THE VOICE OF CHICAGO'S GAY, LESBIAN, BI, TRANS AND QUEER COMMUNITY SINCE 1985

From the journal of John 'Jack' Quincy Adams, Chief Secret Service Special Agent in Charge, The White House. Code Name: One.

Part 41. Busted and Broken Hearted

Jack Adams, the Secret Service agent charged with assassinating President George W. Bush and being held for psychiatric evaluation, has told the psychiatrist the 'public' story. In a computer file secretly delivered to his children, he now reveals the 'real story'. Here he tells about his friend and boss figuring out what happened.

It was Raife who figured it out. And it was Raife who came to the house to arrest me. I knew he would. I knew it was only a matter of time and I knew he was giving me the time I needed in order to get my affairs together. Like finding a home for Gracie, which was the hardest part. In the end, I took her back to Quincy and Jackson. Giving Gracie back was the hardest part of anything I actually had 'to do.'

I knew my days were numbered, and each evening I sat by the window waiting. I saw Raife get out of the car and climb the steps, leaving two Pinschers standing at the sidewalk for good measure. I assumed there were two others in the alley. I opened the front door before the doorbell rang, giving Raife a bit of a start. He reached out to shake my hand. He was here on business, but first he would greet me as a friend entering my home.

I poured us a couple of B & Bs and once we were settled in at the fireplace and he had inquired after Vera and the kids, he started in. 'Jack, I have a few questions I'd like to ask about what happened at the ranch. Just a few loose ends to clear up.'

'I thought you might,' I said.

'Jack, what do you think happened? I mean to the president?'

'I assume he had a heart attack, like the coroner said.' I wasn't going to give him anything. He would have to earn it. I was willing to tell him everything, but not like a blubbering adolescent schoolgirl. Besides, I wasn't sure what I would leave out, what I would leave in, or how I wanted to word things. Language is important.

'Yes, of course, but what do you think brought it on? Was he upset about something? Did he argue with anyone?'

'Who would he have argued with? I mean that late at night?'

'Well, it could be literally anyone. He might have called the German Chancellor, who would just be arriving at her office or perhaps sitting down to breakfast. He might have talked to someone in Washington, or, well, virtually anyone anywhere, maybe had an argument,' Raife said.

'Do you think he may have argued with me?'

'It had occurred to me.'

'And once it did, what did you do with it?'

'Do with it?'

'Is it on your list there as a possible cause? Or is it just a nagging loose thread in the carpet of the national tragedy?' I felt like a loquacious George Smiley. Would that I was!

'Oh, Jack, come on. I'm just…I'm just….'

'It's that nagging monkey Intuition on your back again, eh, Raife? Something doesn't seem kosher?'

'Something like that, Jack.' We sipped our drinks. 'You have to admit, it's a bit of a tease. A man like that, keeling over like a geriatric. No history of heart disease, an avid jogger.'

'So if you were left to it, say if I myself keeled over right now and you were left to solve it on your own, what would you guess at? I mean, assuming you stick with the 'arguing theory' you're working from presently.'

'Well, there was only one other person in the house, wasn't there?'

'I don't know. I hadn't gone into the other bedrooms or the living room or the kitchen. I couldn't swear that there was no one else in the house.'

'So where did the coffee come from, then?'

See, this is why he's at the top. I mean at such a young age. He's the best. Really, the best. And this is why I'm not at the top. I forgot to wipe the tray.