Edge of Black. J.T. Ellison

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      “I don’t know what to think. One minute he was fine. The next, he was down on the floor, choking to death.”

      “You witnessed his collapse?”

      “The end of it, yes. He arrived this morning at eight, like he always does. We had the morning staff meeting. He was upbeat, cheery. The vote on the new appropriations bill is tomorrow, and he felt like it was a done deal. The last vote before recess, and trust me, these guys have earned a rest. Without him, without the promises he’s made, the deals he’s guaranteed, that bill has no chance of passing. I’ve spent the day trying to shore up our votes, but it’s not going to happen. Months of work, down the drain. We’re fucked.”

      Temple tossed back half of his glass.

      Fletcher was again reminded of why he hated politics and politicians. Cold-blooded bastards, the lot of them.

      “So after staff, we watched the news about the attacks for about ten minutes, then had a few meet and greets, the usual stuff, people in from Indiana who want to bend his ear, get their picture taken. He had five minutes with each of them, then a coffee down in the dining room with Windsor Mann, the head of Ways and Means. He came back to the office a little ruffled, but Mann always pisses him off. They have to pretend to be friends in front of the cameras, but they don’t like each other much. He came back to the office, had just hung up his jacket and shut the door for some quiet time when Becky heard a commotion and knocked. He didn’t answer so she came and found me. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes, but when I got the door open, he was down. He has asthma, I don’t know if that’s part of the record yet. It looked like he was having a really bad asthma attack. He didn’t like to let people know, thought it made him look weak.”

      “How’d he make it into the service?”

      “Oh, this was something he picked up in the first Gulf War. Bunch of them came home with lung damage. His manifested as asthma. Pretty severe, too, and stress didn’t help things.”

      “So you entered the office, saw he was down, and then what?”

      “I searched his jacket pocket, thinking I’d get his inhaler, but it wasn’t there. Then I saw it on the floor next to him. I picked it up and handed it to him. He could barely hold on to it. We got it in his mouth and I pressed the trigger, but it didn’t seem to help. His eyes were rolling into the back of his head, and he was turning blue. He kept an EpiPen in his briefcase, but his briefcase wasn’t in the office. I looked everywhere. He’d stopped breathing by that point, so I started CPR and yelled for someone to call nine-one-one.”

      “Where’s the inhaler?”

      “I have no idea. The EMTs probably took it.” He looked to the ceiling and shut his eyes. “I should have called earlier. If I had...”

      “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think that would have made a difference. The autopsy has been completed, and the attack was quite severe.”

      Temple didn’t say anything, just maintained his position with his face aimed at the ceiling, like he was trying to hold back tears from spilling down his cheeks.

      “Did the congressman take the Metro this morning?”

      Temple sniffed once, hard, then faced Fletcher again. “He takes it every morning. Part of his job, he says, to be with the people, be a part of the populace. Of course, he has security on him, and he only rides it one stop, from Eastern Market to Capitol South. You know. Kisses his wife goodbye, hops on the subway. It makes him feel normal, like a regular guy. Joe six-pack, he liked to say. So yes, he was on the subway today.”

      “Where’s his wife now?”

      “Gretchen? Flying in from Terre Haute. She’d gone home to get one of their...charities settled. She is devastated.”

      “I’ll need to speak to her as soon as she arrives. And I need to speak to his detail. I’ll also need the names of all the supporters who were here this morning.”

      “I will have the detail get in touch immediately, and the list of people sent to you.”

      “The detail weren’t here, in the office?”

      “Not at his time of death. In the building, yes. More than likely. They were scheduled to go out with him at two. The congressman had a meeting this afternoon at the University Club. He was scheduled to speak to the Daughters of the American Revolution, of all things.”

      Fletcher appreciated the irony—speaking to a group whose membership could trace their lineage to the first attempts of the country to gain their freedom on the day the most important city in the world was attacked by terrorists was rich.

      Temple tapped a pencil on the clean desktop. “Do they know what the attack was comprised of? What the agent was?”

      “We don’t know yet,” Fletcher replied. “What about the rest of it?”

      Temple glanced at him.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “I think you do.”

      He gave Fletcher a pointed look. “Trust me. I don’t know.”

      “Mr. Temple. We’re both grown-ups here. I have no intention of using the information to demean or embarrass the congressman’s legacy. You saw the text. The language seemed...purposefully inflammatory. Has the congressman been harassed lately?”

      He shook his head, finally showing some interest in the situation. No, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t been disinterested before. He was under control. Very much under control.

      “Peter Leighton is an American patriot. He served his country honorably in the service, came home and decided to continue his selflessness in this thankless job. He is the greatest man I know.”

      Fletcher sat back in his chair and took a sip of his Scotch. “You know, I’ve been a cop in D.C. for eighteen years. I’ve seen a lot of shit. It is not my job to be judge or jury. Your boss had a reputation in the very quiet corners of this town, and you can’t expect me to believe that, as his number-one guy, you aren’t aware of that.”

      There it is. Right over the plate.

      “No idea what you’re talking about.”

      “Come on. You want to tell me what this is all about? Who might have sent something like this? Who did the congressman piss off?”

      Temple swiveled the computer screen around to face Fletcher.

      “Who hasn’t he pissed off? My God, we get five thousand emails a day, and I’d say a solid ninety percent are upset about something. Take, take, take, blame, blame, blame. That’s all these people know.”

      “Mr. Temple. Please. I’m talking about something a little more private than constituents with a burning desire for a new road.”

      Temple shook his head but wouldn’t meet Fletcher’s eye.

      “Truly, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “There are rumors...”

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