Term Limits (7 page)

“Skip, anything new to report?” Roach had been with the Bureau for twenty-six years and had served as its director for the last four. He had been a good agent in his day, but that was all history now. Running the FBI meant forgetting almost everything he'd learned about law enforcement and concentrating on politics and administration.

McMahon pushed himself away from the squad and stepped toward Roach. “The forensic teams are going over the crime scenes, and the pathologists should be starting the autopsies within the hour.” McMahon extended his right hand.

Roach shook it and grabbed the larger McMahon by the arm, walking him several steps toward the sidewalk. Roach's bodyguards fanned out in a circle.

“It's all set. You're in charge of the investigation. There are going to be some people who aren't going to be too happy about that, but I don't care. The fact is you're the best investigative agent we've got, and I need someone I can trust running this thing.”
Roach put one hand in his pocket and straightened his tie with the other. “Skip, the pressure to solve this mess is going to be incredible. It's going to come from every direction, and most of it's going to be political. I'll do my best to screen you from it, but I'm not going to be able to block it all.”

McMahon shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing we're not used to, right?”

“Yeah, but this is gonna be different. My head hurts when I think about all the political pressure that's going to be put on us to solve this thing. The other reason why I'm putting you in charge is because I know how much you hate dealing with the press and politicians. We can't have any leaks. Make sure your people know, their careers are over if they breathe a word to anyone outside the unit about the investigation.”

“Understood.”

Roach looked at his watch. “I need you to come to the White House with me and give a quick briefing. It's driving the president nuts that the only information he's getting is from the TV.” Roach noticed the frown on McMahon's face and said, “All I need you to do is give them the basics on what you've found at the three crime scenes. Come on, let's go.” Roach nodded toward his limo and they walked away from the crime scene with the bodyguards in tow.

McMahon and Roach had known each other for a long time. The two men had met when McMahon was a second-year agent and Roach was fresh out of the FBI's Academy. Over the last twenty-some years, they'd become good friends. Roach, from the start, wanted to rise to the top of the Bureau, and
McMahon never wanted to be anything more than an agent. McMahon's lack of ambition was twofold. First and foremost, he was a realist. He knew himself well and understood that he would never be able to bury his pride and brownnose his way to the upper levels. The director had to be able to play the Washington game, something the elite investigator was not well suited for. McMahon didn't beat around the bush; if he thought you were wrong, he told you. It didn't matter who you were. This, of course, had not always gone over well. There'd been several politicians and at least one former director who had wanted his career with the FBI terminated.

Luckily for McMahon, he was very good at what he did. This was the second reason for his lack of ambition. He loved his job. Throughout the Bureau, McMahon was recognized as the best homicide investigator. He was not one to follow FBI procedure like a robot. Other agents from around the country consulted with him on their investigations. He had his own unique way of doing things. During his time at the Bureau he had watched some great investigators waste away after being promoted into cushy administrative jobs. Not Skip McMahon. He had told Roach four years earlier, when his friend became director, “The day you pull me out of the field is the day I retire.”

Before climbing into the director's limo, McMahon yelled to Kathy Jennings, one of the agents who worked under his command. Jennings was talking to a group of agents, all of whom were wearing their standard crime-scene blue FBI windbreakers.
She put her conversation on hold and approached her mentor. Her long auburn hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She greeted the director professionally and then turned to McMahon.

McMahon took a deep breath, told Jennings that he'd be back as soon as possible, and then started to rattle off a list of things for the young agent to check on. “Make sure every level of law enforcement within three hundred miles is notified to be on the lookout for multiple males traveling in generic American-model cars.” McMahon began sticking the forefinger of his right hand into the palm of his left hand as he went down his list. “Remind them to arrest anyone who they think is the slightest bit suspicious and to hold them until one of our people arrives. Make sure they understand that last part clearly, and make sure the suspect profiles are faxed to all of their officers. When you're done with that, find out how the teams are doing with the surveillance tapes at Dulles and National, and if anything comes up, call me immediately.”

Jennings nodded and watched her boss slip into the backseat of the long dark car.

As they drove down the street, McMahon filled Roach in on the specifics of Fitzgerald's death. The director had already been briefed via phone on the murders of Koslowski and Downs. The drive from Georgetown to the White House took less than ten minutes. As they pulled into the White House compound, Roach asked, “What are the chances we'll catch these guys before they get away?”

“We have checkpoints set up on all the roads heading out of town, every airport within three hundred miles is being watched, and the Navy and the Coast Guard are tracking every vessel that's headed out to sea.”

“So, what are our chances?”

McMahon frowned and said, “My gut tells me we're wasting our time. Whoever did this was good… really good. They either left the country immediately or they're holing up somewhere waiting until things cool down.”

“You're probably right. But we have to be really careful on this one. Otherwise, I'll be sitting in front of a joint committee next year getting second-guessed by a bunch of old men who want to show their voters back home that they know more than the director of the FBI.” Roach paused for a moment. “Besides, don't forget those pros that set off the bomb in the World Trade Center. Who would have thought they would have been dumb enough to try and get the deposit back on that van? These criminals aren't always as smart as we think they are.”

“Brian, it doesn't take a great criminal mind to park a van loaded with explosives in the underground parking garage of the World Trade Center. But there aren't many organizations out there who can kill three different people, in three different locations, in one evening, and leave no traces. It's not like blowing up a pipe bomb at the Olympics. Any idiot can leave a bomb in a park. It's far more complicated to get up close and personal when killing someone.”

Roach pondered McMahon's comments as the limousine came to a stop. The director's bodyguards opened the doors, and Roach said, “Before we go in, let me warn you about a couple of things. Everyone will understand that you haven't had a lot of time to prepare for this briefing, so keep it simple and try not to editorialize too much. The president won't say a lot, but watch out for Garret.”

“Don't worry, I won't embarrass you… at least not intentionally.” McMahon smiled.

“One other thing. Don't stick your neck out too far. If they ask you for an opinion, and they will, just tell them it's too early to tell.”

McMahon gave his boss another nod. “Brian, I
have
done this before.”

“I know, Skip, but you haven't dealt with this administration before.” Roach lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just trust me, and watch what you say.”

The director stepped out of the car first. Roach's bodyguards walked them to the door and into a small foyer. A Secret Service agent approached and escorted them to the Cabinet Room. It was not the first time McMahon had been to the White House, but it was the first time he'd been in the Cabinet Room. His other meetings had taken place in either the Oval Office or the Situation Room in the basement.

As McMahon and Director Roach were getting ready to settle into their chairs, the president, Garret, and National Security Adviser Mike Nance entered the room with Garret in the lead. Garret clapped his hands together loudly. “Come on, gentlemen, let's get this meeting started.”

The president took his seat in the middle of the
long table. Garret sat immediately to his right and Nance to his left. Sitting across from the president were Skip McMahon, FBI director Roach, CIA director Thomas Stansfield, and the CIA's top terrorism expert, Dr. Irene Kennedy.

Roach and Stansfield introduced their subordinates, and then Garret started the meeting. “Well, Director Roach, I sure hope you have some answers for us.”

Roach looked to the president and said, “Mr. President, with the help of the congressional switchboard and several local police departments, we've secured the whereabouts of the remaining five hundred and thirty-two senators and congressmen. All of the Supreme Court justices, cabinet members, and Joint Chiefs of Staff have also been accounted for. Right now it looks like the only individuals they were after were Senator Fitzgerald, Senator Downs, and Congressman Koslowski.

“I have a meeting scheduled for one P.M. with Director Tracy of the Secret Service to discuss the resources we have available to provide protection for the remaining members of the House and Senate. I have already dispatched agents to protect the most senior members of both parties. Until we know more about what is going on, I think we should play it safe.” Roach turned to Nance. “Mike, before I leave, I would like a minute of your time to discuss what resources we may be able to borrow from the military, such as MPs or Marines that are trained for embassy duty.” Nance nodded and Roach continued, “I'm going to have Special Agent McMahon take over from here and fill you in on the
specifics of what happened late yesterday evening and early this morning. When he's finished, I will bring you up to speed on the interdiction measures we're taking. Special Agent McMahon has been to all three crime scenes this morning.” Roach turned to McMahon and nodded.

McMahon cleared his throat and said, “Let me start by saying that this investigation is only a few hours old, so we don't have a lot of specifics.” McMahon looked from one end of the table to the other as he spoke. “The first of the three to be killed, and the last to be found, was Senator Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald's limousine driver—”

Garret interrupted, “Don't you have a brief prepared, so we can follow?”

McMahon looked at Roach, giving him a chance to respond, knowing his boss's reply would be more diplomatic than his own. Roach turned to the president, intentionally bypassing Garret. “Sir, we haven't had time to prepare a report. We will have one on your desk by two this afternoon.”

“That's fine. Please continue,” the president responded.

Garret shook his head sideways and wrote something down on his yellow notepad.

McMahon started again. “As I was saying, Fitzgerald's limousine driver reports dropping the senator off at his house in Kalorama Heights just after midnight. Our preliminary guess on Fitzgerald's time of death is sometime between midnight and one-thirty A.M. The cause of death appears to be a broken neck. We'll know more after the autopsy is completed.” McMahon paused for a
second. “The back door of Fitzgerald's house shows signs of being picked, and his security system was defeated on-site. Fitzgerald's body was found shoved into a closet in the basement. Our best guess right now is that the perpetrator, or perpetrators, were waiting inside the house when Fitzgerald got home, killed him, and then moved the body to the basement.” In a bland tone McMahon added, “We are questioning the neighbors to see if they saw anything last night, and a forensics team is going over the house checking for evidence.”

“Agent McMahon, you sound as if you don't expect to find anything,” interrupted Garret again.

McMahon looked at Garret hard. “Whoever killed these men is very good. It is highly unlikely that they left any useful evidence behind.” He continued to stare at Garret without saying anything until the president's chief of staff looked away.

“Congressman Koslowski was the next one to die. From what we know so far, Koslowski got out of bed around six A.M. and was shot in the back of the head twice. The shots were fired from a high-powered rifle and were taken from the house across the street. The house belongs to Harold Burmiester, a wealthy, retired banker. When we entered the house this morning, we found that the phone line had been cut and the back door was missing a pane of glass. Burmiester's German shepherd was unconscious and, we presume, drugged. Burmiester was found tied up in a bedroom on the second floor. The screen had been removed on the window directly across from Koslowski's bedroom, and there were powder burns found on the windowsill.

“After talking to Burmiester, we've pieced together the following details: Just before eleven P.M. last night, Burmiester let his dog out. At this point, we think the dog was probably drugged. Burmiester went to bed around midnight in the bedroom where the shots were fired from. Sometime between twelve-thirty A.M. and five-thirty A.M. the perpetrator or perpetrators broke into the house, rendered Burmiester unconscious, and moved him to a different bedroom. They waited, and when Koslowski opened the doors, they took their shot. We're having some blood tests done on Burmiester and his dog, and we should know whether or not they were drugged by early afternoon. The crime boys are going over both houses and the neighbors are being questioned.”

“Where was Koslowski's wife during all of this?” asked Garret sarcastically.

“Mrs. Koslowski sleeps in another room.” McMahon again attempted to ignore Garret's irritating manner.