Chapter Seventeen
Kevin
Chris and Shae tell me I have different “masks” I wear, depending on the circumstances and the audience. That there’s“Sir” Kev,work Kev,kids Kev,public Kev,press-conference Kev,campaign Kev, and then theboy Kevonly the two of them get to see when we’re safely locked behind a door and I know I can let all my defenses down.
Tuesday morning, it’sbeen less than twenty-four hours since my father was arrested, and almost a full day since Gayle’s suicide.
The autopsy showed Gayle likely would have died in a matter of weeks. He wouldn’t have made it to trial. Why he waived his right to a speedy trial is now clear.
He never intended to make it that far, one way or another.
One of the things we’ll never know, unless my father cracks and admitsit, is if Gayle killing himself was always the backup plan, or if it was one fueled by desperation once Dad was tipped off about the truck being located.
My personal bet? That Gayle told him the truck was taken care of, and my father never followed up on it. That maybe Gayle was keeping it back as an insurance policy in case my father ever tried to screw him over. Or, maybe he was waiting forthings to die down to take it to a scrap yard. Who knows?
I genuinely feel badly for Gayle’s family, now that I know what I know. Something else obvious from everything investigators have discovered is that he was doing this to make sure his family was taken care of. That his grandson, who has health issues, would be able to get medical care. His wife had no idea. She’s even passed a polygraph,as have her children. I’m convinced she’s innocent.
None of that makes Lauren’s death easier to swallow, but it gives me the ability to release my hatred for the man’s family. Like the rest of us, they are casualties, not additional symptoms of a larger underlying problem.
Something else they found in the truck’s cab that didn’t make sense at first was a bottle of peanut oil. When looked atin context of the dates of the the payments around Stephen McDannig’s death…
It doesn’t help that earlier on the day of of McDannig’s death, Gayle’s cell phone was pinged in the vicinity of McDannig’s house. Within one hundred yards.
When he hadnoreason to be there.
But while in that vicinity, Gayle called the same burner phone that called Schoult yesterday.
Investigators are busy tryingto triangulate Gayle’s phone and the burner phone and cross-reference them to other dates. They’re still going through my father’s financials, but they suspect they will come up with more information from farther in the past about other deaths.
Last night, when I talked to Leo about secretly arranging this outing, I asked him if there was any way for my father to have an “accident” and die incustody, and he chuckled and patted my shoulder.
I wasn’t kidding, either.
“It’s better he goes through the humiliation of multiple trials,” he said. “That cements his downfall.”
Yes, I cried yesterday, but no more tears. Not for that fucker.
I don’t want trials.
I wantjustice.
I now stand alone in a small witness holding room in the federal courthouse, where I watch a CCTV feed as US Marshalsbring Edwin Markos into the courtroom just on the other side of the wall from where I stand. No more thousand-dollar suits. He wears an orange jumpsuit, wrist and ankle manacles, and a bulletproof vest, and his grey and thinning hair is disheveled, and stubble lines his jaw.
That has to be one of the larger insults to him. My father never leaves the house without every hair in place.
No oneknows I’m here today outside of Leo, the Secret Service detail, and a couple of US Marshals. I awakened well before dawn and slipped out before Shae and Chris woke up so I could come do this. I left them a note that I had to run an errand, that Leo was with me, that I was safe and surrounded by Secret Service, and that I would return by late morning.
I’ll take my spankings for it without complaint,because I’m sure Sir will want to spank me for leaving without permission, given the circumstances.
I was brought in much earlier this morning through a secure garage entrance usually used for prisoners. The black, heavily tinted van was obviously mistaken for prisoner transport. The agents transported me from the White House to a secure location just before dawn and then made the vehicle swap.
We didn’t want the press to know, obviously.
The mask I wear today barely conceals my homicidal rage, even though I have been extremely careful not to react to anything when outside the confines of the residence.
I will not give the media the satisfaction. This situation is horrific enough without adding grief porn to the repeat video loops that will play on FNB and elsewhere.
Lauren was akind, beautiful soul, a shining light in a landscape that often proved quite dark. She deserved more time on this planet.
