Free The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description by Dale Wiley

…” she lowered her
voice. “We all know.” She grinned conspiratorially and handed me three key
cards. “Good luck, Don. You’ll need it.”
    She didn’t know how right she was.
    By now, I was starting to feel like a recluse and was wary
when anyone looked my way. Could they see through the extra pounds and hair to
reveal the wanted felon right in front of them?
    I sighed with relief when I got an elevator all to myself.
The room was on the eighth floor—my lucky number, thankfully. The room was very
similar to the room the night before, only bigger, but I didn’t even walk
around to check everything out. It seemed more like a cage now. Or maybe, as
long as I could keep the act up, it was a haven. But it had a huge bed and a
big tub, so I wasn’t going to bicker too much. I sighed and plopped down on the
bed.
    Then I got back up, knowing more than ten seconds in a
supine position would send me straight to slumberland. I removed the black book
from my suit pocket, placed it on a table, and did a credible job of folding my
suit pants and making sure my shirt wasn’t too wrinkled as I hung it on one of
the wood hangers in the closet-suite. After taking off everything but my
boxers, I slipped into another terrycloth robe and propped my feet up on the
sofa.
    By this time, I was so tired I was practically dreaming, but
I was determined to hold off until after my date with the masseuse, now that my
shoulder had deemed me its mortal enemy. I knew when he or she—I was hoping for
a she—touched me, it would hurt like hell, but it hurt like hell right now, and
at least they could tell me just how expensive the reconstructive surgery would
eventually be.
    But even more pressing was the news. I flicked on the TV,
and once again saw my fat college face filling up the screen.
    “Within a day, this unknown intern has set Washington on its
ear. We’ll tell you more about it when we return.”
    Oh great. They had already found me guilty before I’d even
had a massage, and now I would have to wait to hear about it after sitting
through a bunch of commercials, which I hate even at the best of times. There
were something like 2,012 ads before the news continued, mostly dealing with
dental care, feminine hygiene and doggie nutrition, but finally the
plastic-surgery-happy anchor returned and smiled like her face was going to
crack.
    “Unnamed FBI sources are continuing to point to Trent Norris
as a prime suspect in yesterday’s assassination of Gregory Timmons. Several
other seemingly unrelated offenses have now surfaced involving Norris. Who is
this man accused of so much, and what happened?”
    So much? What other crimes? My fight? Did they know about
the little old lady? Those weren’t crimes; those were infractions. They
couldn’t have found out about the Stanky incident yet. My stomach felt like a
washing machine when they cut to a scene of the crowd in the aftermath of the
Timmons shooting.
    They then cut to a serious-looking man, not much older than
me, who spoke gravely of the assassination, how everyone wanted to know who did
it, and blah, blah, blah … Get to the good stuff , I thought, and then
wished I hadn’t.
    They flashed the same awful picture of me—I was perversely
happy no one had stepped forward with a better one—and started talking about
me.
    “Southern boy now wanted in this crime.”
    My stomach went on spin cycle.
    “Police reportedly received a tip that a second man—the
boyfriend of a woman Norris had recently dated—was shot about midnight last
evening. DC police declined to comment on Norris’s status as a suspect in the
case, stating only that his car had been seen in the area, that he apparently
had an altercation with DC parking personnel just a block from the young
woman’s house, and he was wanted for questioning.”
    They cut to a shot—obviously taken the night before—of a
body right in front of Stephanie’s house. It took me a second to recognize the
location, but, when I