Guilty Minds

“What if I did? You know how people are. They’ll always believe the accusation against the so-called great man. That’s what our society has come to. That’s our culture. I never intended anything bad to happen to that poor girl. I never-never-thought anyone would be killed. My reputation-my honor-is vitally important to me.”

“I understand. You know, Mandy didn’t realize it was you.”

“But it was only a matter of time before she found out.”

I nodded. On the drive, I’d thought about what I was going to say. I’d put most of it together, but not all.

Two months ago, Mandy had heard a rumor about how some grand poobah, some Washington insider, had killed a man decades ago, but the murder was covered up. It sounded like a story for Slander Sheet, but it could also have been nothing, a waste of time. She made some calls. Located the source, a long-retired policeman now dying in a nursing home.

But she never got the chance to talk to the old cop, because a far more exciting story had presented itself. A story about a Supreme Court justice and a call girl. The story was false, of course, but it was made to withstand normal fact-checking by any good journalist.

It was also designed to fall apart when a dedicated, high-powered investigator dug into it. The story was made to collapse, to discredit both the journalist and the website. That had been my role. To undermine the story.

So that no one would ever believe anything this journalist ever wrote again. Or anything that appeared on this website.

It had almost worked.

“So what happened, Gideon? One night you and Jeremiah Claflin put away a bottle of Old Overholt between you, and it comes out. Anacostia. This incident from all those years ago…?”

He stared impassively. A pause. “WhistlePig.”

“Sorry?”

He spoke almost mechanically. “It wasn’t Old Overholt. That’s not my brand. The bottle in my office, that was a gift.”

“And a few years later, Claflin’s now the golden boy. He’s the one being put up for the top job. You’re not in the inner circle of consideration any longer. How’d that happen? Did Claflin whisper to one of the kingmakers that Gideon Parnell had a dark spot on his biographical X-ray?”

I waited. Gideon was silent for a long time. At last he said, his deep voice hushed, “I can’t be sure. I’ve always wondered.”

“And it ate at you, I’m sure. Which is why Claflin’s name had to be dragged through the shit before he was vindicated. In your campaign to bring down Slander Sheet. And you know, the thing is, Gideon-you’re probably too old to be named to the court. After all that.”

Gideon just looked wounded. I thought of what my father had said. It’s always your friends who do you in. Maybe that wasn’t about himself after all.

“Vogel had probably done investigations for the firm, right?”

Gideon nodded. But his mind was somewhere far away. “The evil that men do lives after them,” he said. “The good is oft interred with their bones.”

I’d heard that before. “If you mean killing your sister’s rapist, I think people will understand why you did what you did. You did a bad thing for a good reason.”

“Do you know who Wilbur Mills was?”

“Yeah, vaguely. A congressman. A stripper named Fanne Foxe, the Tidal Basin, a sex scandal.”

“And all anyone remembers about him is the sex scandal that ended his career. Then there’s Clark Clifford.”

Wearily, I said, “The BCCI scandal.”

“John Edwards.”

“The mistress, the kid. The wife with cancer.”

“John Tower.”

“Uh, Texas senator with a drinking problem.”

“Yes. The list is long. All of them men who accomplished things. But how they’re remembered? For some small-time scandal.” He slid open a desk drawer and looked at whatever it contained. “A lifetime spent doing good works-to end up a figure of disgrace?” He drew out from the drawer a handgun, a nickel-plated revolver with a short barrel.

“You’re not thinking straight,” I said.

But he put the gun to his temple.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Gideon!”

He closed his eyes. “How this story ends-how my story ends?” he said. “It’s in your hands. And mine.”

“Don’t!” I jumped out of my seat and tried to grab his gun, but it was too late.

I saw everything as if in slow motion.

I saw the revolver, like a toy in his giant hand. Saw his manicured fingernails. Saw his index finger squeeze the trigger.

I saw the hammer pull back into the cocked position. Saw the fractional rotation of the cylinder as it lined up a new bullet.

Heard the metallic click. Saw the hammer slam forward, the firing pin striking the primer at the back of the bullet casing.

I saw the muzzle flash, the tongue of flame, and then the cloud of smoke as the gun recoiled.

Heard the explosion, so immensely loud yet not nearly loud enough for what it signified.

And I felt something moist and hot mist my face.

Epilogue