The President scribbled notes. “When did Jensen leave his apartment?”

“Don’t know. We’re relegated to the parking lot, remember. We followed him home around 6 P.M., then watched the building for seven hours until we found out he’d been strangled in a queer joint. We were following his demands, of course. He sneaked out of the building in a friend’s car. Found it two blocks from the joint.”

Coal took two steps forward with his hands clasped rigidly behind him. “Director, do you think one assassin did both jobs?”

“Who in hell knows? The bodies are still warm. Give us a break. There’s precious little evidence right now. With no witnesses, no prints, no screwups, it’ll take time to piece this thing together. Could be the same man, I don’t know. It’s too early.”

“Surely you have a gut feeling,” the President said.

Voyles paused and glanced at the windows. “Could be the same guy, but he must be superman. Probably two or three, but regardless, they had to have a lot of help. Someone fed them a lot of information.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how often Jensen goes to the movies, where does he sit, what time does he get there, does he go by himself, does he meet a friend. Information we didn’t have, obviously. Take Rosenberg. Someone had to know his little house had no security system, that our boys were kept outside, that Ferguson arrived at ten and left at six and had to sit in the backyard, that—”

“You knew all this,” the President interrupted.

“Of course we did. But I assure you we didn’t share it with anyone.” The President shot a quick conspiratorial glance at Coal, who was scratching his chin, deep in thought.

Voyles shifted his rather wide rear and gave Gminski a smile, as if to say, “Let’s play along with them.”

“You’re suggesting a conspiracy,” Coal said intelligently with deep eyebrows.

“I’m not suggesting a damned thing. I am proclaiming to you, Mr. Coal, and to you, Mr. President, that, yes, in fact, a large number of people conspired to kill them. There may be only one or two killers, but they had a lot of help. It was too quick and clean and well organized.”

Coal seemed satisfied. He stood straight and again clasped his hands behind him.

“Then who are the conspirators?” the President asked. “Who are your suspects?”

Voyles breathed deeply and seemed to settle in his chair. He closed the briefcase and laid it at his feet. “We don’t have a prime suspect, at the moment, just a few good possibilities. And this must be kept very quiet.”

Coal sprang a step closer. “Of course it’s confidential,” he snapped. “You’re in the Oval Office.”

“And I’ve been here many times before. In fact, I was here when you were running around in dirty diapers, Mr. Coal. Things have a way of leaking out.”

“I think you’ve had leaks yourself,” Coal said.

The President raised his hand. “It’s confidential, Denton. You have my word.” Coal retreated a step.

Voyles watched the President. “Court opened Monday, as you know, and the maniacs have been in town for a few days. For the past two weeks, we’ve been monitoring various movements. We know of at least eleven members of the Underground Army who’ve been in the D.C. area for a week. We questioned a couple today, and released them. We know the group has the capability, and the desire. It’s our strongest possibility, for now. Could change tomorrow.”

Coal was not impressed. The Underground Army was on everyone’s list.

“I’ve heard of them,” the President said stupidly.

“Oh yes. They’re becoming quite popular. We believe they killed a trial judge in Texas. Can’t prove it, though. They’re very proficient with explosives. We suspect them in at least a hundred bombings of abortion clinics, ACLU offices, porno houses, gay clubs, all over the country. They’re just the people who would hate Rosenberg and Jensen.”

“Other suspects?” Coal asked.

“There’s an Aryan group called White Resistance that we’ve been watching for two years. It operates out of Idaho and Oregon. The leader gave a speech in West Virginia last week, and has been in the area for a few days. He was spotted Monday in the demonstration outside the Supreme Court. We’ll try to talk to him tomorrow.”

“But are these people professional assassins?” Coal asked.

“They don’t advertise, you understand. I doubt if any group performed the actual killings. They just hired the assassins and provided the legwork.”

“So who’re the assassins?” the President asked.

“We may never know, frankly.”

The President stood and stretched his legs. Another hard day at the office. He smiled down at Voyles across the desk. “You have a difficult task.” It was the grandfather’s voice, filled with warmth and understanding. “I don’t envy you. If possible, I would like a two-page typewritten double-spaced report by 5 P.M. each day, seven days a week, on the progress of the investigation. If something breaks, I expect you to call me immediately.”

Voyles nodded but did not speak.

“I’m having a press conference in the morning at nine. I would like for you to be here.”

Voyles nodded but did not speak. Seconds passed and no one spoke. Voyles stood noisily and tied the strap around the trench coat. “Oh well, we’ll be going. You’ve got the Ethiopians and all.” He handed the ballistics and autopsy reports to Coal, knowing the President would never read them.

“Thanks for coming, gentlemen,” the President said warmly. Coal closed the door behind them, and the President grabbed the putter. “I’m not eating with the Ethiopians,” he said, staring at the carpet and a yellow ball.

“I know it. I’ve already sent your apologies. This is a great hour of crisis, Mr. President, and you are expected to be here in this office surrounded by your advisers, hard at work.”

He putted, and the ball rolled perfectly into the cup. “I want to talk to Horton. These nominations must be perfect.”

“He’s sent a short list of ten. Looks pretty good.”

“I want young conservative white men opposed to abortion, pornography, queers, gun control, racial quotas, all that crap.” He missed a putt, and kicked off his loafers. “I want judges who hate dope and criminals and are enthusiastic about the death penalty. Understand?”

Coal was on the phone, punching numbers and nodding at his boss. He would select the nominees, then convince the President.

K. O. Lewis sat with the Director in the back of the quiet limousine as it left the White House and crawled through rush-hour traffic. Voyles had nothing to say. So far, in the early hours of the tragedy, the press had been brutal. The buzzards were circling. No less than three congressional subcommittees had already announced hearings and investigations into the deaths. And the bodies were still warm. The politicians were giddy and wrestling for the spotlight. One outrageous statement fueled another. Senator Larkin from Ohio hated Voyles, and Voyles hated Senator Larkin from Ohio, and the senator had called a press conference three hours earlier and announced his subcommittee would immediately begin investigating the FBI’s protection of the two dead justices. But Larkin had a girlfriend, a rather young one, and the FBI had some photographs, and Voyles was confident the investigation could be delayed.

“How’s the President?” Lewis finally asked.

“Which one?”

“Not Coal. The other one.”

“Swell. Just swell. He’s awfully tore up about Rosenberg, though.”

“I bet.”

They rode in silence in the direction of the Hoover Building. It would be a long night.

“We’ve got a new suspect,” Lewis finally said.

“Do tell.”

“A man named Nelson Muncie.”

Voyles slowly shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“Neither have I. It’s a long story.”

“Gimme the short version.”

“Muncie is a very wealthy industrialist from Florida. Sixteen years ago his niece was raped and murdered by an Afro-American named Buck Tyrone. The little girl was twelve. Very, very brutal rape and murder. I’ll spare you the details. Muncie has no children, and idolized his niece. Tyrone was tried in Orlando, and given the death penalty. He was guarded heavily because there were a bunch of threats. Some Jewish lawyers in a big New York firm filed all sorts of appeals, and in 1984 the case arrives at the Supreme Court. You guessed it—Rosenberg falls in love with Tyrone and concocts this ridiculous Fifth Amendment self-incrimination argument to exclude a confession the punk gave a week after he was arrested. An eight-page confession that he, Tyrone, wrote himself. No confession, no case. Rosenberg writes a convoluted five-to-four opinion overturning the conviction. An extremely controversial decision. Tyrone goes free. Then, two years later he disappears and has not been seen since. Rumor has it Muncie paid to have Tyrone castrated, mutilated, and fed to the sharks. Just a rumor, say the Florida authorities. Then in 1989, Tyrone’s main lawyer on the case, man named Kaplan, is gunned down by an apparent mugger outside his apartment in Manhattan. What a coincidence.”