Man in the middle sd-6

by Brian Haig

  "Bullshit."

  "Right. Who is he?"

  "Former military. A retired MP colonel, in fact. Look, I know he's a little intense, somewhat rigid… but he's good at his job. Very deliberate, by-the-book."

  "Like Adolf Eichmann."

  "Good analogy. But, well…" She searched her mind for something nice to say and came up with, "At least there's never a mystery about where he's coming from."

  "Okay. Where is he coming from on Clifford Daniels?"

  "Who the hell knows?" She laughed.

  "He knows." After a moment, I asked, "So, how should we approach this thing?"

  Bian understood exactly what I was asking, and why. At the start of a murder investigation you usually have a corpse, if you're lucky, also a murder weapon, and you have to dig for the rest-things like motives, suspects, and, for good measure, sufficient evidence, eyewitnesses, and elements of proof to get the bad guy an appointment on the hot seat. Sometimes-very often, in fact-the killer is an idiot and leaves a mother lode of clues and leads that draw a straight line from victim to killer-such as fingerprints, sperm cells, DNA markers, witnesses, and, increasingly in this cinematic age, the deed might even be captured on videotape. Killers, at least most killers, really aren't that clever or deceitful.

  This wasn't one of those cases. Here, I suspected, we had that rare criminal who operated on a higher plane-thus, where we began, and how we began, would determine how fast we went and how many dead ends we hit.

  She sipped her coffee. She suggested, "Okay, let's assume it was murder. I think we're both leaning that way. Procedurally, approach it like a standard homicide case."

  "Good idea."

  "Why don't we start with suspects?"

  "Okay. I think there are lots of people who wanted Daniels's mouth sealed. People here, perhaps, Americans who are worried about the political fallout and/or the damage to their careers if he spilled the beans to a congressional committee. So that includes the people he worked with, and the people he worked for, up to and including the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States."

  She nodded.

  I continued, "Possibly, there were some Iraqis who wanted him dead. And-"

  "Can't you be more specific?"

  "Well… there are some Iraqis who might carry a grudge because our friend played a heavy role in persuading the President to invade their country. Small-minded, of course-but people can be petty. Or maybe Charabi, or some of his associates, wanted to keep him from exposing some nasty secrets."

  "This is pretty open-ended, isn't it?"

  "Not yet. We're only at about thirty million suspects. Don't rule out enemies with more intimate motives-teed-off girlfriends, angry husbands whose wives Cliff may have been popping, a jealous ex-wife, a greedy brother who stands to inherit the full family fortune, or-"

  "Okay-thank you. I think that covers the range."

  "No it doesn't. The range is everything you expect, and everything you don't." In fact, I once prosecuted a murder that turned out to be over a pair of running shoes. Premeditated murder, too. The victim's parents were in the courtroom, and I'll never forget the shattered looks on their faces when they learned their son took three bullets in the gut over a pair of hundred-dollar athletic shoes that in six months would be vogued-out, worn-out garbage. The reasons people kill other people are almost endless, sometimes picayune, and often ridiculous. I looked at Bian and said, "Killers have limitless imaginations. Don't narrow yours."

  "I've got it," she said. "Forget the suspect angle. Let's try reconstruction."

  "Good decision."

  "I'll raise the facts we know. You suggest the hypotheses."

  "Bad decision. Why don't I ask? You're the cop."

  "It was my idea." She punched my arm. "Besides, lawyers are more creative bullshitters."

  Right.

  After a moment, she said, "There was no sign of burglary. What does this suggest?"

  "That Daniels let the murderer into his apartment, suggesting further that this was someone he knew. Or the murderer had a key, suggesting someone he knew even better. Or the murderer was an expert lock picker. Or Daniels's lock malfunctioned."

  "The lock works. After I left you in the bedroom, I checked."

  "Between ratting me out, you found time to inspect the lock?"

  "Oh, get over it."

  "I did. You made up for it."

  "How's that?"

  "You could have informed Waterbury that I entered Daniels's apartment with a false ID. But you didn't. Or you could have contradicted me and confirmed that I already suspected that Daniels's briefcase contained evidence. Again, you didn't."

  She nodded but made no reply.

  I looked her in the eye. "Why didn't you?"

  "What would be the point?"

  "That's what I'm asking." After a moment, I again asked, "Why?"

  Instead of replying, she asked me, "Why do you think?"

  "I think you don't like or trust your boss."

  "He is a… difficult and… an aggravating man to work under."

  "He's an asshole."

  "That too." She laughed.

  I did not laugh. "Also, I think you're worried that your own department wants this thing buried. Not covered up, necessarily-but we both know an internal investigation would move at a snail's pace, in very oblique directions, and only a small circle of friends would be exposed to the sequel."

  She did not confirm this, but instead asked, "And why would I care about that?"

  "You want me to assume it's because you're motivated by higher sensibilities. A West Pointer, that duty, honor, country thing." I looked her in the eye and said truthfully, "In fact, I believe you are motivated by these factors."

  "But you think there are other motives, too. Right?"

  Right. I looked at her. "If we're going to be working together, I'd like to know about them."

  "You don't trust me?"

  I did not, but there was no point in saying that. Instead, I said, "We could find things that will be very embarrassing and possibly very damaging for your bosses. I'd like to know where you stand, how you're going to react."

  "You've read too much into this." She looked at me and said, "I think you're very clever, very observant, and you seem to have a firm grasp of investigations. I want to solve this, and you'll make a good partner. That's the professional reason." After another moment, she added, "And maybe I like you. Perhaps this is cliched… you remind me of somebody."

  "You're right. It's cliched."

  "And true. My fiance. He's in Iraq, a major with the First Armored Division." She examined me a moment with those warm eyes. "You don't look alike, but you share so many quirks and mannerisms. It's almost uncanny."

  It did not escape my notice that she had changed the subject, but this sounded more interesting and certainly more pleasant than the topic of murder. "Such as?"

  "Mark… that's his name… Mark has a certain swagger, a way of moving. Sexy. Self-assured. And you both have this unnerving habit of shoving people around when you think you're right and they're in your way."

  "And you're engaged to this guy?"

  "He has some rough edges." She laughed. "I'll fix him after we're married."

  That's what I love about women.

  She looked at me. "Also like you, he doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, he has no sense of self-preservation, and-"

  "Excuse me-weren't we talking about a crime reconstruction?"

  She smiled, sort of.

  Back to the matter of how Daniels died, I said, "Fact two. The man was dead on his own bed with the gun in his hand."

  "Yes. Why?"

  "He either put it there himself, or it was placed there. If you're building a mental flowchart, this one's fifty-fifty."

  "All right. Fact three. He was naked with a hard-on. What do you deduce from that?"

  I stared at her.

  She asked, "Should I rephrase that?"

  "Too late." I suggested to her, "The
most innocent explanation is that he was enjoying a moment of sexual solitude before he killed himself. We already discussed this."

  She did not ask me to review that discussion, but instead wisely suggested, "But there are also less innocent explanations, right?"

  "Apparently. He had company, and the company did not behave the way he anticipated."

  "Female company."

  "Well… don't discount the possibility that Mr. Daniels's taste ran the other way, or that he was a switch-hitter. But we'll work with that assumption until we know otherwise." I said, "And here's where it gets interesting. Why would he have a dirty video in the machine?"

  "You tell me."

  "This is beyond my experience or imagination."

  "And you think I know something about this?"

  I smiled.

  She smiled back, a little coolly. She decided to be a good sport, though, and said, "All right, I'll take a stab. Some people use pornographic images to create a romantic or sensual mood, a prelude or warm-up before they get into the real article. In fact, it's not unhealthy… not even aberrant. A lot of sexual therapists actually recommend it." She looked at me and noted, "Also, the video wasn't necessarily his idea-maybe it was hers."

  "Okay, his or hers. That's still a little hard to explain to a first date. Some women or men might find it a little bizarre and respond negatively."

  "Yes, I think that would be a little awkward."

  "So this suggests somebody he knew fairly well. This wasn't the first time they were together, was it?" She nodded, and I continued, "So that's where we start: a woman, someone he had already… somebody he already had intimate relations with."

  "That was nicely put."

  "I'm working on cleaning up my act."

  "Keep working on it."

  "Good point. Bear in mind, though, it's still possible a person he did not know entered the apartment, Cliff was asleep, they blew out his brains and planted the gun in his hand. Don't get hung up on opening assumptions."

  "I'm not. But it helps to have something to work with." Bian crossed her legs and went back to sipping her coffee. I put Daniels's address book in my lap and began leafing through the pages.

  The book was thick and organized alphabetically, and I noted that Cliff's handwriting was surprisingly neat, with a light touch and precisely formed and uniformly sized letters. I'm no expert in handwriting analysis, but with males such orthographic neatness is often a sign of a Catholic-based education, or a school experience dominated by bossy women who care about such things. My own handwriting has never been mistaken for having a light touch.

  Bian, watching me, observed, "You know what? I've never actually seen a crime solved through an address book."

  I made no response to that observation.

  "It's odd," she continued. "Something like 90 percent of murders are committed by people the victim knew."

  "I'm aware of the statistics."

  "Good. So you would think an address book would be like a road map from the victim to the killer. In fact, often, the killer was in the victim's address book… unfortunately you don't know that until you've already ID'd the killer through other means." She concluded, "A very low percentage of crimes have been solved through address books."

  "Am I wasting my time?"

  "Well… I thought you should know."

  "Now I know. Thank you."

  "Statistics can be useful criminological tools."

  I looked at her.

  "Are you sensitive to criticism?" she asked.

  "Me?… No. Would you like a punch in the nose?" I explained, "I'm not looking for the killer, Bian. I'm trying to see who this guy associated with, get an idea of his life."

  "I see." She pointed at a name and asked me, "And what does that name tell you?"

  I looked at the name Albert Tigerman. "It's a statistical fact that only.0001 percent of killers are named Albert, and less than.0001 percent of those have the surname Tigerman. Ergo, Albert moves to the bottom of our suspect pool." I smiled at her. "I love statistics."

  She smiled back tightly. "Try again."

  "Should I know Albert?"

  "Were you a Pentagon insider… yes, you would instantly recognize the name."

  "That's why I have you."

  "Tigerman was Daniels's boss, a very powerful and influential man. He's the deputy to the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy, Thomas Hirschfield-roughly the third-highest-ranking official in the Pentagon."

  "Is there a point to this?"

  "You catch on quick. Why don't I leaf through the address book and you look over my shoulder? I might recognize some of these people."

  I tossed her the book. She started with the A's and ran her finger down the pages quickly, moving on to the B's, and down the line. Occasionally she used a pen and stabbed a checkmark or slashed an X beside a name. I had not a clue what significance was attached to those names or to these symbols.

  As you might expect, the majority of names in Cliff's book were males, some with military ranks, most not. From what I could discern, Cliff's world was the usual amalgam of work colleagues, professional contacts, and people who were important or relevant to him personally; a few doctors, his dry cleaner, and presumably some friends and social acquaintances. Less than a third were women. Also, only about a third had listed addresses, the majority limited to phone numbers, predominately from area codes 202-Washington-and 703-northern Virginia.

  A few names were recognizable to me, however-several well-known members of the National Security Council staff, some senior CIA officials, assorted Pentagon muckety-mucks, and General Nicholas Westfall, commander of the Defense Intelligence Agency. For a midlevel bureaucrat, Clifford was surprisingly well connected and inside the beltway loop.

  Bian was now on the T's, and she flipped back to the D's and pointed to several people with the surname Daniels she had put X's next to-a Theresa with a northern Virginia area code and a South Arlington address; a Matthew with a Manhattan address; and a Marilyn in Plano, Texas.

  Bian placed her right forefinger on Theresa from South Arlington. "What do you want to bet that's his ex? This address is only a few blocks from his apartment. The other two could be his parents, siblings, or maybe cousins."

  At that moment Will popped his head around the corner. In a shrill and exhilarated voice, he reported, "We broke his code word. We're diddling his hard drive."

  This sounded either vulgar or ridiculous, but Bian diplomatically asked Will, "And what are you finding?"

  "Well… it's quite intriguing. Mr. Daniels stored a lot of personal materials on his computer. Financial information. Checkbook. He did his taxes on the computer. Lots of personal correspondence, too." He added, with fraternal approval, "He was very computer-savvy…" then added, "but it's really weird."

  Will was really weird. I kept that thought to myself, however, and asked, very sweetly, "What's weird?"

  "The three encrypted folders."

  "Folders?"

  "Yeah… folders…" He stared at me through his thick spectacles before concluding, accurately, that his interrogator was a technological dimwit. "Like a dresser drawer in the hard drive, where you store common items… say, socks or underwear. Judging by the large amount of storage space, they must contain multiple files. But as I said, they're encoded. Indecipherable."

  I asked, "Are we talking socks or underwear?" Actually, I'm not that much of a dimwit-I knew what folders were-but this was my way of getting him to tone down the cyber gibberish. He stared back, I'm sure wishing he, or I, were someplace else, but I'm sure he got the point.

  Bian decided to be helpful and asked Will, "Can you describe the code?"

  "Well… it looks like a commercial version. The FBI and CIA tried to get Congress to ban these commercial codes, but that hasn't worked. So now there are a number of these applications out there." He looked thoughtful and added, "Mostly, though, they're employed by businesses, not individuals."

  Bian and I traded glances. The obvious
question was: Why would a Defense Department official suspected of espionage have a private code installed on his personal computer? Then again, the obvious is sometimes the enemy of the truth.

  Will, sort of verbally rubbing his hands together, informed us, "Wow… I'd love to take a whack at those codes myself."

  Being an idiot, I asked, "So why don't you?"

  "Frankly, that could take months, particularly if it's a VPN version. That ISP protocol is… well, with all those symmetric ciphers…" He shook his head. "Now, if it's SSL, that would be better luck."

  Bian was nodding. I had not a clue what Will was whining about, nor was I about to ask another stupid question and risk another stream of what passes for technical jargon with these people and actually is alphabet diarrhea. Bian, ever the diplomat, suggested to Will, "Thank you. But wouldn't it make better sense to bring these encrypted files to the National Security Agency? They have a lot of expertise in codes and codebreaking."

  This was not what Will hoped to hear, and he made a mopey little nod.

  "How long will that take?" I asked Will.

  "Maybe they already have experience with this code. If they have to break it from scratch, depending on the sophistication… a day… two days… three months. How badly do you want it?"

  "Yesterday sounds about right. Tell Phyllis. She'll know whose ass to kiss or kick."

  "Sure." He started to walk away, then slapped his forehead and spun around. "Oh… there're some letters John thinks you should see."

  Carrying our coffee, Bian and I got up and followed Will back to the office, where John had his nose pressed against the computer screen.

  I said to John, "Will mentioned letters."

  "Uh… yeah. I thought you should see these," John replied. "Hold on." Without looking up, he manipulated the little cursor as though it was connected to his fingertip and quickly brought a Microsoft Word file up on the screen. He said, "There are a number of these. This one's a little nastier… yet generally representative of what we're seeing."

  Bian and I leaned over his left shoulder. I read out loud:

  You Bitch, Your bloodsucking fuck of a lawyer called me again today. At work!

  Wow. I stopped reading out loud, and we both read to ourselves:

  I'm tired of your bullshit threats about taking me back to court, and I'm REALLY tired of your efforts to destroy my career. I will not put up with it. You tell your hired asshole not to call me at the office any-more or he'll regret it. I'll take care of him myself.