Free Murder at Union Station by Margaret Truman Page A

both know he’s more dangerous than that, particularly to—”
    “Particularly to me,” Parmele said, finishing Fletcher’s thought.
    “Yes.”
    They spent the next half hour going over the president’s plans for the next two weeks, and Fletcher gave a capsule evaluation of what each campaign stop would entail, and his analysis of the issues thought to be of particular importance to citizens in those areas of the country. When he’d finished, he gathered up his papers.
    “Anything else, Mr. President?” he asked.
    “No,” Parmele said. “But I want you to know how much I appreciate the way you’ve been handling things, Chet.”
    “Of course, sir.”
    “You ought to take a few days off, relax a bit. Get some air and exercise. I get the feeling you’ve almost been living here.”
    “No, I’m fine, Mr. President. I get plenty of exercise saying no to you.”
    “Well, say hello to that lovely Gail.”
    “I certainly will, sir. My best to the first lady.”

THIRTEEN

    B ret Mullin was up early and at his desk at First District headquarters. He’d slept fitfully, visions of the busy scene at Union Station, the still body, and the many questions they raised interrupting his sleep.
    Detective Vinny Accurso, twenty years with MPD, arrived minutes later.
    Accurso was shorter than Mullin, solidly built, and with an outgoing disposition. He liked Mullin. More important, he respected the twenty-six-year veteran. Mullin was a good cop, with solid instincts. He’d broken some big cases over the course of his tenure with MPD, and had put his life on the line more than once.
    Those positive traits aside, Accurso had two problems with being paired with the big, caustic detective.
    The first had to do with Mullin’s reputation for taking the law into his own hands on occasion, resulting in formal complaints filed by citizens. Mullin had what others described as an Old West approach to law enforcement. He’d been known to collar recognized drug dealers and thugs, and rather than arrest them, rough them up, take them to the bus station at 12th Street and New York Avenue, and put them on the first bus out of town, warning that if they returned to D.C., they’d wish they hadn’t. Mullin’s unconventional handling of such criminals had been brought to the attention of internal affairs by disgruntled previous partners. Ever defiant, Mullin stood firm behind his actions and received no more than a series of official sanctions on paper that were inserted into his personnel file.
    The second problem Accurso faced was Mullin’s reputation for hard drinking, the subject of MPD rumors, jokes, and concerns. The chief of the detective unit to which Mullin and Accurso belonged had engaged Mullin in heart-to-heart talks, encouraging him to take advantage of counseling available within MPD or to seek help from AA. Mullin, of course, denied that he had a drinking problem, and because no one had ever made the case that drinking interfered with his official duties, no further action was taken beyond those friendly suggestions from superiors.
    Accurso carried two coffees from a luncheonette around the corner from headquarters and handed one to Mullin. “What’s up this morning?” he asked.
    “The shooter at Union Station, that’s what up. Here.”
    Mullin handed Accurso a composite sketch drawn overnight by an MPD sketch artist, based upon descriptions of the shooter provided by witnesses.
    “Good-looking,” Accurso said. “It’s been distributed?”
    “Uh-huh. Chief wants us to hand it out around black sections of town. I told him it was a waste of time. If this guy is from D.C., he’s long gone by now. Besides, this was no crackhead from the neighborhood out for some fun. This was a professional hit, Vinny.”
    Accurso nodded his agreement and sipped the coffee.
    “Look at this,” Mullin said, handing a file folder to his partner. “Just came in.”
    Accurso opened the folder and read a report generated by the FBI’s