaper gray, grabbed Reeder’s wrist with surprising strength.

“Cap...” Akers said. “Cap it... all.”

“Cap it all? You mean, Capitol?”

Akers swallowed and nodded once. “... Senk.”

“You mean ‘sink’? What about sink?”

The grip on Reeder’s wrist was limp now. “No! No... Senk.”

“Senk. Is that a name, Jay? Is that—”

But Akers was gone, eyes rolled back as if staring at the ceiling, where netted balloons awaited a celebratory release not to come.

Uniformed police were moving quickly down the aisles now. Soon FBI and Homeland Security agents would descend on Constitution Hall. Rogers stood guard over the dead security man while Reeder went over to where the sandy-haired shooter lay dead as hell on his side, a mere trickle of red out the puncture of a forehead entry wound, while the larger exit wound had puked blood, brains, and bone onto the stage.

Reeder knelt and had a closer look at the man’s face — no, this was not Bryson’s blond, but could possibly be the attacker from the security office. He pulled back the man’s shirt and jacket cuffs, both arms — no Special Forces tattoo. So this wasn’t the man recorded on the Skyway Farer motel security cam.

So who was the man who wanted Adam Benjamin dead?

Elmore was coming over to him again. Reeder stood and met him halfway, near the bullet-pocked podium. Rogers came over and fell in at Reeder’s side, two DC uniformed men huddling around the fallen Akers now.

“Thanks to the two of you,” Elmore said, as if he were reporting the weather, “Adam Benjamin is alive and well.”

Rogers said, “Just doing my job.”

Reeder said, “Instinct kicks in. You know.”

“Mr. Benjamin would very much like to thank you both personally.”

Rogers said, “That won’t be necessary,” just as Reeder was saying, “No need.”

“He’s quite insistent.”

Bohannon and Wade, from Rogers’s team, were coming swiftly down an aisle. Just behind them, trench coat flapping, came DC homicide detective Pete Woods.

Reeder asked Elmore, “Where is Mr. Benjamin?”

“Heading back to the hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“The Holiday Inn Express in Falls Church, of course.”

Rogers gave Reeder a wide-eyed, you-gotta-be-kidding-me look. He shrugged.

Elmore was saying, “We can arrange a limo for you.”

Detective Woods, approaching, overheard that and said, a little louder than necessary, “Mr. Reeder and Ms. Rogers won’t be needing a limo tonight! We’ll be having conversations with them that may last some time.”

Reeder gave Elmore a shrug. “You’ll have to convey our regrets.”

The majordomo nodded curtly, then disappeared into the wings.

Reeder said to Woods, “Let’s have a look at our dead would-be assassin.”

Woods didn’t argue as Reeder led the way, Rogers falling in behind the homicide detective, perhaps not eager for a closer look at the man she’d killed.

“Watch your step,” Reeder said. “Little messy right over there — see it?”

Woods looked a little pale around the gills. Homicide man or not, he was still new to the job.

Reeder knelt near the corpse and Woods crouched near Reeder, who said, “This isn’t the blond from the SIM card. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“By the build, it might be the guy I mixed it up with at Bryson’s, so it could also make him your uniformed officer’s killer. Might even be one of the guys who murdered Chris.”

Woods frowned at Reeder. “‘One of the guys’?”

“Detective, Chris Bryson could handle himself — former Secret Service agent, armed, not a small man. Our failed assassin here, all by himself, could hardly incapacitate Bryson and hang him with his own belt.”

Opposite them, Bohannon had squatted next to the shooter; with a latex-gloved hand, he pressed the dead man’s thumb to his smartphone screen, utilizing its fingerprint ID app. A moment later, the screen displayed the results.

Bohannon said, “Thomas Louis Stanton.” He scrolled through a few screens. “At first glance? A solid citizen... until tonight.”

Rogers asked, “Prints on file because of military service?”

“Yep. Honorable discharge twenty years ago.”

She frowned. “How does a ‘solid citizen’ turn into a political assassin?”

Bohannon gave her half a smile and said, “This app just does fingerprints.”

Over the next twenty-four hours, they would surely come to know Thomas Louis Stanton inside and out. For now, though, Reeder and Rogers had hours ahead of them of police interviews, and after that FBI debriefings.

But it could be worse. It was a bad night to be a rank-and-file cop. This had been a hall filled with up to 3,500 eye witnesses, many of whom had beat it out before the boys in blue showed, though enough remained that a staggering number of names would need collecting for later interviews. And all of that news footage would have to be collected and looked at closely.

“Shit,” Reeder said, aloud, something occurring to him, then turned to Rogers. “I have to call Amy and tell her I’m all right.”

“Did your daughter know you were going to be at the event tonight?”

He put a hand on his forehead as if he were taking his own temperature. “No, but this is going to hit the news and is probably already all over the net. Don’t you think those TV crews uploaded everything they caught right on the spot, before the cops could seize it?”

Rogers grinned. “Amy’s the least of your worries.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those cameras caught you throwing yourself on Adam Benjamin, ready to take another bullet for a great man. Joe Reeder, welcome back to the twenty-four-hour news cycle — you’re a hero again.”

“Shit,” he said.