The President's Henchman (5 page)

Driving to police headquarters, McGill remembered reading stories of people in Dallas who had celebrated the assassination of JFK. Appalling but true. When he arrived, he had Klara alert all patrol units to be on the lookout for any home where a party might be going on. He wanted to know if anybody in the village knew of the death of Andy Grant and had reason to cheer about it.

Then he got on the phone and woke up the dean of the Divinity School at Northwestern, the president of Lake Forest College, and the principal of New Trier High School. He informed each of them of what had happened and asked their help in identifying any of their students who had been active in the pro-life movement, especially those who’d been militant in their advocacy.

Normally, the schools would have been reluctant to compromise their students’ privacy. But Andy Grant had been well loved locally, a generous contributor to endowment funds, and the spouse of a prominent member of Congress. Assured that McGill would be discreet, they all agreed to cooperate.

Next, McGill started to call the rectories and parsonages of every church from Evanston to Waukegan. Somewhere in the haystack he was amassing, he was sure he would find his needle.

He was between phone calls when Klara poked her head into his office, and, trying not to make too much of it, said, “Chief, that idea of yours about parties, maybe we’ve got something. In Kenilworth.”

Kenilworth lay immediately south of Winnetka. It was more a congregation of old money than an actual town. Too small to have its own police and fire services, Kenilworth contracted them out to Winnetka. Not content to rely on public agencies, however, Kenilworth was also heavily patrolled by private security companies.

Klara had extended the party-watch alert to the private cops.

One of the Kenilworth security patrols had just taken into custody a young man named Lindell Ricker. The private cops had been responding to a silent alarm at a lakefront property. The problem was, they told McGill when he was patched through to them, Mr. Ricker claimed he’d done nothing wrong. He was simply staying at his parents’ house. He carried a Virginia driver’s license identifying who he was, and an old student ID from New Trier giving the correct Kenilworth address.

But he apparently hadn’t known that his father had installed a separate alarm on his wine cellar. The private cops had walked in on him as he was drinking champagne and wearing a goofy smile on his face. All alone but acting like he was having his own little party. They asked McGill what they should do.

He said cuff him; he’d be right over to arrest Mr. Ricker.

McGill told Lindell Ricker he was under arrest for suspicion of murder and read him his Miranda rights in front of the two private cops, whom he then swore to secrecy. He transported his prisoner back to police headquarters and once again read Ricker his rights in front of Klara and two patrol cops who’d been called in specifically to witness the event. Klara and the uniformed officers were also sworn to secrecy.

Then, as Ricker declined to say a word to anyone much less request a lawyer, McGill put him in a holding cell and waited for Sweetie. McGill was sure there was a religious element to the killing of Andy Grant, and while he was a first-rate interrogator in most situations, he’d never seen anyone better than Sweetie when it came to dealing with suspects who thought they were doing God’s work. She arrived three hours later, looking both sad and vengeful.

“The congresswoman come home?” McGill asked.

Sweetie nodded. “The president let her borrow his plane.”

“Everything work out okay?”

“Mr. Grant’s remains were still on-site when she got there. I had to put her in a bear hug. She struggled and yelled some, and the feds looked like they didn’t know whether to spit or go blind. But I kept talking to her quietly … and finally we just prayed for him. Asked God to gather Mr. Grant’s soul into His company. Right there in front of everyone. I think some of the feds even said amen with us.”

Sweetie had been a novice in a convent before leaving to become a cop.

“Where’d you take her?”

“I had one fed drive us to St. Francis and another bring my patrol unit along. She’s in a private room, sedated, under another name. Father Bernini, the hospital chaplain, is there in case she wakes up. A couple feds are out in the hall standing guard.” Sweetie sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I saw someone in such pain.”

McGill nodded, and said, “We’ve got one of them.”

Sweetie’s sadness disappeared. All that was left was vengeful.

“Let’s go talk to him,” she said.

This time, McGill turned on the video camera. State law for all interrogations. He asked once more if Lindell Ricker wanted a lawyer.

Having had the time to consider his situation and his buzz to deteriorate into sullen anger, he was willing to answer the question. “I don’t need a lawyer. I answer only to God’s law. I’m willing, no, eager, to become a martyr.”

Lindell Ricker was twenty-two years old. Righteous and full of himself. He was playing to the camera and completely missed the gleam that came into Sweetie’s eyes.

“I called your parents while you’ve been here,” McGill said. “The security company had a number for them in Florida. They were really surprised when you came home this summer. Especially after you’d told them the way they live they’re sure to go to hell. You scare your parents. That’s why they went south out of season.”

“They’re sinners,” Lindell said.

“Maybe so, but you’re the one who broke into your father’s wine cellar. Didn’t know he’d put a separate alarm on it, did you? Had to protect all that expensive, sinful wine. You pick out a nice bottle to guzzle?”

Lindell only frowned.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Sweetie said, joining in. “Your parents are sinners, but you’re a would-be martyr?”

Lindell tried to hold her gaze; couldn’t. But he managed to say, “Like you’ve never seen.”

“How about like this?” Sweetie asked.

She undid the top two buttons of her uniform shirt and Lindell looked up. Sweetie took out the St. Sebastian medal she wore on a chain around her neck. She also gave Lindell a glimpse of the scar on her upper chest where she’d taken the bullet for McGill. The scar was sizable.

“You know what this is?” Sweetie asked, holding out the medal.

“Papist idolatry.”

“Yeah, yeah. But do you know the story of St. Sebastian?”

Lindell didn’t answer. Sweetie told him anyway.

“Saint Sebastian was actually a little like you. The son of wealthy parents.” Lindell looked up, a hint of interest on his face. “Now Sebastian’s parents, they were good Romans. Believed in all the old Olympian gods. Their son, though … he was a secret Christian.”

Sweetie had him now.

“Did I mention that Sebastian was also a Roman soldier? A captain of the guard. His family money gave him clout. His military rank gave him status. He was a golden boy. Could have had anything he wanted. But then the emperor, Diocletian, who hated Christians, started a persecution. Sebastian decided if he was truly a man of faith, he would have to reveal himself. So he did.”

Sweetie paused and stepped out of the room to get a bottle of water. She came back and drank, not offering any water to Lindell. “You have the conviction to reveal your secrets, Lindell?” she asked. Before he could respond, she held up her hand. “No wait. Let me tell you the rest of the story before you answer.

“Because of his family’s high standing, the emperor himself asked Sebastian to renounce his Christian faith. He refused. His faith was strong, and he wanted the world to know it. So the emperor had him taken outside the city gates. Sebastian was tied to a tree and shot full of arrows.

“Only he
didn’t
die. That ticked the emperor off good. So the emperor had Sebastian taken down from the tree and beaten to death. Now
that’s
my idea of a martyr.” Sweetie sat on a corner of the interrogation room table, all but on Lindell’s lap. He looked up at her, watched her throat move as she took another drink. Then she asked him in a quiet voice, “You got the stones to match up with St. Sebastian, Lindell?”

Lindell focused on Sweetie’s medal while he looked for an answer.

Sweetie inclined her head to the door, and McGill slipped out.

McGill was on the phone when Sweetie came out of the interrogation room. His face was flushed. “Sonofabitch! That’s got to be them. Yeah, grab them and hold them for us while we get the extradition request started. Yeah, thanks. Come to town sometime, dinner’s on me.”

He hung up and looked at Sweetie as she took a seat.

“A boater at a marina in Holland, Michigan, an army vet, called the cops to report a guy on another boat unloading what he swore was a rocket launcher. Got the make, model, and plate number of the vehicle the rocket man and three other people drove off in. Ten minutes ago.”

Sweetie said, “That’d be a green Toyota minivan, Virginia tag number 405 413J. The people are Erna Godfrey, the triggerwoman, and Walter Delk, his wife Penny, and their adult son, Winston, the accomplices.”

McGill looked at her and smiled. “You got all that on tape?”

Sweetie nodded. “And in Lindell’s own hand. It’s being typed up right now.”

“He signed his Miranda waiver, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Sonofabitch, we’re gonna get all of them. That was great, that story about St. Sebastian.”

“The patron saint of police officers.”

McGill fell silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, “Of course, with no one in the interrogation room but the two of you, after you turned the camera off, you might have pointed out to Mr. Ricker that our case against him would be much more problematic should he recant his confession. Even with the tape, he might claim duress. He might go free, needn’t be a martyr at all.” Sweetie waited, she knew McGill wasn’t finished. “Which isn’t to say that someone might not tie him to a tree and shoot him full of arrows. Beat him to death if necessary. But I won’t ask you about that.”

“No, don’t,” Sweetie said.

McGill was the first person Patti Grant saw when she opened her eyes.

He didn’t ask how she was, he just told her the news. “We have five people in custody for killing Andy.”

She didn’t say a word, only started to cry. McGill brought her a box of tissues.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. “I knew Andy for only a short time; I wish I’d known him longer.” He turned to go, but Patti caught his wrist.

“Who … who are they?” she asked.

McGill told her, and she said, “There are more, at least one.”

Patti Grant was sure that Erna Godfrey wouldn’t have killed anyone without her husband — the Reverend Burke Godfrey, pastor of the Salvation’s Path Church — knowing about it and approving.

That assertion had been voiced flatly, a simple statement of fact. But Patti’s voice turned bitter when she mentioned two more possibilities. “Representative Doak Langdon of Georgia and Senator Howard Hurlbert of Mississippi, cosponsors of the Support of Motherhood Act, and members of my own party.”

A televangelist, McGill thought he could handle. Two sitting members of Congress … he was glad of the decision he’d made.

“I turned the case over to the FBI,” he said. He told her that Lindell Ricker noted in his amended confession that he’d put Andy’s copy of the Wall Street Journal into the Grants’ mailbox. He’d done so because he thought there’d be less chance of anyone stealing the newspaper, and the threat it contained, that way. McGill had Ricker make that point clear because Illinois moratorium on the death penalty was ongoing and — “I don’t really know your position on capital punishment, Congresswoman,” he admitted.

“I’m no longer certain myself.”

“Well, the feds are pursuing it as a death-penalty case.”

Patti only nodded, making McGill wonder if she was thinking a plea bargain would be agreeable to her if it got Erna Godfrey to implicate her husband and the two pols. But that wasn’t his problem.

“I really am sorry, Mrs. Grant. Please accept my condolences.”

She let McGill’s wrist go and nodded.

“Thank you. Thank you for …” That was as far as she got.

She grabbed a fistful of tissues, and McGill left her to grieve in private.

The mourners at Andrew Hudson Grant’s funeral numbered more than a thousand. The president of the United States was forced to send his condolences, but the First Lady and the vice president were there. As were more than a hundred members of Congress. Winnetka Village President Henry Healy was one of the pallbearers. Friends, both exalted and humble, came to say good-bye. Sergeant Margaret Sweeney, formidable in her dress uniform, and an honor guard of fellow officers, represented the village police department.

Other than the president, the only person of note missing was James J. McGill.

He turned up at the cemetery the next day, after the crowd had gone home. He knelt beside the freshly turned plot of earth, made the sign of the cross, and asked God to grant Andy eternal rest … and to forgive him for letting a good man die. When tears filled, then overflowed McGill’s eyes, he didn’t bother to wipe them away.