Murder at the Pentagon Read Online Free
Author: Margaret Truman
arrivals engaged in an animated, hushed conversation. When they were through, Monroney returned to the platform, took the microphone in his hand, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been an accident inside. Sorry to say so, but the picnic is over. Medals for the rest of the winners will be delivered to them on Monday. Please, disperse now. Go home. Thank you for coming.”
Monroney motioned to Mucci and another staff man to join him, and they followed the two who’d brought news of the accident back into the Pentagon through the same doors.
The crowd, dispersing, was abuzz. So suddenly. So quickly. What happened? What
kind
of accident? Who?
Instinctively, Margit turned to look at the spot where Christa Wren had been leaning against the tree. She wasn’tthere anymore. Margit stood on tiptoe and looked over the crowd, saw Christa walking quickly from the center court and through the designated entrance/exit being used by slower-moving picnic-goers.
Margit joined the crowd as it filed toward the exit, heard the talk around her, the questions, the speculations. She had no one with whom to join in such conversation. No sense in playing the speculative game anyway. She’d find out soon enough—along with everyone else.
Monroney, Mucci, the third officer who’d joined them, and the two security men looked down on the body. They were in a subbasement of the Pentagon, a storage area reached by a set of stairs and an elevator, both heavily guarded one floor above. Dr. Richard Joycelen was slumped against the watercooler. The bullet that took his life had passed cleanly between his eyes, and blood had drained freely from the wound, over a prominent hump in his nose and down one side of his face. Much of it was already congealed, and was reddish brown rather than oxygen-fired red.
“Has the building been secured?” Monroney asked one of the security men. “Medics called?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” To Mucci: “Let’s go upstairs. Looks like we’ll have the rest of the weekend here, and it sure as hell won’t be any picnic.”
3
“Okay if I leave?” Jeff Foxboro asked his boss, Hank Wishengrad.
“Hell, no.” Wishengrad grinned. “You’ve only been here for three days and nights, and you look it. Go home.”
“Not directly. A dinner date, but I’ll hit the sack early, unless I fall asleep in my soup. You could use some rack time yourself.”
The Wisconsin senator sat back in the tall red leather chair and slid his hands behind his head. His hair was silver, and he wore it longer than would be expected of a man in his sixties, a U.S. senator to boot, almost long enough to be termed “flowing.” Coupled with half-glasses that spent most of their time perched on top of his head and a penchant for bow ties, he had the look of a 1960s intellectual, a professor, a radical lawyer, or a senior beatnik, an appearance pundits on the Hill mocked as affectation. Which was only half true.
The senator closed his eyes and asked absently, “Who you having dinner with?”
“The woman I told you about, Margit Falk.”
“The major?”
“One and the same. Actually, it’s a foursome. Mackensie Smith, my former law professor, and his wife, Annabel, invited us for dinner.”
Hank Wishengrad opened his eyes, and a smile curled his lips. “Mac Smith. How is he?”
“Just fine, I hope. Haven’t seen much of him since we graduated. We keep in touch once in a while by phone. Great man, and married to a wonderful woman. Actually, Margit choreographed this dinner. She’s been trying to mount a mini-class reunion ever since she got posted back to Washington.”
Wishengrad stood, stretched, yawned. “Well, Jeff, if you pick up any pearls from the distinguished professor, or from your Pentagon sweetheart, be sure and pass them on in the morning. We can use all the smart thinking we can get around here. Sometimes I think we gave up thinking after the Marshall Plan.”
Foxboro took his tan raincoat from an
Monroney motioned to Mucci and another staff man to join him, and they followed the two who’d brought news of the accident back into the Pentagon through the same doors.
The crowd, dispersing, was abuzz. So suddenly. So quickly. What happened? What
kind
of accident? Who?
Instinctively, Margit turned to look at the spot where Christa Wren had been leaning against the tree. She wasn’tthere anymore. Margit stood on tiptoe and looked over the crowd, saw Christa walking quickly from the center court and through the designated entrance/exit being used by slower-moving picnic-goers.
Margit joined the crowd as it filed toward the exit, heard the talk around her, the questions, the speculations. She had no one with whom to join in such conversation. No sense in playing the speculative game anyway. She’d find out soon enough—along with everyone else.
Monroney, Mucci, the third officer who’d joined them, and the two security men looked down on the body. They were in a subbasement of the Pentagon, a storage area reached by a set of stairs and an elevator, both heavily guarded one floor above. Dr. Richard Joycelen was slumped against the watercooler. The bullet that took his life had passed cleanly between his eyes, and blood had drained freely from the wound, over a prominent hump in his nose and down one side of his face. Much of it was already congealed, and was reddish brown rather than oxygen-fired red.
“Has the building been secured?” Monroney asked one of the security men. “Medics called?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” To Mucci: “Let’s go upstairs. Looks like we’ll have the rest of the weekend here, and it sure as hell won’t be any picnic.”
3
“Okay if I leave?” Jeff Foxboro asked his boss, Hank Wishengrad.
“Hell, no.” Wishengrad grinned. “You’ve only been here for three days and nights, and you look it. Go home.”
“Not directly. A dinner date, but I’ll hit the sack early, unless I fall asleep in my soup. You could use some rack time yourself.”
The Wisconsin senator sat back in the tall red leather chair and slid his hands behind his head. His hair was silver, and he wore it longer than would be expected of a man in his sixties, a U.S. senator to boot, almost long enough to be termed “flowing.” Coupled with half-glasses that spent most of their time perched on top of his head and a penchant for bow ties, he had the look of a 1960s intellectual, a professor, a radical lawyer, or a senior beatnik, an appearance pundits on the Hill mocked as affectation. Which was only half true.
The senator closed his eyes and asked absently, “Who you having dinner with?”
“The woman I told you about, Margit Falk.”
“The major?”
“One and the same. Actually, it’s a foursome. Mackensie Smith, my former law professor, and his wife, Annabel, invited us for dinner.”
Hank Wishengrad opened his eyes, and a smile curled his lips. “Mac Smith. How is he?”
“Just fine, I hope. Haven’t seen much of him since we graduated. We keep in touch once in a while by phone. Great man, and married to a wonderful woman. Actually, Margit choreographed this dinner. She’s been trying to mount a mini-class reunion ever since she got posted back to Washington.”
Wishengrad stood, stretched, yawned. “Well, Jeff, if you pick up any pearls from the distinguished professor, or from your Pentagon sweetheart, be sure and pass them on in the morning. We can use all the smart thinking we can get around here. Sometimes I think we gave up thinking after the Marshall Plan.”
Foxboro took his tan raincoat from an