The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description by Dale Wiley Page B
Authors: Dale Wiley
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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.”
Chapter
----
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.
Chapter
----
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
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.”
Chapter
----
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.
Chapter
----
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
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