Murder in Foggy Bottom Page 10

  “We called for an ambulance,” one said.

  “Jesus,” the other said. “Who hit Mr. Bowen?”

  “Potamos.”

  “How come?”

  Bowen stood unsteadily with the help of others.

  “Why don’t you sit until the ambulance comes?” a woman suggested.

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” Bowen said.

  As he came to the door, he stopped, turned, and glared down at Potamos. “Write your obituary, Potamos. You’re dead!”

  “. . . and so I punched the bastard and that was that,” Potamos said to Languth.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t press charges,” Languth said.

  “Maybe it would have been better if he did. Hey, Nathan, I’ll have one more.”

  The bartender had been standing alone at the far end of the bar reading the new issue of the Washingtonian, which had been delivered that day. He came to Potamos and Languth and laid the magazine on the bar. “Mr. Potamos, look at this.”

  The story on the open page was a roundup of Washington’s top society pianists. The first profile was of Roseann Blackburn, Potamos’s friend. The color photograph showed her dressed in a gown and sitting at a gleaming black Steinway.

  “You know she was gonna be in the magazine?” Languth asked.

  “She mentioned something about a writer and photographer months ago. I didn’t know when it was running.”

  “Hey, you’re mentioned,” Languth said, who’d pulled the magazine closer to him.

  Potamos retrieved the magazine and read the final paragraph:

  When she isn’t pleasing the ears of well-connected Washingtonians with the melodies of Cole Porter, Duke Ellington, or Mozart, Ms. Blackburn soothes the savage breast of Post reporter Joe Potamos, who played his own dissonant chord two years ago when he allegedly assaulted political pundit George Alfred Bowen.

  “You’re famous, Joe,” Languth said, laughing and slapping Potamos on the back with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.

  “My fifteen minutes.”

  “At least you kept your job,” Languth said.

  “Yeah, they didn’t release me, just sent me to the minors.”

  “You know what I always wondered, Joe?”

  “What?”

  “How come you didn’t pick up and get the hell outta DC, hook up with another paper someplace. You could’ve gotten another job, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So? How come you didn’t?”

  “Because I don’t run from anybody or anything. You run, the bad guys win. Every day Bowen sees me, he feels that shot to his nose again. I like that. I also like DC. Enough of an explanation?”

  “You havin’ another?”

  “No, but go ahead. I’ve got to go.” Potamos stood and placed his American Express card on the bar.

  “You put this on the expense account?”

  “Sure. Getting sloshed in a fancy bar with a homicide detective who tells me nothing.”

  “Joe.”

  “What?”

  Languth brought his lips close to Potamos’s ear. “You want the scoop on the Canadian in the park?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Meet me here tomorrow, six o’clock.”

  “You buyin’?”

  “Hell, no. I’m the seller, you’re the buyer.”

  “You’d better be selling something good. I’ll be here at six.” He turned to Nathan. “Thanks, buddy. See ya.”

  “Say hello to your lady.”

  “Shall do.”

  Potamos paused in the lobby to call Roseann. He got the machine, then remembered it was Friday, the night of her regular stint at the Four Seasons Hotel. He stopped in a stationery store and bought the last six copies of the Washingtonian, hailed a taxi, and went to the Four Seasons, where Roseann was seated at a grand piano in the center of the hotel’s opulent lounge. Well-dressed, well-heeled men and women sat on overstuffed chairs and love seats in pockets of partial seclusion throughout the grand space. Roseann saw Potamos enter, smiled, finished “Summertime,” left the piano, and gracefully crossed the lobby to him.

  “Hi, babe,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  She saw the magazines, laughed, and kissed him on the mouth. “You saw it and bought all these,” she said. “You are so sweet.”

  “Yeah, well, I figured you’d want to send a couple to your mother, other people.”

  “I do, I do. I’m almost finished. Another ten minutes.”

  “I figured we’d catch some dinner someplace.”

  “Love it. Good day?”

  “The same. I’ll wait outside. A little too rich here for my blood, or bank account.”

  She joined him outside twenty minutes later and they went to Bacchus, near Dupont Circle, a favorite spot when they were in the mood for Lebanese food. Instead of a full meal, they opted for a variety of appetizers, mezze, and beer, and settled back as the small dishes were brought in succession—hummus topped with pine nuts and ground meat, eggplant with pomegranates and sesame paste, stuffed grape leaves, and phyllo dough filled with piquant sausage and cheese. Roseann looked across the table and smiled. Potamos seemed relaxed; she loved being with him at times like this, when the edge was off.

  “You weren’t mad they mentioned you and Bowen in the piece?” she asked, picking up a radish and taking a bite.

  “No, of course not. It’s no secret what happened. The piece should get you plenty of work.”

  “Bill Walters called,” she said. Walters owned Elite Music, Roseann’s booking agent. “He said the same thing.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s great.”

  “He wants me to start taking jobs out of the area.”

  “Yeah? Like where?”

  “Not far. Fancy resorts in West Virginia, Delaware, maybe even some of the better piano bars in New York.”

  “Makes sense to me, as long as you remember Joe Potamos when you’re on Broadway.”

  She placed her hand on his. With all his bluster, all his cynical, tough-guy persona, his dyspeptic view of the world, especially since the incident with Bowen, she knew a painful vulnerability and lack of confidence were an inch below the surface.

  “When I’m on Broadway—why would you think I’d be on Broadway? I’m just a saloon piano player.”

  “The Four Seasons; some saloon.”

  “I’ll never be on Broadway. And as for forgetting Joe Potamos, that’s as likely as forgetting the C scale.”

  His mood picked up as the appetizers and bottles of beer kept coming. She knew he’d been drinking earlier in the day, which he confirmed by telling her he’d met Languth at the Carlton Hotel: “He’s getting me some stuff on the Canadian who was murdered.”

  “Canadian? Oh, in the park.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you want more information about him?”

  “I don’t know. This guy wasn’t mugged. It was no street robbery, nothing like that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Instinct.”

  “Why do you think he was killed?”

  “No idea. But I want to know. Have to know. I don’t write unfinished stories. Maybe what I get from Languth will give me some answers.”

  “I hope so.”

  They finished their meal with strong coffee and a shared piece of lemony yogurt pie. When they were finished, Potamos asked, “Ready?”

  “Uh huh.”

  They stopped to chat with one of the restaurant’s owners before venturing out onto Jefferson Place. Inside, it had been quiet. The moment they opened the door, they were confronted with a noisy, angry group of a half-dozen young men who’d surrounded a well-dressed, dark-skinned couple who’d left Bacchus ten minutes earlier. One of the young men was the loudest and most vocal: “Why don’t you get the hell out of this country and go back with the rest of your raghead terrorists!” he screamed. “You don’t shoot down Americans, you bastard, and get away with it.”

  The man and woman were terrified. She crouched behi
nd him as he tried to reason with them. “We know nothing of the planes being shot down,” he pleaded, his hands held in a defensive position, his voice breaking.

  “Let’s show ’em,” another man yelled.

  The leader closed the gap and held up his fist.

  “Hey!”

  Potamos pushed through the men and confronted the leader. He’d pulled a small, sophisticated point-and-shoot camera he always carried with him and aimed it at the attacker’s face. “Joe Potamos, Washington Post. You want your ugly face in the paper tomorrow?”

  For a moment, Roseann thought Potamos would be physically assaulted. But the young man backed away, mumbling obscenities. The group dispersed, grumbling.

  “Thank you, thank you,” the man said, pumping Potamos’s hand.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s okay. Buncha jerks, that’s all.”

  “We know nothing about any planes. We have lived here for ten years. We love this country.”

  “I’m sure you do. Have a nice night.”

  Later that night, Potamos and Roseann lay in bed with Jumper at their feet.

  “That’s just the beginning,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “Looking for scapegoats. Pick on anybody who looks different, like that couple. You look like you come from some Arab country, you’re automatically a terrorist. Some stuff came over the wire this afternoon, same kind of stuff happening around the country.”

  “That was gutsy what you did, Joe. I thought they were going to turn on you.”

  “So did I.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, babe.”

  They kissed and she turned over, her feet pushing Jumper and bringing forth a groan from the sleeping dog. Potamos stayed awake for a long time, thinking about nothing and everything. His final thought was a growing question: Should he ask Roseann to marry him?

  He fell asleep before he had to answer it.

  13

  The Next Morning

  It was as though the world had suddenly ceased spinning. It was one of those moments in American news— or what passed for news in America. No revolution, no incursions, no deaths of heads of state or movie stars, not even a B-plus scandal in Washington.

  “In other news today . . .”

  What news? The downing of the three commuter aircraft, and the involvement of shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles, was the only news.

  Television programmers engaged in a fierce competition for relevant guests to discuss the horrific crimes against innocent American citizens. Retired generals were interviewed about missiles, their range, speed, and destructive capability. Spokespeople from Justice, State, the FBI, ATF, and the administration ran from studio to studio answering the same questions over and over, reassuring the public while at the same time inadvertently heightening its fear that other such attacks could be imminent. The afternoon talk shows paraded every available, anxious-to-appear psychiatrist and psychologist before their cameras:

  INTERVIEWER: “What’s the psychology of someone so filled with hatred that he would target civilian airliners?”

  ANSWER: “That’s hard to say without having the opportunity to examine the perpetrator, to see what sort of background, childhood, life experiences might have impacted his adult actions.”

  INTERVIEWER: “How can people conquer what is now a natural fear of climbing aboard a commercial airplane?”

  ANSWER: “There isn’t much anyone can do except to adopt a fatalistic attitude. Because the victims were chosen at random, we’re all possible victims. But life is a random exercise. We never know whether we’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Terrorists don’t discriminate.”

  INTERVIEWER: “What are family members of those who died in the attacks feeling at this moment?” ANSWER: “Shock, sadness, remorse, anger—yes, extreme anger.”

  Wally Watson’s wife, Celia, succumbed to incessant pressure and agreed to appear on a local talk show.

  INTERVIEWER: “How is the family holding up?”

  ANSWER: “We’re doing the best we can under the circumstances. Wally—that was my husband—is missed very much.” She began to cry.

  INTERVIEWER: “If you could come face-to-face with the person who shot down the plane with your husband on it, what would you say to that person?” ANSWER: “I would say . . . I would ask why.”

  INTERVIEWER: “Yes, indeed, why is the question all America is asking. We’ll take a brief commercial break. When we come back, we’ll ask this courageous lady what the future holds for her and her family now that her husband is no longer with them.”

  The story multiplied, fed on itself. CNN devoted two hours to the activities of local police across the country. San Jose’s police chief was among those interviewed:

  INTERVIEWER: “What’s the mood here in San Jose?” ANSWER: “The mood is somber and concerned.”

  INTERVIEWER: “What is your department doing— what can your department do to allay these fears?”

  ANSWER: “Well, we know that incidents like these aren’t going to happen every day. The citizens of San Jose are being encouraged to go about their daily activities in a normal manner.”

  INTERVIEWER: “Including getting aboard airplanes?”

  ANSWER: “Yes, that too. Look, I don’t want to minimize what’s happened. We’ve gone to full alert in our emergency crisis center as a precaution, and known hate groups are being sought out and questioned. But—”

  INTERVIEWER: “Do you have information we don’t have that a domestic hate group is behind these attacks, not a foreign terrorist organization?”

  ANSWER: “No, but every potential source of information is being pursued. Thank you.”

  Warren Forrester held the APB his office had received as its subject, Zachary Jasper, approached.

  WANTED—CAUTION—FOR QUESTIONING—JASPER, ZACHARY—SEX/M—RAC/W—POB/IDAHO— DOB/020752—HGT/601—WGT/290—EYE/BRO— HAI/BLACK—MIS/EXTRM PARANOID—AFFIL W/KNOWN HATE GROUPS—FOUNDR THE JASPER PROJECT—HEVLY ARMED—LV/RANCH, NORTH WASH, CALLED JASPER, NRST CTY BELLINGHAM (TWN/BLAINE)—RANCH POP APPROX 30.

  Jasper wore a black T-shirt. Despite being the largest size available, it was stretched thin over his massive body. An unfurled American flag was emblazoned on its front. On the back, in white letters, was CSA, which stood for the Covenant, the Sword, and the Arm of the Lord, a militia group whose survival training school was considered among the best in the amalgamation of such groups across the United States. Jasper had been given the shirt after completing a refresher course there, and wore it with pride.

  Huge, sunburned arms, covered with tattoos, bulged against the shirt’s short sleeves. His hair was black and shaved daily into a buzz-cut. He wore a leather vest over the shirt, dark blue jeans—waist size forty-eight— leather sandals over bare feet, and a thick gold chain around his neck. A sizable, custom-crafted medallion, on which a lightning bolt cut across a shield containing a large red letter J, hung from the chain.

  At first glance, Jasper might have been considered a fat man. He wasn’t. He was a big man, muscular and hard, including his large belly. The only thing that mitigated the imposing figure he presented were round, rimless glasses that were absurdly small on his broad, flushed face.

  He walked down the long road to where the six FBI special agents dressed in suits stood next to three unmarked sedans they’d driven to the remote area known as Jasper, Washington, a name given it by its only permanent resident, Zachary Jasper. Flanking him were six younger men, none of whom were armed. The deal struck by phone the night before called for Jasper to surrender to the agents the next morning, and that no weapons were to be carried. The firearms carried by the agents remained in their shoulder holsters beneath their suit jackets, although their eyes scrutinized the approaching men carefully, seeking any sign that the agreement might be breached.

  Jasper and his entourage stopped ten feet away.

  “Mr. Jasper,” the lead agent, Warren Forrester, said.

  “He
llo,” Jasper said. “Here I am, just as I promised.”

  “That’s good, Mr. Jasper. Ready to come with us?”

  “Yes. I’m being questioned only. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

  “I’m not being arrested. I have witnesses here.”

  “You don’t need them, Mr. Jasper. We keep our word.”

  Jasper got in the backseat of one of the cars, and the three vehicles and six agents left the area. They drove to Bellingham, ninety miles north of Seattle, fifty-seven miles south of Vancouver, and pulled into a parking lot behind the city’s police headquarters. Jasper was led inside and down a long corridor to a general-purpose room at the east end of the one-story building.

  “Hello, Zachary,” Bellingham’s police chief said as Jasper entered the room.

  “Allan,” Jasper said, going directly to a table, pulling out a wooden armchair, and sitting heavily. Agents took the remaining four chairs. The two others stood. The police chief left the room and closed the door. A Sony cassette recorder sat on the table. One of the agents turned it on, saying, “We’ll be taping this, Mr. Jasper, for your sake and ours.”

  Jasper laughed gently. “For my sake? I don’t think so.”

  The lead agent said, “You know the chief of police, I see.”

  “Allan? Sure, I do. Nice fella. We don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother us.”

  It struck the agents that this bear of a man, dressed like a Hell’s Angels biker, was surprisingly well spoken. A few of them knew, however, that Jasper had been a political science professor in California before shucking that persona and taking the right-wing road that led him to form the Jasper Project, a hundred-acre ranch in a heavily wooded area outside Blaine, Washington, north of Bellingham, a busy port of entry between the United States and Canada. It was Jasper’s dream to establish a colony for white Christians, insular, secure, self-contained. Most of the people living at the ranch had come from other parts of the country, lured there by Jasper’s promotional materials promising a white, God-fearing nirvana.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Jasper asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his vest.

  “Prefer that you didn’t,” he was told.