Tarnish

By S. Watts Taylor

The suicide of a gay man leads a seasoned reporter to investigate the unsavory side of Washington politics where murder and crimes abound.

Tom Clark, a reporter with the White House press corps, is on assignment when he learns that his childhood friend, Simon Neville, has committed suicide aboard an Amtrak train. When three FBI agents inform Clark that he, along with three others, is the recipient of a suspicious package delivered to his office, he is unexpectedly propelled into a media frenzy that forces the government to shut down the capital.

Anxious for a good story, Clarks editor assigns him to investigate Nevilles suicide. It is not long before Clark learns that Neville was harboring a secret of monumental proportions. A victim of sexual harassment, Nevilles case in federal court had just been denied by Richard Ignatius, a conservative judge who is hiding his own unsavory secrets. As soon as Clark reads the incriminating contents of Nevilles diary, he is led straight to a rightwing religious organization in Washingtonjust as a series of seemingly related murders occur with one common thread: Judge Ignatius.

In this action-packed thriller, Clark is unwittingly caught in a web of corruption, deceit, and desperation as he attempts to take down powerful culprits who want to teach him one important lessonthat life can change in an instant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462002047

S. Watts Taylor

S. Watts Taylor lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with his partner and their adorable pets. An active member of the GLBT community, he hopes to draw attention to the shortcomings of gay rights in America. This is his second novel.

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Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER I

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A mortal dust has settled upon my life and tarnish has fixed itself to the metal of my being.

When the president of the United States travels, it makes news. I should know; as a White House reporter, I travel with him and write the stories. Over the years, I have grown accustomed to watching as the carefully scripted visits unfold in various cities around the world. Seeing it from inside Air Force One is especially thrilling: you realize that you’re traveling with the most important man alive. The hustle and the excitement come together strangely aboard this famous airplane. Often you become caught up in the moment. You have a role, albeit a minor one, in some important event in history. Sometimes, you feel as if you’re part of a pageant or an unfolding drama as the cheering crowds and the blaring anthems greet your arrival. Yet this heady feeling doesn’t last. Eventually, you learn that your role is irrelevant and that the marching band is playing music for someone else. When the president’s ratings plunge, you start keeping track of how often he tells the same joke or wears the same tie. The presidents start looking alike. The photo-ops become contrived, and the first lady starts tagging along to provide distraction. It all becomes a bit tedious as the days seamlessly roll into each other.

Today was no exception. The president was dedicating a new high school. It was another Kennedy Memorial, so I knew I was somewhere in Massachusetts. Late summer fog in New England had delayed our arrival, and I barely had time to take my seat in the freshly painted auditorium before the opening remarks started. As I watched the stage, I noticed an aide approach the president and bend slightly to deliver his message. The president showed no emotions; he merely nodded in acknowledgment, and the aide disappeared. Nothing of note, I thought. The president rose to speak, but as he did a buzz began circulating among my peers. Pulses began to race. Collectively, we all sensed a morbid similarity to that moment years ago in Florida when another president had first learned of the September 11 attacks. I had been at Booker Elementary that horrible day, and I was experiencing déjà vu. Over the applause, I heard that Washington had shut down. Because reporters are essentially a rude lot, the story was repeated in stage whispers all around me. A dead body had been found inside a private compartment aboard the Cardinal, the Amtrak train traveling from Chicago to Union Station. Because it was an apparent suicide involving public transport in the nation’s capital, the station was closed, and all mass transportation ceased. I also heard that the FBI was searching for bombs.

Instantly, the news media went into overdrive. The president continued speaking, but most of my peers were obsessing over the bigger story they were reading on their personal media toys. After his talk, the White House announced that the president would cut short his itinerary and return early to Washington to await events. The incident quickly developed a momentum all its own: protocols prompted contingency plans and contingency plans triggered emergency responses. As bomb squads combed trains, subways, and buses in search of incendiary devices, forensic experts analyzed the scant belonging of the dead man, whose body they subjected to intense inspection and scrutiny. Driving all this was one question: was this suicide an isolated event, or was it part of a larger catastrophe waiting to be realized?

I was unexpectedly propelled into this story. Three large, nondescript Federal agents culled me from the herd of reporters accompanying the president and informed me that a package had been delivered to my office at The Washington Dispatch from the dead man. The agents escorted me to the school library, which was serving as the event’s command center. Their professionalism had rendered them invisible on most occasions; they were part of the official entourage, which I had learned to ignore amid the multitude at presidential events. In the past, the standard issue had appeared more thuggish than today. The tailoring may have improved, but at first glance, they resembled modern angels of death—cold, merciless, and efficient.

The archangel in charge of the investigation gave his name as Agent Brown. Brown was a strapping man with short hair and a square, serious face that sat upon his shoulders without any evidence of a neck. He reminded me of an offensive tackle I had tutored in college. Brown explained that he liaised with the Homeland Security, the White House, and the FBI. I tried to imagine the complicated organizational chart replete with its endless dotted lines of responsibilities.

Do you know a Simon Neville? he asked.

I grew up with him.

He opened up a small note pad and began reading. His monotone was annoying. That would have been in … let me see … Kozee, Kentucky, correct?

He mispronounced the name of the town, but most people did. I nodded in the affirmative and made no eye contact. I was not sure where this was going, so I was mindful of my body language.

Did you know him well?

Yes, when we were younger, I answered. We were kids together.

What was your opinion of Mr. Neville?

I had known Simon since childhood and had good opinion of him. I could tell Agent Brown a great deal about him, but I didn’t feel particularly communicative. I choose to be guarded. Simon was polite. He was quiet and intelligent.

"Do you have any reason to suspect that he would have terrorist connections?’

Simon Neville? I asked looking up. Is this a joke? You must have the wrong guy.

No, replied agent Brown. He began to read again from his note pad. Simon Cary Neville, white male. Age forty-four, resident of Newport, Kentucky. Should I continue with his stats?

I shook my head no.

Do you know whether Neville was gay? he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. Why should I out Simon to the Feds? Besides, they probably already knew the answer to that question.

According to public records, Simon Neville owns a home with his partner, Adam Sunan Zuitfeld, a permanent resident who holds a Dutch passport. Zuitfeld was born forty-two years ago in Jakarta, Indonesia. Brown looked up from his notes. Have you ever met Zuitfeld?

Yes, once. I had met Zuitfeld at my mother’s seventieth birthday party. Simon had brought Adam along to meet her. Adam was a pleasant fellow, and my mother was very charmed by him. We all were.

You do realize that Indonesia is the world’s largest Muslim county?

It isn’t a crime to be a Muslim in America, I replied.

Zuitfeld is a Muslim? asked Brown.

I didn’t say that.

According to a receipt in his possession, Neville shipped a package to your office, said a second agent. Were you expecting a package from Neville?

I shook my head no. At that very moment, my cell phone beeped indicating that I had a text message.

You may want to check that, said Agent Brown. It’s probably your office.

I checked. Brown was correct. It’s Tina at work.

Tina Hannigan, correct? asked Agent Brown. He turned a page in his notepad and jotted something down. The question was meant to be rhetorical. The entire interview was meant to be rhetorical.

FedEx delivered the package less than an hour ago. It was seized, Brown noted.

You seized my package? Did you have a warrant?

Homeland Security doesn’t need a warrant, announced Brown. We are acting in accordance with the National Response Plan.

But you’re FBI, aren’t you? I asked.

I liaise, he responded dryly. Brown must have aced the deadpan training at the academy.

So who took my package? I was confused.

Your paper cooperated fully, he said, artfully sidestepping my question. The Bureau will return it to you later.

And when will that be? I asked.

When it’s no longer needed.

Did you know that Simon Neville’s body was found dead aboard an Amtrak this morning? asked the second agent. It was an apparent suicide.

So Simon was the suicide whose death had shut down Washington. Now it all made sense. Simon had offed himself in a train, and the government was linking it to an act of terrorism because his partner was a foreigner. This was absurd. Simon was beyond white bread. Simon had agnatic ancestors with recognizable historic names. None of his people had ever seen the inside of Ellis Island; they had arrived long before that. Only in Washington could paranoia run this deep. Only in Washington could they have gotten it so very wrong.

And you really think there’s a bomb someplace waiting to go off? I asked, vocalizing the insanity of this scenario.

The Bureau is mandated by law to investigate that possibility, said Brown. There may be other packages out there from Neville, or from people associated with him.

"Are there other packages out there from Simon? How many are there?"

I am not at liberty to comment, replied Brown. I must have looked skeptical because he continued. You may not find this suspicious, but we do. I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation. The security of the nation may be in jeopardy.

Oh, I fully understand this, I replied. I was trying hard not to scoff—at least not to do so visibly. How did we get from a simple suicide to shutting down all the mass transit in the Capital?

It’s because of the package, Brown replied in a factual manner. This incident now meets three of the five criteria of Presidential Directive 4.7, paragraph B.

And what is Presidential Directive 4.7, paragraph B? I quizzed.

I am not at liberty to discuss it.

Why? It seemed a logical response.

It is an unpublished directive, continued Agent Brown. It’s one of the seven unpublished directives of the Homeland Security Act.

But why isn’t it published?

That’s covered in Presidential Directive 4.7, paragraph A.

And is that published? I asked.

He gave me no answer. Now that I was asking questions, the government had stopped talking. An embarrassing silence followed in which I stifled the urge the laugh. These people were deadly serious, and I couldn’t help but find them funny. If Simon only knew the agony he was causing the government, he would laugh, too. America, thy name is overkill.

Zuitfeld left the country last Friday, stated the third agent, who had remained silent thus far. Were you aware of this?

No, but that still doesn’t make Simon Neville a terrorist, does it? I asked.

Zuitfeld has a connection to an important Sunni family. Did you know that?

I didn’t reply. All of this was so implausible, yet nothing could be done to stop it. The wheels of government would not stop turning.

I assume you are returning to Washington with the rest of the media on the plane, said Agent Brown. He was referring to Air Force One. You do know that the president has changed his travel plans.

I’m flying commercial on this trip, I replied. I hadn’t been on the plane since President Clinton; I had been bumped to make room for more prestigious correspondents. In Washington parlance, I was simply a camp follower. It was a subtle distinction indicating that my career had seen better days. No doubt, Brown had a reason to sneer.

We may have more questions in the future, but you are free to leave.

Summarily dismissed, I was on the telephone within seconds to Tina. She put me through to Tony Reasor, my editor.

What the hell is going on, Tom? he asked. I’ve had the FBI all over my ass. So who is this Simon Neville, and why is he sending you packages?

I don’t know why the he sent it, I snapped angrily. But more to the point, why did you let the FBI take it?

Because I didn’t want it to fucking blow up, that’s why. Tony talked as if the macho, tough-guy reporter routine was expected of him. From his perpetually repulsive coffee breath to his oily mannerisms, Tony was a tired cliché working in a dying business. Most of his colleagues at the paper regarded Tony as a has-been, but in my opinion he was only a never-was—but then we all were.

Simon Neville couldn’t hurt anyone. That is, except himself.

They were insistent.

I’ll never get it back.

You most certainly will. We have our lawyers working on it now.

Why’d you get the lawyers involved? I asked. This was a private matter outside the scope of my job. Why was the paper involving its legal staff?

Listen, this dead fucker shut down DC, and it’s all over the TV. Whatever was in that package must have been damn important, but do I care? We have a scoop.

We don’t have a scoop, I exclaimed. It’s probably nothing. Simon liked to cook when we were kids. Maybe he baked me cookies.

I don’t care if he baked you a dildo. Trust me, by the time I’m finished, it will be a scoop.

This was nonsense, so I changed the subject.

Have they released Simon’s name? I asked.

CNN and Fox have, but that’s just so much background noise. We have the big story—or we will once you put it together.

Not happening, I protested. I know the family. I can’t write an unbiased story about Simon. Besides, I don’t write about middle-aged men in crisis. I cover the White House.

The White House doesn’t have a story at the moment. The president spouting endless crap about the Republicans in the house does not a story make, said Tony. Congress is in summer recess, and the president will soon be in Martha’s Vineyard. You might as well pound your pud until after Labor Day.

Of course, Tony was right. The government was currently peripatetic. Although that was probably good for the country, it was not good for reporters covering the White House.

Suddenly, Tony shifted gears and became my boss. Naturally, that was his prerogative. "Montijo in metro will write the story for tomorrow’s edition. He wants your job anyway. He says he’d get better a class of pussy if he worked the White House, but I still want you to make some calls. I see a feature article for the Sunday issue. We’ll talk in the morning after you’ve had time to reflect upon what it takes to