out in a glass ashtray.
Ben leaned forward. "Mr. Sampson, I need to ask you these questions while everything is fresh in your mind."
"But that's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't remember anything. In fact, I don't remember a thing since working in my office two nights ago." Sampson's mouth thinned. "I don't know where I was, or who I was with. All I know is that I woke up on the concrete floor of the concert stage at Britannia Park a few hours ago, with nothing but the clothes on my back."
Ben was vaguely familiar with the park. He'd seen it on the map in his hotel room. The park spread out adjacent to the Ottawa River, southwest of Parliament Hill.
"Did you go see a concert?"
"No. They don't start up until June."
"How well do you know Monty Winkler?"
"Not well. I know who he is, and I may have met him at Parliament or at a social event, but other than that, we're involved in different things." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"He was murdered a few days ago, burnt beyond recognition and dumped in the river." Ben kept quiet about the strange scalp wounds.
"My God," Sampson said. "And you think his murder is somehow linked to what happened to me?"
"At this point we have to look at any possibilities. At least until you remember something."
"I don't understand. Why can't I remember?"
"You might have been drugged, like Monty Winkler. He was injected with a paralytic. If you were given the same drug, you'd be awake yet unable to move. You wouldn't be able to retain memories of the event either."
"Jesus! Why would someone do that to me?"
"That's what the CFBI is here to find out." Ben switched tactics. "On the night you worked here, do you recall getting a phone call?"
Sampson's forehead creased. "No."
"Are you sure? Someone called your home office number that night, from a payphone."
Sampson shook his head. "I remember going over some paperwork that night, but I didn't get any calls. And no one I know would call me from a payphone."
Ben studied the man carefully. Either he was a first-rate liar or he really didn't remember. Interesting.
"So you don't recall leaving the house, in your car?"
"I drove somewhere?" Sampson asked, stunned. "How can I not remember driving my car? Good God! Where the hell did I go?"
"To meet someone, maybe. At a bar."
"I don't go to bars." But even as Sampson said this, his voice registered a tremor of uncertainty.
Ben was baffled. The man's story didn't make much sense. Why couldn't Sampson remember?
"You have a tan 2009 Lincoln MKZ," he said, consulting the file on his 'com. "Maybe you met someone at a bar and the bartender took your keys afterward."
"I wasn't in a bar! I just don't…remember anything."
Ben was getting nowhere.
"I'll drive you to the hospital," he said.
"No way. Hospitals are for sick people. I'm not sick, Agent Roberts. I'm sure that once I've had some time to rest, I'll remember where I was."
And who you were with, Ben wanted to say.
One thing for sure, a guy didn't get this drunk by himself. Someone else must have been with him. Another woman maybe. Or maybe the drinking was only part of it. Perhaps a little recreational cocaine stuffed up the nose was Sampson's drug of choice. He certainly wouldn't be the first politician to go that route.
"You really should get checked out," Ben repeated. "Unless there's something you don't want your wife to know."
Sampson's eyes narrowed. "I know exactly what you're thinking, Agent Roberts. And no, I wasn't out cheating on my wife. I love Lorraine and I would never do anything to hurt her."
"Except start drinking again. You don't think that hurts her?"
"Of course I do! I'm not an idiot, you know." He stood shakily, his large hands gripping the desk. "I've been sober over a year. I've stayed sober because I love my wife. I have no idea why I started back again. I've asked myself that question a million times since I woke up on that park bench."
"Then come with me to the hospital.
Ben leaned forward. "Mr. Sampson, I need to ask you these questions while everything is fresh in your mind."
"But that's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't remember anything. In fact, I don't remember a thing since working in my office two nights ago." Sampson's mouth thinned. "I don't know where I was, or who I was with. All I know is that I woke up on the concrete floor of the concert stage at Britannia Park a few hours ago, with nothing but the clothes on my back."
Ben was vaguely familiar with the park. He'd seen it on the map in his hotel room. The park spread out adjacent to the Ottawa River, southwest of Parliament Hill.
"Did you go see a concert?"
"No. They don't start up until June."
"How well do you know Monty Winkler?"
"Not well. I know who he is, and I may have met him at Parliament or at a social event, but other than that, we're involved in different things." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"He was murdered a few days ago, burnt beyond recognition and dumped in the river." Ben kept quiet about the strange scalp wounds.
"My God," Sampson said. "And you think his murder is somehow linked to what happened to me?"
"At this point we have to look at any possibilities. At least until you remember something."
"I don't understand. Why can't I remember?"
"You might have been drugged, like Monty Winkler. He was injected with a paralytic. If you were given the same drug, you'd be awake yet unable to move. You wouldn't be able to retain memories of the event either."
"Jesus! Why would someone do that to me?"
"That's what the CFBI is here to find out." Ben switched tactics. "On the night you worked here, do you recall getting a phone call?"
Sampson's forehead creased. "No."
"Are you sure? Someone called your home office number that night, from a payphone."
Sampson shook his head. "I remember going over some paperwork that night, but I didn't get any calls. And no one I know would call me from a payphone."
Ben studied the man carefully. Either he was a first-rate liar or he really didn't remember. Interesting.
"So you don't recall leaving the house, in your car?"
"I drove somewhere?" Sampson asked, stunned. "How can I not remember driving my car? Good God! Where the hell did I go?"
"To meet someone, maybe. At a bar."
"I don't go to bars." But even as Sampson said this, his voice registered a tremor of uncertainty.
Ben was baffled. The man's story didn't make much sense. Why couldn't Sampson remember?
"You have a tan 2009 Lincoln MKZ," he said, consulting the file on his 'com. "Maybe you met someone at a bar and the bartender took your keys afterward."
"I wasn't in a bar! I just don't…remember anything."
Ben was getting nowhere.
"I'll drive you to the hospital," he said.
"No way. Hospitals are for sick people. I'm not sick, Agent Roberts. I'm sure that once I've had some time to rest, I'll remember where I was."
And who you were with, Ben wanted to say.
One thing for sure, a guy didn't get this drunk by himself. Someone else must have been with him. Another woman maybe. Or maybe the drinking was only part of it. Perhaps a little recreational cocaine stuffed up the nose was Sampson's drug of choice. He certainly wouldn't be the first politician to go that route.
"You really should get checked out," Ben repeated. "Unless there's something you don't want your wife to know."
Sampson's eyes narrowed. "I know exactly what you're thinking, Agent Roberts. And no, I wasn't out cheating on my wife. I love Lorraine and I would never do anything to hurt her."
"Except start drinking again. You don't think that hurts her?"
"Of course I do! I'm not an idiot, you know." He stood shakily, his large hands gripping the desk. "I've been sober over a year. I've stayed sober because I love my wife. I have no idea why I started back again. I've asked myself that question a million times since I woke up on that park bench."
"Then come with me to the hospital.
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