Political thriller words

56,744

The Stem Cell Dilemma A RED SENATE St Peters Pendulum A Fulcrums Tipping Point St. Peters fulcrum St. Peters Senate The Senate Assassin The two domes of St. Peter St Peters Assassin Murder of the fifth pious judge A fifth pious Murder By Scott M. Pollard

20 Tray Hollow Road, Foster RI 02825 - (401) 952-3475

With the precious second given him slipping away, FBI special agent Michael Tisan, assigned to report on the accidental death of a U.S. Senator, uncovers it a murder; a murder tied to the Vatican and motivated to swing the balance of power inside the beltway, ultimately changing the make up of the Supreme Court just before arguments on the most fundamental abortion case since Roe v. Wade.

The evenly split United States Senate, where the Republican Vice-President breaks all ties in favor of his party, is about to undergo a total and unexpected power alteration. In the mists of a rancorous public discourse on life, stem cell research and religion in government policy and on the heels of a recent and wholly partisan Senate Judiciary Committee vote recommending the confirmation of a new and ultra-religiously conservative justice to the US Supreme Court, an FBI supervisor, Michael Tisan, is assigned to investigate the seemingly accidental death of a single US Senator only to uncover it a murder. The investigation leads him through the halls of Capital Hill; inside the walls of the Vatican and finally home to RI. Although the journey to capture the killer may find him love and make his career, the results present him with a choice between loyalty and justice.

Chapter one. Marble and Vino Chapter two . The News Chapter three .. Vanth and Sal Chapter four .Bast Chapter Five ..Notice Chapter six ...The Office Chapter seven..The Red Mass Chapter eight ...The Letters Chapter nine ...The Zealot Chapter ten ..DaSilva Park Chapter eleven ..The European Chapter twelve .NO NAME YET Chapter thirteen ...The Flight Chapter fourteen .....Rome Chapter fifteen .....Dario Vincent Franco III Chapter sixteen...The Call Chapter seventeen ...The Wolf Chapter eighteen ...Catching a Cardinal Chapter nineteen ...The Vatican Chapter twenty ... NO NAME YET Chapter twenty one ...NO NAME YET

Chapter twenty-two..The Debriefing Chapter twenty three ....NO NAME YET

CHAPTER ONE

MARBLE & VINO

I cleared several security check points before noticing that the wide and usually bustling corridors of the United States Justice Department were eerily empty of suits and stars. It was quiet - except each office entryway I passed. There, the volume of nationally known politicos blared and dimmed off the veined marble floors, emanating from lobby televisions where staff gathered around looking for any additional news. No doubt, it was just the beginning of several strange weeks. Everyone would be on edge, be it their job, their position or their power, all of which are mutually exclusive in D.C. In fact, this morning I got three phone calls, all before breakfast and each believing they were the first to announce the news to me. Overnight, speculation on the resulting political impact had become the new Olympic metal event. The death, last night, of the Senior Senator from Rhode Island would change many of the dynamics in this town. She was switching between three different phone lines announcing, Director's Office, please hold. Never putting the receiver down as three other lines began ringing and blinking, she covered the mouthpiece, sort of smiled at me in an

uneasy expression and gestured palm up to the double doors, Go right in Michael. He's expecting you. Even though I normally assign death page reports on government officials to the wet bureau rats, this was going to be the first death of a United States Senator in my quadrant since Bobby Kennedy was assassinated and I didn't want it screwed up. I took a large, deep breath and grabbed the oversized brass doorknob; the warmth radiating from it surprised me. I looked back at Beverly who was tapping her pen against a yellow note pad while engrossed in another phone call but also waiting for me. I nodded to her. A gentle but familiar and muffled buzzer sounded. The vibration was instantaneously followed by a mild, yet louder 'click' and I pushed open the door. * * * The faded black Infinity Q45 glided gently into the sparsely lit alley in the Federal Hill section of Providence, Rhode Island. He slowly dialed back the headlights and shifted it into park. The alleyway was adorned with a small green dumpster, marked with black spray paint tags and a loosely covered 50 gallon drum with cooking grease slowly dripping down the side. Each, stood like soldiering guards protecting a dented and windowless metal door, encased by an old brick building. Light from underneath the it permeated the darkness, reaching out across the alley, as best it could, casting an unflinching shadow on the frost covered driver's side window.

The Q45s engine was still running when the door slowly opened, squealing sternly as if in protest. His flat charcoal colored raincoat brushed the ground as he stepped onto the patchy, wet pavement. His deep steady breaths hung visibly as a small group of tipsy and scantily dressed college girls meandered passed the head of this shallow alley. They were off to enjoy their next Sunset Martini, oblivious to the world around and proceeded past without a glance in his direction. Gently, he closed the car's door behind him but only enough to extinguish the interior lights and not completely. With thin and skintight black leather gloves, he tucked a gold herringbone chain and small cross back under his black shirt and with the second knuckle of his left hand, protruding from a clenched fist, he quietly tapped twice on the hood and walked lightly toward the buildings door which was a pinky ajar. Pressing a brown clay colored eye to the opening, he inserted his hand and opening it quickly, he entered, closing it behind him. He glanced methodically down the hall in front of him toward the noisy kitchen before descending left, down a set of old stone stairs. Turning and pausing briefly on the fourth step, he placed small dark plastic device on each side. Continuing to the bottom, moving quietly and without haste, he preceded down a narrow hallway to a huge rounded oak and iron strapped door. Noting a lack of light emanating from the door's underside, he slid a shiny chrome skeleton key out of his pocket and into a formidable looking mortise lock while simultaneously coating all three large cast iron hinges with a burst of aerosol spray. He jiggled the key, turned and opened door without a single sound and with only slight resistance, a resistance he couldnt place. Closing the door behind him, he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small plastic black box with a

domed light atop and black hand towel, rolled lengthwise. He placed the towel on the floor and pushed it into the doors gap, turned and switched on a dim white light at the top of his box, placing it in the middle of the room. The room, now dimly lit, was medium sized with fairly high ceilings, a new slate floor abutted old field stone foundation walls which were lined with a dozen, eight foot tall racks of wine, six on each side. Two dust coated oscillating ceiling fans running on low, pushed the tepid and stuffy air around. It was quickly evident to him that the oldest racks and bottles were in the back right hand corner of the room. With the slight breeze, some of the oldest bottles barely held on to their labels, yet all were covered with some measure of dusty age. At the far end of the room stood a thick and square solid oak table built into a large nook of the wall. On it was a small wooden box, four Bordeaux glasses, a decanter and a sommelier's cup. Four small chairs upholstered with red crushed velvet were purposefully placed off to the side and lined neatly in a row. He pulled a photo out of his pocket and quickly began scanning it against the bottles in a calculated and rhythmic system. Upon finding his target, he removed two of the same bottle and stood them up on the oak table. Pulling out a small round glass medical vial and syringe package from the leather pouch attached at his belt, he tore the top of the package off with his teeth and withdrew a long thick hypodermic syringe. The packaging slipped from his grasp, dropped to the floor and was quickly blown underneath the racks by the fans breeze. He cursed under his breath in Italian and returned to his work, always

listening toward the door and glancing back to his box in the middle of the floor. Drawing liquid from the vial into the syringe until full, he placed the loaded needle on the table and dropped the vial back into his pouch. Holding each firmly about the neck, he proceeded to inject through the cork half of the clear liquid. When done, he returned the bottles to their original location on the racks. CRASH! A tray of glasses and dishes smashing against the ceiling above, echoed from beyond the door. He froze. A moment later the light atop his small black box changed from white to faint red. He moved quickly. Withdrawing the box from the floor and toggling it off, the room became devoid of light. He removed from his waistband a flinty steel blue, Walter P.P.K., silencer attached and with the other hand, unsheathed slowly from his boot, a thick six-inch Roman dagger, the blade scraping against the scabbard. He pulled away the rolled up towel from behind the medieval door with his boot and waited. Her heals struck at the slate floor. The sound grew rhythmically louder and closer. The cold, which had gripped him earlier, vanished. His heart pumped steadily quicker with a familiar warming. Time slowed and sounds heightened. The tumbler at the door was breached. A key turned. It locked ... and then unlocked again. There was a hesitation from the other side and then silence as the door deliberately and silently opened and settled against his chest. He stood almost stoically in the dark as a solder behind enemy lines, his back

pinned against the chilled and uneven fieldstone wall. High to the shoulder, but loosely gripped, gently he rubbed his thumb against the worn, but polished hammer. The door cracked open and then widely, albeit slowly. With a 'click', the room fully illuminated. His eyelids constricted and pupils tightened. Beads of perspiration gathered to his brow assuring him of the decision he had already made should he be discovered. Peering with his eye through a cracked seam in the wood, he could see from the back that her hair was sheer, parted down the middle, dead straight and raven black. It placed what he could observe of her pale complexion at attention. She was tall, thin and older than he expected given the sheen and vibrancy of her long strides. She reached out, placed her slender hand to one of the farthest racks and grabbed a single bottle of wine. Her lone piece of jewelry, a large and deeply colored Opal entrapped in a modest gold setting, lightly but purposefully clinked against the glass, as she sunk the bottle about the neck. He grinned in the darkness knowing his executed deed was fait accompli. Turning back ... she hesitated ... suddenly frozen in place, bottle in hand and starring at the wide open door. Still for a moment and then she reached for the door without a seeming concern, turned off the light, exited the room and pulled the door behind her. Click rolled the tumbler closed. Her well-worn black pumps struck the slate floor with the rhythm of a runway model, repeating the familiar echo, yet in reverse. He sloppily stuffed the gun back into his waistband and re-holstered the

dagger, swiping at the sweat gathered on his brow, relegating it to the back of his leather bound hand. He removed the small black box, holding it his hand he flipped the toggle, presenting a red light. As she moved past the top stair, the color changed again to white. A reassuring buoyancy washed over him and his blood began to cool. Satisfied, he gathered up his instruments and redrawing the gun from his waistband, exited the wine cellar, climbed the basement stairs and the pulled away from the alley, unnoticed. Three blocks North he parked in a municipal parking lot near White University. Walking South, above basket weaved brick sidewalks encased with cobblestone curbing and below period open flamed gas lamp posts, he casually tossed the empty vial and syringe down a sewer drain and disappeared through a park into the night. *** Upon reaching the top of the stairs, wine bottle in hand, she took a left and proceeded side stepping through a busy but narrow restaurant kitchen full of steam and lined with white subway tiles. The sweet and acidic smells of a San Marzano tomato sauce bubbling urgently and awaiting the next plate of homemade gnocchi tempered and contrasted with freshly minced garlic angrily snapping and popping in a pan dressed with virgin olive oil. She passed through and into the restaurant untouched through double doors. The old world dining room was tasteful, with grand fifteen-foot ceilings adorned with huge bright white crown molding and low hanging crystal chandeliers

and it was bustling with semi formal patrons. The line awaiting a table extended out to the sidewalk. Couples standing in line whispered and those new to the anticipation, drilled questions at the Matre de on the availability of that single open table, hub to the spoke of an enormous center window, which overlooked the Rhode Island State House and the vibrantly lit but chilly city. Winding between and past table upon table and hurriedly passing several younger servers and guests as she arrived at that one single open table. Standing politely off to the side until the Maitre'd had sufficiently engorged himself in casual small talk on the local soccer team's playoff chances; she presented him with his usual bottle of wine. She and he had grown familiar with one another over many years and so he simply placed his hand on her shoulder and nodded while looking past to the back corner of the room to return the wave of a constituent, a U.S. Senate lapel pin glimmering in the low light. Senator Gabriel was always impeccably dressed. He still maintained more than a hint of his Italian accent and clearly enjoyed delving in fully with his older Italian constituents when given the chance. Tonight he adorned a custom tailored, gray pinstripe suit marked with an obvious sheen of quality. His stark white tabunder collared shirt strengthened his jaw line and pronounced the knot of his silk red tie forward, grabbing ones attention and leading the eye downward to a barely visible belly. The razor edged pleat of his pants broke only once in their march downward and then just above the instep as if deferring to the artisanship of a pair of highly polished and handmade oxblood Italian shoes.

* * * The conference room styled office overflowed with some thirty of the best, brightest and most powerful people in the United States Government. Sunlight blared though the floor to ceiling windows and illuminated an abundance of two things floating in the silent and staring room: dust and ambition. The four that immediately stood out were the Chairman and the Ranking Member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, the Attorney General of the United States and my boss the Director of the FBI, David Kiefer. I paused upon entry, holding the door open and looked around the room. A rookie move for an 18 year veteran, but I was a little nervous. The smell of stale coffee, hastily showered bureaucrats and freshly opened dry cleaning, struck me. After my not too subtle glare around the room, I realized, except for Mark Olsen, the Deputy Director of the FBI and a longtime friend from the academy, the Director was the only other one in the room I actually knew personally. Director Kiefer was standing next to the Attorney General. Both were at the far end of the room and standing at the head of a large T shaped mahogany conference table. The seating order seemed to follow, almost by design, political stature from front to back with the window seat in the rear clearly reserved for some of the Director's most trusted administrative staff, including Mark. Everyone else except the two Senators sat at the main trunk. They sat off to the side of the room at a small table in large blue tufted Queen Anne chairs. As I breached the precipice, turned and closed the door, the murmurs and cupped conversations began. They were all hoping I had information on the

Senator's car accident no doubt. Every resident of D.C. and the nation really, was looking for answers on the death or a briefing of the political impact the death would have on the Senate, but I was not the wealth of information they were looking for, not yet anyway. Excellent ... excellent. Michael, come in. Quiet everyone! I would like you all to meet Michael Tisan. He is one of the Bureau's very best. He is the Special Agent in Charge of the New England quadrant and is based in our Boston Office. The room gently dimmed still and silent yet again. The Director continued constructing me from birth to present by resume to the room of doubting Thomas' and then he got their attention. Michael is being brought in to secure all necessary information on the Senator's death. Michael was born and raised in Rhode Island. His grandfather was even Governor of Rhode Island many years ago and like Louisiana and you can appreciate this Senator as he motioned stridently to the small table for two with his pointed finger, it's a parochial state to say the least. In fact, the state motto is HOPE but what it should be is 'I hope ya know someone'. So Michael, you get me a - - "HOLD on just a minute David! * * * Decades in the U.S. Senate had clearly been good to him, although there were some signs of age. His hands were mildly swelled at the knuckles and lacked the

dexterity of a younger man; but generally his matured olive skin and clean living along with a weekly dinner and bottle of wine at Pisa's overlooking his city, hid most of the blemishes which age generally presents. He remained standing deferentially as his wife was safely tucked into her seat then he sat and grabbed the glass of water in front of him, lifting it just above shoulder height. Vanth, what do I always say? he asked. She smiled willing to play his game yet again. His wife playfully rolled her eyes as he continued with their ritual greeting, Water is for washing ... Wine is for drinking. Yes Senator. she retorted, knowing he was proud of himself. You're early tonight. she said, as she turned back to the Senators wife and proceeded to uncork the bottle, Are you going to the theater? No, we're on babysitting duty tonight Im afraid. Oh, I'll get your salad's right away. she said, as she placed the cork face up on the white linen table cloth in front of the Senator and poured death into his glass. The poison only took two hours to thief his final breath. His wife, who had been following his car home, found his body lifeless. The car had flipped a small embankment, nose-diving into a remote and wooded location about two miles from seeing his grandchildren, the left tail light still flickering on and off in the darkness. * * *

Know this, when the Attorney General of United States stands up, a hulk of a man in his own right and says, Hold on! everyone stops in their tracks. The 58 year old, U.S. Attorney General Jefferies was broad in the shoulders, fat and tall with a noticeable southern drawl. His five-year stint in the N.F.L. as a probowl tight end with the Washington Redskins ended badly on the thirty-yard line of the 1983 Superbowl. He still carried a golden lion headed walking cane from the damage to his hip, but with the teams waive popularity nationally and sympathy for his injury, he went on to win a U.S. House seat from his home state of Georgia, where he had also played college ball for Georgia State. While in congress, he was the first member to ever attended and graduate from Georgetown law school cum laude. After several years of good soldiering for the leadership, he was given the Chairmanship of the newly created Homeland Security Committee and an initial budget and authority that made many of his colleagues choke. During his tenure as a Chairman, he cemented a relationship with the senior Senator from Virginia who sought and received the new Homeland Security headquarters in his home state. That Senator went on to become Vice president and then President. Now, after 30 years in D.C., not counting the stadium, he was the Attorney General of the United States, smooth and polished, but still with a gridiron edginess. I thought, well that's that. He is going to put his own guy in charge and I can fly back to Boston, first class, courtesy of the good ole US of A. The problem was, I was only half right.

Son he said, squinting at me over his gold-rimmed spectacles and placing his clenched fists firmly onto the table in front of him, You report directly to me. As his elbows locked, he gently leaned forward, shifting his weight even further over the table, Get on a flight back to that state of yours, secure the scene, get the details and report back to me. He paused. It was an uncomfortable pause for everyone, but none dared to interject. I'm sure you're aware of the magnitude of the damm politics involved here, so keep your head low. In fact, keep it very low! His voiced then changed to a sinnued whisper, as he must have realized that the attention he had garnered with his tone was far from prudent given the company. He reared back a measure of his bodyweight from the table. Releasing his fists, extending his fingers on one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other and said, All I want is a ... neat ... little report. Yes Sir I nodded. The Director gave me a curt glancing stare. You can go now and take this. he said. He extended his right hand at waist level to the Director who handed him a thin manila folder. The director then slid it across the table to me. The air caught the lip of the folder and it opened. Inside, for all to see was another file this one tied shut by a red cord. The folder was light blue and prominently displaying a large Presidential Seal, stamped diagonally in large red

letters the word 'CONFIDENTIAL'. I closed the outer file, noting all the gawkers in the back of the room who drooled at the assignment as I placed it in my briefcase. Mark stood up, slid his hand on to my shoulder and escorted me to the door. He leaned into my ear as the open door blocked everyone's view. Don't forget who got you here me, so forget the A.G., just keep the Director and me up to date. He presented and then slid a blank white business card containing a hand written phone number into the hip pocket of my suit. The investigation would have to start in Providence, but the traffic from Boston to Providence everyday would be too much. Once on the plane, I figured that Id call home and let Mom know I'd be staying with her for a few days. It would be nice, as I hadn't seen her since they returned from Rome a few weeks ago. My phone hadn't even rung and my stepfather Hayden answered, Hello? Hey Hayden, Is Mom around? I asked. Michael? ... How the heck are ya? Your mother has been chewing my ear all week about whether she would call you or not. She worries a lot about being thought of as doating ya know? How the heck are ya. We miss you around here ya know? Yea, yup. I replied, Is Mom around? Just got back from a business trip. I got more accomplished in one meeting than any one of these consultants could accomplish in the last twelve months.

Majella, should be back in the 'Fortune 1000' by the end of the year, but where are you? It sounds like you're in a tunnel. Thats good! Mom must be thrilled. I've got to tell ya, I am pretty happy to hear that myself as my shares have really been taking a beating lately. The tunnel sound is from the plane. Im on my way back from D.C. Is Mom around? Yup, your mother ... ah hold on. Let me get her for you. Shes in the garden, I think. Oh, OK. Dont worry about it. I said, loudly and quickly hoping to stop him from putting the phone down and undertaking the quest, Just let her know that I'll be coming home for a few days. Tell her not to make a fuss or dinner reservations, as Ill be working and just need a place to flop for a night or two. Does it have anything to do with Senator Gabriel's death? he asked. Why Hayden continued to ask questions about my work was beyond me. First of all, we have never been terribly close and even if we were close, I couldn't tell him anything anyway. That's the job. He seemed to know it put me an uncomfortable position too, but apparently his drive to share the inside scoop with the boys at the supper club drove him to it. Cant say. was the same response I always gave. Oh ... ok, Well it will be great to see ya. he said, I'll tell your mother as soon as she comes in and I'll see ya soon.

Once the plane landed in Rhode Island, I figured Id head straight for the Medical Examiners office. The body should have been autopsied and the report should be completed by now. I hadnt seen Dan in years, but hed have some answers for me on the Senators death.

***
Devin McGinn started as a legal intern with the criminal division in D.C. following his first year of law school. After graduation, he was hired full time, known for a keen eye to detail and a cold detached personality. He slowly wound his way up through the bureaucracy. He was truly a start-up and not a Senators son. McGinn had slow burned through two marriage licenses while on the job, never looking back on those closest to him when forced to make a choice between career and anything else. He worked long and he worked hard. When sleep was necessary, his office closet contained a pillow and blanket to make his broken-in, brown leather conference room couch more comfortable. A patriotic duty and a chess champions focus drove him from dusk to early evening. From his underlings, he demanded the same depth and breath of commitment and all nighters and weekends are nothing unusual if the case was high profile enough. He was christened by blood and fragments of granite two years into clipping the badge at his belt. After making a solo arrest in a string of violent explosions at several Atlanta area abortion clinics, he was donned with his first big assignment, the Carson City bombing and it made his carrer. McGinn didnt make many friends

leading up to the prosecution of Tommy Mac Vegal and the subsequent trial, but his leadership of the case presentation won a life sentence, which was the only measure of success that D.C. cared about after the horrors of the scene. Following Carson City, due in part to his prickly personality, depthless memory and crisp intelligence, McGinn was moved around the country. He was used as a tool of central control, inserting the influence of the United States Department of Justice into every major federal criminal prosecution unfolding nationally. He was too smart for many in D.C. to admit and the easiest way to circumvent the conflicts he presented higher ups was to send him about, vagabonding. They had the best of both worlds and so for more almost a decade, he acted as a super prosecutor over local federal prosecutors in almost every state in the nation. In a short amount of time, he had been given total oversight control and a supervisory veto in the application of tactics related to criminal scene investigations and Federal evidentiary admissions on every case he oversaw. He had amassed a loyal opposition of colleagues across the country with his take no prisoners approach. It took years of crime scene and courtroom blow ups before the winter ended and he toned his edge. From there forward, McGinn began to amass a loyal following. A growing soft power with a cornucopia of contacts, a velvet edge had begun to draw back on the pendulums momentum. Now, a United States Assistant Attorney General of 20 years grisly experience, McGinn was recalled to DC permanently in the fog of a short national recession, which had resulted in the mass exodus of clearance level staff through incentivized

retirements. It left the Agency gutted. He was given his own national oversight unit, which he composed of laid-off staff from the far reaches of the country. His unit was stacked with workaholics that had no DC contacts, outsiders. Yet, he was a quick study and learned the ways of Washington and began slowly building the massive bureaucratic reach needed. When combined with his own substantial national powerbase, he was a formable hub and was quickly elevated to the next level, bringing his team with him. Now at the pinnacle of his career, head of the A.G.s Criminal Division, he answered only to the U.S. Attorney General with some additional responsibility for advising the U.S. Senate on the Appointment of aspiring U.S. Attorneys. McGinns boss, U.S. Attorney General Jefferies, called him at home to ensure he would attend the briefing on Senator Gabriels car accident. He wasnt surprised by the invitation, but he never expected the briefing to take place across the hall, in the old mans office. Being thirty minutes early, he was the first to arrive, ignoring Beverly with a short smile and an index finger point, he knocked and entered the office, not waiting for a reply from inside. Devin. Im glad youre here early. I have a bad feeling on this one. And with all the cross agency bullshit and jurisdiction being with the FBI, I may need you to be the bad guy. When am I ever the good guy? McGinn replied. The bad guy was the core of his being. All the gentleness of modern day

business politics was necessary but so unsatisfying. When given the opportunity for little downside, he still relished verbally striping people naked in front of others and then watching them shrink in silent humiliation. Even when he was, he despised being nice and polite to mindless idiots who could barely think for themselves, confident jarheads strutting about the building, their chests puffed out, confident in their ignorance. He relished the role and liked to play it straight with no emotion, just cruel and direct only donning a Mona Lisa smile. Heres a copy of the file I am going to give to the FBI Directors guy, Michael Tisan. The Director is putting him in charge of the Death Page report, but I have a bad feeling. I knew Senator Gabriel. Shit - we golfed together every year at the Redskins charity tournament. He was as healthy as a teenage punk rocker. Oh and here is Tisans personnel file. Dont let that out. I called in a favor to get it. He is not a real go-getter, but smart. Stay out of the light of day until a few days pass. Im going to press our involvement in a few days, but get on it immediately.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEWS
I grabbed a new black on black, Chrysler 300C from the airport rental. Headquarters wouldn't blink with the Director signing off on the expense report. I felt a little like 007. It had been a long time since Id handled a field case in RI and was going to probably see a lot of people. So I was going to show off a little I guess. Heading up 95 N to Providence, I turned on the radio realizing I had not even listened to the news since last nights report was relayed to me by Mark. The Sun was just about setting in the rear view and the AM channels were hopping with rush hour discussions. All kinds of RI political gurus, analysts and call-in conspirators were speculating about the impact of the passing of Senator Gabriel. They were also reporting breaking news of another bombing of an abortion clinic in Atlanta. Nothing has inspired more vitriol, protests and street fires in the country lately than the abortion debate. Abortion was the issue of the day in this country like Communism and gas shortages were in the 70's and talk radio combined with the 24-hour news cycle only fueled the passions. Rising pressure on politicians and the spilling of blood across the country was occurring with increasing frequency. I killed the radio noise as I pulled into the ME's parking lot. Dan Thread was an old friend from Roger William University undergrad. In college he hemmed and hawed with me over many a pint about not knowing whether he should go into medicine or law so I guess I shouldnt have been

surprised when he ended up with the Rhode Island Medical Examiners office. Everyone was leaving work. Secretary's in groups of two and three wearing short skirts and white lab coats with their hair in tight little buns or pulled back with brightly colored clips were emptying from the double doors of this old Gothic style brick building. If only the state mental patients who called this home over 100 years ago could see it now, all cleaned up and pretty; it might have cured them. A Channel 6 news crew was set up outside the parking lot ready to go live for the 6 pm news. I was hoping to catch Dan before he left; as I knew he was a 'kept man' and thus was one to be home on time. His wife was not only a major hottie in college but also one hell of a good cook, who did not take kindly to having her efforts wasted. As I approached the large revolving main doors, a Rhode Island Trooper stepped out, raised his palm to face me, and inquired, Can I help you? Well, this is a moment every FBI Agent lives for, even if they would never admit it publicly. I silently slid my hand under the left lapel of my black cashmere topcoat into the inside pocket of my cheap, but well-tailored suit. I unfolded my black passport style wallet containing a shiny FBI badge complete with my picture ID and said No. I am here to see the ME. Thanks though. Never breaking stride, I walked right past him while he searched for what to say next. I was standing in front of the main desk signing in when into the reception area walked a 40ish looking man of a towering 5'3. He was at least 35 lbs. heavier than I remembered and balding evenly.

Dan? I said. Michael! I had a feeling I would be hearing from you. I assume youre here on business. Does anyone come here for pleasure? Funny... very funny. Dont think for a second I havent heard all the death jokes at each reunion before so save it partner. How in the Hell are you Michael? I'm good. It's good to be home again. I'm back to issue a finding and conclusions report on Gabriel's death. Do you have time to talk? He turned, pivoting on one heal and swung his whole body wide sweeping his open hand toward the same door he had just exited imitating Vanna White, without question. he said, pivot complete. Dan was a true blue standup guy. You could count him on in tight spot, at least in college. We spent many a night 'hugging the porcelain' together after a time. I was going to call. I sort of hoped it was you handling this case. I should have known. he said, Come on. I've got some news. As we walked deeper and deeper into the heart of the building, I spotted another State Trooper sitting aside one of the last doors on the left. He was reading the sports page of the Providence Journal Bulletin. He looked up and nodded at Dan who returned the gesture. He then looked straight back to his paper, shaking it

violently to return its natural fold. We took a right down another dark and empty hallway into a large and well-lit office with Dan's name on the door. It was packed with boxes and files in every nook and cranny. There was little to no floor space in the room except for the pathway leading directly behind the desk, but even that seemed treacherous. Dan stopped halfway into the room and began rearranging the location of several boxes and a few open files. To my eye this had little effect on the available space in the room but it apparently made him feel better so I said nothing. So I could sit, he removed two boxes from the chair in front of his desk. I could not tell whether he was in more pain from lifting them or finding a place to put them, but eventually and after finding few other options, he positioned the boxes precariously on top of other boxes he had 'filed' on the chair next to mine. He then proceeded to swat at the cleared seat as if he expected it to be dirty or troublesome. Motioning me to sit and saying apologetically, I don't get many visitors here. Not too many who can sit up on their own anyway. I retorted. Exactly. he giggled. He sat down at his desk and cleared away another box, which clearly would have blocked his view of me. He reached into the bottom draw and pulled out a file, opened it, turned it around and slid it to me across the newly discovered space. Like the unexpected crack of a ruler across the bridge of ones nose he said, Mike, the Senator was murdered. A tox screen came back positive for a fatal dose of Ephedrine.

What? I asked, But ... I saw your preliminary report. You listed the C.O.D. as a heart attack. He could see I was taken back. He was clearly expecting my shock and tried to explain away the impotence of the preliminary report. That was the cause of death and to be honest, given his weight and age, I wasn't even going to run a tox screen, but in the death of any government official, Rhode Island Statute requires it. In addition, his potassium levels were off the chart. He would have had to be eating two-dozen bananas a day for week to get this kind of a reading. So I ran the tox screen. It came back positive. Then, I ran it two more times and I also checked with his local doctor. He wasn't on any medication which could have had this effect. As I stumbled over one of his godforsaken files attempting to close his door I said, I expected a run of the mill natural causes death report. Well, surprise, surprise. he said. Who else knows about this? I asked thinking back to the AG's request for 'a neat little report'. My lab assistant, who ran the tests, his doctor, cause I called him, me and now you. he said confidently, The drug is normally given to individuals having a heart attack. When its given to someone with a relatively healthy heart, it acts like slow death. Wait. I said, I need a legal pad or something to write this down. I looked

like a total rookie for the second time in 12 hours. He handed me a pad and a pen, it was something he clearly done before in the past for others, although he seemed to relish my surprise and stumbling. This is not what I expected. I babbled, without looking up from my furiously note taking. So this tox screen I continued, verifies the cause of death as poising by Ephedrine? Trying to be patient with me, he said, No the cause of death was a heart attack, but what facilitated the heart attack was Ephedrine. Murder huh? OK. Do we know how the Ephedrine was delivered? I asked. No not really, but we do know how it was not delivered and thatll help with your investigation. It was not injected. I covered every square inch of the mans body. Fun - it was not. There were no hypodermic punctures that I could find. So that leaves us oral, ears, skin and the ole exit orifice. I said, as my cell phone began to ring. Just give me a sec here. I said fumbling for my cell phone, knowing who it was. This is Michael. I said. Yes, I'll be staying but ... no. I don't think so; I don't think...Mom ...Mom? I'll call you back soon. Im kind of in the middle of something ... Yes its important ...yup, ok, bye. Dan, I tried to say with a steely stare, no one else can know about this until I have had a chance to speak to my boss and the family, no one. I think he was a little

insulted but it had to be said, I need the details. I need to know what happened. I said, while starting a time line sketch on the note pad. He pulled an envelope from the file and placed it in front of me. These are the photos of the scene where the body was found. Evidently, he was driving West on 6 into Foster where his Son lives. His wife was following him home, I guess in a separate car. She told the police that his car started zigzagging erratically and then went off the road landing in a shallow ditch north bound with the horn blaring. The wife's call must have been logged in to 911 and I'll have to get a copy of the police report. I said, talking aloud to myself. There's a copy of the police report in the file in front of you. Dan said. Excellent thanks. Your written conclusions are here too? I asked. He nodded yes. Dan, seriously, I need you to keep this under your hat for a while and I need to be able to get a hold of you at all times. Let me have your cell number. 555 -1232. And, I wont turn it off or call my mommy. he smirked. They must die laughing around here. I said, deciding to lay one last morgue didy on him. He feigned a dry laugh saying, As for releasing the report, I'll stall and do what I can, but I'm duty bound to turn over this to the Rhode Island AG's office

within 72 hours of death. he said holding another copy of the report up. Mike, it's a United State Senator's murder. I don't have a choice. he said looking blankly at me. I can give you 36 hours Michael but that's it. OK I nodded. Take that whole file, he said pointing at me, it's an exact copy of mine, so you can take it. I assumed whoever came from the Feds would want a copy when I dropped the bomb. I'm glad it was you. It was priceless to see you stumble around. You know what its like? It was just like when Karen dumped you second year, after that big golf match. After you won, you thought you were the King shit than Boom! back to Earth. Yea, this was fun. Thanks, love you too. I said pitching a single eyebrow. As I moved through the corridor, I felt numb. Still reeling, I walked to the car passing my friend from the State Police. He was obviously still smarting from my dismissal of his air. He had removed his glasses as now the sun had tucked completely behind the skyline. He stared me into the car and seemed even less happy when I drove around to the rear parking lot, but I needed a secure area to make a phone call and that is the best I could do. Director's Office. the soft but firm voice answered. Beverly, its Agent Tisan. Is he in? Hold on Agent Tisan.

Michael? the Director said. Yes Sir, it's me. Is this line secure? I asked. Yes. Go ahead. I took a deep breath and said, Director, it is the conclusion of the Rhode Island Medical Examiner that the Senator was murdered. The ME feels that the Senator was given a poison that sped his heart rate up to the point it caused a heart attack. I have not done any confirmation or investigation as I wanted you to be brought up to speed as soon as possible. I said proud and quite surprised at the steadiness in my voice. He stumbled just I had, I'm sorry Michael did you say ... OK. Poison? Was this terrorism? He was thinking aloud and off the cuff. You could almost smell the methodical math he was doing on the phone. Why? he asked, but quietly and to himself. I looked up and the Trooper had rounded the building and was headed straight for me at a parade march. I don't have a motive yet sir. I said, immediately regretting opening my mouth and saying anything without some time to think. Oh. OK ... Well Michael, if what you're saying is accurate, we are looking at the first Murder of a U.S. Senator in the history of this country.

Well sir, I dont know who did it, but my guess is this was done for either ideology or profit. If it was Ideology, were looking for a zealot. If it was done for profit it would be hard to pigeon hole any particular group or person without a thorough investigation. The trooper rapped against the driver's side glass with his blackjack clearly not amused at my rolling up the window. The message was loud and clear. I rolled down the window two inches and said, I'm leaving. He pointed at me and then, slowly turned and headed back to the building as I slid the car into gear and moved off to the far side of the lot but I wasnt going out the front with all the news cameras still out there. Michael, Rhode Islands your home turf and ya seem to have a handle on a direction. Are you feeling up to leading the team on this investigation? We should probably keep a low profile until we can't anymore. We should also be looking to put all Senators under protective watch until we figure this out. Thats a good idea Michael. Yes. I agree. I'll take care of that from here. So, until this hits the airwaves, you can snoop around quietly but as soon as it breaks we are going to have to lock that state of yours down with a ton of agents, if for no other reason than I don't want to be in front of Senate Select Committee being asked questions, I can't answer. All of a sudden, I felt oddly responsible for the Murder. I thought to myself this is what the residents of Dallas must have felt in 1963 and how the Bostonians

must have felt on that fateful day in September. OK sir, How do you want me to handle the A.G.? I asked. Not to worry, I'll run interference for you on that end. Just keep me or Mark updated and I'll speak with you tomorrow. Ok ... Tomorrow then. As I hung up the phone, the daylight disappeared into twilight and what was left of the Sun curtsied behind a thick bank of clouds moving east on the skyline at a remarkable clip. The moon, also engulfed, backlit, took the stage. I was headed west but first I had to get past the intense white light of news cameras, which still flooded the front of the building. I jumped a short curb at the rear of the building, slipping way, hopefully unnoticed. I phoned Mom back from the highway because I knew if I didn't, she'd just call again at some other inopportune time. Hello she said. Ma, its me. Oh good. You must tell me right now that you can come to the Opera with us tonight because if you can't I'm going to have to give these tickets to 'the Lawerances' No, I can't Ma. Take the Lawerances. I said, knowing my mother was not one

to press for details. Your sister goes with us when she is in town, ya know? I'm going to try and make it over tonight. We'll have breakfast together in the morning. You can tell me all about your trip to Italy. I said, knowing she was not happy with my concession or with taking the Lawerances to the Opera. They were Hayden's friends and she secretly tolerated them, but never sought their company. Well, I guess that will have to do. You know I'll not be here forever. she repeated, what felt like the hundredth time in the last several years. I know Ma. OK. I'll see you at breakfast. Gotta go. OK? Ok. I love you too! See you tomorrow. Bye.

CHAPTER THREE

VANTH AND SAL

I thumbed through the ME's file on the passenger's seat as I drove toward my mother's house. The police report inside listed the famed Italian restaurant 'Pisa' as the last meal of the Senator and the spot they were coming from the night of the murder. My investigation would be better served on a full stomach anyway and so I headed to the Federal Hill area of Providence. It was on the way and I was hungry. A Valet opened the car before I could even put the 300 in Park. Pisas front door was opened for me by another and I descended the small stairs leading to the back bar. The main dining room was upstairs and for a first date, the old world decor was tough to beat, but I wanted to try my luck downstairs where many of the local old men played cards, drank wine and ate biscotti. It was the hangout of a seedier crowd in years past. It was where promises were made and kept.

At the bottom of the stairs are two large windowless walls, 'Old World' cream-colored stucco and several imitation Renaissance masters' serve as ambiance. Italian ceramics line built in nooks with larger and taller ones rounding off the sharp corners. To the right was a small and simple oak bar, soaked with the patina of working men. The ten or so tables were dressed with simple red tablecloths. The ceiling was open and exposed to the floor above highlighting all the mechanicals and the majestic foot thick oak post and beam structure, which supported the 100-yearold former mill building. At the bar and next to the kitchen's entrance seemed the best place for a quiet meal. She was not your typical bartender. Older than me, thick and burly and eastern European looking with black 'bob' cut hairstyle. She wore an all-black one piece with a white apron folded and tied around her waist. Vhat can I get yu? she asked, while cleaning a small hi-ball glass with a white and blue striped rag. The house Chianti please and a menu. I replied. I knew the wine list was enormous and three quarters of it was much more than my expense report could justify. As I flipped through the menu and awaited my wine, the phone rang behind the bar. A waitress quickly reached over the edge of the bar, taking a cold glare from the bartender and answered. Hold on a sec. she said motioning to a noticeably pale and thin waitress, Vanth ... the call is for you. I think its Tom.

Vanth grabbed the phone and told the caller shed be late; that they would have to inventory the wine racks after closing because of the break in. That's what he told me. she said, into the receiver, I don't know. I guess he is worried they must have taken a few of the rare ones. I know... I know... I'll be home as soon as I can ... I have to go. I love you. and with that she hung up. Break in, what break in? I read deeper into the file and found a note on the back of the Providence Police report reading Poss. B&E. That must be referencing the break in that she was talking about the day of the murder. Do ya Vannna hear da specials? the bartender asked, with the blue and white rag now resting over her shoulder. Ahh no thanks ... I'll ... ah ... just have the Linguine Carbarnara. I ... ah ... heard you guys had a break in? She squinted. Her gaze broke oddly upward for a moment as if a thought had caught her attention and she could not refuse to entertain it. Unsure where I had come by this information but clearly assuming her tip depended on the completeness of her answer she said, Vell.. not really. Da police did-dent tink so at lease. Tay even refused to take air report. My boss ... ya know. He tinks someone was in herea, but he cant find anyting missing. No matter to him. We must stay tonight and inventory the vine racks. He tinks veer all stealing from him. He tought somevone was stealing from him 6 months ago too and ve all had to inventory ten. Anyvay, let me put in your order. Enjoy your vine.

Yea thanks. I said, as she shuffled off into a back room area. As I started to read deeper into the police report, my cell phone rang. I fumbled for it and got to it before it rang a second time. Hello I said. Michael? the voice said unsure. Who is this? I asked, as I pulled the phone away for a quick second to check the caller ID which read 'State of Rhode Island. Michael this is Dan. Michael, I just got off the phone with my lab assistant at the office. She ran blood tests on two other heart attack deaths from the same night because of unusually high levels of potassium in their initial blood screens. She had a hunch and it was right. They were also poisoned with Ephedrine. All three appear to have been poisoned with the same drug and all three had red wine and fish in their system. My phone is starting to ring off the hook. You had better find this cook and get that last supper off the diner menu. Yea right. OK. Thanks Dan. Do me a favor; scan those reports to my bureau email address. I'll call ya when I have more answers. Call me if you find out anything else. I said, hanging up and staring at a waitress who was now standing in front of me. Would you like fresh grated Romano or Fresh cracked pepper? she asked. Thanks, just some cheese and can I swap out a bottle of water for this wine? I said, holding up the glass as she turned and grabbed a huge chunk of aged

Parmesan. Sure. Is it ok? she asked. Oh its to die for I'm sure. I just need something less strong with my meal. She looked inquisitively at me, but could have cared less about my inside baseball humor. At this point it was just the two of us and a young couple at the bar who had done nothing but giggle from the time they walked in. As she grated the cheese I asked, So tell me, were you here the night the Senator got into that car accident? You know he died? Yea. I work every Thursday night. When he's not in Washington, he's here like clockwork. At least he used to be. He doesn't sit down here in the lounge though. He and his wife have their own table upstairs, just in front of the main window. Vanth waits on them. She's bummed. Hes a good tipper. Everybody here loved him. He was so nice. Such a shame. Well, I'll let you eat your diner. And I'll let the bartender know about your drink. I had just closed the file, put my pen down and was truly enjoying my meal when a clump of a hand was firmly deposited on my shoulder. I turned slowly to find a stern looking older Italian gentleman standing behind me. He had a day and a half ' five o clock shadow and slicked back graying hair to go with his pasta potbelly. He wore black sneakers, corduroy pants and a stained blue dress shirt with a tweed blazer. His hands were enormous for his size and coated with years of outdoor use. On the pinkly of his left hand which was now resting on my shoulder was a large

gold ring. He was dressed for success if youre in the Italian family business. Are you a cop? he asked, with a mild but clear Italian accent and without removing his hand. No I said, still looking at his hand on my shoulder but unable to swing around fully because of his close proximity. You had a better not a be a fucking personal injury attorney or a reporter sniffing round here. he said, pressure building in his voice and his grip slightly tightening. Now at least, I had some idea where this was going so I answered confidently, I am not a personal injury attorney or a reporter. Are you the owner? In a slow, deliberate and strained pace he said, Wella, if youre a not a cop, a reporter or a fucking attorney, why the fuck are youa asking all these ah questions about what goes on round here? Get the fuck outta of here! His open collared shirt revealed a spotty pink flush rising from the neck to his cheeks.
Mostly, I sit in an office these days. It has been a good number of years since I found myself in a situation, as my grandfather used to call it. My heart began to race. I forgot how uncomfortable Adrenaline could feel when it courses and remembered why I jumped at the chance to take over the regional supervisory role. Usually, I can read people pretty good, but in this instance and given the circumstances I was unsure if this was bravado on his part or a true bridled rage of which I should be wary.