The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  The silence broke. A gust of wind rustled the leaves along the tops of an orderly row of poplars. The sound conveyed emotion; it was soothing and melodic. McGrath looked up in appreciation and listened. The wind died away and the trees stilled.

  ‘Let’s walk a little farther,’ he said.

  The open grassland surrounded them, dissected only by the wide pathway and an engineered waterway, which one could cross by an arching, iron bridge.

  The two men strolled until they reached an empty bench, set back from the path. They didn’t sit but they stopped and stood behind it. McGrath took a foil-wrapped sweet from his jacket pocket. He pulled the two ends and the sweet opened with a spin. He put it in his mouth and sucked. He saw Greene staring. He produced another from his pocket and offered it on his upturned palm. Greene shook his head and McGrath put the sweet away. Greene was amazed. He’d just told McGrath the most incredible truth and his response was to suck a toffee. The man was incredible; didn’t he have any emotions?

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Greene with barely disguised frustration.

  McGrath chewed his toffee slowly with his mouth closed. It made his lips pout.

  ‘Think,’ he said. ‘Before we do anything, we’re going to think, very hard.’

  25 August 4, 1962, Los Angeles, California

  The studio owned, chauffeur driven Cadillac pulled up outside Marilyn’s home and she stepped out.

  ‘Thanks, George,’ she said.

  The chauffeur said something in reply but Marilyn didn’t hear, and then the Cadillac drove away.

  She let herself in.

  The kitchen was empty. She made a cup of tea. On the side, propped up, she found a handwritten note from the housekeeper. It seemed the woman had unexpectedly left early for some reason. Marilyn didn’t bother reading all the way to the end.

  She soaked in the bath and sipped her tea. Her eyes closed and she thought of Rafferty. He was staying at the Beverley Wilshire with his friend, Smithy. They had been friends a long time. It was something to do with the army.

  After her long soak, Marilyn opened a bottle of ice-cold pink champagne and listened to Rachmaninoff. She had discovered the composer during one of her films and had enjoyed the music ever since.

  Marilyn was relaxed, a little sleepy and happy. She looked at the clock. The time was not yet eleven. She thought about Rafferty again and wondered what he was doing. Before bed, she decided to call him. The receptionist at the Beverley Wilshire hotel answered politely and asked how she might help.

  ‘Mr. Rafferty’s suite, please,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘Who may I say is calling?’

  ‘Marilyn,’ she replied.

  ‘Please hold,’ said the receptionist. The line clicked and was silent for thirty seconds. ‘I’m sorry but there’s no reply.’

  ‘Mr. Rafferty is dining in the restaurant tonight; could you try for me there?’ asked Marilyn.

  ‘One moment,’ replied the receptionist.

  Again, the line went silent, and Marilyn waited.

  In the restaurant, the maitre d’ approached their table.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Rafferty, there is a telephone call for you.’

  Rafferty and Smithy both looked up.

  ‘You can take it at the bar, sir,’ said the maitre d’.

  Rafferty gave Smithy a glance as he stood up.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

  Rafferty walked out to the bar and the waiter handed him the receiver.

  ‘Hello, this is Rafferty,’ he said.

  ‘Are you thinking about me? I’ve been thinking about you. I had a horrible day, but now I’ve soaked in the tub, sipped pink champagne and am about to get undressed and get into bed. I wish you were here with me.’ Marilyn’s voice was a breathless whisper. It was her sexiest.

  Rafferty allowed a second’s pause before he replied.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said.

  Marilyn laughed.

  ‘I wish I was there with you too,’ he said, ‘but I can’t leave Smithy; not after he’s come all this way to see me.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ replied Marilyn with a sigh of disappointment. ‘Tomorrow night, can we get together tomorrow night?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve got a date,’ he said.

  There was a pause for a few seconds as something took Marilyn’s attention at her end.

  ‘There’s someone at the door,’ she said. ‘Who could that be? Hold on.’

  Marilyn put the receiver down on the tabletop and walked towards the front door.

  Rafferty felt concern. Who would be calling late and uninvited, he thought?

  ‘Marilyn, wait, hold on. Marilyn… Marilyn…,’ he called after her through the receiver, but it was too late, she had already gone. He held on, listening carefully and hoping he was wrong.

  Marilyn got to the door and peered through the spy hole. The entrance shone brightly in the outside light and she could see a police officer. He was clean shaven and around forty, with a long, fleshy face. She decided to call through the door to him.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  Marilyn watched him. He looked up and pulled an ID from his jacket pocket.

  ‘LAPD, ma’am. Officer Greene,’ he answered, holding up the badge and the ID.

  ‘It’s very late, what do you want?’ she called back.

  ‘Sorry about the late hour, ma’am. We’ve had reports of a break-in two houses down and are checking the neighbourhood for any other signs of forced entry; have you seen or heard anything, ma’am?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone, officer. Everything here is okay, thank you,’ she said.

  Marilyn expected him to leave, but he didn’t.

  Rafferty was still waiting on the telephone and getting more concerned with every passing second.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but would you mind opening the door so I can satisfy myself you’re not being held against your will.’

  ‘I can assure you, officer, I’m on my own. No one has broken in,’ she told him.

  ‘You say you’re on your own, ma’am?’ he questioned.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she answered.

  ‘Please, ma’am, it will only take a moment,’ he said, insistently.

  Marilyn hesitated for a second longer, and then unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  The police officer smiled and put his badge back in his pocket.

  ‘Sorry to bother you like this, ma’am. If I could take a very quick look inside, I won’t need to bother you any further tonight,’ he told her politely.

  Marilyn stepped aside and let him in.

  He walked past her and went into the living room. Marilyn pushed the door shut and followed him.

  ‘As you can see, officer, there are no intruders in this house,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, everything seems okay. Keep your doors locked and leave your lights on tonight, just in case,’ he advised kindly.

  ‘Thank you, officer, I will,’ she told him and turned back towards the door.

  Rafferty was still listening and could just make out the conversation. He was still concerned.

  As Marilyn walked away, Greene put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a pre-soaked handkerchief. He moved with great speed, coming up behind her, putting both arms around her, and holding his hand over her nose and mouth. He was very strong, and although she struggled fiercely, he held her fast, keeping the handkerchief in place. Marilyn had to breathe and the chloroform worked quickly. After six or seven seconds, she fell into unconsciousness and slumped to the floor with a bump.

  Rafferty heard the bump and began calling out.

  ‘Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn are you there? Marilyn, can you hear me? Marilyn, Marilyn…’

  Greene heard a faint voice and looked around the room. He noticed the telephone on the table and went over to it. He pulled on a pair of tight leather gloves before picking up the receiver and listening. A man’s voice was calling out her name. Greene dropped the receiver on its c
radle. He looked over at Marilyn, lying motionless on the floor and then he went to her.

  As the line went dead, Rafferty knew she was in trouble and the alarm hit him like the swing from a baseball bat in the stomach. Her only hope was for him to get to her in time. His mind raced as he calculated the quickest way. It had to be using his own car, and then he was already on the move. The keys were in his suite. He ran to the elevator and jabbed at the button. He jabbed it again. It seemed to take an age before the sliding doors followed the ping. He stepped in and the attendant pushed the button to his floor.

  ‘Hold the elevator. I’m going straight back down, okay,’ he shouted back as he ran along the corridor. He took out his key, unlocked the door and rushed in. He grabbed his car keys, pulled his revolver from its holster and put it in his jacket pocket. He pulled the door shut as he rushed through it, and then ran back to the elevator and hurried in.

  ‘Okay, let’s go, ground floor,’ he said.

  As he rode down, Rafferty checked his gun and his thoughts went to Marilyn. His mind ran through all the possibilities and his fear felt the pain of a punch repeatedly received. He forced it from of his mind. He must get to her as quickly as he could.

  The elevator stopped, the doors opened and Rafferty ran out, straight through reception, straight through the entrance doors and out into the night air. He sprinted to the parking lot, unlocked his Thunderbird and jumped in. The engine fired, he put the stick in drive and gunned away, out onto the street, turned right and headed for Marilyn’s home.

  Greene bent down and picked her up in his arms. She smelt of expensive French perfume and wine. He carried her to the bedroom, studying her sleeping face as he went. Up close, she was even prettier than on the screen or in any of her photographs.

  He placed her on the bed and began to go to work. The telephone call had been unlucky. The man could be on his way over, or he could have called the police. Greene knew he must work fast.

  There was a telephone on the bedside table. He lifted the receiver and dropped it on the bed. If the man called again, or anyone else, they would get the engaged tone.

  Then Greene removed Marilyn’s clothes. It was easy to undress her; she was already dressed for bed. The robe and silk fell away. Once he got her down to just her panties, he rolled her over onto her front and pulled the silky garment down and then all the way off.

  Greene was a professional doing a job, a job he enjoyed, but he couldn’t help admiring the woman’s naked body. He stared at her. He stopped himself from touching her and forced it from his mind. He continued with his work. He pulled a small bag from his inside jacket pocket and shook out the contents onto the bed. There were four little brown pill bottles. Two of them were empty. He undid the caps and dropped them on the bed. The third bottle had half a dozen white pills in it. He unscrewed the cap, scattered the pills over the bed and again dropped the bottle. The fourth was full of pills and Greene put this one on the bedside table.

  Rafferty arrived at a busy intersection and the lights were red. He was several vehicles back even though traffic at this time was light. He hit the horn in frustration, then pulled out, bumping onto the sidewalk, driving past the line and accelerating through the stop light out onto the road. He turned left and sped away with his rear wheels screeching.

  Greene picked up the little tin box and opened the lid. He slid his arm under Marilyn’s waist and lifted her up causing her buttocks to round. With his other hand, he parted her legs as wide as he could. Then, very carefully, he took out the self-prepared cylindrical medicated solid. It was about two and a half inches long and an inch thick, about the size of his little finger. Greene had made it from cocoa butter and laced it with enough barbiturate to kill two people. Originally, he had planned to insert it into her vagina but as time was now an issue he decided to put it in her rectum. The skin was thinner there and the drug would enter her blood stream faster. Greene used his knee to help support Marilyn’s weight as he pushed his index finger into her anus to open it up. Satisfied with the opening he had made, he slowly inserted the suppository all the way, beyond the anal canal and into the lower end of the large intestine. Marilyn’s body heat started to melt the cocoa butter immediately and the barbiturate began to release into her blood stream.

  Rafferty spun the wheel and turned onto a residential street that snaked uphill. At the top, he had to slow for a junction. He turned right and accelerated away. He was still three miles from Marilyn’s house.

  Greene put the empty suppository box in his pocket and stood up. He looked at her, face down, naked on the bed. It was hard to believe who she really was, but it was true. For a very brief moment, he marvelled at the thought of her extraordinary life. In a few minutes, she would be dead and the world would be sad, but not surprised. With his work completed, he paused briefly to run his hand over her body. To touch what so many men had fantasised over. Did she feel different to any other woman he had touched? He couldn’t decide.

  Greene pulled the door shut behind him and slipped away unseen. He had parked his car six hundred yards from the house, three streets over. He was driving away from the district within five minutes of leaving Marilyn’s bedroom.

  Rafferty braked hard and skidded to a stop outside Marilyn’s house. His eyes desperately searched the scene for any signs. There weren’t any. Rafferty leapt from his Ford and ran up to the door. As he moved, he noticed the lights were on and the door closed. Everything appeared normal. He used his key to unlock the door and called out as he stepped inside.

  ‘Marilyn, Marilyn.’

  No reply.

  The house was silent. Rafferty searched the living room and then the kitchen, but she wasn’t there.

  ‘Marilyn, Marilyn,’ he called out again. Still, no reply.

  He ran to her bedroom, went in and stopped. He saw her. He saw her lifeless body.

  He reached the bed in a single bound and turned her over. She was still soft and warm. Her eyes gently shut as though in a deep sleep, but she wasn’t breathing. During his life, Rafferty had seen much death. He recognised the stillness and the touch when life had gone. He knew she was dead. He felt for a pulse and he put his ear to her chest and listened, but her heart was no longer beating.

  He lifted her up, held her in his arms and cuddled her; he would remember the feel of her forever. Lovingly, he kissed her face and continued to cuddle her until she began to go cold. Rafferty didn’t know how long he had held her; time seemed to have stopped, as if, with Marilyn’s death he had died as well.

  When at last he placed her gently down on the bed, he put a pillow under her head, put her on her side and positioned her arms and legs as if she was only sleeping.

  He sat staring at her for another long time, his face was white and his eyes were cold and black. With her, he had been human, a man who felt love and had dreams of a future, their future. Now, as he looked at her he knew he was just a soldier again, and nothing more, a man who felt no emotion when he took another life; no emotion when he pitted himself in a fight to the death and came out the victor; a man who used his skills and strengths to outwit opponents and achieve objectives. Without her, he, too, was lifeless.

  His mind started to think of the reason this had happened. Who had done it? The hard truth would turn his cold heart colder and edge his grief with a bleak definition.

  He began to focus and control his pain. He turned towards the one emotion he could hold, the one emotion that could bring him survival, and the one emotion he could fully embrace.

  That emotion was vengeance.

  26 August 8, 1962, Hollywood, California

  Rafferty wore a black suit, black shoes and a black tie. He never considered not going. In his buttonhole, he wore her favourite flower. It was a red rose.

  They held the service at the Westwood Memorial Park Chapel in Hollywood. The day was sunny and warm with a gentle breeze. It was the perfect Californian day on which to say goodbye.

  The heavy, silver finished, solid bronze cas
ket had a lining of champagne coloured satin-silk. As Rafferty approached, he realised the outer lid and the upper half of the inner lid were open. He was going to see her one last time. His eyes found her sweet face and he breathed deeply.

  Then in his mind, he saw her alive. She was smiling at him and their feeling was one, as it had been so many times.

  Rafferty gazed, unable to take his eyes from the only thing in his life that had ever had any meaning. Her face had been made-up, she was wearing a beautiful green dress and in her hands, she held a small bouquet of pink teacup roses. Rafferty knew she would have approved. Even in death, laid out in her coffin, she was beautiful.

  Eventually, he forced himself to turn away and he took a seat in the far corner at the back. He counted about thirty mourners for the service. An effeminate man who had coached Marilyn with her acting gave the eulogy. Judy Garland’s Over the Rainbow from the film The Wizard of Oz played at the end of the service.

  Rafferty stood up, took one final look at the casket and then left. As he walked outside, the bright, warm sunshine was in sharp contrast to the cool, dullness of the chapel, but he didn’t notice. His only thoughts were of Marilyn.

  27 September 12, 1962, Manhattan, New York

  The safe house in the Village in New York had an old fireplace in the living room. On the mantelpiece in the centre was a wooden, art deco clock with a cream and black dial. It chimed on the hour and gave the room an Edwardian atmosphere that reminded McGrath of an Agatha Christie novel. He checked his wristwatch while he listened to the chimes sound three. Either his watch was fast or the clock was slow. He sat quite still in the high-backed chair while he waited. The padded seat was comfortable and the sunlight through the tall window opposite was relaxing.

  Rafferty arrived and entered calmly with his breathing regular even though McGrath knew he had probably bounded up the steps from the street and hurried to the room.

  ‘I made an extra couple of turns and a double-back just to be sure,’ he said by way of an apology.