Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [41]
He nodded. His mother’s first name was Rose, and one of her favorite songs was “Honeysuckle Rose.” He started the tune, establishing a tempo with which he was comfortable and tapping his foot loudly on the wooden floor to keep a steady rhythm. His playing was sloppy, he knew, and unintended squeaks erupted from time to time. But a glance at his mother told him that she was enjoying it, and so he continued until he’d finished the piece.
“Did you like that, Ma-ma?”
“It was very good, Emile, very good. Play something else for me.”
He knew what she wanted and started playing “Rose Room,” his foot now coming down on the floor even harder and louder.
“Stop!” she said. “You’ll hurt your foot. I don’t want you to hurt your foot.” She extracted a throw pillow from behind her and handed it to him. “Use this,” she instructed.
He placed the pillow beneath his foot and began the song again. His mother had closed her eyes and sang some of the lyrics in a voice so low that they were barely discernible. Emile finished the song. It appeared that she’d fallen asleep, but when he got up she stirred, opened her eyes, and said, “Play more for me, Emile.”
“I can’t, Ma-ma,” he said. “I have to go now.”
“You never stay.”
He didn’t argue with her this time. He bounded up the stairs, took apart the clarinet, put the pieces in the case, returned it to the closet, and looked at himself in the mirror. The anger on his face was almost palpable. After a series of deep breaths, he went downstairs. His mother had gotten up and had made it to the front door. As he kissed her on the cheek, the odor of talcum powder and stale cigarettes was almost overwhelming.
She ran her fingers through his hair and cooed, “My darling little Emile, my precious little boy.”
He kissed her again and made his escape, waiting until he was outside to allow the trembling to begin.
CHAPTER 15
Those in government who thought that the death of Afran Mutki and the suspicion surrounding it could be kept under wraps also believed that politicians made decisions based upon what was good for the country rather than what would help them perpetuate their positions of power.
A forensics team at GW Hospital launched a full-fledged autopsy on Afran Mutki, beginning with the removal of a tiny pellet from his ankle. It measured 1.52 mm in diameter, the size of a pin head, and was made of 90 percent platinum and 10 percent iridium. Two 0.35 mm holes had been drilled in the pellet, which created the cavity in which the ricin, a poison found naturally in castor beans, had been inserted. The small holes in the pellet had then been covered with a substance that had a melting point of 37 degrees Celsius, or 98.6 Fahrenheit—the temperature of the human body. Once inside Mutki, the coating had melted, opening the holes and allowing the ricin to be absorbed into his bloodstream. A written report was rushed to CIA headquarters, in Langley, Virginia, and to FBI headquarters, on Pennsylvania Avenue NW, and the pellet itself was delivered to a CIA lab at Langley. A strict media blackout was imposed on all involved.
Which didn’t keep the story from seeping out and quickly becoming front-page news and the lead-in to TV newscasts. It really took off when one of the young physicians who’d worked with Dr. Bennett told a reporter (off the record, of course, and without attribution) that ricin poisoning was being considered as the cause of the Kurdish journalist’s demise.
This young physician went on to educate the reporter about the Markov case thirty years ago as though he’d personally been there, and the Markov murder took on new life in the nation’s capital along with this latest assassination.
A spokesman for the Iraq embassy in Washington provided a statement to the inquisitive press denouncing rumors that its government had had any involvement in Mutki’s death, and offering condolences to his family. The spokesman took to task the media for speculating that the Iraqi government might have silenced Mutki because of his criticism of the Baghdad regime.