The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description (7 page)

Of course, then I’d have to deal with the whole assault
thing, but I was willing to make that trade—at least I’d still be alive. I put
on my suit, packed up my other things, checked out, and threw my stuff in my
car. I decided not to drive, remembering that until I made my appearance at the
police station, I was almost certainly wanted for assault and battery and
avoiding The Boot. Instead, I left the car in the garage and took the Metro
from Foggy Bottom to Federal Triangle. It was a short trip. At eight-thirty
sharp, I was looking both ways and crossing 12th Street on my way to work.

But there amongst the homeless people and pigeons were Kurt
and Damon, sitting on one of the benches and looking right at me. “What’s the
matter?” I asked both of them.

“Someone broke into our offices last night. They’re up there
sorting through everything now,” Damon said, looking as if he had wished he had
brought a coat. I tried to keep my composure, but my feet wanted to move in
twelve directions at once. “What are you all dressed up for?”

“Yesterday was the longest day of my life,” I said. “I’ll
explain it all someday. I have some errands to run. Is that cool? I’ll probably
be back later.” With the police, I thought.

“Sure,” said Kurt. “That’s not a problem. Anything I can
help with?”

I was trying to decide what I was going to tell them.
“Listen. I need to go correct a mix-up from last night. Part of the story
involves me punching a parking officer. They’re probably gonna throw the book
at me for that, and I’m going to the police station to take care of it.”

“You did what?” said Damon, laughing.

“What you’ve always wanted to,” I said. “He caught me at
exactly the wrong moment.” I looked around and felt very itchy.

Kurt giggled. “Heavens to Murgatroyd. Well then, I’ll
definitely let you go—I don’t want to get on your bad side!”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything soon.” I started
to walk back across 12th Street, turning just in time to see someone pull out
in a black Mercury and head directly for me.

Eight

I
 screamed, “Dah!” as the car
accelerated, moving across the center line and toward me and the parked cars on
the other side. I knew I had about five or six strides before the car would
catch up, and I tried to make the most of all of them, doing a goose-step
sprint toward the sidewalk. I jumped, looking as if I expected my body to do a
flip, which is a pretty damn funny expectation. My head was aimed directly at
the bumper of a Mazda, and I managed to roll enough that my left shoulder took
the blow instead, causing me to shriek as I landed.

By this time, the car had stopped, and some blond maniac in
a navy jogging suit had gotten out and was chasing me. I got up, my shoulder
throbbing, looked at my pursuer for a split second, and hightailed it toward
the Metro. I jumped the turnstiles, causing a guard to get up to yell at me,
and ran around to the escalators, throwing myself down the escalator median,
which was kind of like a big, bumpy, painful slide. The whole thing hurt my
balls a lot.

I landed on the same shoulder at the bottom, saw a train
marked New Carrolton just about to close its doors, and did another jump-roll
between them, once again—you guessed it—landing on the same shoulder.

It felt as if it were attached to my body by two painful
threads, and it pulsed like the rhythm track at a nightclub. I was sitting on
the floor, wincing, and making very awful, howl and screech-type noises, all of
which would have drawn considerable attention in many other venues. However,
this was the Washington, DC subway. Several people stared but not for long.
They averted their eyes as I rose and looked around, all dreadfully afraid that
I might do something to them.

Did I mention that my shoulder hurt like hell? If I didn’t,
then I should, and even if I did, I should probably emphasize it. Because it
was practically all I could think of. I could just feel the blood rushing into
it, but I didn’t want to examine it for fear that I might not like what I would
see. So I tried my best to focus enough to find a place to sit, breathing
laboriously and grimacing all the while.

I sat alone and told myself not to worry about what had just
happened. I would analyze it in time, but right then I needed to figure out
what to do next. Obviously, I wasn’t going to the police station—not now, at
least. Foggy Bottom, the station nearest the Watergate, was only a few stations
away, and I didn’t have a Metro ticket. The machine stamps your ticket on your
way in to know where you started and again when you stop to see how much money
it needs to remove. My ticket this morning only had enough money for one ride
and had been taken when I got off the Metro. Due to my rather unexpected trip,
I hadn’t had time to stop and get another, so I was SOL. I had never been a
fast—or even a moderately fast—runner, and now that all my adrenaline was gone,
I knew if I tried to jump the turnstiles again I’d probably get tangled up,
and, if that didn’t happen, I’d get about five feet and be apprehended.
Considering all of these things, I did the only thing I could.

There was a half-bald old lady, wearing a crocheted vest
over a wrinkled lavender shirt, sitting in the seat in front of me. She must
have been both deaf and blind because I was sure she was the only person in the
car who hadn’t looked over at me when I made my abrupt arrival. She was
evidently mesmerized by the whole process and was staring at the window, even
though there was nothing to see. Her ticket lay right next to her bag. When the
conductor called Foggy Bottom and several people started to move, I got up and
bumped into one of them, which hurt me and my poor shoulder greatly. I
positioned myself so I landed in her seat. It worked, and I quickly turned to
apologize to her, palmed her ticket, and walked quickly out of the car, hoping
no one else had noticed.

Now that I had stealing from the elderly on my conscience,
along with everything else, I wondered if there was any sort of all-points
bulletin out against the mad gate-hopper from Federal Triangle. Also, I
wondered if those in charge of the conspiracy against me had the wherewithal to
have someone waiting for me at the station. I kept my eyes peeled for anyone
who looked suspicious. This was DC—that didn’t help much. Instead, I tried
looking for people who looked like they were looking for people. I noticed no
one with scars and scowls and dark-colored suits, although I did see several
guards surveying the crowd intently. But this was still rush hour, and I
imagined that they were looking for someone who didn’t have a ticket, not
someone who had a ticket with … I looked down. Oh Jesus. Twenty bucks! This
woman had put her whole Social Security check on her Metro ticket, and I was
now going to use it! I shook my head, did the best to clear the pangs of
conscience, and sighed as I sent it through the machine and was given a green
light to proceed.

I walked south toward the Watergate, looking over my
shoulder periodically, not sure what crime I would need to commit next. I
glanced in the large windows to make sure I still appeared relatively okay,
brushed the dirt off my shoulder, which was a painful procedure, and ducked in
the front door of the hotel. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to the television
set in the lobby.

I recognized the fellow on the screen.

It was me.

I was making my cable television debut in an unusual role.
They were referring to me as a “shooting suspect.”

Nine

I
 froze.

I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I stared. When everything
registered, I turned slowly, trying to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn’t.
I tried to look as unconcerned as possible as I got out of the lobby and made a
bee-line for the garage.

Helper had framed me; I could see it now. The night before,
I had been concerned with what had been removed from my apartment and hadn’t
even checked to see what might have been planted there. He probably made an
anonymous phone call, the police found whatever he had there, and now I was
Public Enemy No. 1.

The Watergate hallways are always cold and silent, and as I
navigated them I told myself that at least the picture looked nothing like me;
this much was true. It was taken during my sophomore year in college when I was
making my one attempt at wearing long hair and a goatee. It was also during my
“Domino’s Pizza” phase, when I ballooned up about twenty-five pounds thanks to
mozzarella and beer. My goofy smile and facial features were the same, and I
surely looked guilty of something. But I was significantly slimmer and
definitely less hairy now, and this would at least give me a fighting chance.

I sat in my car and wondered what to do next. The pain in my
shoulder was now rivaled by the throbbing in my head, and I had no clear
picture of what I should be doing. I was breathing like I had run the Boston
Marathon, and the windshield started to fog up. I knew I couldn’t stay there,
but I still felt my car would be safe for a little while longer. I glanced in
the back seat and saw the bag that contained my library books, which, if not
returned, would constitute yet another crime; my pilfered Fire Inspector hat,
which was also stolen; and the Regionarts materials that had started all of
this mess. I thought of that stupid note—
I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING
. I was
such a genius.

Then a light bulb came on. I turned around, grabbed the hat
out of the bag, and tried it on. It was a little small, as I remembered, but if
I wrenched it on, it would fit. I looked in the rear-view mirror and adjusted
it; I knew I had my plan. I took the hat off, tucked it under my arm, slammed
and locked the door, and headed for the street.

Ten

A
fter finally convincing myself that
this might actually work, I found a pay phone, called the Congressional
switchboard, and asked to be connected to the office of Senator Lon Stanky of
Rhode Island. The operator obliged, and in a minute, I was greeted by a young,
perky voice. I asked for the Senator and was told that he was on vacation in
Bermuda during the Senate’s recess. I said I was sorry to hear this, and told
her I would call back when he returned. She asked my name, and I lamely
whispered, “Rick Danko” before hanging up. I was far from sad that Stanky was
gone; I had banked on it.

It didn’t take long to find a taxi, and I told the driver
that I wanted to go to the Hart Senate Office Building. He barely let me close
the door before he was halfway across town, and I noticed as we hit
Constitution Avenue that he was more interested in maintaining eye contact with
me and telling his story than he was with watching the road. I dug my nails
into the upholstery. He was from Nairobi, had been here ten years, and had
invited his brother, who was now using drugs. I don’t remember in what context
all of this was because I was trying to steel myself for my next few criminal
acts. I had a plan, which was far from foolproof, and if I screwed up, I’d end
up in some dark interrogation room in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. I nodded at
the cabby and tried to find new and inventive ways of obscuring my face. He was
talking about his brother stealing a TV set when I had to look at him
apologetically and pay my fare.

I got out of the taxi and walked toward the building. I
found a small bush, which looked like it was about to die, among all the
concrete. I looked over both shoulders and put on the Fire Inspector cap while
among what little greenery remained in the dying shrub, then straightened up,
walked toward the building, checked myself in a window, noting that I looked
presentable, and walked in.

It was different than most of the House and Senate office
buildings, still marble but modern. It had an impressive, foliage-filled entry,
and I tried to avoid everyone’s eyes while I made my way through it. I stared
at the floor—shiny and clean—admired the tapestries—very seventies—and took
several looks at my watch. It was ten o’clock. I finally found a small hallway,
and, a good distance down the hall, I saw a red switch about halfway up the
wall.

I checked twice to my left, three times to my right, and,
seeing no one, I pulled the fire alarm and ran out the side exit. There was a
noticeable murmur immediately, and, as I walked back around to the front, I
could see people begin streaming out the double doors. I ran back by the bush,
grabbed the hat, and continued walking until I was half a block away. I watched
from that distance for precisely two minutes, then crammed the cap over my
head, and walked briskly toward the building.

“Fire Inspector. Please step back,” I said, repeating myself
three times with the self-importance of those who hold such jobs. I saw a
security guard just ahead and walked toward him.

“Gram Parsons,” I said to him gravely, tapping my cap. “I
need to run up and see if everyone’s out of Senator Stanky’s office.” The man
nodded, and I trotted on by, taking the stairs and going very much in the wrong
direction. A dorky-looking page ran into my sore shoulder, and I barely avoided
screaming something obscene. Instead, I began my fire inspector spiel again and
got a wider berth to continue.

The second floor held my target. I knew this because I had
interviewed for a job in this very office and had not received it. I wasn’t
doing this for revenge; I was doing it because I had a pretty good feeling that
I could get away with it. But the revenge angle didn’t hurt anything at all …

The office door read, “Lon Stanky—Rhode Island.” Lon may
have been from the tiniest state, but he was no tiny senator. He had been in
the same job for thirty years and was legendary for his family money, his
liberal politics, and, mostly, for his incessant womanizing. I opened the door
and saw that a very pretty receptionist was still at her desk talking on the
phone.