Shall We Tell the President? Read online

  “Are you okay? You look a bit pale,” she said, and then she saw his hands and screamed.

  “Don’t go into Room 4308 whatever you do. Don’t let anyone into that room unless I say so. Send me a doctor immediately.”

  The nurse thrust the cup of coffee at him, forcing him to take it, and ran down the corridor. Mark made himself go back into Room 4308, although his presence was irrelevant. There was nothing he could do except wait. He switched on the lights and went over to the bathroom; he tried to remove the worst of the blood and vomit from himself and his clothes. Mark heard the swinging door and rushed back into the room. Another young, whitecoated female doctor … “Alicia Delgado, M.D.” said her plastic label.

  “Don’t touch anything,” said Mark.

  Dr. Delgado stared at him and then the bodies, and groaned.

  “Don’t touch anything,” repeated Mark, “until Homicide arrive; they will be here shortly.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Special Agent Mark Andrews, FBI.” He instinctively took out his wallet and showed his credentials.

  “Do we just stand here staring at each other or are you going to allow me to do something about this mess?”

  “Nothing until Homicide has completed their investigation and given clearance. Let’s get out of here.” He passed her and pushed the door with his shoulder, not touching anything.

  They were back in the corridor.

  Mark instructed Dr. Delgado to wait outside the door and to allow no one else inside while he phoned the Metropolitan Police again.

  She nodded reluctantly.

  He went over to the pay phone, two more quarters; he dialed the Metropolitan Police and asked for Lieutenant Blake.

  “Lieutenant Blake went home about an hour ago. Can I help you?”

  “When had you been planning to send someone over to guard Room 4308 at Woodrow Wilson Medical Center?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Andrews, FBI, Washington Field Office.” Mark repeated the details of the double murder.

  “Well, our man should be with you now. He left the office over half an hour ago. I’ll inform Homicide immediately.”

  “I’ve already done that,” snapped Mark.

  He put the phone down and collapsed into a nearby chair. The corridor was now full of white coats. Two gurneys were being wheeled up to Room 4308. They were all waiting. What was the right thing to do?

  Two more quarters, he dialed Nick Stames’s home. The phone seemed to ring for a long time. Why didn’t he answer? Eventually a female voice came on.

  Mustn’t show panic, he thought, holding on to the phone box. “Good evening, Mrs. Stames. It’s Mark Andrews. Can I speak to your husband?” An even tone, no sign of stress.

  “I’m afraid Nick is not home, Mark. He went back to the office about two hours ago. Funny, he said he was going to see you and Barry Calvert.”

  “Yes, we saw him, but he left the office to go back home about forty minutes ago.”

  “Well, he hasn’t arrived yet. He only managed to finish the first course of his dinner and said he would come straight back. No sign of him. Maybe he returned to the office. Why don’t you try him there?”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry to have bothered you.” Mark hung up, looked over to check that no one had gone into Room 4308. No one had. He put two more quarters in and phoned the office. Polly was on duty.

  “Mark Andrews. Put me through to Mr. Stames, quickly, please.”

  “Mr. Stames and Special Agent Calvert left about forty-five minutes ago—on their way home, I think, Mr. Andrews.”

  “That can’t be right. It can’t be right.”

  “Yes, they did leave, sir. I saw them go.”

  “Could you double-check?”

  “If you say so, Mr. Andrews.”

  Mark waited, it seemed to him, for an interminable time. What should he be doing? He was only one man, where was everyone else? What was he supposed to do? Christ, nothing in his training covered this—the FBI are meant to arrive twenty-four hours after a crime, not during it.

  “There’s no answer, Mr. Andrews.”

  “Thanks, Polly.”

  Mark looked desperately at the ceiling for inspiration. He had been briefed not to tell anybody about the earlier events of the evening, not to say a word whatever the circumstances until after Stames’s meeting with the Director. He must find Stames; he must find Calvert. He must find somebody he could talk to. Two more quarters. He tried Barry Calvert. The phone rang and rang. No reply from the bachelor apartment. Same two quarters. He called Norma Stames again. “Mrs. Stames, Mark Andrews. Sorry to trouble you again. The moment your husband and Mr. Calvert arrive, please have them call me at Woodrow Wilson.”

  “Yes, I’ll tell Nick as soon as he comes in. They probably stopped off on the way.”

  “Yes, of course, I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe the best thing will be for me to go back downtown as soon as the relief arrives. So perhaps they could contact me there. Thank you, Mrs. Stames.” He hung up the receiver.

  As he put the phone down Mark saw the Met policeman jauntily walking towards him down the middle of the now crowded corridor, an Ed McBain novel under his arm. Mark thought of bawling him out for his late arrival, but what was the point. No use crying over spilt blood he thought, morbidly, and began to feel sick again. He took the young officer aside, and briefed him on the killings, giving no details of why the two men were important, only of what had happened. He asked him to inform his chief and added that the Homicide Squad were on their way, again adding no details. The policeman called his own duty officer, and reported all he had been told, matter-of-factly. The Washington Metropolitan Police handled over six hundred murders a year.

  The medical personnel were all waiting impatiently; it was going to be a long wait. Professional bustle seemed to have replaced the early panic. Mark still wasn’t sure where to turn, what to do. Where was Stames? Where was Calvert? Where the hell was anybody?

  He went over to the policeman again, who was explaining in detail why no one must enter the room … they were not convinced but waited; Mark told him he was leaving for the Field Office. He still gave him no clue why Casefikis had been important. The Metropolitan policeman felt he had things under control. Homicide would be there at any moment. He told Mark they’d want to talk to him later that night. Mark nodded and left him.

  When he arrived back at his car, he took the flashing red light out of the side compartment and fixed it to the roof, placing the switch into its special slot. He was going to get back to the office, at top speed, to people he knew, to reality, to men who would make some sense out of his nightmare.

  Mark flicked on the car radio. “WFO 180 in service. Please try and locate Mr. Stames and Mr. Calvert. Urgent. I am returning to Field Office immediately.”

  “Yes, Mr. Andrews.”

  “WFO 180 out of service.”

  Twelve minutes later, he arrived at the Washington Field Office and parked his car. He ran to the elevator. The operator took him up. He rushed out.

  “Aspirin, Aspirin. Who the hell’s on duty tonight?”

  “I’m the only one on tonight, boy, I’m here on my own,” said Aspirin, looking over his glasses, rather bored. “What’s the matter?”

  “Where’s Stames? Where’s Calvert?” Mark demanded.

  “They went home just over an hour ago.”

  Oh hell, what should he do now? Aspirin was not a man to confide in, but he was the only person Mark could seek any advice from. And although Stames had carefully instructed him not to speak to anyone about the details until they had seen the Director, this was an emergency. He wouldn’t give away any of the details, he would just find out what a Hoover man would have done.

  “I have to find Stames and Calvert, wherever they are. Any suggestions?”

  “Well, first of all, have you tried the car radio stations?” asked Aspirin.

  “I asked Polly to check. I’ll try her again.”