“Far as my area is concerned, there’s nothing more I can do for him. But he’s in the building a few times a week, sees a whole menu of docs and therapists. Hang out in the lobby long enough, I’m sure he’ll walk by.”
As we left the hospital, Bree was already running Vincente’s name through a law-enforcement database. He was on full disability from the Army and had several priors for drunk and disorderly, incidents occurring at bars around his government-subsidized apartment in northeast DC. We drove there, to a brick building off Kansas Avenue.
Mahoney met us out front.
“You really think this is our guy?” Mahoney said.
“By all accounts, he’s a very angry dude,” Bree said. “And he’ll probably get hurt big-time if the veterans’ bill doesn’t go through.”
Vincente lived on the fifth floor at the rear of the building. Most apartment complexes clear out during the day, with people at work and children at school. But with many residents of this building on disability, we heard televisions and radios blaring, and people talking and laughing.
But not behind Vincente’s front door. Before we could knock, we heard him ranting: “Senator Pussy, you evil, lying, son of a bitch! You never served! I swear I will come up there, get my rotted face in yours, and show you what this is all about! Right before I stick my KA-BAR up your asshole!”
Chapter 27
We all glanced at one another.
“That works,” Mahoney said, and knocked at the door.
“Go away,” Vincente yelled. “Whoever the hell you are, go away.”
“FBI, Mr. Vincente,” Mahoney said. “Open up.”
Before we heard footsteps inside Vincente’s place, a few doors to our left and right opened, revealing residents peeking out at us. Vincente’s door creaked as if he’d put both hands on it. The light filtering through his peephole darkened.
Mahoney had his ID and badge up. So did Bree.
“What’s this all about?” Vincente said.
“Open or we break the door down, Mr. Vincente.”
“Jesus,” Vincente slurred.
Deadbolts threw back. The door opened, and a barefoot, narrow-shouldered man in gray sweatpants and a Washington Nationals jersey peered out at us with bloodshot eyes. It was hard not to look away.
From scalp to jawline, the entire left side of his head was badly disfigured. The scarring on his face was ridged and webbed, as if the skin of many ducks feet had been sewn over his flesh.
He seemed amused at our reactions.
“Can we come in, sir?” Mahoney asked.
“Sir?” Vincente said, and laughed bitterly, before throwing the door wide. “Sure. Why not? Come in. See how the Phantom of the Opera really lives.”
We entered a pack rat’s nest of books, magazines, newspapers, and vinyl records. Stuff was almost everywhere. On shelves and tables. On the floor along the bare walls. And stacked below a muted television screen, showing C-SPAN and the live feed from the US Senate floor.
Streaming across the bottom of the screen it said, DEBATE OVER SENATE BILL 1822, VETERANS’ APPROPRIATIONS.
I noticed an open bottle of vodka and a glass pitcher of tomato juice on a crowded coffee table. The ashtray next to them reeked of marijuana.
Vincente threw up his hands. “You’ve basically seen it all. My bedroom’s off limits.”
Mahoney said, “Nothing’s off limits if I think you have something to do with the bombings on the National Mall, Mr. Vincente.”
“The what…?” He threw back his head and laughed again, louder and more caustic. “You think I got something to do with that? Oh, that’ll seal it. Just put the dog-shit icing on the crap cake of my life, why don’t you?”
Bree gestured at the screen. “You’re following this debate pretty close.”
“Wouldn’t you if your income depended on it?” he said darkly. He reached for a half full Bloody Mary in a highball glass. “I decided to treat the floor debate like it was draft night for fantasy football leaguers. Right? Have a few Bloody M’s. Scream at the screen, Senator Pussy, or whatever. No federal offense in that, is there, Agent Mahoney?”
I said, “You ride the Hospital Center bus, Mr. Vincente?”
“All the time.”
“How about the Circulator? The Monuments bus?”
He shook his head. “They won’t let someone like me ride the Circulator. Upsets the tourists. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you check my bus pass. It’ll show you. I only use the D8.”
“That would help,” Mahoney said.
Vincente sighed. “Hope you got time. Gotta find my wallet in this mess.”
“We got all day,” Bree said.
He sighed again, and started ambling around, looking wobbly on his feet.
“We hear you get angry on the bus,” Bree said, putting her hand on her service weapon.
Vincente took a sip of his Bloody Mary, and raised it to us with his back turned, still searching.
He squatted down and moved aside some record albums, saying, “From time to time, Chief Stone, I speak my mind forcefully. Last time I looked, that’s still guaranteed under the Constitution I was maimed for.”
Mahoney also put his hand on his weapon and said, “Even under the First Amendment, the FBI takes seriously any threat to bomb Congress.”
Vincente chuckled, stood unsteadily, and turned. Both Bree and Mahoney tensed, but he was showing us a wallet in one hand and a Metro bus pass in the other.
“It was a turn of phrase,” he said, holding out the pass to Mahoney. “I’ve had this for three years. It’ll show I have never once been on the Circulator. And look at my record. I was a camp cook, ran the mess, not the armory in Kandahar. I honestly don’t know the first thing about bombs. Other than they hurt like hell, and they screw you up for life.”
Chapter 28
It was abnormally chilly and drizzling when Mickey climbed aboard the Hospital Center bus, taking his favorite seat at the window toward the back. He readjusted his windbreaker and the hoodie and vest beneath it so that he could breathe easier.
He wanted to explode. All day, the Senators talked and talked, and did jack shit. That one over-educated idiot from Texas talked for hours and said nothing.
How can that be? That’s gotta change. It’s gonna change. And I’m gonna be the one to change it. They’re gonna talk all night, right? I got all night, don’t I?
Mickey had watched the floor debate from the first gavel, growing increasingly angry. As his bus left Union Station and headed north, he felt woozy and suddenly exhausted. Being angry for hours and days on end was draining. Knowing he’d need his energy, he closed his eyes and drifted off.
In Mickey’s dreams, an elevator door opened, revealing a scary, antiseptic hallway inside Landstuhl Regional Medical Center next to the US air base at Ramstein, Germany. Men were moaning. Other men were crying. Outside a room, a priest was bent over in prayer with a woman.
The beautiful brunette woman next to Mickey trembled. She looked over at him, on the verge of tears. “I’m gonna need to hold your hand, Mick, or I swear to you I’ll fall down.”
“I won’t let you,” Mickey said, and took her hand.
He walked with her resolutely until they found the room number they’d been given at reception, and stopped. The door was closed.
“You want me to go in first?” he asked.