Chapter 15
Senator Michael Patrick De Rosier waited in the big empty house, although he wasn’t alone. The entire FBI team was there in the study waiting on the phone call. There had been several, all crank calls looking to collect on the million-dollar reward, but all had been false leads.
Felice Rickover was there with her two Secret Service agents, her face was a mask of terror, and tear tracks. She sobbed quietly into her hands, her cell phone dialing Danny’s voice mailbox endlessly. The State Police of Washington Metro PD were in and out constantly, murmuring to the Chief of Police. He was speaking to the Senator. Ms. Penny was organizing coffee and snacks, trying to get the Senator to eat something. His face was haggard, blued circles under his eyes, deep lines etched around his generous mouth. He looked shell-shocked, his usual air of quiet competence completely gone. Traces of tears showed on his face, his hands worried his son’s backpack and two used paperbacks.
“Oh God,” he cried. “Please, don’t take Danny from me!”
One of the agents muttered to the Chief of Police, “Sir, is there a doctor handy in case the Senator collapses? He looks like he’s on the verge of collapse or heart attack.”
“There’s team of paramedics outside,” the head cop said quietly.
A phone rang and the people in the room checked their cells. The lead SAIC listened, his lips thinned and he jerked his head to his second, whispering to him. The Senator watched them like a mouse watched the serpent, was backing up into the wall and the Chief’s arms as the SAC said, “Senator, I’m so sorry. They found blood at a scene near the Verizon store – an old boat salvage yard. They found Danny’s fingerprints on the door, the phone and the table.”
The Senator gasped, “How much blood?”
“A lot, Senator. The blood spatter CSI said more than a boy his age could survive.”
De Rosier’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed. His body didn’t hit the floor, a dozen arms reached out to grab him and in minutes, he was on his way to Walter Reed. Outside, no one noticed the scrawny blue dog that lingered behind the rose bushes and hid from any people. Inside, the SA and SAC were scrambling for details on the alleged murder scene. The SAIC left two agents behind to man the phones, the rest he ordered back to the city and the salvage yard.
Jake James went later, after he had seen to the Senator and handed over his shift to the next Secret Service agent. What he saw in that filthy trailer stunned him. There was so much blood splattered, pooled and dripping that he knew Danny had to be dead, beaten and stabbed or worse. There was so much of it, he felt nauseous.
“Oh God,” he murmured. “They didn’t even leave us his body.”
The FBI agent said. “You don’t want the Senator to see this.”
“Never,” James vowed. “If it takes me the next forty years, I’m going to track down the fucker that did this and rip him into little pieces.”
“I hate kid crimes,” the essay cursed. “How is he doing?”
“The Senator’s tough, he’ll come through. He’ll use this to give him a reason to fight, to avenge his son. Some tough shit will come out of this against criminals. Mike will fight back,” James said. “It’s the funeral I’m worried about. That will drive home his epic loss.”
“His wife, and now his only child. There’ll be a funeral?”
“Ms. Penny is already planning a service.”
“No point in hoping,” the agent said flatly, looking around the bloody room. He saw there were dog prints in the blood. “There was a witness.”
“What?” James asked sharply.
“Dog prints. Small, about 35 pounds. See the dog hair on the couch? Black, gray and white hairs. I took samples.”
“Why?”
“Forensics. If we find the killer, we can match hairs found on their clothes with hairs from the crime scene.”
“Too bad the dog can’t talk.”
With a straight face, the SA said, “eyewitness accounts are invariably unreliable.”
*****
Two weeks later, a small crowd gathered at an old Virginia cemetery where some of the stones were as old as the late 1790s and had names that echoed with history, tracing back to revolutionary times. It was a beautiful place with century-old oak trees on a small hill, quiet, and laden with crape myrtles and roses, white graveled paths and mausoleums that exuded coziness and eternal rest, not ‘here lies death’. There were stone benches and carved angels, the scent of jasmine, and honeysuckle. Bees made lazy spirals from petal to pedal. The sky overhead was a blue so pure it hurt to stare at it, no trace of white marred its perfection yet a silver moon showed crystal-clear against the day sky.
No one wore black, but they were dressed soberly in suits, ties and dresses. Carried flowers, photos and favorite remembrances to the grave site of the Senator’s wife. They hadn’t disturbed the plot, there was no body and only a few ounces of blood left of his son so they merely came to see the boy’s name, birth date and death newly carved on the stone. White granite, it sparkled as if the sun kissed it. Felice Rickover could not stop crying. Ms. Penny, the Senator’s aide openly sobbed. Michael De Rosier stood, his face a mask, a muscle in his cheek jumping with seething rage as his eyes traced the fresh carving.
Dantan Townsley De Rosier.
Born March 1, 1996
Died April 12, 2010
‘Beloved son, in you I found my courage.’
One by one, agents, friends and family left their gifts on the soft grass and pressed the Senator’s hand as they departed, save for his security detail. Even Felice, her Dad and Ms. Penny did not intrude on his silent grief.