The Unlikely Candidate: The Idaho Trilogy, #1

By Sydney Duncombe

A series of unsolved crimes baffle police and the Governor is
enmeshed in scandal. Gradually, the unknown Senate candidate finds himself drawn into a crisis that rocks Idaho. He becomes the target of unknown assailants and is accused of murder. Caught in an election night bombing, an abduction and a hospital shoot­out, Donald James hopes to stay alive long enough to hear the election results.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ridenbaugh Press
• Release date: Nov 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536554212

Book preview

Chapter 1

Warner Bernstein had made more than his share of enemies in his stormy professional career. His ex-wife, Sylvia, considered him a workaholic who put his job before his family. She had divorced him two years ago, gaining custody of their two children in a bitter court battle. His attacks on the bigotry of white separatist groups in letters to newspaper editors and press interviews had brought him angry phone calls and unsigned hate mail. His abrasive nature, his unpopular legislative stands and his zealous dedication to exposing erroneous and fraudulent actions by legislators and interest groups resulted in many reprimands, two lost promotions, and a dismissal. Warner had the strength, integrity and stubborn pride of a whistle-blower.

Sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep, his broad shoulders and lanky frame hunched forward, Warner peered intently through the windshield as large flakes of snow danced before the beam of his headlights. Damn, he thought, I should have left my lake cabin earlier and taken 310. It’s longer but not so dangerous. Lights shown in his rear view mirror and Warner wondered idly whether this was the same car that had been following him at a distance for the past thirty miles. Dismissing a nagging concern, Warner thrust his chin towards the windshield to better concentrate on the snowy road ahead.

Warner was the Idaho Legislative Budget Director, the head of a three-person staff which served the Joint Finance-Appropriations Committee, a committee so powerful it had sometimes been referred to as the third house of the Idaho Legislature. He usually set the agenda of the Committee after consulting with the two co-chairmen, House Appropriations Committee Chairman Angus McKay and Senate Finance Committee Chairman Henry Stubblefield.

The senator, a 75-year-old cattleman and pragmatic Republican, was easy to work with and had an indulgent toleration of opposing points of view. Angus McKay, in his forties, from the more conservative wing of the Republican party, brooked no opposition in the House Appropriations Committee. Angus held strong opinions about the agenda of what he considered his committee.

The issue that might tear the Committee apart tomorrow was the estimated cost of two proposed constitutional amendments. McKay told Warner that he supported the estimates developed by himself with help from a consultant and the sponsoring organizations. McKay had a consultant from California make an estimate of the property tax reduction amendment. Warner had told McKay with his usual bluntness that the consultant had no research record in Idaho and he, Warner, was much more qualified to make the fiscal estimates.

Warner had drafted a speech on his PC to give to the Joint Finance- Appropriations Committee. He had brought the draft with him to his Deer Lake Cabin and spent hours refining his estimates and his speech.

On Senate Joint Resolution #1, he had written, I agree with the goals of the Stop Crime Committee, but do not think that mandatory life sentences for criminals convicted of three or more felonies will, in itself, greatly reduce crime. More effective in reducing crime would be more money for local law enforcement, psychiatric treatment, and drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs. I find that the amendment would cost $24 million next fiscal year, not the $13 million claimed by its sponsors.

Warner’s remarks on Senate Joint Resolution #2 would be even more controversial. He would open by expressing sympathy with farmers, ranchers, small businessmen, and homeowners hard pressed by inflationary rises in taxable property values in Idaho. He would describe the movement to limit property taxes in Idaho that had followed California’s Proposition #13 in the 1970s. None of the many proposals made until now, he would point out, had recommended a constitutional property tax limit of this magnitude. SJR #2 limited property taxes to nine-tenths of one percent of the market value of property and limited property tax increases to two and a half percent a year. It was a cut and cap amendment with the cut to less than one percent of the value of property being more severe than the cap on property tax increases.

Armed with charts and figures, he would show that cities, counties, school districts and other units of local government would lose nearly two-thirds of their general fund revenues, not the twenty percent claimed by the sponsors of the amendment. It would be ironic, he might conclude, if the voters lengthened the prison terms of thousands of prisoners by adopting SJR #1 and then adopted SJR #2, greatly reducing the funds needed to operate local police departments and jails.

Warner had mentioned he wanted to speak before the Committee on the two resolutions. McKay’s face had clouded with anger as he said, I’m Chairman at the Monday meeting. I don’t want to hear you getting up and confusing everybody with your own ideas.

As the road began to rise to Parkins Pass, the headlights behind him grew closer and then the car accelerated and passed, kicking up a spray of wet snow. Warner slowed to let the wipers clear his windshield.

It looked just like the gray sedan he had seen pass his cabin earlier that day. Resuming his normal speed, the headlights of a second vehicle cast a harsh glare in his rear-view mirror. Warner hoped it would also pass before he reached the top of the ridge and started down the treacherous stretch of highway that clung to the side of the cliff-like rocky slope.

His headlights probed the driving snow. He turned on the radio, hoping for a weather report, but found only country-western music on the Upland County radio station. The tail lights of the gray sedan disappeared into the snow flakes ahead and Warner slowed to put the Jeep into four wheel drive.

He began to picture in his mind the scene he would create in the Committee room if he spoke out in defiance of McKay. His remarks would make headlines and might actually cause the defeat of both amendments. Who is really behind these two proposed amendments, Warner wondered. His friend, Joan Morris, had made some wild claims of a conspiracy that would shake the state—claims that he would quietly begin investigating next week.

Warner knew he didn’t have to say anything. He could keep silent and keep his job. As the road climbed more steeply, he contemplated taking himself off the agenda. It was tempting. But as he reached the top of the ridge, he knew he could not avoid giving a warning about the amendments. He had been brought up to be outspoken and truthful. As a professional legislative staff member, it was his duty to present accurate cost and revenue estimates to his committee members so that their policy decisions would be based on accurate fiscal data. The estimates adopted by the Committee would appear in the newspapers and in The Voters Handbook, and it was vital that the voters be aware of the fiscal effect of both amendments.

Warner could see the steep descent ahead and shoved his jeep into second gear before he started down. The car behind him drew closer now. Pass, you S.O.B. Warner muttered. Then he turned his attention to the cone of light from his headlights on the snow-covered road. There were no guard rails on this stretch of road, and only an occasional cement post to keep a skidding motorist from going over the steep embankment. He should have left before the snow. He should have been more careful about a lot of things.

He rounded a curve on a steep downgrade in the blinding snow. The gray sedan blocked the road ahead. Its front bumper was pressed tightly against a single cement post and its rear stretched sideways across the road. Warner slammed on the brakes, skidded towards the steep embankment, braked and turned his wheel, and, with the help of studded tires, brought his jeep to a stop twenty feet from the sedan.

Shaken and angry, Warner jumped out into the wet snow. A stout, middle-aged man rounded the back of the sedan with a pair of chains. Sorry, he said, I’ve been skidding like crazy. Just about went over the cliff. Could you give me a hand?

Warner’s anger cooled as quickly as it had flared. The snow was playing havoc with his own driving too. Sure, he said and knelt in the snow to help the man stretch the chains around the right rear wheel.

He heard another vehicle pull up and glanced up momentarily. It was a black van. A large man with a raspy voice yelled, Hold on. We can help.

Warner smiled, thinking that people were very friendly in Upland County. It was not at all like the Detroit slums of his childhood. Filled with the inner glow that comes from the satisfaction of helping others, he knelt beside the tire, locking the chains into place. A few seconds later, he heard approaching footsteps. He never looked up to see the big man holding a tire iron over his head. A moment later, Warner was dead.

The next morning, the Idaho Joint Finance-Appropriations Committee met in the ornate hearing room that had once housed the Idaho Supreme Court. Co-Chairman Angus McKay distributed estimates of the fiscal effects of SJR #1 and #2. Speaking for the estimates of the cost of SJR #1 were two members of the Stop Crime Committee, a retired judge with a handlebar mustache and a beefy security guard. The Save Our Land Committee was represented by a suave realtor and a semi-retired farmer. Few questions were asked, but Senator Stubblefield, the other Co-Chair of the Committee, asked the Committee to postpone action until Warner Bernstein showed up. If Warner has made his own estimates, we should listen to them, the Senator stated.

Henry Stubblefield turned to David Fortney, a thin young man with unruly, blonde hair and a weak chin. Did Mr. Bernstein prepare estimates of the effects of these two proposed constitutional amendments?

David was uncomfortably conscious of all eyes in the room turning on him. I ... think so, he stammered.

Do you have a copy of them? the Senator asked in a booming voice.

N ... no, David answered truthfully, hoping his moment in the spotlight would pass.

Hearing no differing estimates on the effects of SJR # 1 and #2,1 move approval of the estimates before us, Co-Chairman McKay said. There was a second, a few more questions, and the Committee voted nine to three to approve McKay’s motion.

David sat in a chair behind the two Co-Chairmen with his stomach in knots. He knew that Warner distrusted the estimates just adopted by the Committee. But he saw the Committee’s strong support for both amendments and he feared McKay’s ire if he spoke. He said nothing. He was deeply troubled that his friend and boss had not shown up for the meeting. Nor had he phoned. It wasn’t like Warner to miss a crucial legislative meeting.

Warner's Jeep was not discovered until four that afternoon. It was a mangled wreck and Warner’s body had been badly burned. It had stopped snowing soon after the accident and there were marks where the Jeep had left the road and plunged down the embankment. The Upland County Sheriff’s department reported that the death was an accident caused by the snow-slick highways on the steep downgrade of Parkins Pass.

Chapter 2

Donald Janies learned of Warner Bernstein’s death from a two paragraph article about the accident on page six of the Stanberry Gazette. He was shocked, and for a moment distracted, from his anxiety over his own health and continuing grief over his wife’s death. Warner had been a good friend, a professional colleague whom he could count on for honest, forthright views at the annual meetings of state budget officers and the American Society of Public Administration. They had both moved upward over the years but had never worked in the same state. Once Don worked in Kentucky while Warner was in Tennessee and they had fished together at Dale Hollow.

Don had retired two years ago and had always intended to visit Warner, but Don lived more than two hundred miles from Boise, the state capital, and his wife’s cancer had taken more and more of his time. His last memory of Warner was when they sat next to each other on a panel on new developments in state budgeting at the annual convention of the American Society for Public Administration in Boston. He had been close to both Warner and Mark Green in the past. Now, he realized with sadness, that Green, in the Idaho Division of Financial Management, was the only one of the three still employed in budgeting. Don had fished with Mark during the past year and wondered how he was taking the death of their friend.

As he hunched in the reception room chair, Don tried to visualize Warner’s face. It was sad to think of Warner’s death but somehow, in his grief over the death of his wife and his continuing weariness, Warner’s death seemed distant Warner was part of his past – a vibrant working time of his life in which he too played an important role in state government. He and Warner had been different in many ways, but they were both whistle-blowers who had exposed excessive government costs, over-optimistic revenue estimates, and pork barrel legislation.

Don’s reverie was interrupted when the stout, gray-haired nurse called his name. He stared through the window at the wet snow slanting down on the parking lot outside. His throat was dry as he wondered what the doctor had found.

Meg Harvey watched with concern before she closed the examining room door. Don James’s normally pudgy five-foot-eight frame looked almost gaunt and his weight was thirty pounds less than at his annual physical nine months ago. His wavy, brown hair was uncombed, his brown eyes lacked sparkle, and his warm smile was replaced with a sad downturn of his lips. Did he suspect, Meg wondered?

A few minutes later Dr. Burkett paused by the nurse’s station and asked, Are the lab results in on Donald James?

Yes. They’re in his chart. His weight is down to 136. She handed him the chart.

The doctor flipped to the lab results and sighed. Damn. I was afraid of this. It’s leukemia.

Meg flinched at the bad news. Dr. Burkett continued. His wife was Dr. Michal’s patient. I’ve only seen him a couple of times in the past two years. I’ve got to break the news. You knew him and his wife from church, didn’t you? Can he take the truth?

She paused, considering. It was so very sad, so tragic. First Kay and now Don. Don’s very nice. He seems like a mousy sort of man. But he’s stronger than he looks. They didn’t really go through a denial phase when Kay got the news about her breast cancer. There was a brief period of anger and a longer period of depression. Kay got through that, though. She had tremendous courage. I think it was very hard on him. Meg paused, memories flooding back. I visited her a week before she died. Don was at her bedside, remembering the early days of their marriage. What love they had for each other. The light went out of Don’s eyes the day Kay died. She made a helpless gesture. He’ll need a reason to keep going. She was everything to him.

Thanks, Dr. Burkett said-simply. It will be tough to tell him.

Dr. Burkett rapped lightly on the door so as not to startle his patient.

Then he went in. This was not going to be easy. He saw Donald James sitting on the examining table staring out the window with a blank expression. He had an undistinguished face with a slightly cleft chin, pug nose, and a sad expression—not the face of a man who had what it took to battle leukemia.

Good morning, the doctor began.

What do the lab tests show? Don asked in a low voice, as if he already knew the worst.

Dr. Burkett sensed he must be direct, honest. The blood tests and bone marrow sample show you have leukemia. Cancer of the blood. I’m sorry.

Don's jaw dropped and his mouth went slack. He fought to hold back the tears. It wasn’t fair. For forty years he’d worked hard, dreaming of the day he and Kay could have a nice retirement. What had it gotten them? His eyes blazed with anger. They had only three happy months after he’d quit working. Then Kay developed breast cancer. His mouth took a bitter twist. Now she was dead and he had leukemia. Where was God?

The doctor waited patiently while Don fought his urge to cry. Finally, Don said meekly. My wife, Kay, had cancer too. Why both of us?

Dr. Burkett’s features softened. It was the kind of question he had been asked many times and he understood the hopelessness that Don must be feeling. We don’t know all the factors that cause cancer. Breast cancer ran in Kay’s family. You’ve been under great strain this past year. These factors contribute to the development of cancer, but they’re not the only causes. Don’t blame yourself or Kay.

How long ... Don’s voice wavered. How long have I got? He seemed resigned to death.

You don’t have to die. Dr. Burkett knew he had to give Don hope. We have drugs and chemotherapy now for your type of leukemia.

Drugs. There was a more hopeful inflection in Don’s voice. What are the odds?

Well, you’re only sixty-seven. You don’t have any other major health problems. You’ll need to start on chemotherapy tomorrow at the clinic. Get plenty of rest and exercise, eat the right foods, don’t smoke or drink, and you should live at least five or ten years.

Don hesitated. "Suppose the chemotherapy doesn’t work?’’

Dr. Burkett tried to sound confident. Well, we have over an eighty percent success rate, but some people do die. There’s a new drug being tested now that should do even better. Don’s mouth began to droop again and Dr. Burkett added, Look, you have a good chance of living at least five years—maybe ten or fifteen. Don’t sit back and wait to die. Because that’s just what will happen. Decide what you’ve always wanted to do and just do it.

Don felt numb, not understanding fully the doctor’s words. He had cancer of the blood. No assurances by the doctor could change that. Outside his door, he could hear two of the nurses chatting, happy and unconcerned, about some party this weekend. As Dr. Burkett told him about the chemotherapy he would have every other week for sixteen weeks, all he could think about was the snow slanting down from a leaden sky.

The doctor droned on, recommending exercise, plenty of rest, avoidance of colds, and a diet that included plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables. Don roused himself when the doctor mentioned a book on getting well and wrote down the name of the author. Finally, he left the doctor’s office and clinic and stepped out into the snow storm.

Don’s face was grim as he drove his thirteen-year-old Ford back to his home, fifteen blocks west of the central business district of Stanberry. His body felt numb and he drove automatically, fighting waves of despair, almost going through one red light.

His home was on Alabama Street, the third street west of a commercial artery. It was a modest, older neighborhood with two-story homes on small lots. Since there were no garages, Don and his neighbors parked on the tree-lined street. As he pulled to a stop in front of his green and white home, he noticed the porch needed repainting. It’s not much of a house, he thought, but it was all Kay and I could afford after my retirement and our move to Stanberry.

As Don walked up the sidewalk, he noticed three sparrows pecking at the bird seed he put on the porch. He smiled faintly. If they could survive through the winter, maybe he could also. Then a gust of wind whipped the wet snow in his face and he felt cold and tired.

Entering his home, Don hung his coat in the closet. To the right was a living room which opened into a dining area and a large kitchen alcove. The white kitchen floor was spotted from two weeks of accumulated dirt and the dining room table was cluttered with junk mail and newspapers. The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes. Don went to the refrigerator and took out two hot dogs and a quart of milk. It would be canned peaches for dessert tonight. Tomorrow, maybe he could buy some fresh fruits and vegetables.

As Don ate, he looked at the photos on the buffet. There was Kay holding a baby boy, a son who had died at the age of ten when a car hit his bicycle. Kay had been twenty-three when Tommy had been born. With her long black hair and radiant smile, she had been so beautiful. It seemed so long ago.

There was a picture of Don and Kay standing with their daughter, Louise, fifteen years later. How Louise reminded Don of Kay. They had the same optimism and vibrant energy. Louise had married an older man four years ago. She was divorced now, living two hundred and fifty miles away, and earning good money as a small city accountant.

His whole being ached. He could never recover from Kay’s death. Now this. He gave way to tears, long, wrenching sobs that seemed to tear him apart. It didn’t matter if he died. What did he have left to live for?

Twenty minutes later his tears were falling not as torrential rain on the tablecloth but more gently in fits and starts. He looked up at Louise’s photograph. She was the only family he had left. He picked up the phone.

Dad! came the cheery voice at the other end of the line. How’re you feeling?

Louise, I’m so glad you’re in. Don paused, on the verge of tears again, unable to speak for a moment. I’m afraid. ... I’m afraid I had bad news at the doctor’s.

What bad news? Her tone showed alarm.

The tests I told you about last week. The results came back. It’s leukemia, dear.

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Then she began to sob over the telephone. First Mother and then you. It’s too much.

It’s not right. Don was indignant now. We both took good care of ourselves. We didn’t smoke, drink, or overeat. We don’t deserve this.

Louise spilled out her anguish and Don’s eyes filled with tears again.

Would he live out the year, he wondered? Would he ever fish with Louise again?

As Louise continued weeping, Don began to try to comfort her with hollow platitudes he neither felt nor believed.

Stifling her sobs, Louise realized that she needed to be strong just as she was after the death of her mother. I’ve got to be the one who thinks clearly, she thought, Dad can’t die. He just can’t. He’s got to have something to live for. She began to ask probing questions about what the doctor had said.

As he answered the questions her father began to realize that he had a pretty good chance of living and he could better the odds if he ate wisely and kept exercising.

Yet Louise sensed the emptiness in his life and offered, What you need is a plan for the year ahead.

That’s what the doctor said. He told me to decide what I’ve always wanted to do and just do it.

What is it you’ve always wanted to do?

Don paused. Since Kay had started her last downward slide, he had lived from day to day with no thoughts or plans beyond the next week. Thinking ahead felt good. He said, Well, I’ve always wanted to do more fishing.

That's good, Dad. Now you’ll have more time for that. Louise paused, trying to visualize the life that stretched ahead of her father. He loves to fish, she thought. How I remember the times we fished and camped together with Mom. But he’s a thinking man with a good brain. The rest of his life can’t be eating, sleeping, and fishing. Dad, she said, When you complete your chemotherapy you’ll need more to do than just fish.

They talked for another fifteen minutes. Before she hung up Louise said, I love you, Dad. Keep fighting and you’ll lick this. I want to catch some big ones with you this summer. She hoped her voice sounded full of confidence, but her confidence was eroding fast. When the phone was safely back on its cradle, Louise dissolved again into tears.

Don had difficulty sleeping that night. He remembered his father, Charles, who ran a small grocery in Elk Point, a small logging community. He could picture his dad out front helping the customers, his mother, Arlene, in the little office doing the books. This left a seven-year-old, chubby Don watching his four-year-old sister in a play pen. Once he had sneaked out back to play with his friends and somehow Trudy had pulled a stack of cans down on top of her.

Don saw himself as a seven-year-old being taken into the store office after the store had closed and his mother and his sister had gone home. He was expecting the spanking of his life. Instead, his father talked about responsibility. If somebody gives you a job to do and tells you it’s important, there ain’t nothing that should interfere with your getting it done. The sooner you learn that, the better man you’re going to be.

As Don lay in bed, the image of his father faded and he saw Kay with her face thin and pale. Her brother, Tom and his wife Lisa were at her bedside too. Don had pleaded with Kay, Don’t go.

Kay smiled, a wan, beautiful smile and held out her hand to Don. My time is coming soon. I’m not afraid for myself. I’ll be in Heaven and you’ll join me someday. Tom and Lisa can help with the funeral. Take care of Louise.

Don’t go, Don yelled in a half sleep and the vision faded. He was at his own funeral lying in a casket. Louise was bending over him, crying. It’s unfair, unfair, he cried aloud. I can’t put Louise through this again. Lord, why me? he asked over and over again. Why did I get leukemia? Tears flooded his pillow.

Two hours later Don took control again. He had to take responsibility. He had to fight this thing and win. It was only then that Don could fall into a deep healing sleep.

Chapter 3

Detective Lieutenant Luis Martinez was a twenty-year veteran of the Boise Police Force, a thin, wiry man with a narrow black mustache and a big, self-effacing smile. As he left the elevator on the fourth floor of the state capitol building, he pulled his red notebook from his pocket and turned to the page marked Warner Bernstein. He had listed three questions:

1. Why did Del Owens, the Chief Deputy Sheriff of Upland County, want me to ask questions about Bernstein’s death rather than come himself or send one of the deputies? Were they really so busy no one could take time for the 300-mile round trip to Boise?

2. Why were only two keys on the key ring fused into the ignition of Bernstein’s Jeep?

3. If it wasn’t an accident, who would want this man dead?

Luis had been to the Idaho state capitol many times but never before to the top floor. There were three offices tucked under the eaves of the building: the offices of the Legislative Budget Committee, the Legislative Council, and the old Supreme Court hearing room which was now used by JFAC, the powerful Joint Finance-Appropriations Committee.

Entering the door of the Legislative Budget Office, the detective came into a large front room with two smaller rooms opening off the back. There was no one sitting at the secretarial desk at the front of the room. A thin young man with unruly blonde hair and a receding chin sat reviewing papers at a smaller desk to one side near the back. Luis went over to the desk and introduced himself, pulling out his badge. The young man stammered as he told Luis that he was David Fortney.

To put Fortney more at ease, the Lieutenant gave him a big, disarming smile, admired a large family photo on his desk, and said, Nice kids.

Fortney smiled and grew less tense. That’s my wife, Arlene, he said pointing to an attractive, slim blonde woman in a print dress. She’s from the South and thinks these winters are too cold.

Know what you mean, Luis commented, My Rosita’s from El Paso and says the same thing. How old’s your boy?

Sean. He’s three. Jennifer’s just a baby. He flushed as if realized he was stating the obvious.

He’s relaxing a little. I can begin, Luis thought. Then he said, I’m investigating Warner Bernstein’s death. It’s just routine and I need to ask a few questions.

It was an accident, wasn’t it? Then Fortney added, That’s what the newspaper said.

Luis ignored the question. We need to make some routine contacts with the people who knew him best. There are some loose ends to account for. Nothing serious, Luis said.

Oh. Can I help?

Are you Mr. Bernstein’s deputy? Luis had met Warner Bernstein twice and read about him at least two dozen times in the newspapers, but he didn’t want to alarm Fortney by calling him Warner or appearing too familiar with him.

Fortney shrugged apologetically, I’m officially a budget analyst, but since I was Warner’s only budget staff person I guess I could be called his deputy. Rosy Choi is the only other full-time person employed by the Committee. She’s the Administrative Secretary.

I thought the Legislative Budget Office had a larger staff, Luis commented.

It did. I’ve been here just a year. I’ve heard that in the 1980s we had a staff of about six. Then our office was combined with a group of several other staff units in a Legislative Services Office. Three years ago Governor Yancey vetoed the appropriations for all legislative staff, the veto was not over-ridden, and everybody lost their jobs.

When was Mr. Bernstein hired? the detective asked.

About a year and a half ago. The Governor and legislative leaders came to agreement on legislative staff. The Legislative Budget Office was to be like it was in the 1980s but with a staff of only three. A Legislative Council Office was to be set up for other research with a small staff. Governor Yancey must have been really powerful then.

Luis smiled. Fortney seems naive, he thought, but I don’t have time to get into a discussion of past Idaho politics. Instead, he asked, Who did Mr. Bernstein work for?

In theory, he worked for all twenty members of JFAC—that’s ten members from the Senate Finance Committee and ten members from the House Appropriations Committee. But the two co-chairmen really run the show. Right now, House Appropriations Chairman Angus McKay has more influence than Senate Finance Committee Chairman Henry Stubblefield. He calls the shots most of the time.

The Lieutenant looked up from his notes. And who do you work for?

That’s a tough question. I work for Warner but I do research for everyone on the Joint Finance-Appropriations Committee. But the two chairmen, particularly Representative McKay, are the ones that give me most of my assignments. Fortney mopped his brow.

He seems weak and confused—a straw that could break under pressure, Luis thought. Suddenly, he looked Fortney in the eyes and asked, Do you know where Mr. Bernstein was coming from when he died Sunday night?

Startled, David Fortney stammered, I... I don’t know for sure, but I think he spent the weekend at his cabin on Deer Lake working on his estimates. He must have been driving back to Boise for the Monday morning Committee meeting.

What estimates are those? Luis asked before Fortney had time to think.

Estimates of the fiscal effects of Senate Joint Resolution #1 and Senate Joint Resolution #2. You know, they’re on mandatory sentencing and the property tax.

Luis knew about the amendments and asked, Did you see Mr. Bernstein’s estimates?

I never saw the numbers, Fortney admitted, but Warner told me that they were controversial – they could blow the amendments out of the water.

"And Warner would have had them