What I had assumed would be dished out as sensational expose of the month was, instead, being bruited about as the colossal degradation of a woman who, just weeks before, had been talked of by some as-possible Vice President of the United States. I would be the first to say that Pat Harvey’s diatribe at the press conference was reckless in the least, premature at best. But I found it odd that there was no evidence of a serious attempt at corroborating her accusations. Reporters in this case did not seem inclined to get the usual incriminating “no comments” and other double-talk evasions from the governmental bureaucrats that journalists typically pursue with enthusiasm.
The media’s only quarry, it seemed, was Mrs. Harvey, and she was shown no pity. The headline for one editorial was SLAUGHTERGATE?
She was being ridiculed, not only in print but in political cartoons. One of the nation’s most respected officials was being dismissed as a hysterical female whose “sources” included a South Carolina psychic. Even her staunchest allies were backing away, shaking their heads, her enemies subtly finishing her off with attacks softly wrapped in sympathy.
“Her reaction is certainly understandable in light of her terrible personal loss,” said one Democratic detractor, adding, “I think it wise to overlook her imprudence. Consider her accusations the slings and arrows of a deeply troubled mind.”
Said another, “What’s happened to hat Harvey is a tragic example of self-destruction brought on by personal problems too overwhelming to endure.”
Rolling Deborah Harvey’s autopsy report into my typewriter, I whited out “pending” in the manner and cause of death spaces. I typed in “homicide” and “exsanguination due to gunshot wound to lower back and cutting injuries.”
Amending her death certificate and CME-1 report, I went up front and made photocopies. These I enclosed with a cover letter explaining my findings and apologizing for the delay, which I attributed to the long wait for toxicology results, which were still provisional. I would give Benton Wesley that much. Pat Harvey would not hear from me that I had been strong-armed by him to indefinitely pend the results of her daughter’s medicolegal examination.
The Harveys were going to get it all – my findings on gross and microscopically, the fact that the first rounds of toxicology tests were negative, the bullet in Deborah’s lower lumbar, the defense injury to her hand, and, pathetically, the detailed description of her clothing, or what had been left of it. The police had recovered her earrings, watch, and the friendship ring given to her by Fred for her birthday.
I also mailed copies of Fred Cheney’s reports to his father, though I could go no further than saying that his son’s manner of death was homicide, the cause “undetermined violence.”
I reached for the phone and dialed Benton Wesley’s office, only to be told he wasn’t in. Next, I tried his home.
“I’m releasing the information,” I said when he got on the line. “I wanted you to know.”
Silence.
Then he said very calmly, “Kay, you heard her press conference?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve read today’s paper?”
“I watched her press conference, and I’ve read I’m well aware that she shot herself in the foot.”
“I’m afraid she shot herself in the head,” he said.
“Not without some help.”
A pause, then Wesley asked, “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll be happy to spell it out in detail. Tonight. Face-to-face.”
“Here?” He sounded alarmed.
“Yes.”
“Uh, it’s not a good idea, not tonight.”
“I’m sorry. But it can’t wait.”
“Kay, you don’t understand. Trust me-”
I cut him off. “No, Benton. Not this time.”
10
A frigid wind wreaked havoc with the dark shapes of trees, and in the scant light of the moon the terrain looked foreign and foreboding as I drove to Benton Wesley’s house. There were few streetlights, and the rural routes were poorly marked. I finally stopped at a country store with a single island of gas pumps in front. Switching on the overhead lamp, I studied my scribbled directions. I was lost.
I could see the store was closed but spotted a pay phone near the front door. Pulling close, I got out, leaving headlights burning and the engine on. I dialed Wesley’s number and his wife, Connie, answered.