Ralph Reed - Ballots and Blood

A n unmarked blue Ford Crown Victoria carrying a District of Columbia police detective pulled up in front of a pre-World War II, three-story redbrick townhouse in the upscale Georgetown section of Washington, DC. The detective slid out of the car, the summer heat hitting him like a furnace blast, the air heavy and almost choking. DC was like a paved swamp in the summertime, he thought. As he stepped to the curb, he glanced in either direction to survey the street for any suspicious persons (an instinctive response honed over twenty-two years of police work) and nodded at the patrolman standing on the sidewalk. He opened the iron gate to the small garden out front and descended to the basement.

Inside, his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. A second patrolman stood in what appeared to be a reception area-living room, its floor covered with a bland industrial carpet.

What do ya got? asked the detective, dispensing with formalities.

White male, approximately sixty, said the patrolman. Based on the condition of the body, Id say hes been dead for a while.

The detective nodded. Show me.

The officer led him to a door and a second set of stairs, which creaked as they descended. A pungent smell filled their nostrils, a noxious mixture of sweat, blood, leather, and death. A fly buzzed. When they reached the bottom, the detective surveyed the room. An empty cage sat in the corner, a wooden table with leather straps at the ends, a wall rack with whips hanging from itthe equipment of a faux-torture chamber.

Its a dungeon, said the officer.

So I see, said the detective. He stooped and studied the body. The mans flesh was pale with a gray pallor, soft and cool to the touch. His hands and feet were bound with leather restraints. He wore a black leather mask. Had the victim accidentally suffocated? Reddish-purple contusions flecked his shoulders, back, and buttocks. The lower limbs were discolored, indicating a settling of blood. The victim had been dead for hours.

What do you think? A whip, maybe? asked the detective, pointing to the bruises.

Looks like it, said the officer. Theres plenty of em. And riding crops. I didnt notice anything missing.

Well have to wait for the autopsy to find out how he died. I doubt a whip was the murder weapon. Well get prints. Thatll lead to whoever worked here. My hunch is there will be plenty of outstandings and priors, said the detective. Find out who owns the building.

Roger that, sir.

The detective stared at the body. Any ID on this guy?

His clothes are in the changing room, replied the officer, pointing to the corner of the basement.

The detective walked to changing room. Probably a lobbyist or corporate puke. Or a traveling businessman looking for a good time on the road.

He got more than he bargained for, said the officer.

A crisp navy blue suit hung on a hook in front of a mirror, a red-and-blue striped tie draped over the hanger. A blue shirt in dry-cleaning plastic hung on a second hook. A pair of boxer shorts, meticulously folded, rested on the chair, navy blue socks lying across a pair of black wingtips. The detective patted the suit, feeling a bulge in the pants. He reached in and pulled out a wallet. Opening it, he found a Florida drivers license. Reading the name, he let out an expletive.

What? asked the officer.

Well, now we have what we refer to as a situation. He reached into another suit pocket and pulled out some business cards, flipping through them, then closed the wallet and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number, pausing while awaiting an answer, his gaze leveled at the officer. I need the chief.

The chief of detectives came on the line. Whats so important that youre interrupting me?

Ive got a white male, sixty-two, bound and gagged in a Georgetown apartment retrofitted as a torture chamber. Somebody beat him up pretty bad. It appears he either choked to death or had a heart attack during the act, said the detective. I need a full crime scene unit stat. And Im going to need a public affairs officer.

Why?

The body is Senator Perry Miller.

What? Are you absolutely sure?

Not exactly. His face is covered. But unless someone else is wearing his suit and carrying his drivers license, yeah, its definitely Perry Miller.

The chief of detectives sighed. This is going to be a cluster.

Total.

Sit tight, said the chief. The CSU will be there in ten minutes. Secure the building. No one goes in or out until its swept for prints. I mean no one. Pretty soon itll be a police convention, with badges standing around with their thumbs up their noses and the media crawling everywhere. For now, I dont want a thread moved. Is that clear?

Done.

We might as well call the FBI. Theyre going to show up anyway. Give them all the cooperation they need, if only to protect us, if you get my drift.

Sadly, I do.

Whats your location?

321 M Street, NW.

Its probably nothing beyond what it looks like. A guy was having a good time, things got out of control, next thing you know youve got a dead body.

Nelson Rockefeller, call your office.

Right. But you never know. And given the victim, we need to tread carefully. This is going to be on the front page of every newspaper in America by tomorrow morning.

The detective hung up and turned to the patrolman. Congratulations, officer. You just bought yourself a front row seat to a sex scandal.

A BLACK LINCOLN TOWN CAR pulled up slowly to the back gate of the White House bearing Governor Kerry Cartwright of New Jersey. A uniformed guard scanned the drivers licenses of the driver, Cartwright, and a personal aide. He surveyed their faces to establish a visual ID.

Good afternoon, Governor.

Good afternoon, replied Cartwright, shooting the aide a knowing smile.

The guard waved the car through, the iron gates opening slowly with a creaking noise by remote control. The driver pulled into a spot just outside the West Wing with an orange cone placed in the center.

Jay Nobles assistant stood beneath the green awning of the entrance to the West Wing. She wore a smart blue skirt with a crisp white blouse, White House staff badge dangling conspicuously from her neck. As the car pulled up, she smiled officiously and greeted the governor.

Governor, so glad you could come. Jays with the president. Hell meet you in the mess shortly. He asked me to go ahead and take you to your table. She accompanied Cartwright and his aide down the narrow stairwell to the White House mess, greeting the host and leading the way to a private room.

David Thomas, White House political director and manager of Bob Longs presidential campaign, sat at a chair, head down, eyes peering at his BlackBerry screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Governor! he boomed a little too loudly when Cartwright entered, flashing a warm and expansive smile. David Thomas, political director. Welcome. He shook his hand vigorously.

Cartwright, a bowling ball of a man with stooped posture, loping gait, forty pounds of excess weight, and a look of permanent bemusement on his countenance (as if to say, How did I get this far, this fast?), gripped his hand tightly, their eyes locked. Good to be here, David. He turned to his aide. You know Bill Spadea on my team.

Absolutely, said Thomas, shaking Spadeas hand. Hes one of the best political operatives in America. Bill, your reputation precedes you.

At that instant the door swung open and Jay breezed in, immediately changing the rooms dynamics with his presence. Everyone wheeled to face him. Is Thomas talking about himself again? I heard something about the best political operative in America. Jay never resisted a chance to get a playful dig in on Thomas.