Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright

forced to eat dog food because of your policies, Governor. I’m crying for the dispossessed and the homeless who have no place to go but the cold, dirty, dangerous streets because you closed their shelters, Mr. Mayor. I’m crying for the people who can’t get jobs, for the people who can’t afford health care. I’m crying for the people who themselves cry each day because the government that is supposed to help them won’t. Whom do you cry for? I mean, besides the PACs and special-interest groups that stuff your pockets with money?”
    â€œMy God …” Louise breathed.
    â€œI care about the people of the state of Minnesota. All the people. Even those who don’t have money to contribute to a campaign fund. Even those who can’t or won’t vote. I care about their problems and their fears and their tomorrows. You two … You care about getting elected. Nothing else.”
    It was a nice comeback and I wondered if Marion and C. C. had planned it all along. If they had, it was a singularly dangerous move and probably would not have succeeded if it weren’t for what came next. In response, both the governor and the mayor claimed that they cried all the time, too; that they each out-cried the others. And they offered examples. The media played along, asking questions such as, “Governor, did you weep when you slashed the University of Minnesota’s operating budget?” In reply came answers like, “I don’t believe I wept, but I am sure I shed a tear or two.” It was high comedy—or farce, if you prefer—and when the so-called debate mercifully ended, the volunteers were delighted.
    â€œIs Carol Catherine Monroe tough enough to be governor?” an excited campaign worked shouted. “Ask the coroner after he examines the bodies.”
    But the workers did not get a chance to celebrate long. The telephones started ringing even before the program’s closing credits had finished rolling. I had to turn the TV set off.
    â€œI’ve taken in over seven thousand in the last half hour,” I overheard one volunteer tell Louise as she moved from station to station.
    â€œRepresentative Monroe really is going to be the first woman governor of the state of Minnesota,” Amy told me yet again as she worked the switchboard.
    â€œMaybe. Maybe not,” I answered her but she was too busy to hear.

    I closed the office door and leaned against it. “You’d better sit down,” I told the two women.
    Both ignored the advice.
    â€œDid you get the tape?” Marion asked.
    â€œDennis Thoreau is dead,” I answered.
    â€œWha …” C. C. staggered backward, found a chair in front of the desk and fell into it. Marion merely spread her legs farther apart and clasped her hands behind her back, parade rest.
    The debate had ended one hundred minutes earlier. It had taken that long for the women to work the media and return to the triumphant applause of their campaign staff. Now Marion Senske was looking at me like I was a dead battery on a cold winter’s night. She didn’t need this, she really didn’t.
    â€œHow?” Marion asked.
    â€œWhat?” I answered.
    â€œHow was Thoreau killed?”
    Interesting question. Most people ask “When?”
    â€œHe was shot in the face at close range,” I replied.
    â€œOh God,” C. C. whimpered
    â€œWhen?” asked Marion.
    â€œI’m guessing Saturday, sometime after C. C. spoke with him, but there’s no way of knowing for sure until the ME determines the postmortem interval.”
    â€œME?” C. C. asked weakly.
    â€œThe county medical examiner,” I answered. “The cops would have called him long before now.”
    â€œYou told the police?” Marion was outraged.
    â€œNo. They arrived when I was looking for the tape.”
    Marion grabbed my forearm with both hands and squeezed tight. “Did you get