Bernsie.”
“According to DCI, his satellites show another 20,000 troops on the way. Convoys and trains. They’re taking up positions along a 600 mile front.”
“Total numbers?” the president asked.
“Roughly 50,000.”
“Damn it. This is turning out to be one fucked up year.”
When Teddy Lodge left the podium the room was silent. There were none of the cheers and applause that always accompanied him. Everyone respected his privacy. The press was informed by Newman that the only reason he faced them today was to enlist the public’s help in apprehending his wife’s killer. Teddy said nothing about the campaign. And as a result, the reporters had their story. They knew what Teddy Lodge was going to do. He’d wait for the New York voters to speak.
Geoff Newman walked beside Lodge down the hall. Secret Service agents were at their front and back. “Just the right tone,” Geoff Newman said out of earshot of the agents. “Pushed all the right buttons.”
“Shut up, for God’s sake. This isn’t the time or the place.” the congressman shot back.
One Secret Service agent turned. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Yes. I’m just upset.”
Newman held back a half a step and didn’t say another word.
Outside, the newly assigned Secret Service made a path for the congressman to the limousine parked in front of the Essex House. Lodge politely acknowledged the well-wishers and their cameras with a simple nod and a hand in the air.
Newman opened his mouth, then thought better of saying anything. A Secret Service agent was driving. Another was in the front seat.
They pulled into traffic along 59 th Street and drove to Laguardia for the flight back to Vermont and Jenny’s funeral.
After they merged onto the East Side Highway ten, Newman said in a low voice not to be overheard, “No more press for the rest of the week. We’ll decide on Saturday about the Sunday talk shows. They’ll all want you. But there will be ground rules. We’ve got to manage this very carefully from here on out.”
Hudson, New York
1:34 P.M.
“I don’t like this one bit,” the FBI field chief said to his team. Bessolo was pissed. He felt they should have more by now. “Look people. We’re going over everything again. But slower. I want prints. I want hairs. Fibers. Find some of his fucking cum. And I need more than a blind alley on his Galil. This guy’s not as good as he thinks. He’s slipped up somewhere. Find it!”
Bessolo had confidence in the investigators he brought to Hudson even though he talked to them like a Marine drill seargent facing a squad of wet recruits. He also believed that the FBI lab could turn the slimmest shred of evidence into something worth pursuing.
The FBI Laboratory had been around since 1932. Bessolo ran his corner of it as if it would lose its funding tomorrow unless his people personally delivered.
Unfortunately for everybody, after the first 22 hours they had nothing.
“We’re trying Roy,” said Neal Berkowitz, his DNA expert. “It’s as if a guy was here for a month and vaporized. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
They had been through 301 thoroughly. First photographing every square inch, then meticulously examining the blankets, pillows, rug, towels and curtains for hairs, tissues, saliva, skin flakes, and even for the semen that Bessolo demanded. Any residue could prove important. Hair examination could determine race even if disguised through bleaching or dyeing. Fingernails could help plot a biological profile of the assassin. But so far they had nothing for the Forensic Biology section to work with; no samples to send to the new DNA facility in Manhattan.
Latent, or hidden fingerprints would hold clues. These prints, left by hands or bare feet of a person are likely to be the most valuable piece of information gathered at a crime scene. But there were no latent prints. Nor were there any visible prints, those transferred to foreign substances such as grease,
“According to DCI, his satellites show another 20,000 troops on the way. Convoys and trains. They’re taking up positions along a 600 mile front.”
“Total numbers?” the president asked.
“Roughly 50,000.”
“Damn it. This is turning out to be one fucked up year.”
When Teddy Lodge left the podium the room was silent. There were none of the cheers and applause that always accompanied him. Everyone respected his privacy. The press was informed by Newman that the only reason he faced them today was to enlist the public’s help in apprehending his wife’s killer. Teddy said nothing about the campaign. And as a result, the reporters had their story. They knew what Teddy Lodge was going to do. He’d wait for the New York voters to speak.
Geoff Newman walked beside Lodge down the hall. Secret Service agents were at their front and back. “Just the right tone,” Geoff Newman said out of earshot of the agents. “Pushed all the right buttons.”
“Shut up, for God’s sake. This isn’t the time or the place.” the congressman shot back.
One Secret Service agent turned. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Yes. I’m just upset.”
Newman held back a half a step and didn’t say another word.
Outside, the newly assigned Secret Service made a path for the congressman to the limousine parked in front of the Essex House. Lodge politely acknowledged the well-wishers and their cameras with a simple nod and a hand in the air.
Newman opened his mouth, then thought better of saying anything. A Secret Service agent was driving. Another was in the front seat.
They pulled into traffic along 59 th Street and drove to Laguardia for the flight back to Vermont and Jenny’s funeral.
After they merged onto the East Side Highway ten, Newman said in a low voice not to be overheard, “No more press for the rest of the week. We’ll decide on Saturday about the Sunday talk shows. They’ll all want you. But there will be ground rules. We’ve got to manage this very carefully from here on out.”
Hudson, New York
1:34 P.M.
“I don’t like this one bit,” the FBI field chief said to his team. Bessolo was pissed. He felt they should have more by now. “Look people. We’re going over everything again. But slower. I want prints. I want hairs. Fibers. Find some of his fucking cum. And I need more than a blind alley on his Galil. This guy’s not as good as he thinks. He’s slipped up somewhere. Find it!”
Bessolo had confidence in the investigators he brought to Hudson even though he talked to them like a Marine drill seargent facing a squad of wet recruits. He also believed that the FBI lab could turn the slimmest shred of evidence into something worth pursuing.
The FBI Laboratory had been around since 1932. Bessolo ran his corner of it as if it would lose its funding tomorrow unless his people personally delivered.
Unfortunately for everybody, after the first 22 hours they had nothing.
“We’re trying Roy,” said Neal Berkowitz, his DNA expert. “It’s as if a guy was here for a month and vaporized. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
They had been through 301 thoroughly. First photographing every square inch, then meticulously examining the blankets, pillows, rug, towels and curtains for hairs, tissues, saliva, skin flakes, and even for the semen that Bessolo demanded. Any residue could prove important. Hair examination could determine race even if disguised through bleaching or dyeing. Fingernails could help plot a biological profile of the assassin. But so far they had nothing for the Forensic Biology section to work with; no samples to send to the new DNA facility in Manhattan.
Latent, or hidden fingerprints would hold clues. These prints, left by hands or bare feet of a person are likely to be the most valuable piece of information gathered at a crime scene. But there were no latent prints. Nor were there any visible prints, those transferred to foreign substances such as grease,
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