by Scott Blade
“What?”
“My stopping salary in the SEALs was eighty-five hundred a month. Which I didn’t get to keep because my pay from NCIS overrode my SEAL salary.”
Haspman didn’t speak. He just stared at Widow, confused. It was more than confusion. It was a word that Widow had said. One of the words had gotten his attention.
Widow said, “I ended up making about ninety K a year when I finished my career with NCIS. And never in a million years, would I have earned enough to hire a decorator. So, I’m curious, how does a fire marshal afford a small castle in the most expensive neighborhood in DC? How did you pay for these antique guns? These sofas? That Rolex? The truck?”
Haspman said nothing.
Widow closed his eyes a moment and breathed in. He made it look like he was trying to hold himself back from unleashing on Haspman. It was a mental tactic. And it worked because when he opened his eyes, Haspman was giving him his undying attention.
Widow said, “I’m only going to ask you this once. If you lie to me, I’ll know.”
Haspman nodded.
“Where’s the video feed?”
Widow watched Haspman’s face. His eyes darted up and down. He stared at the stone coffee tabletop like he was reading from it.
Haspman was working out his answer in his head. He thought of the different scenarios, different lies he could tell. And Widow saw all of it. But in the end, he came back around to the truth.
Widow knew because he saw Haspman’s shoulder slump down. His head dropped, and his eyes teared up.
Finally, he spoke.
“I didn’t know he was a sailor. I didn’t know he served his country.”
Haspman pressed a hand to his forehead like he was relieving the pressure from a head-splitting migraine.
Guilt had appeared on his face, and not because Widow was there. It was already there. Widow saw it. Haspman was hiding something. He knew that not just because of the CCTV camera feed, but also because of the look in Haspman’s eyes.
Haspman started to break down. He didn’t burst into tears, but he did turn a shade of red. It was obvious that it had become hard for him to speak.
He looked away from Widow.
Haspman asked, “You know about the traffic camera?”
“I do.”
“Do the cops know?”
“They do.”
Haspman did start to cry this time. Only a couple of tears, not a full-blown sob. Part of it was guilt, maybe most of it. But part of it was knowing his life was about to be over. His cushy life, his career, his reputation, all of it was about to be destroyed once the cops traced the whole thing back to him.
Widow added, “It’s only a matter of time before they figure it out. Erasing the video was a mistake. You left a trail.”
“I had no choice. I had to get rid of the video.”
Widow nodded and asked, “Why?”
“Look around. I’ve got a good life. I like money. Things. I did it for the money.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. I mean, why the video? What was on it?”
“I didn’t kill him! You know? I didn’t know they were going to kill him. I only knew my part after the fact.”
“I know you didn’t kill him. But who did? Tell me.”
Haspman swallowed hard.
“The day before they killed Eggers. That’s the first I ever saw of them before. They came here.”
“They just showed up?”
“No. It was prearranged—a meeting. I got a call from a guy I’ve taken money from before. Nothing major. Nothing like this. Once, I took money from a street dealer. A nobody.”
“You took a bribe?”
“It was the first time. It might’ve been two years ago. It was just a guy who fixes things. He deals with a lot of people who need things covered up. Some Congressman burned down some failing restaurant he’d invested in. It was an insurance scheme. They paid me to look the other way. To fix the evidence and say it was all an accident. I did, and they collected from the insurance company. No real victim. But once I took that one bribe, the guy started hitting me up for all kinds of new schemes.”
“Were they all insurance schemes?”
“They were—all but this one. But I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, Widow. I didn’t know they’d murdered a man. Not until I got the call.”
Widow stayed quiet.
Haspman said, “Day before it happened. Two guys came to my house.”
“You ever see them before?”
“No. Never.”
“Did they tell you what you would be doing?”
Haspman paused a beat, and then he nodded. Shame smeared across his face.
He said, “I refused to be a part of it. At first. But I couldn’t refuse.”
“Why not?”
Haspman stared into Widow’s eyes and told the truth.
“They had badges.”
“What badges?”
And then the word that had gotten Haspman’s attention came back out at Widow from Haspman’s mouth.
“NCIS.”
Twenty-Five
“Bull shit!” Widow said.
Widow knew all about lies. He knew liars. He had been one himself, in a way. Because he had worked undercover for most of his Navy career and his entire law enforcement career, he knew about lies. He knew how to spot a lie. Being in deep cover, you must have a strong center, a strong code, a strong moral compass. It’s imperative because many of the bad guys that Widow had put away all thought they were right. The most dangerous ones were the ones who thought that they were on the right side. Most of them believed in whatever horrible crime they were committing. And they could be very convincing.
Without a strong code of right and wrong, Widow could’ve been seduced by some of them. Anyone could.
The lies were a dangerous thing. Some people could be so convincing with lies. They were masters of lies.
Widow had become a master of lies. But he only used it to protect what was right.
In the same way that a firearm, in the right hands, can be used to protect the innocent and uphold justice, Widow used lies to uphold Navy justice. But in the hands of the enemy, lies were more deadly than a firearm. More deadly than firepower. More deadly than any number of bullets.
Being a master of lies, Widow knew a master liar when he saw one. And Haspman was no master liar. He wasn’t lying at all. He was telling the truth, but that didn’t make it any easier for Widow to stop himself from calling bullshit.
“It’s not!” Haspman claimed.
Widow was quiet for a long second, and then he said, “I know. Did you get names?”
“I did. But those are fake. They told me their names were White and Black.”
“You didn’t read the names off their badges?”
“They showed me the badges first. I got scared. How often does the NCIS show up at your door? You know? I just saw the badges and let them inside. Then, I got their names.”
“They were here? At your house?”
“Yes.”
“You got any hidden security cameras anywhere?”
“In my home? No.”
Worth a shot, Widow thought.
Widow asked, “Tell me what happened.”
“They rang my doorbell one night.”
“When?”
Haspman’s fear subsided a bit, and his eyes floated upward. He thought for a moment.
“It was maybe a week ago. Or six days.”
Widow nodded.
Haspman continued, “They kind of pushed their way in. They were…scary, Widow.”
“Scary? How?”
“They were very scary! I was terrified of them the moment I laid eyes on them—especially one of them. He was like an apparition. Like a guy who could be in a room and you wouldn’t know it. Or you’d forget it afterward.”
Widow believed him. He could see the fear in his eyes, like a man who had seen a ghost.
Haspman paused a beat and breathed in and out.
He said, “I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have opened the door. NCIS badges? What do they mean to me? Nothing. They don’t have jurisdiction over me. I should’ve said no, but I didn’t. Once they were inside, that’s when they mentioned the guy I knew by name. They said they were here on his suggestion. They told me I’d get a call to go to an arson scene. They said I’d have to declare it an accident. But I didn’t know they were going to kill a guy. I swear to that!”
Widow believed him but didn’t tell him that. Why give his conscience the reprieve? He didn’t deserve it. Plus, Widow wasn’t in the game of making people feel better about their sins.
Widow asked, “When did you know that they were going to kill Eggers?”
“When I got the call from MPD. That’s when I knew. They told me that a homeless man was dead in the park. Burned alive. It was the right location and the right timeframe the NCIS guys had told me. But they didn’t give me many details about what I was supposed to say. So I improvised. Once I got there, I knew he’d died horribly. But he was already dead. What was I supposed to do? I was already in too deep. I took their money.”
“What did they offer you?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars was their first offer.”
“But?”
“I got them up to one hundred thousand—their badges and coming to me, offering me money to lie. I mean. I knew they were crooked, which meant deeper pockets, which meant more money for me. So, I asked for a hundred. They accepted without batting an eye, like they had cash already waiting in the wings. If I had known what I was getting myself into, I would’ve asked for more. Much more. Believe me. Every day, I’ve been pissing my pants, waiting for the cops to show up and see through my lies. But they didn’t. Not yet. It wasn’t the cops who came to me. It was you.”
Widow asked, “Did they call you and ask you to destroy the traffic camera feeds? Or did you figure that out on your own?”
“They called me. Afterward. Not sure why they didn’t do it beforehand. If they knew where they were going to burn that poor bastard, you’d think they would’ve mentioned that. It might’ve been easier to find someone to just turn them off beforehand. But I don’t think they had time.”
Widow just stared at him.
Haspman continued, “Maybe they weren’t exactly sure where they were going to kill him? Maybe they didn’t know it until they did it? When they finally had him alone.”
Widow didn’t ask if Haspman had erased the footage because he already knew. The guys down at Metro had confirmed it was Haspman’s login and ID stamp that was last used to view that’s camera’s footage.
But there was a question he wanted to ask.
“Did you make a copy?”
Haspman paused a second too long.
“No.”
“Bullshit! You made a copy!”
Widow didn’t raise his voice, but he did use his cop voice, which came from deep down beyond the throat. It came from the diaphragm. It was the voice he’d learned way back from his mother, a small-town sheriff, and then from Quantico.
He said, “Where is it?”
“On a flash drive. Upstairs.”
“Get it! Now!”
Widow rose from the sofa, scooped up the 1911 and put it and the magazine into his front jeans pocket. He didn’t want to leave it out for Haspman to ditch him somewhere upstairs just so he could make his way back down to it.
Widow motioned with his hand for Haspman to get up.
Haspman remained seated and looked up at Widow like he was waiting for further instructions.
“Let’s go!”
Haspman’s shoulders slumped, and his head lowered. He got up off the couch and led the way to the far end of the room, past a large kitchen to the back of the house. He turned at a pillar and led to a staircase, tucked into one corner of the house.
Widow followed him up the stairs. They passed a landing and Haspman stopped, pointed to the right to an open doorway that looked like a bedroom.
Widow said, “After you.”
Haspman nodded and entered. Widow followed.
It must’ve been Haspman’s master bedroom, which was like his office in that it was a suite so big and lush that it looked more like an apartment than a bedroom.
The room was big. Near the middle, against the wall, was a huge California king bed. It had an enormous wooden headboard and footboard. Like the sofas downstairs, it was plush and covered with pillows. It looked like a bed suitable for a king.
Haspman was a walking cliché of arrogance and vanity. It almost put knots in Widow’s stomach just to be in the guy’s private bedroom.
Haspman pointed at a huge set of oak dresser drawers.
“It’s there. Top left drawer.”
“Is that your underwear draw?”
“Yes.”
“You get it.”
Haspman paused and looked at Widow.
“You sure? What if I keep a gun in the drawer?”
Widow brandished the 1911, palmed the magazine back into the gun, and racked the slide, loading the chamber.
He held the gun down and out in front of him. It was ready to fire. He kept his finger out of the trigger housing and made eye contact with Haspman.
“Now, get it. One hand. No sudden movements, or you get a bullet.”
Haspman shivered, not like a leaf in the wind. It was more like a twig near an oncoming train.
Haspman walked to the dresser and pulled open the drawer he’d pointed at. He did it all good and slow. He was sure that Widow wasn’t bluffing.
He reached into the drawer, shuffling around his own clean underwear and pulled out a flash drive. He held it up to Widow.
“This is it.”
Widow waved the gun and said, “Close the drawer.”
Haspman did as he was told. Then he turned back to Widow.
Widow asked, “Where’s your computer?”
“Downstairs. In the den.”
“After you.”
Haspman carried the flash drive and led the way back out of the absurd bedroom. He led the way back down the stairs and turned toward the huge great room they had sat in earlier. Then, he stopped and turned right, leading Widow to the den with the dead animals lining the upper walls.
Widow hadn’t noticed it before, but the den was at a sunken level. He had to step down a couple of steps.
“There,” Haspman said and pointed at another obnoxiously large desk with a MacBook opened right at the center.
“Okay. Boot it up.”
“Okay.”
Haspman circled the desk and rolled out a chair and sat down. He tapped the keys and the MacBook came to life. He inserted the flash drive and scrolled his fingers on the trackpad. He clicked and dragged, and a screen popped up on the computer screen.
“Here it is.”
Widow walked to the desk, keeping an eye on Haspman’s hands. But Haspman didn’t move. He had complied completely—so far.
Widow stopped and stood over Haspman’s shoulder. He looked at the screen. A video player was up onscreen with a thumbnail. It was at an angle, the angle of the one traffic camera he saw at Lincoln Park. The view was as he had thought. Mainly, it encompassed the road, angled to see license plates, but the park, the bench, and the cars parked along the street were all in view.
Widow said, “Play it.”
Haspman scrolled his fingers along the trackpad, and a small arrow traced over the video player’s play button. He clicked it.
The video started to roll. It was set on the exact moment that Widow needed to see. They didn’t have to fast-forward through hours of footage.
“I thought you said you didn’t watch it?”
“I didn’t. I watched till I saw them arrive.”
Widow watched the video. They both did. Seventy-five percent of the screen was footage of a still, nighttime street. But the top-left corner of the screen played like footage from a different film,
spliced into a boring city street.
They watched the whole thing, the whole violent attack, from start to finish. There was no sound. They watched it all unfold like a macabre silent film. The first thing Widow noticed was the black Escalade that had been following him around. It pulled up along one of the exits and parked on the street. He couldn’t get the plate number. It was out of view.
But it was the same Escalade that he had seen earlier—no doubt about it. He watched the four guys climb out. He saw them go through the park like they knew where their target was. He watched them make a perimeter like Special Forces guys would do. And he watched one of them pour whiskey all over Eggers as he slept on the bench. He couldn’t see the guy’s face. He was too far away, and the quality of the video was subpar, at best.
He couldn’t see any of their faces. The only distinguishing feature he could make out was that one of them was bald and burly, and that was about it. The video’s graininess was so bad, with it being night that he couldn’t even confirm that all four guys were white. He was sure about the main one, the one who stood over Eggers, but that was it.
He saw Eggers wake up, shaken, with the man standing over him. Then something strange happened. The man pulled something out and put it in Eggers’ face.
“Pause it,” Widow said.
Haspman clicked the trackpad, and the video froze.
“What?” he asked.
Widow stared at the screen.
“Okay. Play.”
Haspman clicked play.
Widow saw the man standing over Eggers shove the object into the guy’s face, and then it lit his face up.
Cell phone, Widow thought. The guy was Facetiming with someone else.
Eggers didn’t seem to recognize the guy standing over him, but he definitely recognized the face on the phone. Widow couldn’t quite see Eggers’ facial expression. He was too far away and too far out of focus. But Widow knew body language and Eggers’ body language was of a man who was suddenly frightened to the core.
The video played on.
Widow and Haspman watched Eggers fighting back, and his attempt to run, and then the bottle thrown at him, shattering over the back of his head. The bad guys restrained him to the bench and they burned him alive.