The Hollow Men of Capitol Hill
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
Inspector Richard Thatcher paused before the floor to ceiling windows in his eleventh floor apartment of Crystal Plaza North and smiled briefly before frowning. He missed the lovely view of Mount Helena in the distance, but nothing could challenge the panorama in front of him: the Potomac River, Washington, D.C., monument city, the locus of American power. Christ, what have I done to deserve this, Thatcher shook his head in dismay as his cool, gray eyes focused on the nation's Capitol in the distance. In two short hours he would be the sacrificial lamb tied to the stake, the focal point for a roomful of publicity craving politicians.
Thatcher turned abruptly and walked to the door. The thought crossed his mind that the next fifteen minutes would mark the only aspect of his new life that he would enjoy. Life in Helena, where he had served as Special Agent in Charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation's local office, had been pleasant. Tranquil, unchallenging, but comfortable. Already, Thatcher missed the golf. Get a hold of yourself, Thatcher's inner voice ordered. Thatcher was tempted to argue back but decided it was not worth the effort. He brushed a speck of lint from the lapel of his third best Hong Kong five hundred-dollar suit, closed the top button, and departed without a backward look at his newfound sanctuary. He had already decided that his new apartment with its comfortable old furniture, his computer, his TV and stereo, would be the only place in Washington that he would be able to find peace. He took the elevator to the ground floor, ignored the still closed mall shops, and walked briskly to the Crystal City Metro Station. At least he was free of the city's fifth worst-in-the-country commuter hassle. The Yellow Line's fresh, clean cars would carry him across the Potomac River to the Archives-Navy Memorial Station. During the ten-minute ride, Thatcher would be protected from the idiosyncrasies of fellow passengers – Smoking, Eating, Drinking, Animals, Littering, and Spitting on the Floor were all forbidden. Thatcher strode briskly as he covered the two short blocks that took him to Hoover's Revenge, the odd tetrahedron building that J. Edgar had imposed on Pennsylvania Avenue. Thatcher hesitated before entering, reluctant to begin the day that would mark the beginning of the culmination of his career. He looked upward, ignoring the stream of curious employees with badges drawn, and studied the eleventh floor where his new office was located. It waited at the pinnacle, or near it, of the FBI's massive bureaucracy. As the Deputy Director Designate, Thatcher would stand one heartbeat away from the top. It was not a post that Thatcher aspired to; circumstances and a healthy portion of luck had lifted him far beyond anything he had expected or even wanted. "Good morning, sir," a young man with a full smile and sharp calculating eyes greeted Thatcher. Thatcher peremptorily nodded acknowledgement, irritated that the eager young agent had interrupted his thoughts. Thatcher noticed that he had become an impediment to the entrance, and hurrying employees had formed two streams as they eddied past him. Embarrassed, Thatcher entered, waved his badge with the gold background, acknowledged the female security guard's effusive greeting, and hurried past. "Welcome back, Director Thatcher," the guard called after him. Thatcher sensed that everybody within hearing range turned to stare at him. As the new boy at the top, his decisions and his idiosyncrasies would impact on their lives. He could almost feel the gears of their minds turning, processing, trying to decide how his peculiarities would alter their working environment. He understood; he had suffered the same uncertainties when he was younger.
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
President Walter Coopersmith selects Richard Thatcher, a professional, as his Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In private, Coopersmith confides his dissatisfaction with Director James Stearne and his plan to replace him with Thatcher. This puts Thatcher in a very uncomfortable position. At Thatcher's confirmation hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee, Thatcher loses his temper and clashes with Senator Judy Gonzales. By nightfall, Gonzales is dead, the first victim of a serial killer. The President ignores the media's sensational linkage of Thatcher's committee appearance and Gonzales' murder and pushes Thatcher's confirmation through the Senate. Before the Bureau's investigators can identify the murderer, he strikes again, killing Senator Rashid Jones, one of Gonzales' closest collaborators in her futile campaign to force campaign finance reform on the Congress. Thatcher, chafing under the bureaucratic strictures that require him to delegate responsibility for the expanding investigation, arranges to have Barbara Collins, a long time friend and colleague, to be assigned to the case. Collins' assignment provides members of the Club, a loose clique of senior Bureau officers who resent Thatcher's elevation to command, the opportunity to challenge him. Barbara Collins and lead investigator Orson Dodrill concentrate their investigation on Gonzales's office. The Governor of California selects Gonzales' chief administrative assistant, Charles Stevens, to serve out Gonzales' term. Barbara identifies Stevens as the man with a motive, the one who benefited most from Gonzales' demise. Stevens frustrates the Bureau investigators, but not for long; he soon falls as the killer's third victim. The remaining member of the Gonzales triad, Senator Rae Campbell-Holden who shares the campaign reform issue, turns to the media. Fearing for her own safety, attributing nefarious political motives to the opposition, she demands that the Washington establishment identify the killer of her friends before he decimates the entire United States Senate. Thatcher, inhibited by the restraints of his lofty position and encumbered by the burden of managing a large bureaucracy, frets. Director Stearne, strangely aloof from the sensational investigation, embarks on a lengthy overseas trip. As acting Director, Thatcher decides to delegate his administrative chores to the Club, reviews the reports of his investigators, then sets out on his own doing what he does best: he mounts his own vest pocket investigation. Thatcher decides that the killer is someone closely engaged in Senate business, but not a staffer or senator. With the President's help-the President is, after all, the nation's foremost politician-Thatcher concentrates on the special interests, the lobbying corps that besieges the politicians with their money and favors. Again, the killer strikes. This time the victim is a young staffer in Gonzales' office. Despite the killer's best efforts to deny the investigators evidence, the clues accumulate. The killer, learning as he goes, indulges his strange sense of humor. At each crime scene, he leaves behind an odd message. Tiring of reacting to the killer, Thatcher decides to go proactive. He deliberately provokes the killer, using a venue provided by Thatcher's girl friend, Mavis Davis, a network White House correspondent. Using information provided by Thatcher, Barbara Collins and the Bureau's investigative team narrow the list of suspects. Finally, a black entry to the killer's home provides circumstantial evidence, a few strands of fabric that match those found at each murder scene. Lacking sufficient legal evidence to arrest the suspect, Thatcher takes a chance. The case culminates in a showdown at the apartment of Senator Campbell-Holden, the killer's next victim.
About the Author
A graduate of West Virginia University, Robert L Skidmore spent thirty-five years in the foreign service of the United States Government. Now long retired, he devotes himself to two lifelong passions, historical research and writing, both of which allow him to play with his computers. Mr. Skidmore is the author of the eight-volume Satterfield Saga, the three-volume Richard Thatcher series, and a one-volume work, the Silicon Wizards.