A Memorable Murder. John Schlarbaum
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partially on the floor at the base of the toilet, he gave thanks the room was empty.
A short time later, he pulled himself off the tiled floor and walked to the vanity, where he splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing his paleness and realizing that being sick was only part of the reason.
As he stared at his mirrored twin, he saw raw unbridled terror looking back at him. He tried to banish the image from his head as he exited into the hallway. Yet, he could only think that if he couldn’t look at himself now, how would others view him if the truth ever came out?
He shuddered at the thought and decided that now was an excellent time for a smoke.
THREE
Forgotten by all except the television crew was the morning’s distinguished guest: presidential candidate Douglas Adams. Almost as the gunshot outside had rung out, Adams was forcibly removed from his chair. To the dismay of the audio techs, Adams ripped off his lapel microphone and threw it to the floor, where one of his entourage immediately stepped on it, rendering it useless for all time.
The Nation Today’s co-host, Evan MacLean, sat in his chair across from Adams in stunned silence. He watched Adams’ handlers whisk him into the hall. As the studio door closed behind them, MacLean saw one of the men yelling into a walkie-talkie, “This is a code white situation! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”
As the sidewalk explosives went off, MacLean’s attention was directed toward the huge wall of windows, which shook from the blast.
We’re under attack! he thought as he dove to the floor. They’re going to kill us all!
He risked a look at the street scene and wished he hadn’t. He saw mass confusion as people ran for their lives, many running up to the windows and pounding on them violently. Their faces etched in fear as they realized they were stuck outside.
MacLean wondered what they must have thought seeing a roomful of people secure from the mayhem, staring blankly back at them.
“Heaven help us all,” he said aloud, before closing his eyes to await the next bomb blast that never came.
As the limousine pulled out of the station’s parking lot, candidate Adams’ head was pushed between his legs by one of his guards.
“Is this necessary?” he demanded.
“It’s what you pay us for,” came the reply.
“Don’t take Huntington,” head of security Terry Jameson said to the driver. “They may have anticipated that.”
“Anticipated what?” Adams cried, shoving the huge forearm off his neck and sitting upright. “They weren’t after me, you idiots! They were after the guy asking the question!”
Jameson turned and faced Adams.
“Did you know that man?”
“He was a stranger off the street—how would I know him?”
“We can’t take any chances, sir,” Jameson said. “When we turn this corner there’ll be a blue car waiting for us. I want you to get into that car as quickly as possible. The driver will take you to a safe place.”
Adams looked bewildered.
This is from a bad spy movie, he thought.
“Is that advisable?”
Jameson turned back to the front and said, “This limo is a bit conspicuous, don’t you think?”
Adams failed to reply.
I pay these guys to think at times like these. Trust them. They know what they’re doing.
The limo turned onto Addingham Lane and sure enough, the blue nondescript car was idling by the curb.
“The driver is one of us, so do what he says. I’m staying with this car as a decoy and will meet up with you in a few minutes,” Jameson advised.
The limo door was pulled open by a man dressed in street clothes, who watched over Adams as he ducked into the backseat of the car. As it fled the area, he slumped down in the seat in an effort to make himself invisible.
His thoughts were a mixture of panic and sheer excitement. The Reagan assassination attempt replayed in his mind; how the Secret Service had shoved the President into the back of his motorcade car while others joined the melee to restrain John Hinckley.
A split-second later however, this terrifying thought was overtaken by a more agreeable one.
If the voting public hadn’t known me before, they surely would now. This will be the biggest story of the campaign, overshadowing policies and both parties.
The possibilities were endless. He was now a direct link to a national tragedy. He could take a stronger stand on gun control and not have to worry about backlash from the NRA. He could make it a personal crusade to see that the shooter was brought to swift justice, although he knew he had no real clout over police matters. Regardless, he understood people loved politicians who talked tough.
In light of what happened, he could position himself with the “little guy” who can’t even ask a question of a presidential candidate without having to fear for his life.
This is potent stuff, all right.
With thoughts of sugar plum voters still dancing in his head, the car came to a sudden stop in front of a dilapidated house.
“What are you doing? Why are we stopped here?”
The driver exited the car and opened the back door.
“We’re going inside, sir.”
A black station wagon drove into the driveway and Jameson got out. Seeing Adams still in the car, he instructed, “Out—come on!”
From outside the house looked like a real fixer-upper, but inside resembled something torn out of Architecture Achievements Magazine. Adams was stunned. After downing a shot of scotch in the living room, Adams was relieved to see his campaign manager, Harold Green, enter the large living room.
“Is all this spy stuff really necessary?”
“As there has been no apparent attempt on your life thus far, probably not,” came Green’s reply, stepping to the window overlooking the street. “Pretty efficient though, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t had time to think,” Adams said irritably. His features loosened slightly and he added, “That’s not true. I have been—”
Green cut him off.
“Been thinking about the polls, right? Voter recognition. Name recognition.” He turned on his heel and faced his boss with a mile-wide smile plastered across his face. “You can’t buy publicity like this!” he claimed as he took a seat beside Adams. “Don’t get me wrong—I feel genuinely sorry for that schmuck who got offed. He was probably a drug dealer or something.”
“Is that true?”
“Who knows? Who cares? Who would shoot a guy on national television who didn’t deserve it? And the bomb—don’t forget about the bomb.”
“What bomb?”
“The one that detonated right after the broad blew the guy away.” Green saw Adams’ confusion. “You were probably being led out when it went off. No matter. The fact is this thing was an organized hit. It was meant to send a very—how would you say—persuasive message to an individual out there in TV land.”
“You think it was a mob hit?”
“I don’t care if the guy was killed for stealing candy from a baby. He’s dead, you’re alive and this campaign is about to go through the stratosphere.” With a salute, Green added, “Mr. President.”
Adams was startled by Green’s certainty. The more he pondered the situation, however, the bigger the smile on his face also