"To prove to the guy who hired them they pulled it off okay?" said Buck.
"Crap. That's the President of the United States. The proof airs over every network and cable news service the same day."
"Maybe he's a video hound?" suggested Buck.
"All I know is if we find that guy we can start working back along the chain of the conspiracy."
The phone rang and Pepsie grabbed it. "Pepsie Dobbins."
The familiar soft voice asked, "Have you got any footage for me?"
"Yeah. But I have something more."
"What's that?"
"A big key to the conspiracy."
"I think we should meet."
"When and where?"
"Tonight. After dark. I'll be sitting on a park bench on the Potomac within sight of the Lincoln Memorial. Come at six. And don't forget the tapes."
"Wait! How will I recognize you?"
But the line was already dead.
Pepsie turned to Buck. "I'm going to meet him," she said.
"The Director?"
"Yeah. I want you to come, but discreetly."
"You mean hide in the bushes?"
"And film everything," Pepsie added.
"Why?"
"Because I think that guy knows more than he's letting on and when we compare notes, we may have a big piece of this puzzle."
"Suits me," said Buck Featherstone.
HAROLD SMITH next showed up at the District of Columbia Coroner's Office, where the body identified as Alek J. Hidell had been autopsied.
"I would like to examine the body," Smith told the medical examiner, displaying his Secret Service identification badge.
"Again?"
"Again," said Smith.
"All right, but this has got to be the most examined corpse in the history of this building."
Smith was escorted to the morgue, and the sheeted body was rolled out on a squealing marble slab.
The M.E. drew back the sheet exposing the upper body.
The man looked remarkably like Lee Harvey Oswald, Smith saw. He was prepared for that. But somehow seeing him in the flesh, seemingly aged thirty years, brought unfamiliar goose bumps to Smith's loose gray skin.
Donning a pair of disposable rubber gloves, Smith examined the man's hair. After satisfying himself that there was no surgical scar on the scalp, he examined the mastoid scar and the slash marks at each wrist.
"How recent would you say were these scars?"
"Recent?" the M.E. repeated blankly.
"You heard me?"
"With scarring, it is difficult to say precisely."
"Thirty years old?" prompted Smith.
The M.E. shook his head. "No, not even ten, I should judge."
Smith compressed his mouth and said nothing. He next went to the man's hands, drawing the sheet down farther to expose them.
The body had already begun to stiffen, so Smith had to give the arm a hard jerk to lift the right hand.
"You should not do that!" the M.E. exploded.
Smith brought the limp, cold fingers to his own face and turned the wrist with difficulty. He examined the fingertips, which were black with ink from the posthumous fingerprinting.
"I found it difficult to believe this is really Lee Harvey Oswald," the M.E. muttered.
"I find it impossible to accept," said Harold Smith, using a fingernail to scratch residual ink from the dead man's thumb. The flesh beneath was cold and unresponsive. Smith kept scratching.
"What are you doing?" the M.E. asked, leaning in curiously.
To his horror, Harold Smith took up a loose flap of skin and began peeling the thumb as if it was a tiny white banana.
The M.E. gasped. Smith's grim gray face went grimmer.
Smith let the hand go. It dropped slightly, then froze in a macabre lifting gesture, as if the dead man were stirring back to life. Smith paid the arm no attention. He was looking at the perfect shell of the last joint of a thumb between his gloved fingers.
"Latex," said Smith. "Grooved with Lee Harvey Oswald's perfect fingerprints."
"Latex?"