Page 49 of The Night Of
I slotted this new information into my understanding of that night, trying to reconstruct the events in a way that fit the evidence. Fingerprints on the barrel and the cylinder. Powder burns on Baker’s face. A close-range shot. How could fingerprints get on the barrel and cylinder but not the grip or the trigger? What did that pattern of forensics say?
It said Baker had been holding on to the gun but not pulling it to him. No, he must have been trying to push itaway. But he’d only be doing that if there was another person in that room, someone to point the gun at him, force it into his mouth as he fought for his life.
The night rewound and replayed in my mind. Baker on his knees in the bedroom, fighting with his assassin. How had Baker been overpowered? He wasn’t a small man. He’d been fit, strong for his age, in good physical health. He should have been able to fight enough to have drawn the attention of the detail outside the cabin. Enough to have caused a disturbance in the room, alerted someone that something was wrong. But all I’d found was the bed moved two inches off center and a single bruise—
The bruise. Thefuckingbruise.
“He was murdered,” I breathed. “The president was murdered.”
“Yes,” Silva said. “He was.”
We sat in silence as I chewed over every moment of the past two days. Somehow, it all fit together. Somewhere, there was an answer to this puzzle. I just couldn’t see it yet.
“We did find one other print,” Silva said. “On the inside. Where the gun had been assembled.”
“Oh yeah? Whose?”
“President Jonathan Sharp’s.”
Silva’s words hit me like a baseball bat swung at my head. The world spun, as if the SUV was rolling, tumbling around and around and upside down. Silva stared, watching my every reaction, cataloging the shade I blanched, the tremble of my lips, the tightness to my eyes. I knew exactly what he was doing, because in his position I would be doing the same goddamn thing. He was a human lie detector, and he was focused entirely on me. “What?” I croaked. “Jonathan Sharp?”
Silva nodded. “We found a partial thumb on the bolt and a full index print on the side plate. They were fresh, too. As if Sharp had assembled the gun recently.”
I leaned forward, my hands running through my hair as I shook my head.Where did President Baker get the gun?How many times had I—and others—asked him about the weapon? Every time, Jonathan had said he had no idea.
I thought we weren’t going to keep anything from each other anymore. We’d promised we were going to be honest, that we were going to figure out the fucking-and-loving part of us—but to do that, didn’t we also need to trust each other with answering basic questions? Had Jonathan been hiding things from me for my entire investigation? Hindering everything from the very beginning?
My thoughts were spiraling, skipping down paths that had no good fucking conclusion, no outcome that wasn’t fucking heartbreaking.
“Right now,” Silva said, his voice hardened steel, “we’re looking at President Sharp as our number one suspect.”
“What?” I threw myself back against the seat. “Are you insane? He wasn’t even at Camp David!”
“We’re looking at all possible angles. Including incitement and conspiracy. Especially conspiracy.”
“You think Jonathan is part of some conspiracy that murdered President Baker? His best friend? Do you even realize how fucking stupid you sound? I know you’re the goddamn FBI, but this is fucking rich, even for you!” I roared. “You think Jonathan got together some group of—what? Who? Who the fuck could have done this, that Jonathan could have organized?”
“Secret Service agents. You were one of the first on the scene, were you not, Agent Avery? And you were the one who recovered the bullet, taking it from the scene without authorization. And are you not… close to Jonathan Sharp?”
The blood drained out of my face. I felt parts of my soul shrivel up. Here I was, proving his point, throwing Jonathan’s name around left and right. Like I was a real professional Secret Service agent. Did I get my badge from a Cracker Jack box?
Fucking, fucking FBI.
“How would you be analyzing this evidence, Sean?” Silva switched tactics, suddenly the understanding, approachable cop. He shook his head, an almost pitying look creasing his wrinkled face. “I’ve got a dead president, a gun with the vice president’s prints on it, and the same Secret Service agent who was the second person into President Baker’s room that night is now running roughshod over the investigation at the vice president’s—now president’s—direction. Taking evidence, messing up the crime scene. Interfering in the autopsy—”
“Interfering!”
“Were you trying to monitor what the pathologist uncovered? Or spy on the direction of our line of inquiry? Every place Agent Warner has turned up so far, there you’ve been, getting in his way.”
“I was not interfering, Jesus Christ.” I needed to punch something. I needed to shred this SUV down to its bolts. I needed to find Jonathan and shake him—shake him until he gave me answers, until he explained why the fuck he’d lied to me. And what the fuck was really going on.
“I’ve been investigating,” I growled. “I’m trying to find out if Baker was murdered.”
“That’s not your job,” Silva snapped. “You’ve been in the way.”
“Yeah? Well, your boy Friday didn’t find that bruise on the president’s neck, now, did he? Who was responsible for pointing that out, huh?”
“We’re investigating the bruise.”
