Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

S. Watts Taylor lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with his partner and their adorable pets. An active member of the GLBT community, he hopes to draw attention to the shortcomings of gay rights in America. This is his second novel.

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Tarnish

By S. Watts Taylor

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 S. Watts Taylor
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0202-3

Chapter One

"A mortal dust has settled upon my life and tarnish has fixed itself to the metal of my being."

When the president of the United States travels, it makes news. I should know; as a White House reporter, I travel with him and write the stories. Over the years, I have grown accustomed to watching as the carefully scripted visits unfold in various cities around the world. Seeing it from inside Air Force One is especially thrilling: you realize that you're traveling with the most important man alive. The hustle and the excitement come together strangely aboard this famous airplane. Often you become caught up in the moment. You have a role, albeit a minor one, in some important event in history. Sometimes, you feel as if you're part of a pageant or an unfolding drama as the cheering crowds and the blaring anthems greet your arrival. Yet this heady feeling doesn't last. Eventually, you learn that your role is irrelevant and that the marching band is playing music for someone else. When the president's ratings plunge, you start keeping track of how often he tells the same joke or wears the same tie. The presidents start looking alike. The photo-ops become contrived, and the first lady starts tagging along to provide distraction. It all becomes a bit tedious as the days seamlessly roll into each other.

Today was no exception. The president was dedicating a new high school. It was another Kennedy Memorial, so I knew I was somewhere in Massachusetts. Late summer fog in New England had delayed our arrival, and I barely had time to take my seat in the freshly painted auditorium before the opening remarks started. As I watched the stage, I noticed an aide approach the president and bend slightly to deliver his message. The president showed no emotions; he merely nodded in acknowledgment, and the aide disappeared. Nothing of note, I thought. The president rose to speak, but as he did a buzz began circulating among my peers. Pulses began to race. Collectively, we all sensed a morbid similarity to that moment years ago in Florida when another president had first learned of the September 11 attacks. I had been at Booker Elementary that horrible day, and I was experiencing déjà vu. Over the applause, I heard that Washington had shut down. Because reporters are essentially a rude lot, the story was repeated in stage whispers all around me. A dead body had been found inside a private compartment aboard the Cardinal, the Amtrak train traveling from Chicago to Union Station. Because it was an apparent suicide involving public transport in the nation's capital, the station was closed, and all mass transportation ceased. I also heard that the FBI was searching for bombs.

Instantly, the news media went into overdrive. The president continued speaking, but most of my peers were obsessing over the bigger story they were reading on their personal media toys. After his talk, the White House announced that the president would cut short his itinerary and return early to Washington to await events. The incident quickly developed a momentum all its own: protocols prompted contingency plans and contingency plans triggered emergency responses. As bomb squads combed trains, subways, and buses in search of incendiary devices, forensic experts analyzed the scant belonging of the dead man, whose body they subjected to intense inspection and scrutiny. Driving all this was one question: was this suicide an isolated event, or was it part of a larger catastrophe waiting to be realized?

I was unexpectedly propelled into this story. Three large, nondescript Federal agents culled me from the herd of reporters accompanying the president and informed me that a package had been delivered to my office at The Washington Dispatch from the dead man. The agents escorted me to the school library, which was serving as the event's command center. Their professionalism had rendered them invisible on most occasions; they were part of the official entourage, which I had learned to ignore amid the multitude at presidential events. In the past, the standard issue had appeared more thuggish than today. The tailoring may have improved, but at first glance, they resembled modern angels of death—cold, merciless, and efficient.

The archangel in charge of the investigation gave his name as Agent Brown. Brown was a strapping man with short hair and a square, serious face that sat upon his shoulders without any evidence of a neck. He reminded me of an offensive tackle I had tutored in college. Brown explained that he liaised with the Homeland Security, the White House, and the FBI. I tried to imagine the complicated organizational chart replete with its endless dotted lines of responsibilities.

"Do you know a Simon Neville?" he asked.

"I grew up with him."

He opened up a small note pad and began reading. His monotone was annoying. "That would have been in ... let me see ... Kozee, Kentucky, correct?"

He mispronounced the name of the town, but most people did. I nodded in the affirmative and made no eye contact. I was not sure where this was going, so I was mindful of my body language.

"Did you know him well?"

"Yes, when we were younger," I answered. "We were kids together."

"What was your opinion of Mr. Neville?"

I had known Simon since childhood and had good opinion of him. I could tell Agent Brown a great deal about him, but I didn't feel particularly communicative. I choose to be guarded. "Simon was polite. He was quiet and intelligent."

"Do you have any reason to suspect that he would have terrorist connections?'

"Simon Neville?" I asked looking up. "Is this a joke? You must have the wrong guy."

"No," replied agent Brown. He began to read again from his note pad. "Simon Cary Neville, white male. Age forty-four, resident of Newport, Kentucky. Should I continue with his stats?"

I shook my head no.

"Do you know whether Neville was gay?" he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently. Why should I out Simon to the Feds? Besides, they probably already knew the answer to that question.

"According to public records, Simon Neville owns a home with his partner, Adam Sunan Zuitfeld, a permanent resident who holds a Dutch passport. Zuitfeld was born forty-two years ago in Jakarta, Indonesia." Brown looked up from his notes. "Have you ever met Zuitfeld?"

"Yes, once." I had met Zuitfeld at my mother's seventieth birthday party. Simon had brought Adam along to meet her. Adam was a pleasant fellow, and my mother was very charmed by him. We all were.

"You do realize that Indonesia is the world's largest Muslim county?"

"It isn't a crime to be a Muslim in America," I replied.

"Zuitfeld is a Muslim?" asked Brown.

"I didn't say that."

"According to a receipt in his possession, Neville shipped a package to your office," said a second agent. "Were you expecting a package from Neville?"

I shook my head no. At that very moment, my cell phone beeped indicating that I had a text message.

"You may want to check that," said Agent Brown. "It's probably your office."

I checked. Brown was correct. "It's Tina at work."

"Tina Hannigan, correct?" asked Agent Brown. He turned a page in his notepad and jotted something down. The question was meant to be rhetorical. The entire interview was meant to be rhetorical.

"FedEx delivered the package less than an hour ago. It was seized," Brown noted.

...