Fate of the Union

Two

Joe Reeder hated being called a hero.

The idea that he, or anybody for that matter, realistically fit that designation seemed to him absurd. Heroic actions, yes — Audie Murphy in combat — but a hero? Maybe the kind Murphy played in those ancient cowboy movies. But not in life. In life America’s most decorated soldier of World War II had been a troubled alcoholic, possibly psychotic in his worst moments.

Yet according to the media, and most everybody else he ran into these days, Joe Reeder was a genuine American hero twice over, larger than life and then some. This dated back to his Secret Service days, when he had taken a bullet for President Gregory Bennett, a man whose politics he deplored. Even now — especially in the dead of winter like this — his left shoulder reminded him of that bullet and his actions, nudging his mind to recall the reactions. Deskbound afterward, he’d been unable to stomach the politics and particularly the underhanded tactics of President Bennett and his cronies, and had let his feelings slip.

Mistake.

The Secret Service was necessarily apolitical — though finding a left-of-center agent in those ranks could be a trick — and Reeder had become a pariah in government circles for his indiscretion. That had driven him from the Service and he had, out of necessity, begun his security business, which proved rewarding in several senses. The private sector only knew him as the “hero” who saved President Bennett, and ABC Security — the ABC standing for nothing more than good placement in alphabetical listings — had flourished from day one.

That success multiplied many times over when he was designated a hero a second time.

On that occasion, he’d saved the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court from a potential assassin. The rewards had been great, for his security business at least, but the price for that newfound wealth had been the life of his best friend, FBI agent Gabriel Sloan.

Joseph Reeder, twice a national hero. Twice suffering the ignominy of media fame.

Hero? You can have it.

Reeder was six one and pushing fifty, with regular features that the years had lent some craggy character. His eyes were brown, his hair white and cropped near-military short, his eyebrows white as well. During his years as an agent, he’d had to conceal that premature distinctiveness with hair dye.

Back in his Secret Service life, he’d been nicknamed “Peep” by Gabe and others, a joking acknowledgment of his ability to read people. An expert at kinesics, the study of body language, Reeder had spotted President Bennett’s would-be assassin in the crowd a split second before the shooter fired.

Walking through Arlington National Cemetery before the tourists were let in at 8:00 a.m., Reeder enjoyed the feel and sound of snow crunching under his Rocky-brand oxfords, and didn’t mind the cold on his face or that the weather made his eyes water.

This was the place on earth where he felt the most at home, where peace enveloped him. Right now he was in Section Three, unofficially known as the “hospital section,” where he stopped at the grave of Dr. Walter Reed.

Pulling his ABC Security parka a little tighter, he gazed down at the dark granite headstone, set atop a white granite base displaying the doctor’s last name. A bronze plaque provided information about Reed and concluded with the quote: “He gave to man control over that dreadful scourge — yellow fever.”

He thought about all the stupid media acclaim he’d gotten for being a “hero,” while here rested a man who just might be worthy of the word. Of all those who knew the name Reeder today, how many remembered a doctor named Reed? Yes, there was a hospital in Bethesda, Maryland, that bore the man’s name, but now — the late 2020s — how many knew why the building had been named after a physician dead since 1902?

Dr. Walter Reed. Who had never taken a life, and had in fact saved many. During the building of the Panama Canal, Reed’s team had proven that yellow fever was not passed by way of bedding, towels, and other materials from the stricken, rather the result of a simple mosquito bite. From this rose the fields of epidemiology and biomedicine.

That was heroic work, far outweighing catching a bullet or killing a couple of potential political assassins.

Though he’d been up only a few hours, he found himself yawning. Ever since the night of that suburban shoot-out, he’d gotten only fitful sleep. Getting through the day was no problem. Always something to do — a desk filled with work, staff meetings, client luncheons, even occasional interviews with the more trustworthy members of the media, since being a goddamn hero was keeping his business flush.

But at home, darkness out the windows, with nothing to keep him company but TV and books and a beer or two, Reeder found the nights endless. Today he’d change that. He would go home this afternoon instead of tonight. Maybe take some mild over-the-counter sleep aid. Get to bed early, snare that elusive good night’s sleep. The kind of sleep where dreams don’t come and peaceful rest does.

The dreams he so hoped to avoid were not nightmares, more recollections, some pleasant, even very pleasant, his daughter Amy with her friend Kathy... sharing beers with Gabe at a ball game... then not so pleasant, Amy at Kathy’s funeral... Kathy’s father Gabe crying into his shoulder... and then sudden violence, bullets flying, the dark of night all around...

Wake up bathed in sweat. Plump the pillow, drop back down, start the whole cycle again.

That had been his nights for almost a year.

Last night, though, had been different. Usually he got right to sleep before the fitfulness crept in, to wake him every hour or two with the fresh taste of recurrent dreams lining his brain. Last night? Worry was nagging him, and a guilty feeling that he should be doing something about that call he’d received, just before he crawled in the sack.

Well, not that he’d received — he’d missed the call. These days Reeder ignored his phone, where media types frequently bothered him and left him messages that had no chance of return. But he did check periodically, and before he went to bed he had.

He didn’t recognize the number, and there’d been no caller ID. He damn near ignored it, but his gut told him not to, and he’d learned not to blow off his inner warning system.

The call had been from an old friend, one he rarely saw, a fellow retired Secret Service agent who had a security outfit of his own now... okay, really just a PI office with some twenty-first-century trappings. Chris Bryson was one of those friends with whom he felt guilty about not keeping in closer touch, as the years crawled and raced by, in their contradictory way.

The message had been simple enough: “Call this number when you get this. Life and death, brother — don’t let me down.”

A lot of people used that phrase — to some, getting to FedEx on time could be a matter of life and death. Not to ex-agents like Bryson and himself. Reeder had returned the call but it went to voice mail.

“Chris, get back to me,” Reeder told his cell. “I’m waiting, buddy. Just tell me what you need, where to come. No matter the time.”

He tried Bryson’s other number and it went right to voice mail, too, and he left a similar message. He didn’t have Beth Bryson’s number. Bryson’s wife and his ex-wife Melanie were good friends.

Which meant the next logical step would’ve been to call Melanie, but somehow he couldn’t force himself across that small social barrier. The call might be answered by the husband who’d replaced him, Donald Graham, and hearing the lobbyist’s buttery voice always gave Reeder a pain.

So he told himself Chris was a pro who could handle himself. Put the phone on ringer, turned the ringer up, and deposited it on his nightstand, waited for it to ring.

Which it never did.

Behind him, he felt more than heard someone coming, but he didn’t turn. Judging by the person’s boots crunching lightly on brittle snow, this someone was not very heavy.

Did Dr. Reed have descendants who regularly came to pay their respects? More likely someone knew to find Reeder here, but that was a short list. He didn’t have a lot of friends, and Amy — Christmas break over — would be in class or at her new job. So would her boyfriend Bobby Landon, who was growing on him.

Patti Rogers maybe? The FBI agent had been Gabe Sloan’s partner till last year when she teamed up briefly with Reeder, who was consulting on the Supreme Court task force. He and Patti remained tight, and those light footfalls could be hers.

The caretakers of the cemetery had little to do in the winter and, anyway, gave him a wide berth. If the media had tracked Reeder here, keeping his temper would be a challenge. A tiny part of him thought it might be a threat, and he was unarmed, so — despite not wanting to invite conversation with a reporter or intrude upon someone’s privacy in a cemetery — he finally turned.

And saw his ex-wife trudging up the slope toward him in the snow.

“Jesus, Joe,” she said, half-kidding, “give a girl a hand, why don’t you?”

He stepped toward her, held out a leather-gloved hand. She held out a cotton-gloved one. Tall, her slender form plumped as if for an Arctic expedition in navy and black and touches of red and Ugg boots, she gave him a small smile so white, the snow might have envied it. Her long brown hair was tucked under a fashionable red-and-black stocking cap, her brown eyes impossibly large with long natural lashes, her model-sharp cheeks pinked with cold.

The divorce had been the right thing for the marriage, he knew that, but he would never stop loving her. Though they spoke on the phone regularly, he hadn’t seen her in many months. His heart raced a little, as it had when they had first met, so many years ago.

She positioned herself beside him, leaving her gloved hand in his, as they both looked down at the headstone. Magie Noire, her favorite perfume, found its way through the chill to warm his nostrils.

She said, “It’s fuh-fuh-fuh-freezing out here.”

“You trudged all this way with that news flash?” He meant to tease but it didn’t quite come out that way.

She pursed her lips, a precursor to a familiar frown.

“Just making conversation. And hello to you, too, Joe.”

“Sorry. Trying to be funny.”

A tiny smirk. “You suck at ‘funny.’”

Last year’s tragedy had brought Reeder and his ex-wife closer than they’d been in years. Daughter Amy had seemed happier now that her parents were getting along again.

But last summer, Reeder had gone over for a family cookout that included Amy and boyfriend Bobby. Hubby #2, Donald, was grilling in the backyard, taking on a role that had been Hubby #1’s. Though a registered Democrat, Reeder found the combination of the liberal lobbyist’s cynicism and Bobby’s idealistic socialism hard to stomach. It was a wonder he hadn’t slapped them both around with a greasy spatula. He thought he’d hidden his feelings pretty well.

But privately Melanie scolded him for his “unrelenting sarcasm,” and invites to family dinners were not repeated.

Reeder did still meet Amy and Bobby for dinner once every week or so, but hadn’t seen Mel since the ill-fated barbecue.

Suddenly here she was at his side, in his Fortress of Solitude. But Arlington was a big place, and even though she knew the five or six graves that were among his regular stops, she had gone to considerable trouble in frigid weather to track him down.

Whatever had brought her here was in-person important. Why wasn’t she getting to it?

Concern spiked in him. “Is Amy all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving a gloved hand. “Amy is fine. Bobby, too. This isn’t that.”

“What is it?”

Her voice sounded small against the wind. “Beth Bryson called this morning.”

“Oh. About Chris?”

Her eyes tensed. “Yes... but...”

“Dead?”

The face under the stocking cap goggled at him. “You knew?”

“No. Seeing you here... just meant...” He gulped air and breathed it out like cold cigarette smoke, then told her about the missed call from his friend.

“I let him down, goddamnit.”

“Joe... you couldn’t know this would happen.”

“What did happen? Killed on a job?”

“No. Nothing like that. Joe... I’m sorry... but Chris took his own life last night.”

“Shit,” he said.

They both knew the suicide rate among Secret Service agents, both active and retired, was not exactly low.

“At home? Hell, did Beth find him...?”

Melanie shook her head. “No, she says he was in a hotel or motel somewhere near Dulles. Evidently, he... hanged himself.”

“Doesn’t sound like the guy.”

“Joe, we never know what’s really going on inside other people’s lives... do we?”

“No. And Chris had been out of mine for too long. But damnit, he turned to me and I didn’t come.”

“How could you? Don’t beat yourself up over something you couldn’t control.”

They stared at the headstone.

His kinesics expertise had been an issue in their marriage, Melanie constantly accusing him of reading her. Like she expected him to turn it off, somehow. Even now, as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and hunched her shoulders, he took in the classic defensive postures. Or, hell — maybe she was just cold. It was an inexact science.

The longer they silently stood there, the more he knew she wasn’t done with him yet — this was more than just delivering some bad news about an old friend. She could have phoned him, right? And he and Chris had been friends, but never Gabe Sloan tight.

Or was she worried about how losing another friend, any friend, would hit him?

Finally, she let out a long steamy breath. “Beth asked me to get ahold of you.”

“Oh? To deliver the bad news?”

“To ask you to come talk to her.”

“Do I look like a priest?”

She turned toward him, eyes flashing. “Your dead friend’s wife wants to talk to you. Should I have asked for a reason? To see if it’s important enough to interrupt your busy schedule walking around a graveyard?”

“That came out harsher than I meant it to.”

“Me, too.” She shuddered, some of it the cold. “Really bad morning.”

“Sorry.”

“Joe... how long have we been snipping at each other, anyway?”

“Too long.”

“Cease-fire, then?”

“Cease-fire. Mel... did Beth have any explanation for why Chris would do this?”

She shook her head. “Says they were happy, never better, actually. Doesn’t believe Chris killed himself. That’s why—”

“Why she wants me to look into it.”

“Yes.”

“You do know she should be talking to the police, not your ex-husband.”

Her expression bordered on pleading. “Talk to her, Joe. She thinks someone who knew Chris might get a handle on this where the police wouldn’t. And you could look into it... discreetly. Anyway, she seems to think you can do anything.”

“Right,” he said. “I’m a hero.”

Her head tilted, her smile taking its own sideways tilt. “That’s how some people see you.”

“How about you, honey?”

The automatic expression of affection embarrassed her, and she looked away. “I don’t think I believe in heroes, anymore.”

“We have that in common.”

A gloved hand came from a pocket and rested on his sleeve. “But I believe in you, Joe. Always have, always will.”

He grinned at her. “If you’re going to play my heartstrings, maybe I should unzip the parka.”

She laughed a little. Maybe he didn’t entirely suck at “funny” after all.

He said, “Of course I’ll go see Beth. Of course I’ll talk to her. But how will she feel when she hears that Chris called me, and I failed him?”

Melanie waved that off. “You didn’t fail him. She’ll know that.”

She kissed him on the cheek.

Even in the chill, he felt the old heat.

“Do you have Beth’s number?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Give me your phone and I’ll put it in.”

He did and she did.

Then she was turning and walking away, footsteps crisp in the snow. He caught up and walked her to her car. They didn’t speak until he was holding the door open for her.

“I’ll call you with a report,” he said.

That small white smile again. “I’m not a client, Joe. But I would appreciate that.”

She drove away, giving him a tiny wave, and he watched until she was out of sight. Then he climbed behind the wheel of his Prius and got the motor and heat going. He withdrew his cell from a parka pocket.

First he tried Beth Bryson and got voice mail. He left a fairly lengthy message, hoping she was screening calls, but she never picked up. Since she wanted to talk to him, that meant she was off dealing with matters related to her husband’s demise — cops, funeral home, obit.

So he called Carl Bishop, the veteran DC Homicide detective who had also worked on the Supreme Court task force last year, and who’d been a friend well before that. The beefy bald cop would likely be in the know on the Bryson investigation.

One homicide bureau covered the entire DC area now. Over the years, two facts had emerged: criminals didn’t care about jurisdictional lines, and budgets grew ever tighter.

Bishop was ahead of him. “Callin’ about Chris, aren’t you?” This was in lieu of a greeting.

“You got it,” Reeder said. “What do we know so far?”

“Is that the editorial ‘we,’ or the what-do-I-know-so-I-can-tell-you ‘we.’”

“Dealer’s choice.”

There was a shrug in Bishop’s voice. “Not my case, Peep, but from what I’m hearing? Looks like a pretty straight-up suicide.”

“His wife doesn’t think he would kill himself.”

“No wife wants to think she missed the signs.”

“Bish... she wants me to look into it.”

“You like wasting your time, son? Go for it.”

“Maybe I will. I could start with Chris leaving me a message on my cell the night he died.”

Reeder could almost hear the switch click as Bishop turned total cop.

“Jesus, Peep, what did Chris say?”

“That it was a matter of life and death. And he strongly implied he could use my help, and right now. Which obviously I didn’t provide.”

Reeder told him of his attempt to call back.

Bishop said, “You’re saying he was murdered.”

“How the hell do I know? I haven’t talked to the guy in over a year. I can tell you that he didn’t sound suicidal.”

“How did he sound?”

“Uneasy. The kind of uneasy that coming from a seasoned pro like Chris means scared shitless.”

Silence.

Then: “So, then, Peep... you plan to make this an ABC Security issue?”

“I’m going to talk that over with Beth Bryson, after I hear why she believes Chris was murdered. Whose case is it, Bish?”

“Graveyard-shift detective named Pete Woods. You know him?”

“No.”

“He’s a pup, barely paper-trained,” Bishop said. “But he has the makings of a good detective. If this isn’t a suicide, he’ll listen to you if you find something. I mean, hell, who wouldn’t be impressed when the great Joe Reeder expresses an interest?”

“Screw you, buddy... and thanks for the info. You wouldn’t have any idea where Beth Bryson is about now?”

“Woods went out to pick her up. He was taking her to the morgue for the official ID. Been gone about an hour. My guess, if you hustle, you can catch them there.”

Great, track down the widow at the morgue. Still, it might be better than meeting her at home, surrounded by memories.

The morgue and the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner were located in what had once been a cutting-edge facility, the Consolidated Forensics Building on E Street SW. Now, nearly twenty years after its opening, the glass, concrete, and steel shell of its once-modern self had a worn, dirty look.

Inside, the building had held up better, though its along-the-wall lobby seats were worn, with cushions flattened by countless behinds. Antiseptic scent hung in the air in this hospital whose refrigerated patients were on trays and in drawers downstairs.

But Reeder didn’t make a trip to the basement, nor did he check for Beth at the medical examiner’s office. Instead, he treated his ass to one of those flat-cushioned lobby chairs. He had barely settled in when Beth emerged from the elevator, with Chris Jr. supporting her as she made it slowly across the lobby. No sign of their cop escort.

The son had his father’s sandy hair, blue eyes, and solid build on a shortish frame. Thirty or so, an insurance salesman by profession, he wore a gray suit with a light-blue shirt and a striped tie.

Short, blonde Beth wore black slacks and a black jacket over a black silk blouse — not necessarily in mourning, as she preferred black and navy shades, perhaps because she was just slightly on the heavy side. Her face was heart-shaped with a pug nose and Kewpie-doll lips overwhelmed by big light-blue eyes. Her chin rose as she saw Reeder approaching, then she stepped forward and fell into his arms.

As they hugged, he said, “I’m sorry, Beth. So very sorry.”

“Thank you, Peep,” she said, stepping back.

He shook hands with Christopher, who gave him a solemn nod.

Reeder said to Beth, “Where’s Detective Woods?”

“Still with the coroner. Nice enough young man. He’ll be driving us home. We just wanted to... get out of there.”

“I understand. While you wait, could we talk for a moment?”

“Please,” she said, some eagerness in it.

He ushered her to the terrible chairs and he sat on one side of her with her son on the other. Christopher sat forward, keeping an eye on his mother.

Looking from one to the other, Reeder said, “When I say I’m sorry, that’s not just condolences.”

And he told them about the call he’d received from Chris, and apologized for not following it up better.

“No apology necessary,” she said, eyes bright but shimmering. “What you say confirms my suspicions. It really does.”

“If you want my help,” Reeder said, “you have it.”

She swallowed and reached out to clutch his hand. “You knew Chris, Peep. He didn’t kill himself. He would never kill himself.”

“Right now the cops seem to think he did. But I’ll talk to them. The phone message should change things.”

“It has to. Peep, we had such a good marriage. Never even a speed bump. He treated me like I was still the slim little girl he met in college. Just a week ago or so, we booked a second-honeymoon trip to Europe. Why would Chris do such a thing, if he was in the kind of bad place where he might not be alive in three months to take it?”

Reeder knew that people could crash faster than that, but he didn’t think that was the case here, and kept it to himself.

“Chris said it was a matter of life and death,” Reeder said. “What was he mixed up in, Beth?”

“I don’t know, Peep.” She looked to her son, who shook his head, then back to Reeder. “Chris didn’t talk much about work — I don’t have to tell you about the security business.”

He gave her a smile. “Confidentiality on one hand, boredom on the other. Missed meals and late nights.”

She managed a small smile in return, then shrugged. “Everything seemed fine until a few days ago.”

“What happened then?”

Those big blue eyes were really quite lovely. “Nothing specific. Chris just seemed... preoccupied. I’d ask him something and he didn’t seem to hear me until I repeated it. Just very... distracted. Worried, but not in a depressed way, that’s not it! Anyway, on Sunday, I asked him what was wrong, pressed him a little, and he said something odd.”

“What?”

“That he shouldn’t have looked into that... sink.’”

“Sink? Like a bathroom sink? Are we talking plumbing here?”

“No sink problems at home or at the office either, Peep.” She frowned in thought. “Could it be... a name?”

“Maybe.”

Her chin crinkled. “Now I’m so mad at myself.”

“Why would you be?”

“I mean, why didn’t I ask him? Why didn’t I ask what he was talking about? But I just... wanted to respect his space. His privacy. Now I wonder if he was trying to protect me.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Monday. He said he had to do something out of town Monday night, and should be back by yesterday.”

“Where out of town?”

“No idea.”

“Did you hear from him?”

She shook her head. “Not once. Which is kind of unusual. He almost always called, nightly, from his hotel room, but... I wasn’t alarmed or anything. I wish I had been. You don’t think I missed something, Peep, do you? That maybe he was depressed?”

“I don’t. But if I dig into this for you, you have to be prepared — you might not like what I find.”

She looked to her son and they exchanged brave smiles. Then to Reeder she said, “We’ll just have to take that chance, won’t we? But I’m confident it won’t be a reason for suicide. That just wasn’t Chris.”

“I agree.”

He didn’t share with her a major reason why he felt that way — a cop uses his gun to kill himself. And for Chris to hang himself like that, to choose to die in such an excruciating, non-immediate, self-punishing way? No damn chance.

But telling Beth that would be less than comforting.

“So you’ll do it?” she asked, eyes wide, the eagerness shimmering in their teary setting, glancing from Reeder to her son and back again.

The dead man’s son spoke for the first time. “Then you will look into it, Mr. Reeder?”

“I already am,” he told them.

He gave Beth a kiss on the cheek, shook hands with Christopher again, and slipped out. He wasn’t ready to talk to the detective on the case just yet.