but he obviously did, judging by the several dark sedans that had cordoned off a landing pad and the agent who approached Jennie and me as we alit on the tarmac.
It turned out he was Special Agent Mark Butterman, the case officer, mid-fifties, long and thin, salt-and-pepper hair, leathery face, a suburbanized Marlboro man in a gray suit. He walked and spoke with a confidence I hoped wasn’t misplaced, was too old to be wet behind the ears, and I recalled Jennie mentioned that he was handpicked because he was one of the Bureau’s best and brightest, so somebody had a head on their shoulders. This was not the right opportunity for some youthful, overeager, promising stud to show he could cut it (or not). But it happens.
Jennie introduced us, and we shook. I knew Butterman was having a particularly crappy day, though he remained friendly and appeared unperturbed by the pressure.
Anyway, Agent Butterman knew time was precious, and he launched immediately into a fast-paced update on the progress of the investigation. To wit—hundreds of samples and particles had been vacuumed and collected from the Belknaps’ house, and forensics was concentrating all its resources on that haul, though there had been no significant breakthroughs. Nor, from his tone did he expect any.
It turned out Mrs. Belknap was a big la-di-da in the D.C. social circuit, and her home was an endless gathering place for the rich and pompous—book clubs, political fund-raisers, and what have you. Throw into that mix some fifteen Secret Service agents who roamed freely around the home, two maids, three yard people, repairmen, and whoever, and enough fingerprints, hair samples, fiber samples, and DNA traces had been lifted to populate New Jersey.
On a more upbeat note, my tip regarding the disturbances in the garden had panned out; they were footprints, three different shoe sizes and types, two male, and one that appeared to belong to a tiny-footed, narrow-shoed female.
Also the preliminary ballistics tests were wrapped up, indicating that four different, though identical, caliber pistols were used, implying either a quartet of killers or a remarkably talented duo of ambidextrous shooters. Which landed us at the present.
Regarding the here and now, he informed Jennie and me, “The super let us in. Seven agents are inside right now. It’s small. Barnes lives alone. Shouldn’t take long.”
The clock was ticking, and he led us to, and then inside the townhouse, a modest two-floored, brick-fronted, faux colonial job. I wandered around for a moment.
Butterman was correct; the place was small, though not cramped, and for a bachelor pad, almost comically neat and tidy. The furniture was a sort of mix of modern and traditional, with colors and patterns that seemed to match the curtains, that matched the wall colors and the carpet, and so forth. Actually, there were no colors or patterns—everything was pure white. I said to Jennie, “What’s that smell?”
“Lemon Pledge.”
“Lemon what?”
“Scented furniture pol— Oh...you’re kidding.”
Right. Also I was making a point. Regular guys don’t live like this, if you know what I mean. Jason’s furniture didn’t look cheap or expensive, and the art pieces were framed posters—a European cityscape I couldn’t identify, an old movie poster I also didn’t recognize—that indicated nothing about the tastes of the inhabitant, beyond a serious preference for Wal-Mart. Jennie noted, “He doesn’t seem to live above his means.”
Butterman concurred with her assessment and informed us, “He rents. Nine hundred and twenty a month, according to the super. Cheap for this area. He drives a used Mazda 323 he bought two years ago for eight grand.”
I suggested, “But how he lives today might not be how he wants to live tomorrow.”
“The ambition of every criminal mind,” Butterman agreed. He added, “No liquor in the house, not even a Bud in the fridge. A teetotaler. No porn, no old magazines
It turned out he was Special Agent Mark Butterman, the case officer, mid-fifties, long and thin, salt-and-pepper hair, leathery face, a suburbanized Marlboro man in a gray suit. He walked and spoke with a confidence I hoped wasn’t misplaced, was too old to be wet behind the ears, and I recalled Jennie mentioned that he was handpicked because he was one of the Bureau’s best and brightest, so somebody had a head on their shoulders. This was not the right opportunity for some youthful, overeager, promising stud to show he could cut it (or not). But it happens.
Jennie introduced us, and we shook. I knew Butterman was having a particularly crappy day, though he remained friendly and appeared unperturbed by the pressure.
Anyway, Agent Butterman knew time was precious, and he launched immediately into a fast-paced update on the progress of the investigation. To wit—hundreds of samples and particles had been vacuumed and collected from the Belknaps’ house, and forensics was concentrating all its resources on that haul, though there had been no significant breakthroughs. Nor, from his tone did he expect any.
It turned out Mrs. Belknap was a big la-di-da in the D.C. social circuit, and her home was an endless gathering place for the rich and pompous—book clubs, political fund-raisers, and what have you. Throw into that mix some fifteen Secret Service agents who roamed freely around the home, two maids, three yard people, repairmen, and whoever, and enough fingerprints, hair samples, fiber samples, and DNA traces had been lifted to populate New Jersey.
On a more upbeat note, my tip regarding the disturbances in the garden had panned out; they were footprints, three different shoe sizes and types, two male, and one that appeared to belong to a tiny-footed, narrow-shoed female.
Also the preliminary ballistics tests were wrapped up, indicating that four different, though identical, caliber pistols were used, implying either a quartet of killers or a remarkably talented duo of ambidextrous shooters. Which landed us at the present.
Regarding the here and now, he informed Jennie and me, “The super let us in. Seven agents are inside right now. It’s small. Barnes lives alone. Shouldn’t take long.”
The clock was ticking, and he led us to, and then inside the townhouse, a modest two-floored, brick-fronted, faux colonial job. I wandered around for a moment.
Butterman was correct; the place was small, though not cramped, and for a bachelor pad, almost comically neat and tidy. The furniture was a sort of mix of modern and traditional, with colors and patterns that seemed to match the curtains, that matched the wall colors and the carpet, and so forth. Actually, there were no colors or patterns—everything was pure white. I said to Jennie, “What’s that smell?”
“Lemon Pledge.”
“Lemon what?”
“Scented furniture pol— Oh...you’re kidding.”
Right. Also I was making a point. Regular guys don’t live like this, if you know what I mean. Jason’s furniture didn’t look cheap or expensive, and the art pieces were framed posters—a European cityscape I couldn’t identify, an old movie poster I also didn’t recognize—that indicated nothing about the tastes of the inhabitant, beyond a serious preference for Wal-Mart. Jennie noted, “He doesn’t seem to live above his means.”
Butterman concurred with her assessment and informed us, “He rents. Nine hundred and twenty a month, according to the super. Cheap for this area. He drives a used Mazda 323 he bought two years ago for eight grand.”
I suggested, “But how he lives today might not be how he wants to live tomorrow.”
“The ambition of every criminal mind,” Butterman agreed. He added, “No liquor in the house, not even a Bud in the fridge. A teetotaler. No porn, no old magazines
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