Page 30 of The Night Of
Jonathan eight months ago, when I spotted him at a state dinner, looking pale and thin.
Jonathan twenty minutes ago, his tongue tangling with mine.
I shook my head. “What did you prescribe?”
“Sertraline and lorazepam.”
“How long had President Baker been taking those meds?”
“Six months.”
My eyebrows shot up. That was longer than I’d expected, longer than I’d thought from talking with the First Lady. “What else was he taking?”
“Not much. We monitored his blood pressure and his cholesterol levels. He had the usual bloodwork for a man approaching middle age. You were there, you saw his heart this morning.”
Fuck, don’t remind me.
“He was the picture of physical health, overall. His depression was interfering with his sexual health, though. About three months ago, he asked for something that could help with that. I prescribed Viagra. While that solved the physical problem, it did nothing to treat the underlying causes. Eventually, even the Viagra stopped working.”
“How would you characterize President Baker’s mental health?”
Fernandez’s lips thinned. “Very, very poor,” he said. “Steven was very depressed. I never thought he would do something like this, though. I never thought…”
“He never said he was thinking about killing himself? He never implied that the world would be better off without him or that he didn’t want to go on?”
Fernandez shook his head. “Not once. He was focused, almost obsessively, on how much of a failure he felt he was. How he had let so many people down in his presidency. Especially the CIA officers who had been murdered. He felt deeply, personally responsible for their deaths.”
“Then, in your professional opinion…”
Fernandez stared, a complicated expression darkening his features. Contempt mixed with dejection, mixed with the poison of regret. I knew that look all too well. “In my professional opinion, I missed something. I missed some sign, some signal. I should have pushed him harder to accept counseling. I should have insisted on a psychologist coming to the White House. But I thought he was, if not getting better, at least stabilizing.” His eyes tightened. “He was planning for the future. He said he wanted to spend time with Felicity again. He said he had his best man on the Hardacre situation. He seemed so certain, so full of conviction.”
“Does the termflowerterriblemean anything to you, doctor?”
“Flower terrible?” His brow furrowed, and he stared off to somewhere above and beyond me, shaking his head. “No. Why do you ask?”
I ignored his question and moved on. “Did the president ever mention that he owned or had access to a gun?”
Fernandez shook his head. “Never. I would have treated that as a warning sign. He never said anything about a weapon. And…” He frowned. “I thought you guys made sure there were no weapons on the White House grounds. Aren’t you supposed to be the only ones armed?”
“We are. Identifying where the weapon originated is a major focus of my investigation.”
Fernandez nodded.
“What were your thoughts on the bruise on the back of President Baker’s neck?”
Fernandez shrugged. “Many people have bruises. I didn’t find that one suspicious. It looked like Steven had rubbed the back of his neck or had squeezed his own shoulder, perhaps pinching the skin. I did not see a nefarious undercurrent to that bruise, Agent Avery.”
I stared at him, cataloging his experience, his expertise, his history. Could he know, or even suspect, what that bruise might mean? No, I decided. Not in this man’s career.
“Last question, doctor: when did you last talk to President Baker?”
“We saw each other four days ago. I thought he was doing well. He seemed energized. Enthused. He was looking forward to hearing from his contact in the CIA about Hardacre.” He shook his head, and his chin fell to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Two days later…”
Now my investigative focus was narrowing. If President Baker seemed well with his doctor, upbeat and energized, but was morose and withdrawn at Camp David, something had to have happened between those two times. Within those forty-eight hours.
And the same bad pennies were turning up in every conversation I was having: Hardacre, and the stress Baker had been under because of him. Now Fernandez was telling me Steven had a plan to take care of Hardacre and had reached out someone he trusted in the CIA.
My mind drew blurry lines between conversations. Hardacre. CIA. Carl Rose. Baker’s note telling Jonathan to call Carl, to reach out to him if he needed answers.
