blood or dust. There simply were no fingerprints to photograph with the T-Max 400J film at f/8 they’d brought. None to send to Quantico via satellite for cross-referencing.
Everything had been wiped clean with expert attention, the patience of Job and a combination of ethanol/Phenylphernol, which Berkowitz easily identified as everyday Lysol.
“We’re dealing with a real pro, Roy,” the agent concluded. “He’s not a lunatic. There’s purpose to this. This guy knew what he was doing. Except for the fact that he bungled his shot.”
Marblehead, Massachusetts
2:45 P.M.
Roarke followed Route 1A up the coast to Marblehead. He did a little better than the speed limit in his rented Mustang from Hertz. The car demanded a little pressure on the gas, but Roarke didn’t want to get nabbed by any local police. Taylor had been very specific. “Quiet.”
His first stop was Marblehead High. O’Connell’s article was beside him with key words underlined; each a name or a reference to a possible lead: the high school; Debbie Strathmore, Lodge’s first girlfriend, Mehrman, the retired radio interviewer; and the Boy Scouts. Roarke also hoped to get some answers about the disposition of the family estate.
None of this was his strong suit. Roarke liked working the field, staying out of sight. This put him in the public eye. But he had his orders.
He parked near the bank, across the street from the school and locked his Swiss made Sig Sauer P229 in the glove compartment. He preferred the Sig to the standard Secret Service issue Uzi with its 20 rounds. Just personal taste…touch…and feel. No one took exception. In fact, few people argued with Roarke for any reason. They didn’t know much about the president’s man, but reputation preceded him.
Roarke crossed the parking lot to the front entrance. He was old enough to be the father of any of the kids. He wondered if that would ever happen.
It had been years since he’d been in a high school. Times had surely changed. Uniformed guards replaced Student Service monitors in the halls. And knives and guns were pulled instead of punches. Marblehead High was peaceful compared to most other schools in the country, but too many nice schools had been the scene of horrible crimes. No school board could take a chance anymore.
“Hello, I hope you can help me, Ms. Fraser.” He read the name Clara Fraser off the nameplate on her desk in the administration office.
“Yes?” the 60-something secretary answered without emotion.
“My name is Roarke. I’m with the Secret Service in Washington.”
“Is anything wrong here?”
“No, no, no. This is just routine. We’re guarding the congressman now and…”
She interrupted. “A little late, don’t you think.”
He ignored the comment. “We were just assigned.” This was already getting beyond the “quiet” inquiry the President wanted.
“I suppose you have some identification, Mr….”
“Roarke. Yes. Here.”
He produced his photo ID. Clara Fraser peered at the picture, at Roarke, at the picture again, and once more at Roarke.
“Looks official,” she commented.
“I can assure you it is.”
“Then what would you like?”
“Some help finding some people who might remember Congressman Lodge when he was a student. Maybe some of his school records, too.”
“Well, Mr. Roarke, we’re not allowed to show you any school files,” she said gesturing behind her. “Massachusetts State Law prohibits us.”
“But perhaps there’s a teacher who knew him; someone I can speak with.”
She thought for a moment. “No. I think everyone’s gone.”
“Then someone who’s retired and might still be living in the area?”
“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
Fraser went into the principal’s office and closed the door. About five minutes later, it opened for a moment, then closed again. About fifteen minutes later a vibrant, man appearing to be in his early forties came out, followed by Frasier.
“I’m Dr.
Everything had been wiped clean with expert attention, the patience of Job and a combination of ethanol/Phenylphernol, which Berkowitz easily identified as everyday Lysol.
“We’re dealing with a real pro, Roy,” the agent concluded. “He’s not a lunatic. There’s purpose to this. This guy knew what he was doing. Except for the fact that he bungled his shot.”
Marblehead, Massachusetts
2:45 P.M.
Roarke followed Route 1A up the coast to Marblehead. He did a little better than the speed limit in his rented Mustang from Hertz. The car demanded a little pressure on the gas, but Roarke didn’t want to get nabbed by any local police. Taylor had been very specific. “Quiet.”
His first stop was Marblehead High. O’Connell’s article was beside him with key words underlined; each a name or a reference to a possible lead: the high school; Debbie Strathmore, Lodge’s first girlfriend, Mehrman, the retired radio interviewer; and the Boy Scouts. Roarke also hoped to get some answers about the disposition of the family estate.
None of this was his strong suit. Roarke liked working the field, staying out of sight. This put him in the public eye. But he had his orders.
He parked near the bank, across the street from the school and locked his Swiss made Sig Sauer P229 in the glove compartment. He preferred the Sig to the standard Secret Service issue Uzi with its 20 rounds. Just personal taste…touch…and feel. No one took exception. In fact, few people argued with Roarke for any reason. They didn’t know much about the president’s man, but reputation preceded him.
Roarke crossed the parking lot to the front entrance. He was old enough to be the father of any of the kids. He wondered if that would ever happen.
It had been years since he’d been in a high school. Times had surely changed. Uniformed guards replaced Student Service monitors in the halls. And knives and guns were pulled instead of punches. Marblehead High was peaceful compared to most other schools in the country, but too many nice schools had been the scene of horrible crimes. No school board could take a chance anymore.
“Hello, I hope you can help me, Ms. Fraser.” He read the name Clara Fraser off the nameplate on her desk in the administration office.
“Yes?” the 60-something secretary answered without emotion.
“My name is Roarke. I’m with the Secret Service in Washington.”
“Is anything wrong here?”
“No, no, no. This is just routine. We’re guarding the congressman now and…”
She interrupted. “A little late, don’t you think.”
He ignored the comment. “We were just assigned.” This was already getting beyond the “quiet” inquiry the President wanted.
“I suppose you have some identification, Mr….”
“Roarke. Yes. Here.”
He produced his photo ID. Clara Fraser peered at the picture, at Roarke, at the picture again, and once more at Roarke.
“Looks official,” she commented.
“I can assure you it is.”
“Then what would you like?”
“Some help finding some people who might remember Congressman Lodge when he was a student. Maybe some of his school records, too.”
“Well, Mr. Roarke, we’re not allowed to show you any school files,” she said gesturing behind her. “Massachusetts State Law prohibits us.”
“But perhaps there’s a teacher who knew him; someone I can speak with.”
She thought for a moment. “No. I think everyone’s gone.”
“Then someone who’s retired and might still be living in the area?”
“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
Fraser went into the principal’s office and closed the door. About five minutes later, it opened for a moment, then closed again. About fifteen minutes later a vibrant, man appearing to be in his early forties came out, followed by Frasier.
“I’m Dr.
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