Eggsecutive Orders

Were we talking about the same Tom? While I never doubted his affection for me, he’d been Mr. Let’s-keep-our-relationship-low-key from the outset. I was speechless.

Mrs. Wentworth didn’t want to let go of the day’s scoop. “He told us you were tied up today and that you’d be late. Why were they questioning you, Ollie? Did you know Minkus?”

Before I could answer, she boosted herself from the table and grabbed for her cane. Stan was at her side immediately. “What do you need, honey?” he asked.

She pointed a gnarled finger toward my living room. “Turn on the TV. We’ll get the story there and Ollie can fill us in during the commercials.”

Within moments we were tuned into the all-news station and sure enough, beautiful anchor people were providing updates. The White House served as backdrop for their solemn expressions and somber tones.

I settled myself cross-legged on the floor, allowing the elderly folks to take the couch and chairs.

“As we’ve been reporting, Special Agent Carl Minkus died earlier today, of undetermined causes. We are keeping a close watch on the White House, where he was a di

The screen changed to a photo of Minkus and his wife, Ruth. Minkus had been a ruddy-faced, overweight man, fifty-three years old. The picture showed the couple at a recent government sponsored event-Minkus in a tux, with his petite, strawberry-blonde wife next to him. Minkus had his arm around her waist and she smiled up at her husband, apparently unaware of the camera, into which Minkus beamed.

The news anchor continued. “The couple has one child, Maryland State Representative Joel Minkus.”

Stan gave a low whistle. “Look at them. That there’s what’s known as a trophy wife.”

Next to him on the couch, Mrs. Wentworth arched an eyebrow. “They’ve been married for years. She doesn’t count. Anyway, trophy wives are tall. She’s tiny.”

“Trophy is trophy,” Stan said with a shrug. He waggled his eyebrows. “But I’d rather have you on my shelf than her, any day.”

Mrs. Wentworth slapped him playfully.

I focused on the television, where the scene changed again. Ruth Minkus stood behind a gaggle of microphones. I couldn’t figure out where she was until the cameras pulled back enough for me to see the hotel logo on the lectern. She was talking, but we couldn’t hear her. The news anchors were giving updates as a lead-in. “Ruth Minkus has agreed to make a statement and to bring us up-to-date on her husband’s death. She’s speaking to us from a local hotel to keep camera crews and reporters away from the family home.”

Ruth’s voice now joined with her image. “Joel and I…” She paused to compose herself. A couple of people behind her placed comforting hands on her shoulders. “We wish to thank everyone who has been so supportive at this difficult time.”

Reporters shouted questions at the weeping widow.

My mom made an unladylike noise. “Vultures.”

Joel Minkus leaned sideways, toward the microphone. The man was about my age and tall, but otherwise took after his mother. From what I’d heard of him, he was a strong proponent of environmental issues, and despite his relatively young age, he inspired cooperation between opposing factions. He was a golden boy, and apparently deservedly so. “Please,” he said. “Can’t you see how hard this is for us?”

My mom shook her head. “They should leave the poor woman alone.”

“My husband,” Ruth continued, “would have been overwhelmed by all this attention. He was a determined man who loved this country very much. If there was one thing he always told me, it was that he hoped to die in the service of the United States.” Tears streamed down her face. “I… I suppose he got his wish.”

The tension in my living room was tight. No one spoke.

An off-camera voice shouted: “Do you think he was a target because of his investigations?”

Ruth’s eyes widened as she turned to her son. “Target?” she asked.

Joel stepped up to the microphone again. “Please. Let’s wait until the medical examiner gives his report.” He licked his lips and made pointed eye contact with audience members. “Have some compassion. My father just died. He was the finest man I’ve ever known. He was strong, well-loved, and most of all, patriotic. Let’s not make assumptions until all the facts are in.”

The news anchor interrupted to resume commentary. “The White House has prepared a statement.” With that, the scene whisked away from the grieving family to a press conference in the Brady Briefing Room. White House Press Secretary Jodi Baines stepped up to the microphone. I felt for her. There wasn’t a rule book for this situation. As she expressed the White House’s condolences for Special Agent Minkus’s demise, the elderly people in my living room fidgeted. Caught up in the story, myself, I’d almost forgotten they were there.

Jodi said: “Medical Examiner Dr. Michael Isham just finished briefing President Campbell and will now take questions.”

Slim, though not particularly tall, Isham had a long, pleasant face, and dimples so deep they looked like implanted studs. The dimples stayed prominent even though he didn’t smile. Another somber face in a day of sad solemnity. He blinked several times, canting his head slightly to avoid the bright lights’ glare.

“He looks like a morgue doctor,” Mrs. Wentworth said.

I turned, wanting to ask what she meant, but thought better of it. Stan patted her on the knee. “Shh.”

“Good afternoon,” Dr. Isham said, with a deadpan gaze into the audience. “As you all know, Special Agent Carl Minkus was declared dead at approximately one fifteen this morning. His body arrived at the morgue shortly thereafter and we immediately initiated an autopsy. The cause of death is undetermined at this time. We are waiting for test results.”

“What kind of tests?” a dozen reporters shouted.

Isham held up his hands and both rooms fell silent-the briefing room and my living room.

“At this time,” Isham continued, “we ca

An explosion of questions: “Could Agent Minkus have been a victim of bioterrorism?”

“What do you expect to find?”

“Is the president at risk?”

Jodi leaned toward the microphone. “Ladies and gentleman, please. One at a time.” She pointed. “Charles, go ahead.”

The reporter stood. “We’ve heard conflicting rumors about Carl Minkus’s behavior just before medics were summoned. Do you believe he might have suffered a heart attack?”

Isham licked his lips. “Again, we have not determined cause of death at this time.”

A voice piped up: “Didn’t Minkus complain that something was wrong with his food?”

I sat forward.

Isham answered, “I can’t answer that.”

Jodi sidestepped toward the microphone. “Mr. Minkus did not say anything specific about food,” she said. She raised her hands when the group began to protest. “Witnesses did report that Mr. Minkus’s speech became slurred. Before he collapsed, he said that his lips were stinging and that his tongue was numb.”

As she stepped away, the shouts rang out again for Dr. Isham: “Could a poison have done this?” And following up: “Is there a danger to the president?” “Is there danger to the general population?”

Isham held up both hands. “The problem with certain poisonous substances is that they are very difficult to identify. While we test for several known toxins, there are many we can’t identify unless we know what to look for. At this time we’ve done preliminary tests, but we can’t even speculate until the specimens we’ve sent out to special labs have come back.”

“How soon can we expect results?” a reporter in the front asked.

“It may be a couple weeks.”

After another eruption of questions, Isham held up his hands again. “This isn’t CSI,” he said. “We work in the real world. This is a painstaking process and we need to be patient.”