The Pelican Brief by John Grisham Page A

“This man is obviously very talented. He killed a Supreme Court Justice—maybe two—and left virtually no trail. A professional assassin, I would guess. Entry would not be a problem for him. Eluding a cursory inspection by Ferguson would be no problem for him. He’s probably very patient. He wouldn’t risk an entry when the house was occupied and cops around. I think he entered sometime in the afternoon and simply waited, probably in a closet upstairs, or perhaps in the attic. We found two small pieces of attic insulation on the floor under the retractable stairs; suggests they had recently been used.”
    “Really doesn’t matter where he was hiding,” the President said. “He wasn’t discovered.”
    “That’s correct. We were not allowed to inspect the house, you understand?”
    “I understand he’s dead. What about Jensen?”
    “He’s dead too. Broken neck, strangled with a piece of yellow nylon rope that can be found in any hardware store. The medical examiners doubt the broken neck killed him. They’re reasonably confident the rope did. No fingerprints. No witnesses. This is not the sort of place where witnesses come rushing forward, so I don’t expect to find any. Time of death was around twelve-thirty this morning. The killings were two hours apart.”
    The President scribbled notes. “When did Jensen leave his apartment?”
    “Don’t know. We’re relegated to the parking lot, remember. We followed him home around 6 P.M. , then watched the building for seven hours until we found out he’d been strangled in a queer joint. We were following his demands, of course. He sneaked out of the building in a friend’s car. Found it two blocks from the joint.”
    Coal took two steps forward with his hands clasped rigidly behind him. “Director, do you think one assassin did both jobs?”
    “Who in hell knows. The bodies are still warm. Give us a break. There’s precious little evidence right now. With no witnesses, no prints, no screwups, it’ll take time to piece this thing together. Could be the same man, I don’t know. It’s too early.”
    “Surely you have a gut feeling,” the President said.
    Voyles paused and glanced at the windows. “Could be the same guy, but he must be superman. Probably two or three, but regardless, they had to have a lot of help. Someone fed them a lot of information.”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as how often Jensen goes to the movies, where does he sit, what time does he get there, does he go by himself, does he meet a friend. Information we didn’t have, obviously. Take Rosenberg. Someone had to know his little house had no security system, that our boys were kept outside, that Ferguson arrived at ten and left at six and had to sit in the backyard, that—”
    “You knew all this,” the President interrupted.
    “Of course we did. But I assure you we didn’t share it with anyone.” The President shot a quickconspiratorial glance at Coal, who was scratching his chin, deep in thought.
    Voyles shifted his rather wide rear and gave Gminski a smile, as if to say, “Let’s play along with them.”
    “You’re suggesting a conspiracy,” Coal said intelligently with deep eyebrows.
    “I’m not suggesting a damned thing. I am proclaiming to you, Mr. Coal, and to you, Mr. President, that, yes, in fact, a large number of people conspired to kill them. There may be only one or two killers, but they had a lot of help. It was too quick and clean and well organized.”
    Coal seemed satisfied. He stood straight and again clasped his hands behind him.
    “Then who are the conspirators?” the President asked. “Who are your suspects?”
    Voyles breathed deeply and seemed to settle in his chair. He closed the briefcase and laid it at his feet. “We don’t have a prime suspect at the moment, just a few good possibilities. And this must be kept very quiet.”
    Coal sprang a step closer. “Of course it’s confidential,” he snapped. “You’re in the Oval Office.”
    “And