Free Murder at Union Station by Margaret Truman

Then she said, “How bizarre.”
    He looked up. “What is?”
    “This murder at Union Station.”
    He returned to the paper he was reading.
    “An old Italian man named Louis Russo comes here by train. He was from Israel. A black man—they say he was well dressed—comes up behind this old Italian man and shoots him in the head.”
    “Oh?”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “Who?”
    “This well-dressed man. Why would he—”
    “They’ll figure it out, I’m sure,” he said, standing, stretching, and yawning. “That’s what the police are for. I have to get moving. I’m already running late.”
    He came to the couch, bent, and kissed her lightly on the hair. “Give my love to Craig and Jill, and my apologies I won’t be able to see them while they’re visiting. Another time.”
    “I will,” she said.
    Minutes later he was in the backseat of the government car dispatched for him each morning. Not long after that, he passed through security at the White House, spent a few minutes in his office gathering notes, and went to the Oval Office, where President Parmele and other members of his staff had gathered.
    There were three items on the agenda.
    The first two had to do with bills initiated by the White House that were stalled in the Republican House. Walter Brown, Parmele’s chief congressional liaison, listed those moderate Republican representatives whose arms he felt might be twisted harder in favor of supporting the bills, and Parmele suggested the twisting begin immediately, singling out three House members who he said would play ball, adding that they probably wouldn’t want certain information about them made public. Knowing who was vulnerable in Congress and understanding the right buttons to push were integral parts of Parmele’s political arsenal. He was a master at it, as good as Lyndon Johnson had ever been, but decidedly more subtle.
    He sat back, clasped his hands behind his head, and launched into a dissertation about how important the passage of those bills would be for his reelection bid.
    As he talked, Fletcher observed the man he’d helped put in this position of awesome power. No question about it, this president was a skilled, self-confident politician with an ego necessarily large enough to even consider running for president of the United States. Parmele’s monologue this morning on the importance of education was familiar to Fletcher. It was part of a speech he’d helped draft a month ago with some of Parmele’s speechwriters. This was typical of the president, taking what someone else had conceived and making it his own, as though it had come to him on the spur of the moment. Rather than resent this, Fletcher welcomed it. It was the sign of a man prepared to seize power and language and to wield them effectively. No shame. No guilt. Just his eye on the prize, in this case a second term.
    The third reason for the meeting that morning revolved around Fletcher and his staff. He’d been busy choreographing Parmele’s political travel agenda, including fund-raising appearances around the country. Others at the meeting not involved with that issue left the Oval Office, leaving the president and Fletcher alone.
    “Well, Chet, give me the bad news,” Parmele said.
    “Not as bad as we feared, Mr. President,” Fletcher said, laying the latest overnight poll numbers on the desk.
    Parmele scrutinized them and slid the paper on which they were written back to Fletcher. “Encouraging,” said the president.
    “Yes, it is, Mr. President. Did Walter brief you on Senator Widmer’s hearings?”
    Parmele forced a laugh. “Sure he did. Widmer seems determined to go forward with them. You know, Chet, I like Widmer, always have, but I really question his mental health these days. Maybe it’s his age. Christ, I hope I don’t end up that way.”
    “I doubt that you will, sir. I’d like to dismiss the senator as just an aging old fool who’s on his last legs, political and personal. But we