Capitol Hell

By Joseph M. Pendal

Political reporter Steve Christy is in the midst of a major investigation into an allegedly corrupt Senator when suddenly his editor assigns him to cover a series of Capitol Hill murders. His efforts are rewarded when he finds a reliable source in an unexpected place and a stunning surprise that takes his corruption piece to unimagined heights of power. Along the way, Christy finds it as difficult to convince the police a serial killer is at work as he does unearthing the critical link among the victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 11, 2002
• ISBN: 9781477162910

Joseph M. Pendal

Joseph M. Pendal has spent much of the past fifteen years working in politics, sports and business. His political resume includes serving as a legislative assistant in the United States Senate, deputy press secretary to the Governor of Minnesota, campaign manager to a gubernatorial candidate, and member of the kitchen cabinets of various other legislative and local candidates. Joe has also published more than 100 feature articles about professional and collegiate athletes. His second novel, Foggy Bottom, the follow-up to Capitol Hell, is expected the summer of 2002. The author and his family live in the Twin Cities.

Book preview

Chapter 1

PRESSING HER SWEATY cheek to the glass, she peered through the front window of her English basement apartment, looking with disgust toward the sky. Here she was with a rare day off from work, alone and free to do whatever she pleased, only to find herself stuck because of the darkening clouds assembling above. It wouldn’t be long before the nation’s capital would be drenched in usual summer storm fashion.

Typical of a Washington summer, sweltering heat and suffocating humidity would give way to torrential downpours lasting just long enough to transform the streets into oppressive saunas. As uncomfortable as that was, she was rarely bothered by it thanks to the two window-style air conditioners their landlord recently installed. Unfortunately, the reliability of the ancient machines was now in serious doubt—the one in the bedroom conked out Saturday night, kicked back in sometime Sunday morning and wheezed its last breath that evening, then the one in the living room began to chortle and choke before it coughed up its final semi-cool breath. Thanks to the Fourth of July holiday, there was little chance of rousting the landlord to fix it. The apartment was hot, damn hot, real hot. No relief in sight, and with the storm staging her desire to walk over to the air-conditioned café evaporated faster than the first raindrops that hit the searing pavement. Even the water in the apartment conspired to keep her hot—the tap and the shower were running slow and warm. On top of that, she drank the last Diet Pepsi an hour ago.

Her husband was due back from his business trip in three days. Hong Kong again. Two, sometimes, three weeks at a time. Here it was a long weekend on top of a brief congressional recess and he leaves the country. It ticked her off. He had staff; he could send one of them once in a while. She’d hoped the two of them would take advantage of the weekend and head for a mountain retreat in West Virginia.

The only aspect that buoyed her spirit was knowing her misery was equaled by his: ten-hour days filled with one meeting after another followed by late night, command performance dinners given in his honor by his exceedingly polite hosts. She’d accompanied him once before and knew how boring it could be. Beyond some minor sightseeing she would have preferred to stay home and watch paint dry—now she found herself home alone watching paint sweat.

Staying home seemed like a good idea. The House of Representatives recessed the Thursday before the holiday and wouldn’t reconvene for regular business for another week. Instead of taking time off over the two-week break, she worked every day storing up vacation time she hoped to use for two romantic weeks up at the Cape of Cod, as she liked to call it. With her boss back in the district walking in every parade possible to shore up another cakewalk re-election bid, the quiet in the office gave her a chance to finish old projects and begin looking ahead to work on Appropriations bills later in the month. Beyond funding the government and favored member projects, not a whole lot was expected to happen prior to the long August recess. The summer promised to be a little slower than the rest of the year and she was looking forward to reacquainting herself with her husband, some good books and the museums she took for granted.

Punctuated by some serious book reading, a little shopping in Georgetown, and maybe even a few more hours of mop-up work in the office, her Fourth of July was supposed to be the kick-off of a rather laid back summer. She toyed with the notion of driving out to Ocean City to hook up with some friends, but the car broke down the night before leaving her stranded. So, home alone it was.

A big clap of thunder exploded so close it shook the walls and her stomach. A moment later huge droplets of water began pelting the sidewalk. Better to suffer the heat than to have run out for soda and gotten drenched. Now seemed as good a time as any to attack the book she’d been dying to finish. Foggy Bottom, a political suspense thriller set in Washington, had been on the best-seller list for twenty weeks; everyone she knew was talking about it. She, of course, had been too busy to sit and read anything but bill mark-ups and legislative briefings. As slow as it was going to be, things had been equally hectic from the start of the session in January right through Easter and Memorial Day. After ten minutes of searching high and low throughout the tiny, overcrowded one-bedroom, she concluded the book was gone, pilfered by her husband. He did that a lot, taking a book for reading on the plane without asking.

Great, she thought. Just great … no air conditioning, no cold drinks, and now no book. Just me, a wobbly fan churning warm air about the room, the rain … and I suppose Oprah.

RIIIIINNNNGGGGG! ! ! ! ! ! RIIIIIINNNNNN GGGG!!!! RIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGG!!!!

After a moment’s hesitation, Hello. Silence on the other end. Hello, who IS this?!?!? Silence. Fine then! with that she hung up. Several days earlier the phone rang late in the evening and the same thing had happened three more times! Two nights ago the calls started again. Yesterday she went out around nine in the morning and when she got back after lunch, the calls began again. All told she counted fifteen calls in the past day and a half. With no one on the line. Generally, she wasn’t one to get nervous about the challenges of life in the city and she figured it was just bored kids having a little fun at the expense of her nerves. But now … now the calls were happening too frequently. She felt a bit unhinged. So much for relaxing.

BANG! Another startling clap of thunder that resounded in her chest.

It was only two in the afternoon, but the melded clouds that brought the storm made it appear as dark as midnight. Like the methodical ticking of an old alarm clock, raindrops continued to splatter on the pavement and rattle the aluminum awning hanging over the front door. The hypnotic effect of the falling rain slowly began to ease her tension. Soft, low thunder rumbled in the distance, the wind softly rustled the leaves on the trees in front. She was regaining her composure. Maybe this would be a typically brief summer storm, and she could pop over to the Greek place on Pennsylvania Avenue for a Gyro and a beer, maybe even Ouzo with the owner, Stephano.

While she waited for the rain to abate, she mindlessly flipped through the pages of an old issue of Glamour. Even a liberal, feminist could care about make-up! She got to thinking about an argument she and Ellie Smeal once had with Molly Yard. They were attending a NOW fundraiser, powdering their noses in the ladies (uh, women’s) room. Molly was disgusted by their concern for their appearances.

You subjugate everything we’re fighting for just to look like one of those pin-up dolls, Molly complained.

No, Molly, we are not doing that, Ellie said. Conforming to a few societal expectations is nothing more than being professional. Besides, it makes me feel good.

BULLSHIT! the aging feminist raged. What happens when pant suits are no longer acceptable on the catwalks of Paris? What then Ellie? Only skirts in the office? I don’t think so.

Ms. Yard … I think Ellie is saying that a modest application of make-up is not giving in to old-world views of women or the salacious desires of men … besides, if it makes a woman feel good and more confident in herself, then I think it’s a good thing. Plus …

Plus nothing! Molly Yard boomed. With that she left the rest room.

Better watch out, Ellie Smeal advised. Molly’s got a hard-on now … she’ll probably complain about make-up during her speech.

Should we wash it off? the young House staffer asked her hero.

Are you kidding? If it weren’t so gross, I’d be tempted to pile it on like Tammy Faye Bakker just to goad Molly. Besides, even among the real zealots Molly isn’t looked to for fashion tips, Ellie hooted.

What a heady experience that was! Standing in the bathroom applying make-up next to one feminist legend while another even bigger legend stood beside them reaming them for selling out. She and Ellie became good friends after that; as a young staffer she was always looking for a mentor, and who better than someone like Ellie Smeal! It had been a while since she’d spoken with her mentor, perhaps she shou …

She was suddenly slapped back to reality by a loud crack of thunder that shook the walls and ceiling … too bad the upstairs neighbors were away, a little company would feel good right about now. With that, nature’s orchestra was in full voice: a symphony of rain, thunder and wind. As the wind picked up and the whistling of the trees intensified, she heard tapping on a window in the kitchen. Just a limb hitting the window she thought, nothing to worry about, keep reading. She was jolted by another clap of thunder, which was followed a heartbeat later by the screaming ring of the telephone.

Hello, she answered. Nothing.

Hello! she said louder. Nothing.

Who is this? Why are you doing this? she yelled into the phone. Still nothing.

This is getting old, don’t you think?!?!

Click. Dial tone.

Enough is enough; she decided to leave the phone off the hook for the rest of the day. No one needed to reach her and besides, the only people she wanted to talk to at that moment were the police. But what would she tell them? Crank calls weren’t likely too high on their list of priorities. As difficult as it was, she tried to relax by falling into the overstuffed cushions of the sofa and returning to her magazine. It wasn’t long before she nodded off to sleep.

The storm raged outside more methodical than violent. A few hours later she awoke with a start when a bolt of lightening, accompanied instantly by thunder and an explosive crack as it struck a tree across the street. A medium sized limb was sheered from the trunk and fell harmlessly to the lawn below. Listening to the rain was no longer comforting or hypnotic. Aside from the storm, the apartment was irritatingly quiet. Why didn’t they have a dog? A big dog. A really, really big dog. No dogs, her husband declared … he’s a cat person, but they didn’t even have a damn cat to keep her company either. Well, at least there was the television as a last resort. The early news was about to come on. She could get a handle on the weather … would the rain end soon or was ark building in order?

With Glamour spread across her lap, she thumbed through the pages mindlessly as the news anchor began reading a story about yet another murder in the Capital City. In a city that suffers the nation’s highest per capita murder rate, another story about a violent death barely caught her attention. But this wasn’t just another murder. It happened on Capitol Hill a few blocks from where she sat. She turned up the volume and leaned toward the old nine-inch black and white jammed into the corner of a very crowded bookshelf.

… appears to have struck again. Police were called to the 1615 S. Carolina Avenue apartment building early this morning. The body of Susan Swan was found by her mother shortly after 11:30. Lorraine Swan apparently went to her daughter’s home after becoming concerned when she had not heard from her for several days.

The cover video showed a small crowd of people gathered behind the all-too-familiar yellow crime-scene tape. It switched to a prolonged shot of the medical examiner’s people rolling Susan Swan’s bagged body from the building on a stretcher.

Mrs. Swan, the anchor continued, told police her daughter called every day. When she hadn’t heard from her daughter, Mrs. Swan became worried and went to the apartment to check on her. Once inside she discovered the tragedy of her lifetime.

More footage of the townhouse apartment. Cut shots to the crowd. Now a pan of the side street where Susan lived, a restored church converted into condos, more gawking curiosity seekers. She sat, dumbfounded, listening to the anchor provide more details of her colleague’s murder.

Though police officials refuse to make details of this latest homicide available, Channel 4 News has learned that the victim was a 32-year-old congressional aide …

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. That’s about all she could hear now. Staring at the television, all sorts of things began running through her mind, none of them pleasant. She knew Susan Swan, not well, but well enough to feel the loss and certainly well enough to shiver at the horrific nature of her death. They’d worked together over the years on legislation co-authored by their respective bosses. Susan was smart, funny, but took no prisoners when it came to arguments. This was terrible, terrible news … and to be alone at this moment was simply …

Her daze was broken by yet another crack of thunder. The lights flickered, the limping fan slowed further by the momentary loss of power … then the apartment went black … the lights went out, the fan stopped, the television screen went black, even the clunky old fridge stopped gagging. Exactly the kind of thing she needed at exactly the right moment. No candles nearby, theemergency flashlight was predictably dead thanks to its alkaline oozing battery, and, as is the charm of an English basement apartment, little natural light was available through the few windows. Then, just as suddenly as all was lost, the lights came on, the fan regained its slothful pace, the fridge belched its return to life, and the television returned just in time for the weather report.

Whew, she sighed. Already on edge thanks to the crank calls, then the storm, then the news of Susan’s murder … being home alone was one thing, but with no power, no lights, no television, no stereo, that was an entirely other freak-out thing altogether. Unfortunately, her sense of relief was short-lived. Flicker, flicker and then it was dark. Darkness was not her old friend and she was not happy the sounds of silence prevailed … and this time, it would last.

She decided to spend the rest of the evening huddled in her bedroom … there were at least candles in there so she could read. No sooner had she fumbled for the matches and lit every aromatherapy candle she owned when the lights came back on. At this point she was dead tired and figured she might as well just stay in her room. When she went to the living room to turn off the lights and the television, the local station was cutting into the millionaire show to provide a weather update. Continuing thunderstorms through the early morning possibly accompanied by high winds and golf ball sized hale. She flicked off the television and tossed a few profanities at the certified meteorologist for his bad news.

Back in her room, she turned on the stereo just in time to hear the final glorious moments of Herbie Hancock’s rendition of Cantaloupe Island. Jazz was something that could soothe her soul and ease the pain she felt as she thought of Susan Swan. Then it dawnedon her that she hadn’t even looked at the Post that morning. One of the pleasures she enjoyed during recess was not having to read through the Post, the Times (New York and Los Angeles) and the Journal before her boss called her at 6:00 a.m. Her boss was a crazed news hound (or just crazed, depending on one’s perspective), who devoured newspapers like potato chips and watched C-SPAN and CNN with equal hunger. At the very least, she had to know something about everything that was above the fold in the A section, the Metro section and the op-ed pages before the gentlewoman from the State of Washington called.

Nothing on the front page … that was reserved for a picture of the President flanked by the bikini-clad Queen of Cheese and her bikini-clad coterie of Cheese Princesses, at Wisconsin Dells. As if this President’s pressing more flesh was news. More important than pending budget legislation, more important than the upcoming floor battle over the abortion plank at the Republican convention … and more important than another unexplained murder on Capitol Hill. But there it was … above the fold … Metro: FIFTH WOMAN FOUND DEAD; Residents Ask When Will Police Act? In spite of the booming headline, the story, which carried her sister’s byline, provided barely more information than the television news did. If Amy didn’t know more, it wasn’t available to be known. Her sister was a tenacious reporter and had been the Post’s top crime reporter for two years. The article said Susan’s death occurred around seven-thirty Friday night … two days before her mother found her. Susan was apparently home alone; her roommate was away on vacation. The stereo was blasting the classic rock of a local station and it appeared as she was interrupted while doing the dishes.

Amy’s account went on to say that police sources acknowledged mounting pressure for the creation of a task force dedicated to what looks like the work of a serial killer. Though the police would not confirm or deny similarities among the five murders, it was obvious to many that these were not coincidental homicides: each victim was female, each lived on Capitol Hill and each was employed in the Congress.

Great! A serial killer on the loose and nobody but the dope-fiend mayor and his corrupt cops to rely on. Relaxing now was no longer an issue. If only she could close her eyes and wake up three days from now when her husband would return from Hong Kong. They had their moments of tribulation, but he knew how to make her feel safe, and most of all, loved. She longed for his tenderness.

Tap … tap … tap … earlier it was quite easy to assume the tapping sound was nothing more than a branch hitting the kitchen window … but … now … now, it sounded more like someone was out there. Her heart was pounding full throttle. Fright-filled thoughts careened around her skull. Was it just the rain … a branch on the window … or was someone out there? Nah. Just her mind feeding off the emotion of Susan’s murder to play tricks on her … she was exhausted from the heat after all, and maybe a little woozy as a result. Of course, Susan Swan may have heard similar sounds just before she was killed. And what about the phone calls?

Even Monk and Coltrane couldn’t ease the anxiety that left her vacantly thumbing through the magazine. It was Glamour for God’s sake and she was forced to read sentences and paragraphs a second and third time. When the music ended for a newsbreak, she switched her stereo over to NPR to listen to Fresh Air. Maybe one of Terry Gross’s interviews would provide enough distraction … before laying back down she sprinted to the living room to grab the erstwhile fan so it could at least re-circulate her room’s stagnant air. To cool off a bit more, she stripped down to nothing but her bikini cut panties … Look, Molly, no bra!

Former J. Geils Band front man Peter Wolf was in the studio for the Fresh Air interview. As she lay still on her bed, she began thinking of her husband and his almost maniacal love for J. Geils and its soulful R&B sound. She missed him more and more with each passing moment. As the interview proceeded, she began to doze. She was out by the time Terry Gross asked the funk master why after all the years of struggling and fighting for survival did the band break up in the midst of its early 80s success. Soon the radio and the rain became nothing more than white noise … there, but not there, heard, but not heard. Her subconscious took over and it took her to the airport in Hong Kong where she saw her husband boarding his plane home … while he was arguing with a Northwest Airlines gate agent, she could see herself excitedly straightening up her desk at work. They always enjoyed his returns from these long business trips … they knew how to make up for lost time. She could feel her excitement rising as she strolled across the Capitol complex from the House side to the Senate side where they lived. Planes were flying overhead. They were commercial jetliners flying in formation as if they were the Blue Angels. Suddenly, one dropped out as if in the missing wing formation.

Next she was watching her husband enjoying a glass of champagne as he sat in business class with his feet up and his chair reclined. There was a loud popping sound … he spilled his drink … an instant later the plane was hurtling headlong toward the ocean … therewas another loud bang … the next thing she knew she was sitting straight up, wide awake on her bed. Awakened by the loudest clap of thunder yet, she glanced at the clock beside her bed … 10:37. She slept far longer than she imagined she could. The BBC broadcast was in full swing when the numbers on the clock disappeared and the radio went dead. Another power outage. Sitting in the darkened bedroom, heavy rain picking up where it left off, and the oppressive delta-like heat of the apartment growing thicker by the minute, she cursed out loud for all the world to hear. If anyone did hear her, they weren’t responding.

All was quiet, but for the rain and the rumbling thunder … and the intermittent tapping on the kitchen window. Accepting the situation and being at ease with it were two different things. She lit the candles again. She tried her luck with a back issue of U.S. News & World Report … perhaps the contrast between the broad smiles of the heroin-thin models in Glamour and her present situation made the present situation seem worse than it was. Halfway through a long piece on the acceptance of the Euro and its effect on the dollar, she noticed something.

The rain seemed to be slowing to a drizzle, the wind no longer whistled, and to her relief the tapping at the window ceased. All that fear over a stupid branch! No power, but ahhhh … peace at last. She continued reading by candlelight. She had no way of tracking time, but if felt like all was calm for at least an hour; she’d finished the Euro story and slogged through what seemed to be an annual piece on the merits of allowing China into the IMF. Her serenity was destroyed when she heard what sounded like keys dropping to the floor of the wooden porch that led to their front door. Forget nervous and anxious … she was now downright scared,especially when she heard footsteps shuffling on the wood planks.

What could she do? The power was out … the only phone in the apartment was in the front room and that’s where the sounds were coming from! Think, think, think, think … that’s it! The samurai swords! She hated her husband’s collection of ancient Japanese and Chinese war mementos. For someone who was generally so passive and pacifistic, her husband really got off on war masks, coats of arms and swords. The one reason she was glad not to be living in a bigger place was his promise to showcase all this stuff in a museum-like room. Hanging them on a living room wall in the apartment was enough to convince her that getting a house wasn’t worth the price of living in a Shogun shrine. At least she got him to agree to keep his arsenal in the bedroom until they got the Big House they dreamed of. But now, faced with some kind of impending terror, this collection of death might actually prove useful.

She slid off the bed with the quiet grace of a cat stalking a mouse … she crawled across the Oriental carpet that covered most of the room’s hardwood floor toward the closet where the armaments were stored … slowly she opened the closet door trying with all her might to silence its propensity for creaking loudly. Whew … no creak. She reached in feeling around first on the floor then leaning in to reach further back in the corner … got one! Nothing like a samurai sword to make you feel safe … or at least safer than if you had nothing at all. She resolved that if she survived the night, she’d let her husband hang the swords anywhere he wanted … preferably one to a room. Now standing behind the partially open bedroom door, she held the sword with the same McGwire-esque grip she used to smash line drives in Capitol Hill softball games. Whoever it was, was going to find himself drilled into left field for a double.

Less than thirty-feet away, she heard the knob of the front door jiggle … the sound of someone fumbling to get in … a serial killer with a skeleton key? Good thing she was ready, because it was obvious this was no mere tree branch, this was someone trying to get in. She leaned toward her dresser and blew out the candles hoping the darkness would make her surprise attack more effective. Susan Swan flashed in her mind. Shit!

Her palms began to sweat … she wiped her hands on the little bit of material that formed her panties … silk isn’t too good for absorbing, neither were bare breasts. No time for dry hands or more clothes, the door to the apartment opened with its standard pop and creak. Slowly the intruder made his way through the darkened apartment … creeping in virtual silence along the hardwood floor of the darkened hall toward the bedroom. How did he know where to go?

Did Susan Swan experience this kind of terror … or was it quicker for her … did she even have a fighting chance? Probably not. Not without a samurai sword to protect her. The footsteps stopped just on the other side of the door. She could hear his breathing … what’s he waiting for, her brain screamed?!?! This was the one moment she was grateful for the blackout. A level playing field was hers and she just hoped her first swing was hard and true and hit the mark. The intruder gently pushed the door open and jumped into the room.

Surprise! he yelled.

In one motion she jumped out from behind the door swinging the sword with all her might, catching him with an upper cut that really did rival Mark McGwire’s swing. The blade sliced across his throat, tearing openhis jugular. He couldn’t even gasp for his final breath; he just fell to the floor in a bloody hump. She froze with the fear of someone who had just faced certain death and the paralyzing ache of someone who had just killed another.

Standing in the darkness of her bedroom she slowly recalled what she barely heard before she took action … Surprise! … did he really yell that? … what kind of thing was that for a serial killer to say as he moved in for a kill? As she foggily pondered these questions, the lights suddenly flickered on. All she knew was she wanted to get out of the room and call the police immediately … she didn’t want to look at the man dead on her bedroom floor, the man who killed five women before he made the fateful mistake of coming into her bedroom … but, with the natural curiosity of rubber-necking drivers passing an accident on the highway, she couldn’t help but look.

She glanced toward the psychotic as his blood continued to drench the rug. Whhaaa… . Whhhhhhh aaaaaaaaa … oohhh, myyyyyyy, Goddddddd … this wasn’t Susan Swan’s killer lying there!

It was her husband.

Chapter 2

HE’LL BE THERE, don’t worry.

Why should I think so … he’s crapped out every other time we’ve tried to get him up here, and frankly I’m tired of it.

Won’t happen this time. He knows what’s at stake … for ALL concerned.

He better.

Let me put it this way: I do and that means he does or will by the time it matters.

Fine. Have you guys gotten anywhere on the committee assignment?

The request has been in for quite a while, nothings going to change until after the election.

I know that. What I need to know is whether or not we can count on his being on that committee after we get him re-elected!

We’ve asked the Minority Leader to consider it, his chief of staff assures me they’re going to be fair and that a decision will be made soon. I can’t do much more than that at this point.

Perhaps the Minority Leader needs a little persuading from some of our friends in South Dakota.

Somehow I don’t think threatening the Minority Leader of the United States Senate is much of a good idea.

I’m not sure sitting around waiting for you people to do something is a very good idea either.

Look, Stan …

No … you look, Teddy … you and your guy are nothing without me and the fine, hard-working Americans we control, I mean represent. We need more bang for our buck, and that means getting his ass on that committee. Do you understand me?

Yeah, thanks for the reality check, Stan. Here’s one for you: you’ve got a United States Senator who will vote for anything you want, who will go to the mat with any agency for anything you want, and who will use every chit and favor he’s ever collected to achieve anything you want. He might seem like a dime-a-dozen tool to you, but this guy has friends and replacing him and building up the next puppet will take time. Abe wants to make the committee switch, but if he pushes too hard or we insist on nagging the Leader’s office, it’s going to risk not getting that and a whole lot of other things as well. Be patient. In the meantime, I’ll get Abe up to Saw Bow for you.

You damn well better or …

He’s as good as there … he’ll fight the good fight, take a few hits on your behalf … he’ll earn his money.

And …

And we’ll work a few more angles on the committee assignment. And …

And we’ll get a few checks together so you have the buck-fifty next week.

A buck-fifty? Stan we talked about two-fifty. Sedgwick’s piling up the dough pretty quick, we need to get on television and drive up Abe’s favorables by the end of this month. I thought …

You’ll get the rest when I see something about the committee assignment in my local paper. For now, it’s a buck-fifty.

Click.

Teddy Dennis held the phone in his hand a moment before putting it back in its cradle. Fucking Stan! It’s not as if there was any doubt about their loyalties; Teddy and Abe knew full well they owed their jobs to Stan Perlmutter and his friends. But what peeved him, especially lately, was how easily Stan overlooked all that he and Abe did for him, all at great risk to their freedom. Teddy had been serving as Senator Abe Melinski’s chief of staff since the first day the Minnesota Democrat took office … going on twelve years. Teddy knew where the bodies were buried … at least in a political sense. When he first came to Washington after college, Teddy was as wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as any youthful newcomer to the nation’s capital. His first job was as a caseworker in a House member’s office, but soon the chief of staff on the House banking committee noticed him and he moved over there as a research assistant.

He’d only been in Washington two years at that point and with his idealism still intact he eagerly went to work on low-income housing issues. He soon learned that even among the Democrats on the committee this was a low priority item that was generally trotted out to make political hay during campaigns or when fang-toothed Republicans sat in the Oval Office. The real constituents of the committee were homebuilders, landlords, mortgage bankers, savings and loan pirates, and related industries. Campaign contributions were abundant for members on both sides of the aisle. But, homeless people don’t vote much and contribute even less to campaigns.

Teddy met Stan Perlmutter about two years into his stint on the committee staff. Perlmutter, a fourth generation logger and wood products magnate, traced his Minnesota roots back to a great-great grandfather who was among the first to swing an ax into a tree up in the state’s Arrowhead region. Since then, the family’s business grew to international proportions and influence. Perlmutter Industries could boast ownership of nearly all the timberland in the Upper Midwest. What the US Department of Interior or a few tiny, independent operators didn’t own, Perlmutter did. After Stan’s father took over the business back in the 1950s, the Perlmutters began to diversify their business interests buying banks, developing land for shopping centers and apartment complexes. And … a good deal of their diversification came at the expense of the law.

Initially, Teddy had no taste for dealing with Stan and his trade association, but that eventually changed. Stan and his representatives worked Teddy like old Soviet handlers worked an espionage recruit. A little favor here, a small incidental piece of information there. In return, Teddy often found he and his wife sitting ten rows up on the fifty-yard line at Redskins’ games or main floor seats at the Kennedy Center. In time, Stan’s requests got bigger and so did the rewards … but so did the risks and the threats. Within two years Teddy had done enough horse-trading for Stan that he couldn’t risk ending the relationship. The least of his worries was being fired; Teddy’s main concern was being exposed to charges of stealing government property, maybe even racketeering, who knew? All Teddy did know was that he was in so deep that his fears about some day receiving his mail in Leavenworth, Kansas didn’t seem all that far-fetched.

Stan Perlmutter knew what he had in Teddy Dennis: a bright young man who would remain loyal as long as he was shown respect, appreciation and occasionally reminded of the trouble he could get in if he bailed on the organization. Stan was just waiting for the right time to position Teddy to be even more useful to the organization’s interests. That opportunity came when Stan got Abe Melinski elected to the United States Senate. From the start Abe and Teddy hit it off, and Stan knew Teddy had the ability to manage Abe and his occasional streak of independence.

In spite of having sold out long ago, Teddy still held onto the hope that Abe would make a name for himself in some meaningful area of legislative activity … be enough of a statesman to influence debates and decisions. Deep down, Teddy thought, Abe wanted the same thing. They never really discussed serious legislating because more time was spent carrying water for Stan and figuring out ways to make it all look legitimate. Besides, Abe needed to maintain as low a profile as a United States Senator could. Too much national exposure, even on some minor legislative front, and who knows what some young aspiring Woodward-type might stumble across. Abe’s political career was already pock marked with allegation, accusation, innuendo and insinuation of impropriety. So far, Teddy had successfully protected him, preserving the all-important aspect of plausible deniability.

Now, another election loomed. D-Day was less than five months away. Teddy was going to do nothing to piss off Stan, or fuel the never-confirmed rumors of Abe’s nefarious connections. This year’s campaign promised to be a dogfight. The sitting Governor was challenging Abe for the Party’s endorsement … most figured his interest in running was little more than a ploy to increase sales of his tell-all book. The governor was a popular figure, but always sought attention, even if it meant embarrassing or demeaning the state. Few pundits believed the challenge would result in much more than a two-ballot poll at the convention. The real concern among Abe’s brain trust came in the form of the presumed Republican challenger. Congresswoman Cynthia Sedgwick, a two-term conservative who had won election to the House following her husband’s death while flying bombing raids over the Balkans. He was in the Air Force Reserves, but in his full-time job he was the most popular television news anchor in the Twin Cities. As for Cynthia, she had long been involved in Republican politics, but, because of her husband’s high profile position among the media elite, she put her electoral ambitions on hold. After his death, sympathy and support came from all over the state and she took advantage of the overwhelming support for military families, combined with the increasingly vocal opposition to the mission, to blast the incumbent Democrat for his support of the undeclared war.

Teddy knew Cynthia Sedgwick was no fluke; she was a lynchpin for much of the Republican majority’s success in the House. A leader of the young Turks who ousted Newt Gingrich, Sedgwick was determined to beat Abe Melinski and use her Senate seat as a launching pad for the ultimate political prize. Teddy hoped her people would fail in their effort to control her quick wit and sharp tongue. He wanted her to be brutal toward Abe and his record in the Senate. He hoped her doing so would help them paint her as overly ambitious, light on ideas of her own, and willing to win by any means necessary. (It reminded him of the old saw about Jimmy Carter and how he wanted to be President in the worst way … and he was.) Teddy knew Sedgwick’s growing war chest was going to anger Minnesota voters who long ago grew weary of candidates spending millions attempting to buy elections … but of course, that only meant that she would not be able to take issue with Abe’s own sizable coffers.

Teddy’s only concern was just how