Red Tide

by G. M. Ford

  “You thinking this Bohannon guy is somehow connected to whoever did the bus tunnel job?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “Which means the girl is probably telling the truth.”

  “Yes…it does.”

  A smile threatened to break out on Ben Gardener’s lips. “The feds are looking for Arabs,” he said.

  “Yes…they are.”

  “Maybe this Bohannon guy is like a John Walker character or something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you want me to try to put a lid on the morgue incident.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  “And you’re going to do what?”

  “I’m going to put some people on it.”

  “The feds are gonna hate it.”

  Dobson threw an exasperated hand at the Public Safety Building.

  “They’re all carving out kingdoms up there, Ben. Spend an hour in the room. You’ll see. Nobody’s cooperating with anybody else. One hand doesn’t have a clue about what the other is doing. They’re scrimmaging for next year’s budget appropriation.”

  Gardener rolled his eyes. “Just like us,” the expression said.

  25

  “I want to call my attorney.”

  “You’re starting to get repetitive, Mr. Corso.”

  “Maybe I ought to say it slower.”

  “Maybe you ought to wise up,” said the hatchet-faced guy. The one leaning against the wall with his hands thrust deep in his pockets. He hadn’t uttered a word for over an hour. Not since being restrained after nearly losing it on Corso. “I’m going to tell you one more time…”—he held up a stiff finger—“we consider this to be a matter of national security. For the time being you don’t have constitutional rights of any kind. Under the provisions of the Homeland Security Act, there are no limits on how long we can keep you.” He put his face right in Corso’s. His breath mints had worn off. “Do you understand what I’m saying here, Mr. Corso?”

  “You’re saying we just turned into Iraq.”

  The two feds passed one of those looks that told Corso they didn’t normally work together. Probably weren’t even employed by the same agency. As neither man had bothered to identify himself, Corso had come to assume his primary tormenter was from the FBI. He was all-around slick. A good-looking guy. Maybe forty years old in a nice gray Italian suit and a pair of Vittorio Virgili loafers that must have cost him three bills. Knew what he was doing, too. One of those Quantico-trained interrogators whose questions loop around one another like threads in a tapestry. Didn’t take it personally that Corso wouldn’t so much as admit to his name…just kept at it like a pro.

  The other guy was another matter. A much looser cannon. More likely from the CIA. Way more used to getting what he wanted right away. More pissed off when he didn’t. The kind of guy who wasn’t above pumping you full of drugs or hooking your privates up to a field telephone. Whatever it took.

  Corso held no heroic illusions. He’d been questioned by experts and tortured by amateurs and knew, beyond all doubt, that, left in the hands of either of them for long enough, he’d eventually confess to whatever they had in mind.

  “So…what’s it gonna be, fellas?” Corso asked, looking from one to the other. “You gonna put my head in a black bag and fly me down to Cuba? Put me in Guantánamo with the rest of those poor bastards you’ve got sitting around in the sun?” When they didn’t respond, he went on. “Or maybe you could put me in the cell next to that poor Walker kid. The one doing twenty years for being a truth seeker.”

  CIA flushed slightly. “John Walker was a traitor to his—”

  Corso cut him off. “John Walker was a dope. A scapegoat. A young, stupid kid fighting in the Afghani civil war whose biggest mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, right when Uncle Bush just happened to need a symbol.”

  FBI gave Corso a wink. “Then you must be aware of the kinds of miscarriges of justice that can happen in times of great national distress,” he said pleasantly.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a possible scenario.”

  “We have met the enemy and he is us,” Corso said.

  CIA waved that finger again. “I’d be careful with that kind of talk, Mr. Corso. I think you’ll find that precious few of your fellow citizens agree with you.”

  “Are we talking about the same people who don’t seem to mind that there weren’t any weapons of mass destruction found in Iraq? That their President went on national TV and lied to them? Those fellow citizens?”

  “It must be hard always holding the moral high ground,” FBI commented.

  Corso nodded gravely. “It’s quite a cross to bear.”

  Corso watched in silence as FBI moseyed around the table and sat down next to him. “We gonna hold hands now?” Corso asked.

  “You know, Mr. Corso…if you could maybe manage to stop being such a hard-ass…”—he held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart—“for just the littlest bit, we might be able to resolve this matter and let you back on with your life.”

  Corso brought a hand to his throat. “Gee…I feel all warm and fuzzy now.”

  A moment of strained silence passed before FBI pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Corso. Your girlfriend is singing like a bird. Anything we really need to know about you we can get from Ms. Dougherty.”

  Corso broke into a smile. “Yeah…sure she is.”

  CIA wasn’t ready to let it go. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about Melissa-D?”

  Again Corso laughed and made a disgusted face. “Not that tired old shit again.”

  “Our information…reliable information…says that you’re a major player in a terrorist organization which has hacked into nearly every computer system worldwide. Your Interpol file says you’re one of their major customers. Why don’t you just—”

  Corso cut him off. “Melissa-D is an urban legend. It’s something reporters talk about when they’ve had too much to drink…which is mostly. There’s no such thing.”

  “Is it true that—”

  “I want to call my attorney.”

  “I don’t think he’s been listening,” CIA said.

  “I want to call my attorney,” Corso repeated.

  FBI went for reasonable. “You’re already on the hook for the bus tunnel massacre. Correct me if I’m wrong here, Mr. Corso, but it seems to me you don’t have a heck of a lot to lose here. One way or the other, you’re going down here. You might as well—”

  “You think I killed those folks in the tunnel?”

  “Perhaps not you personally,” he said. “But certainly someone known to you.” He read the surprise in Corso’s expression. “I’ve seen the tape, Mr. Corso. And you see…”—he spread his hands—“until you manage to explain to me how you knew it was safe to take off your breathing device in that tunnel, I’m going to have to assume that you had prior knowledge.”

  “I want to call my attorney.”

  CIA pushed a big breath of air out through his pursed lips, then stepped out into the hall for a second before returning with a couple more field agents. Older guys. A little more shopworn. No longer fit for the field. Relegated to guard duty.

  “Get him the hell out of here,” CIA said. He looked over at Corso. “We’re gonna bury you so deep not even your lawyer’s gonna find your ass, Mr. Corso. About the time people start to forget your name, we’ll see if you’re still such a first-class smart-ass.” He gestured violently with his arm. “Get him the hell out of here.”

  26

  He’d told her to hold all his calls, so the incessant buzzing emanating from his phone was even more annoying than usual. He stifled a growl as he picked it up.

  “It’s Sheriff Reinhart, Chief,” Margy said.

  Harry Dobson swallowed his anger, pushed
the blinking red button and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Dan,” was all he said.

  “We got those bodies you were looking for, Harry.”

  “Really.”

  “Big guy with a bad attitude.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Not on the warrant. Strictly a John Doe.”

  “And he’s not talking.”

  “I hear he’s mostly yelling.”

  “About what?”

  “The usual. His constitutional rights. Nazi mother-fuckers. What the country’s coming to. Wants to call Abrams and Stone, so, whoever the hell he is, he must have access to some serious money. Those guys won’t piss on you for under ten grand.”

  “What about the woman?”

  “She wouldn’t talk to the feds, and she’s not talking to us.”

  “That so?”

  “I was about to transfer her over to the city lockup. I’ve got people sleeping on the floor. Besides…her paperwork says she was in your custody when the feds borrowed her.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Dobson said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why don’t you transfer both of them over to the city lockup?”

  Before Reinhart could answer, he went on. “Strictly a matter of space. You were full. We weren’t. As simple as that.”

  Another airy pause. “Not a good idea to screw with those people, Harry.”

  “Let me worry about that. Space transfers are strictly business as usual. We do it every day of the year.” An exaggeration, but not by much.

  Reinhart thought it over. “When did you have in mind?”

  “Right now.”

  “It’ll look better that way.”

  “Yes, it will.”

  “This gonna get all sticky?”

  “Not on you.”

  “It’s an election year.”

  “I know.”

  Long pause. “They’re on the way.”

  Dobson replaced the phone only to have it buzz again.

  “Sorry, Chief.” Margy’s voice again, not sounding in the least bit sorry. “I’ve got two detectives from the East Precinct out here. They say they were ordered to show up here posthaste.”

  “Send ’em in,” he said. “And Margy…”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  He used his nicest voice. “Hold all my calls, please.”

  “As always, Chief.”

  They came through the door walking sideways. Neither had ever been here before. Hadda figure they were in deep shit over something. Guy gets called to the police chief’s office, it’s usually the last call he responds to.

  Dobson got to his feet. Nodded at each of them but didn’t offer his hand.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “have a seat.”

  He remained standing as they sorted out a pair of black leather chairs and sat down. He looked from one to the other. “At the risk of being accused of racial profiling, which I’m sure you detectives know is a rather sore issue around here these days…”—he nodded first at Reuben the Cuban and then at Charly Hart—“I’m assuming you’re Gutierrez and you’re Hart.” Pause. “Right?” He waited for a reply and got one.

  Harry Dobson eased himself into his chair. “Relax,” he said out over the polished expanse of his desk. “I’ve got no beef with either of you.”

  He watched air pressure drain from the men as if somebody’d pulled the plug. “It’s about the young woman who phoned in that homicide last night.”

  “What about it?” Charly Hart asked. He leaned forward, resting his bony elbows on his equally bony knees. The guy was all angles. Tall and skinny as a coat hanger, his long-limbed joints seemed to operate independently of one another, allowing him to fold himself into awkward-looking positions, seemingly with little or no effort. He used a big round pair of black glasses to add some width to his razor face. His thinning white hair was cut short and combed forward. Around the station house, it had occasionally been noted that he looked a lot like a boiled owl.

  Gutierrez was another matter. Whatever hair he had left was buzzed all the way down to the bone. When he moved his head, the muscles in his neck looked like knotted rope. The guy was burly. A thousand crimped and twisted muscle fibers hiding under a nice Italian suit. And the two gold front teeth. They were like…halogen.

  “You have your notes? From when you questioned her?”

  Charly Hart did what all good cops do at a moment like that. He looked to his partner. Nobody was going to embarrass anybody else here. Gutierrez picked up on whatever message his partner was sending. “Charly took the notes.”

  As if by magic, a shiny black notebook appeared in Charly Hart’s hand. He started to leaf through the pages.

  Dobson stopped him. “Before we get specific here, I want to get your impressions.” He looked from one detective to the other. “How’d you guys read it? You make her for the perp?”

  “No way,” Reuben said.

  “Me neither,” chimed Charly.

  Harry Dobson processed the information behind hooded eyes. “Gimme an alternate scenario,” he said after a minute.

  “Somebody real strong,” Gutierrez said immediately.

  “Real sure,” Charly added. “No other lacerations of any kind on the vic.”

  “Cuts the kid’s throat.” Reuben used his forefinger to demonstrate. “Bleeds him out right there on the floor.”

  “Then picks him up, forces the body into the kneeling position and flops his head over onto his back so that whoever walks in gets the fifty-cent show,” Charly added.

  “Good technique. Bad sense of humor,” Gutierrez said.

  “What’s the autopsy report say?” Charly Hart asked.

  When Dobson was not forthcoming with an answer of any kind, the detectives passed a quick look and then, as the silence lengthened, began to fidget.

  The chief pinned them in place with a broken glass glare. “What I’m about to tell you two is for your ears only.” They nodded in unison. “It doesn’t leave this room.” Another round of steel-jawed assurances.

  “The vic…” he began, “I’ve got reason to believe he may in some way be directly connected to whoever committed the crime at the bus station.” He paused. Both detectives started to come out of their chairs. Dobson waved them back down. “Or…” He seemed to debate with himself. “Or…more likely…he may be the actual perpetrator of the crime.”

  “We got something hard that points that way?” Reuben asked.

  Dobson told them everything he knew. They listened without comment. Halfway through, Charly Hart began to take notes. Chief Dobson shook his head and kept on talking. Charly dropped the pencil into his side pocket and sat back in the chair.

  “The feds know this?” Reuben asked about three seconds after Chief Dobson finished talking.

  “Not yet,” Dobson answered.

  “But they’re gonna,” Charly filled.

  “Chances are,” the chief said.

  “But…in the meantime…” Reuben looked over at Charly Hart. “The girl’s story about how she followed him all over all night might bear a little checking.”

  “Exactly,” said the chief.

  “We’re gonna need to interview her again,” Charly said. He waggled the black leather notebook. “Stuff we got is pretty vague.”

  The chief nodded. “I’ve managed to pry her away from the feds.”

  Charly Hart cocked an eyebrow. “Feds know she’s gone?”

  “Not yet,” Harry Dobson said again.

  Detective Gutierrez whistled through his teeth.

  “Is there a problem, Detective?”

  Gutierrez shook his head. “No sir,” he said emphatically. “Just a concern.” He looked over at his partner. “You know…this whole terror thing…it’s uncharted territory…I’m just worried…you know…not playing it altogether straight with the feds…” He spread his hands. “I mean…what if?”

  “What we need to know is whether anything Mr. Bohannon did in the hours that Miss…”
<
br />   “Dougherty,” Charly Hart supplied.

  “…whether anything he did in those hours could possibly lead us to the people who murdered those poor souls in the bus tunnel.” He dropped his hands on the desk. “You think the feds are better prepared to follow up on Mr. Bohannon’s activities than we are?”

  “No way,” said Reuben Gutierrez.

  “Then we better get to work.”

  Jim Sexton stepped into the toilet stall and pulled the door closed behind him. Three stalls down somebody was puking into the commode, retching up breakfast in a series of grunts and hawks that seemed to ooze from the very walls. Jim pulled the cell phone from his pocket. Dialed the station.

  “Gimme Tilden,” he whispered.

  Waited. “Robert Tilden. Associate—”

  “It’s Jim,” he said quickly. “We’ve got a pathologist and her assistant dead in one of the autopsy galleries. Blood all over the place. The whole area of the coroner’s office has been sealed off. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out. They’ve called for a haz-mat team. They’ve—”

  “You’ve got film?” Tilden interrupted.

  “Not yet.” He could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. “I’m not even supposed to be here, man. Are you listening to me? I’ve got a—”

  “Call me when you’ve got some film, Jimbo. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a TV station.”

  The line went dead. The retching went on.

  27

  He gave them ten minutes to swap stories. Gutierrez and Hart stood nearby as Harry Dobson studied the pair through the one-way viewing panel of Interrogation Room Number Four. He’d hoped that seeing Corso might loosen her tongue, create some discrepancies in the story she’d told his detectives last night. No such luck. When he looked over at Gutierrez and Hart, they merely shrugged.

  “Same story,” Charly Hart said.

  “Let’s go,” Dobson said finally. Charly Hart held the door as the chief of police strode into the interrogation room and walked over to the phone on the far end of the table. “Get me a couple jail personnel,” he said. “Number four.”

  The chief replaced the receiver, then walked over and stood in front of Dougherty. Gutierrez and Hart circled the room, taking up positions along the far wall, behind Corso and Dougherty, arms folded across their respective chests.