by Keith Yocum
“Louise Nordland? The one who hired me?”
“Yes.”
“Shit, what happened?”
“I’m not sure I want to go there yet,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “I’d still be talking an hour from now. I need to talk to Dennis. Will he be allowed to make a call today?”
“Uh, yeah, he would. But it’s only 6:30 in the morning here. I can call a contact I have at the corrections center. A good guess is he’d be able to call around 10 a.m. our time; that’s 1 p.m. for you. Would that work?”
“Yes. You said he was better now, right?”
“Yeah, he’s a different guy. He really wants to talk to you.”
“Then please have him call me today. I can’t tell you how much I need to talk to him.”
“You sound really stressed. You sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”
“Just make sure he’s on the phone at 1 p.m. my time.”
“I can do that. If the time changes, I’ll text you. Hang in there, OK? And remember, his calls will be collect calls.”
“Just get him on the phone.”
Judy valeted the rental car at the Hyatt, went to the front desk, and asked if she could get someone to accompany her to pick up and store some luggage for her. They sent a tall black man along and the two made small talk in the elevator. She was nervous about going into her room alone and concocted the ruse of needing help with a suitcase when she opened her door.
There was no one in her room. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. The empty plastic wine glasses were still there, as were Dennis’s clothes tossed all over the bed. Judy apologized to the bellhop for not having packed yet and threw most of Dennis’s clothes haphazardly into his suitcase. She gave the bellhop a $10 tip and asked to have the suitcase stored.
After he left, she stared at Louise’s plastic glass; it had a thin residue of red wine at the bottom. The image of the woman with her head wound was horrifying, and Judy sat down on the bed, in almost the same spot that Louise had sat the night before while explaining her suspicions for what happened to Dennis.
Now there was no Louise and no evidence that exonerated Dennis.
She connected her burner to the charger, then took a long hot shower, desperately scrubbing the foulness of the prior night’s events from her body.
Afterwards, she grew increasingly worried, and attached the “do not disturb” sign on the outside of her door, relocked it from the inside, put a spare towel at the base of the door to prevent electronic eavesdropping cameras from seeing into the room, and also used a tissue to plug the inside of the door’s peephole to prevent observation inside.
She dressed in a pair of jeans, a beige cotton blouse, and black flats. She took an unusually long time to apply makeup, not because she was concerned about her appearance, but because looking in the mirror allowed her to slowly review the events of the previous day and night. And with each bit of foundation, eyeliner, and a modest dab of pale lipstick, Judy grew angry.
For all the wild, confusing theories that rattled around in her head, she began to settle on a simple truth: Simpson had killed Louise at the very moment she provided proof that someone inside the agency was interfering with the Forrester investigation.
Simpson had to be involved.
But Louise didn’t know Simpson was involved; she would never have gone to his residence that night if she felt in danger.
Judy did not need to understand the swirling dark forces at play. For her, the math was simple. She knew that Simpson killed Louise; Simpson’s arrest for murdering Louise would lead to Dennis’s release.
The difficult part, she knew, as she delicately tightened the small cap on her eyeliner container, was how to nail Simpson. Judy was the only witness to Louise’s death; Louise and her conversations in the hotel room were not recorded, and there was no one except Judy to recount them. Even Louise’s cell phone could not be linked to Simpson’s house the prior night; she had it locked in a blackout bag.
If Simpson was as clever and diabolical as Judy now believed, he might concoct a scenario in which it looked like Judy killed Louise in that rest area.
She suddenly panicked. Had she imagined that Louise had been killed the prior night? Was she so exhausted after falling asleep in the car that she dreamed Louise was killed?
“My God,” she said out loud. “Maybe Louise isn’t dead after all!”
She called the front desk and asked for her car to be brought up. In the lobby, she put on her best clueless tourist impersonation and told the concierge that the prior day she had driven down a scenic drive that was near a river close by the hotel. After a couple of minutes of give and take (“did you see a military graveyard?” “did you see the Pentagon?” “did you see an airport?”), the concierge determined that Judy had been on the George Washington Parkway heading northwest toward Maryland. He used her phone to plug in a Google Maps address that would put her on the parkway.
Initially, she did not recognize any of her surroundings; the streets did not look right, nor did the strip malls she passed. Eventually, she found herself on the George Washington Parkway. This part was vaguely familiar. Off to her right, she could see through the landscaped scenery and the Potomac River below. There were buildings and church spires across the water.
Judy looked desperately for parking areas, but she saw only one that was nearly empty. There was no BMW parked there. Surely if a woman had been found with a gunshot to the head that morning, there would still be a police presence.
As she drove up the busy parkway she began to hyperventilate. Maybe she did dream the entire incident, and that thought disturbed her profoundly.
I’m going crazy! What has happened to me? Am I so caught up in Dennis’s bizarre evening with the prostitute and drugs that I’m decompensating?
And in a flash, she drove past two US Park Police cars, a blue BMW with yellow tape around it, and three black SUVs. Judy put on her hazard lights and pulled over on the shoulder in almost the same spot she had the prior night. She could see nothing in her review mirror, so she got back on the highway and after several mistakes, managed to get off and then back on the parkway heading in the opposite direction.
She saw the police cars and the BMW from the other side of the parkway as she drove by.
“Damnit!” she yelled as she drove by, pounding the steering wheel.
Dennis mulled the scuffed black telephone handset. It felt heavy and old fashioned, but it was the only phone prisoners could use. It was already five minutes past 10 a.m. in Nevada, and Dennis struggled about calling Judy. What would he say to her? He was powerless to explain what happened to him. One moment he was walking in a Washington suburb, and the next thing he knew he was naked, covered in blood, and struggling with an EMT in a gravel parking lot in Las Vegas.
What could he possibly tell Judy that made any sense? He was charged with murdering a prostitute, but he could barely remember anything about the woman, nor how he got to Las Vegas in the first place. His brain felt strange, as if he’d had a seizure. The only good news—if that made any sense—was that his memory had returned.
He knew who Judy was. He remembered he was investigating the disappearance of Dr. Forrester. In one of his allowed calls from the jail, he phoned his daughter Beth, but she sobbed throughout the conversation, and he was so numb with shame, confusion, and depression that he hung up quickly.
What happened to me? Did I have a psychotic break?
He sighed, looked at the large wall clock, and dialed.
There was an announcement saying it was a collect call. The recording offered voice prompts to accept or decline the call.
“Dennis!” she yelled after accepting it.
“Hi.”
“My god, it’s good to hear your voice,” she said.
Silence fell between them, like a two-foot thick sheet of plexiglass.
&
nbsp; Judy finally spoke: “Dennis, how are you?”
“As fine as could be expected, given the circumstances.”
“Ruby said your memory was returning. Is that true?”
“Yes, pretty much. Well, not all of it. But most of it.”
“Do you remember the Forrester investigation?”
“Yes.”
“And Louise Nordland?”
A pause. “Yes, I remember Louise.”
“Do you remember going to Las Vegas?”
“No. I know that sounds outlandish, but I just can’t remember. I’ve tried. I remember a casino, I think. And a woman talking to me, but that’s about it.”
“Do you remember the last person you saw in Rosslyn?”
Pause. “I think I saw Louise.”
“No one else?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I have something to tell you about Louise that is disturbing. And I really need your help. I don’t know what else to do.”
“You mean more disturbing than what’s happened here? Judy, I’m in jail charged with stabbing a prostitute to death.”
“I’m sorry. That didn’t sound right. I can tell you’re very depressed. But try to stick with me. I need you to listen and help me because it will help you.”
“Nothing will help me. Maybe a noose.”
“Jesus, Dennis. Don’t talk like that.”
Silence.
“Dennis!”
“Yes, I’m here. Go ahead. I’m just tired.”
“Louise is dead.”
Pause. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Louise Nordland is dead.”
“Louise? What, what—”
“Here’s the sordid little story. Let me get through it once before you ask questions.”
“Louise is dead?”
“Dennis, please pay attention. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
And she told him about Louise’s visit to her hotel room, her explanation for what happened to him including C24, the sharing of Dennis’s investigation summary with her, the call and trip to Simpson’s home, and the early morning shooting in the rest area.
“I don’t believe it,” Dennis said when she finished.
“What don’t you believe?”
“All of it. Louise can’t be dead.”
“Jesus, you are in tough shape.”
“And I don’t believe there’s anything called C24. Never heard of it.”
“Why would you have heard of it?” she asked. “You weren’t in operations. You were in the Inspector General’s office. Why would you know about their methods and drugs?”
“I need to talk to Louise.”
“For chrissakes, Dennis, she’s dead. Don’t you understand? She told me you were poisoned with that shit, and you didn’t kill that woman. Someone wanted your investigation on Forrester to stop. And it stopped. You’re in a Las Vegas jail, you’re thoroughly discredited as a drug addict and murderer. And you never turned in your report. The only person who knows the truth is now dead. But I know one thing: Simpson killed Louise. I saw it. But Dennis—Dennis, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know who to talk to. I could go to the police, and I’m tempted. But I don’t know if my testimony is enough. There’s probably no electronic evidence that Louise visited Simpson that night; her cell phone was in a blackout bag, so it wasn’t pinging cell towers. There would be electronic evidence that my phone was in front of Simpson’s house for several hours, and that it was also near where Louise’s body was found. It would lead police to think I should be a suspect, not Simpson.”
Silence.
“Are you there?”
“Yes. I’m just trying to process all of this. It’s confusing.”
“While you process that, remember that Louise had the results of your C24 blood test. I don’t have the results, and you don’t have them. Simpson may have already wiped that test clean from the lab. But I need proof of what Louise told me; we need proof because you’ll end up in prison for a long time.”
Judy could hear Dennis breathing into the mouthpiece.
“Dennis?”
“I’m here. I’m thinking. Is she really dead?”
“Yes! Dennis, Ruby said you only have a while to talk on the phone. Please help. What should I do? Who do I talk to?”
“I’m so angry I could kill someone.”
“That’s not helpful, Dennis. Concentrate. What should I do?”
She heard him swallow hard and could visualize his Adam’s apple bounce.
“Alright,” he said. “So, it’s Simpson.”
“Well, it’s Simpson who killed Louise. I don’t know who else is involved.”
“One is enough,” he said.
“Yes. What do I do, for god’s sake? I’m scared. I don’t know if they know Louise met with me. Maybe they’ll come after me. I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure who at Langley could help you,” he said slowly. “Louise would have been the perfect person.”
“Can you think of anyone else? A friend you trust?”
“If we could get Simpson to admit it, and record it somehow, that would be evidence enough to get the ball rolling. Maybe I could pay Karl enough to help out.”
“Who’s Karl?”
“He’s a contractor who does anything for money, even if it’s a little crazy. He might do it. I just don’t know how he’d get in front of Simpson. Karl’s a rough looking guy, and he might not get past the front door. But it’s worth a try for sure.”
“What if I did it?” she said.
“Did what?”
“What if I went to Simpson’s house and confronted him with what I saw that evening? I could tell him that I followed him to the parking area and saw the shooting. I mean, no one else could possibly know those exact details except me, Simpson, and his wife. Wouldn’t he freak out and say something incriminating?”
“He might, Judy. But you’d be in danger. If he killed Louise, why would he stop there?”
“If I had a recording device, and Karl outside to protect me, then we’d have what we need. And we’d have it quickly. Simpson’s the only person that can exonerate you.”
“I don’t like it. Better to send Karl in.”
“No, I don’t think so. I go in, Karl stays outside for backup. I have a feeling that I could really rattle Simpson. In fact, I’m dying to see his face. If we record it remotely, and I tell him we have him taped, then case closed. And you get out of jail now, not twenty years from now.”
“Judy, I don’t know. I don’t like this plan. Karl could handle this.”
“You don’t have much say right now, Dennis. Give me Karl’s number. I’ll figure it out with him.”
Dennis recited Karl’s phone number. “I think that’s it. Shit. Let me think. Did I get the number wrong?” He repeated the numbers slowly. “No, that’s right.”
Judy wrote it down.
“Are you sure?” she said.
“Yes. Hang on. There’s another person you should contact. His name’s Peter Harbaugh. I can’t think of his number right now, but he lives on Wisconsin Avenue in Northwest Washington. Look him up online and call him. Maybe he’ll go into Simpson’s house with you, and Karl could remain outside. Harbaugh’s an old-timer at the agency but very well connected.”
“So, you’re OK with me confronting Simpson directly?”
“No, not really. But nothing makes any sense. And Louise—dead. I don’t understand. Whatever you say, I’m going to support, only because I don’t have another plan. But you need someone in there with you. Don’t you dare go in alone. Leave Karl outside, and go in with Peter. Beg him, if you have to.”
“Our time’s up,” she said. “Are they going to cut your call off?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, looks that way. Please be careful. Oh, jeez, I don’t know, Judy. Let’s talk some more about this plan tomorrow.”
“No. You’ve always told me in the past that speed is critical in your investigations. Get the perpetrator when they’re fresh and don’t have time to scheme. You’ve said over and over that field people in intelligence are trained to lie and obfuscate in order to protect their identities. You called them professionally trained liars, and that the ones that go bad are hard to spot. But once you find them, get them before they concoct another, better lie.”
“Did I say that?”
“Too many times. Now I’m going to put it in action.”
“Judy, I—”
The connection was cut.
Chapter 17
Karl insisted on meeting Judy in person.
“I don’t mean to be impolite or anything,” he said to her, “but talkin’ on the phone about this kind of stuff is unnerving, especially if I don’t know who I’m talking to. I know Dennis Cunningham, but I don’t know you. Sorry, but that’s how these things work.”
Judy recommended a Starbucks nearby.
“I ain’t a Starbucks guy; never had one of their coffees in my life. There’s a Dunkin Donuts in Crystal City. Can you get there?”
“Yes. What do you look like?”
“Look for a fat guy with a yellow pencil doing a crossword puzzle.”
“Can we get together right away?”
“Like how ‘right away’?”
“Maybe an hour and a half?”
“Jeez, lady. I guess so. Something happen to Cunningham?”
“Yes. I can fill you in.”
“Uh, in case he didn’t tell you, I work for money, not for patriotism. I can’t tell who the real patriots are anymore. Those who pay are patriots to me.”
“Do you need money right away?”
“Yeah, to get things going. But I don’t know what you want. Let’s chat first.”
The call with Harbaugh was more restrained and difficult. While Judy found him gracious and polite, she had trouble getting him to commit to meet her.
“Dennis has talked a great deal about you, Judy. I’m so glad to make your acquaintance, even if it’s only by telephone.”