The Reunion Pt. 03: Conclusion

"That's pretty philosophical for you." I grinned.

"Yeah, well that's me. The great Asian philosopher, Cindy Park."

I laughed. Then I looked out my office windows and saw that Henry was on the phone. He hung up and literally ran to my office.

"We've got the fucker," Henry announced. "My source says with 98 percent certainty that the man in the photo with Beckwith is Donald Gray."

"Holy shit." I just sat there for a minute, letting the knowledge sink in. "Is there anywhere else that we can take the photos to do the same kind of comparison?"

"Sure," Cindy said. "Just one place I can think of."

"Where?" Henry said.

"Well, the FBI. They have all the tools and then some." She looked at her watch. "We have time if we hurry."

I called Brockman. He hemmed and hawed, and I had to eventually threaten to take it public and note that the FBI refused to cooperate. He saw the value in working with us.

It took them an hour.

"It's him. Our guys put it at 99 percent certainty. Eventually, we'll be able to reconstruct the event and talk to witnesses and put them together. This is enough, though, for us to bring Beckwith in for questioning."

"Jesus. That's a big story."

"I know. Please do me one favor. Don't put that out until we've got him. We've been watching him pretty closely. He's at some big charity dinner in Washington, showing what a swell guy he is. We'll have him in custody in an hour, more or less. I'll call you, exclusively, to tell you when that happens."

"Okay, fair enough."

I got Cindy and Henry in and told them what Brockman told me.

"We need to get a photographer there," Henry said, and he took off to find the photo assignment editor.

"I need to go tell Goodhue what's coming," I said.

"No," Cindy said. "I'll tell him. This story needs to have your byline. Sit down and write. I'll be right back."

Cameron gunman, Beckwith Tied Together. Beckwith in FBI Custody

By Stephen Bradley and Cindy Park

Donald Gray, the man alleged to have murdered former HHS Secretary Rodney Cameron, has been shown to have ties with Jerome Beckwith, the former Cameron crony who was awarded the sole NHIA contract in what is now believed to have been a rigged bidding process.

Gray, whose condition was upgraded to serious but stable at an LA Hospital this afternoon, was arrested Thursday morning after a brief firefight with the FBI. Beckwith was placed under arrest tonight at a charity event in the Watergate Hotel's ballroom.

I was deep into the writing of the story when a Post photographer came into my office.

"Mr. Bradley? Henry said you'd want to see this."

He showed me the tiny screen on the back of his Nikon digital camera, which showed Beckwith in his tuxedo at a charity gala being placed in handcuffs by three men in FBI windbreakers and bullet proof vests. Other frames showed him being led away through the crowds of Washington's rich and powerful, head down.

I know we're supposed to be objective in our reporting, and I work hard to maintain that objectivity, but I will admit a small thrill ran through me when I saw that photo.

A few minutes later, I texted Sydney and told her to check her news alerts on her phone.

In a minute, she texted back.

"OMG!!! Is it over?"

"No. Long way to go. Auspicious beginning, at least."

In the end, Gray named a close associate of Beckwith's as the man who directly hired him to kill Cameron and paid him in cash. And he named the second man with the baseball bat. Likewise, that close associate of Beckwith did what he could to save his own skin, and named Beckwith as the mastermind behind the murder of Cameron and the assault on me.

Beckwith's trial lasted for three weeks in US District Court. It was tried there because the federal government still has the death penalty on the books and the US attorney specified that they were seeking it. In the end, the jury was out for no more than four or five hours. They found Beckwith guilty of murder for hire and aggravated assault and battery. Sydney, Cindy and I were in the courtroom when the verdict was read. I returned to the courtroom a couple of weeks later in the penalty phase of the trial to read my victim impact statement. I was uncomfortable being the subject of any news story, but that was outweighed by my need to look Beckwith in the eye and tell him how his barbarism affected me.

When Beckwith was sentenced, he stood there defiantly -- proudly almost -- head held high. It was like he was trying to say he wasn't afraid, not of anything.

But a few minutes later the judge read the verdict and pronounced sentence, "You shall be held in the custody of the US Bureau of Prisons until you have exhausted all appeals. At such time, the Superintendent will cause a lethal dose of medication to be injected into your veins until you are dead."

Beckwith's bravado evaporated, and this big strong man who had been at the top of his game a year earlier, collapsed into his chair, sobbing.

Sydney and I were engaged later that spring, and married just as summer was turning into fall. We planned a road trip for our honeymoon and Sydney had spent the months before that planning a route that would hit all the hotspots, starting with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Medill had asked me to come back and speak to a group of students and alums about the Rodney Cameron murder, which was the subject of my latest book: "Desperation. How a small-time thug and his billionaire boss committed the murder of the century."

When we married, Sydney's daughters were her bridesmaids and I asked Cindy to standup for me at the small civil ceremony officiated by a federal judge I'd known since we were both young men back in a small town in upstate New York. On his way to a campaign appearance, President Richardson stopped by the reception to wish us well.

After the reception, which was more like a luncheon for a few friends, we went back to our townhouse to change and leave on the first leg of our trip, which would take us back to the community college where we fell in love so many years earlier. As we were getting ready to leave, Sydney told me she had a surprise for me. She was clearly tickled about the surprise, whatever it was.

"Close your eyes and come with me." She led me down the steps of the townhouse to the street and then let me open my eyes.

At the curb was a nicely restored lemon-yellow 1963 MGB roaster. On the back, under the MG logo, was the legend "Lemonade II."

We held each other there on the sidewalk, each of us wondering what might have been, but without the sadness we'd felt in the past. We had each other and the rest of our lives to make up for what we missed.

The end.