Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  There were photos of his parents and himself and framed diplomas from the Florida State University School of Criminology on the office wall. McCaskey was not surprised. The thirty-something lieutenant looked like a “college cop,” as they used to call them in the FBI. He was a lean, clean-cut, tightly wound man with short red hair and deep-set eyes. His voice had the hint of a Southern accent. His white shirt was heavily starched so it did not wrinkle. Wrinkles suggested perspiration, and perspiration suggested worry or insecurity. Those were conditions that schooled detectives were taught to avoid. Howell did not sit until Maria had been seated. He was polite. That did not mean he would be cooperative. McCaskey had made his team look foolish and also had stolen their assignment.

  As the men sat, Howell expressed both concern and genuine outrage about what happened at Op-Center.

  “Officially or not, our resources are at your disposal,” Howell said.

  The detective’s words gave McCaskey a whisper of hope. Men with vastly different interests could still find common ground in their response to horrific acts. Maybe the rest of what they did—the jockeying and the politics, the bargains made and assurances broken—was just not important enough to worry about.

  “I very much appreciate your offer,” McCaskey said. “Actually, I came by because I did not want you to think the attack has slowed our work on the Wilson case. It was based mostly on fieldwork, which is ongoing.”

  “Have you made progress?”

  “Possibly,” McCaskey said. “I’ll be checking with one of my operatives in a few hours.” He did not want to tell the detective about Mike Rodgers’s full-court press against Orr’s team. The job of the Metro Police was to protect and serve. The reality was they protected and served government heavyweights with special care. Their budget came from Congress. They would not appreciate Op-Center’s more intrusive methods. “Do you have anything to freshen the mix?”

  “We have what may be a nail polish and fiber sample from the second crime scene,” Howell told him. “But that does not help because, first, Lawless may have picked those up somewhere else and, second, we do not have a suspect.”

  “Meaning there is nothing to compare it to,” McCaskey said. “Where did you recover it?”

  “From Lawless’s silver-link watch band,” Howell said. “It may have snagged the hem of her sleeve or lapel when he tried to defend himself.”

  “Do you have the specs?”

  Howell nodded and went to his computer. He brought up the laboratory data. “The nail polish is a silky beige manufactured by a Chicago firm, Niles Polish. It’s sold in shops nationwide, so it’s unlikely we’ll find the buyer. We cross-referenced charge card purchases with Senator Orr’s guest list, but that turned up nothing.”

  “She probably paid cash,” McCaskey said.

  “That, and she could have done so anywhere in the country. As for the fiber, that is satin, navy blue, just like the dress we saw in the security camera video. The dye was manufactured by the Fuchun River Chemical Corporation of China, which does not tell us anything about the garment itself.”

  “One of those things did not come from the killer,” Maria said. “Unless she has a terrible fashion sense.”

  “That was our conclusion,” Howell said. “Mr. Lawless might have picked up the nail polish from a handshake or making a purchase. Hypodermic needles are easy enough to come by. We have been looking into individuals who would be qualified to have given both victims an injection. But there are over three hundred female dentists and hygienists alone in the metropolitan region. Then there are literally thousands of other medical doctors, nurses, even veterinarians. Besides, the killer might not even be from this area.”

  “I believe she is,” McCaskey said. “I’m convinced the murder of Robert Lawless was organized quickly to cover our discovery that William Wilson was murdered. If that’s true, then the assassin was still in the neighborhood.”

  “Reasonable,” Howell said. The detective turned his pale poker face from the computer monitor. “Does the possible progress you mentioned a minute ago have to do with Senator Orr?”

  “We would like to clear the senator if we can,” McCaskey answered.

  “Does that mean he or someone in his office is a suspect?” Howell pressed.

  “No,” McCaskey replied. If he had said yes, Howell would have informed the detectives on his team, and they would have told others. McCaskey did not want to be responsible for starting rumors. “Detective, I don’t want to keep you from your dinner plans or family any longer than I have to. Are there any leads besides the nail polish and satin fiber?”

  Howell shook his head. “I have to admit it has been tough getting off Go on this one. The security camera images have not helped, no eyewitnesses have come forward to tell us about the killer’s movements, and our profiler has not found a hook to hang a psychological sketch.”

  “Did the medical examiner find anything unusual about Lawless’s body?” McCaskey asked.

  “Nothing,” Howell said. “He died exactly as Wilson did.”

  “Was any hair recovered from either scene?” Maria asked.

  “Plenty,” the detective told her. “Blonde, brunette, black, red, white, even green. Hotel rooms are cleaned but not that thoroughly. We have thirty-seven different strands. Six of those match the housekeeping staff. We are checking with previous guests in the room. That will take time. If our killer was wearing a wig, that may make her untraceable.”

  As the detective was speaking, McCaskey suddenly flashed on something that made him want to kick himself. Hard. “Actually, Detective, now that I think of it, there is something the Metro Police could do for me. Do you have a computer I could borrow for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. You can use mine,” Howell said. He swung toward the keyboard. “Is there something I can look up for you?”

  “Thanks, but I need to do this myself,” McCaskey said. “Op-Center security.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ll lock up, if you want to leave—”

  “I can’t do that,” Howell said. “We have security procedures. But I will step outside.”

  “Thanks. I should only be five minutes or so.”

  The detective left without shutting the door. McCaskey went behind his desk.

  “Shall I close it?” Maria asked, indicating the door.

  “No,” her husband replied. He typed in the address of the Op-Center web site which was backed up in a secure Tank. Thanks to software designed by Stoll, any subsequent addresses he typed into this remote keyboard would be unrecorded. He went to the District of Columbia personnel files. These were accessible to intelligence agencies in order to do quick security checks in the event of a crisis.

  Maria stood behind him. “What was so important it had to be done now?” she asked.

  “There is one woman I overlooked. Minnie Hennepin, the medical examiner. She would know how to give an injection and she would be in a position to overlook the puncture wound.”

  “She could also be an incompetent who got her high-paying job through—what is the word?”

  “Patronage,” McCaskey said. “That is certainly possible. We may know more after checking her background.” He accessed the medical examiner’s file and read her curriculum vitae. “Red flag number one,” he said. “She graduated from the University of Texas Medical School.”

  “So did thousands of other men and women,” Maria said. “That does not mean anything.”

  “Do me a favor, hon? Don’t play devil’s advocate right now,” McCaskey said as sweetly as possible.

  “Why? You told me you needed extra eyes and another brain working on this problem.”

  “I do. But that doesn’t mean shooting down everything I say.”

  “That was not everything. It was one thing.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. Let’s just drop it.”

  “If I say something contrary, will you think I am covering for her? Will I become a suspect then?”

&n
bsp; “Don’t be extreme,” McCaskey said, looking back at his wife. “I was just thinking out loud. I don’t want to hit a speed bump every time I open my mouth. Look, just forget I said anything.”

  “You are the one being extreme. I was simply pointing out that coming from Texas may be a false blip. Each of Senator Orr’s senior staff members comes from a state of the union. Would they all be flags as well?”

  McCaskey turned back to the computer monitor. He intended to let the subject drop. He hoped that she would, too. He did not want to explain to the Spanish-born lady that Texans shared a special bond, that they helped Texans, that he would not be surprised to learn that Senator Orr had promised her the surgeon general job if she helped him. Yes, it was a leap. But that was what detective work was about.

  McCaskey heard Maria breathing heavily through her nose. He tried to ignore her as he continued to read. Following her internship at the Cambridge Medical Center in Minnesota, Dr. Hennepin went to work at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center Department of Clinical Investigation. She was eventually promoted to assistant chief and placed in charge of the team performing oversight of research involving human, animal, and laboratory-related studies. When Hennepin was passed over for directorship of the division, she filed a discrimination complaint with the medical center and the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Three weeks later, she went to work as the assistant medical examiner. Within the year, Dr. Hennepin had the top spot. There was no indication that anyone, Senator Orr included, had helped her. Of course, that was the kind of information that might be deleted if Dr. Hennepin were planning on becoming an assassin.

  “Well? Did you find any other red banners?” Maria asked.

  “Flags. And I’m not sure.”

  “I learned to give injections, too,” Maria said testily. “My little sister Penelope is a diabetic.”

  “You were with me last night,” McCaskey said. “Listen, hon. I said I’m sorry. Can we please just let it drop?”

  “With pleasure,” she said.

  McCaskey could hear the angry pout in her voice. This was not going to be buried until he put a stake in its heart. And maybe that was his responsibility. Some of the useful speculation in this case had come from her. He closed the Op-Center site, turned back to his wife, and took her hands.

  “Maria, I do need help, your help,” he said. “We have a different idea what that entails, but I was wrong. I should have deferred to you.”

  “Are you just saying that?”

  “No. I got defensive. This whole situation, this whole goddamn week has been a nightmare. Forgive me?”

  Maria hesitated, but not as long as she would have if she were really angry. “All right,” she said. “Then let me ask you something that I have been wondering.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you sure the killer was even a woman?” Maria asked.

  “You mean, could it be a man dressed as a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was one of the first things I considered. I asked Detective Superintendent Daily whether Wilson’s interests went in that direction. The Yard keeps track of such things about prominent citizens because potential blackmail could adversely impact the national economy. They also do not want the crown to be embarrassed by announcing a knighthood for someone who is trafficking pornography. They insist that Wilson is heterosexual.”

  “Wilson may not have known his date was a man,” Maria replied. “Some of the ‘women’ who party at Los Pantalones Para Vestir a Club, in Madrid, are extremely convincing.”

  “That is a possibility,” her husband agreed as he glanced into the hall. Detective Howell was hovering there like a buoy in rough seas. “Come on,” he said, still holding his wife’s hands. “Let’s get coffee and think about a next step.”

  “I already have one, if you’ll consider it,” she said.

  “I’m listening,” he said as they left the office. He thanked Detective Howell and said he would be in touch.

  Maria stopped before Howell returned to his office. “Detective, would we have access to your laboratory if we need it?”

  “Of course.” He went back to his office, wrote the number on a pad, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said. She put the paper in her back pocket. “I am not sure it will be necessary, but this is good to have.”

  The McCaskeys walked toward the stairwell.

  “What was that about?” her husband asked.

  “The dress is the key,” Maria said as they started down the concrete stairs to the first floor.

  “I agree. That’s why I sent the security camera images to designers in the area, asked if they recognized it—”

  “We will not learn the identity of whoever bought it,” she said, shaking her head. “You said that yourself about the nail polish. What I am saying is that we need to find the dress itself.”

  “I have one man on that full-time. He had trash bins searched, fountains, and even a duck pond near the Hay-Adams dragged,” McCaskey told her.

  “It would not have been discarded,” Maria said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Those were the first places you searched,” Maria said. “Our assassin—”

  “Is experienced,” McCaskey said. “Fair assumption. Still, it might have been burned in a fireplace or stuffed in an incinerator.”

  “An incinerator is not a guarantee of total destruction,” she said. “But I agree that it might have been consigned to a fireplace. Who among your potential suspects has one?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Even if we find out, we would need a reason to get a warrant. ‘They have a fireplace’ is just not good enough.”

  “A warrant may not be necessary,” she said. “We may not even have to go inside. Not yet.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “You should learn.”

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Let’s go home,” Maria said. “We will need to do a little research before going out again.”

  McCaskey agreed to the plan, but not just because debate would have been pointless and not because his wife was a sharp field op—something exhaustion and frustration had caused him to forget. It was simple math. A woman had sent the men of Scotland Yard, Op-Center, and the Metro Police into a dark alley with no discernable exit.

  Maybe a woman was what they needed to get out.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  San Diego, California Wednesday, 7:01 A.M.

  Short, stocky Eric Stone had always been ambivalent about history. He could not affect it, and whatever impact it was going to have had already occurred. Moreover, he did not believe people could learn from it or, failing that, were doomed to repeat it. There were always nuances that made events different. Caesar was not Napoleon who was not Hitler who was not Stalin. Anyway, what was important in one era did not matter now. How many people, old and young, could name one thing Calvin Coolidge had done? Or who he was, for that matter.

  While tourists and visitors to the convention center gathered around the time line of San Diego, Stone went about his business. He checked booths where attendees received their badges, made sure the media was present and able to set up their gear, determined that there would be a sufficient number of buses to run delegates to and from the nearby hotels. He did not care that hunting peoples of northeast Asia had crossed the Bering Ice Bridge and migrated to the south to hunt caribou, bison, and mammoth some twenty thousand years ago. It did not matter to him that Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo was the first European to visit the region, sailing from Mexico into San Diego Bay in 1542 and claiming the region for Spain. It was unimportant that sixty years later, Sebastian Vizcaino sailed from Mexico and named the region after the Spanish saint San Diego de Alcalá. The natives could have been hunting dodos, the Spanish men could have been French women, none of it mattered. The thirty-year-old was unapologetic about his interest in the present. That grew from spending time with his father, Phil, back
in Indianapolis, when the fifty-year-old was dying from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig’s disease. Not just dying from it but being disintegrated by it. His limbs folding in on themselves as his muscles atrophied, his organs failing. In a lucid moment before he succumbed entirely to living decomposition, the elder Stone told his only son that he regretted so much in his life. Becoming a mechanical engineer instead of a painter. Not spending more time with Eric instead of bowling and drinking with the guys.

  “I had a guy,” the older man whispered. “The best guy.” He touched the top of eighteen-year-old Eric’s head with a hand whose fingers would not fully uncurl. “I could have had a better life.”

  That was the last thing Phil Stone had to say before the muscles of his face stopped working. He spent the last month of his life with his jaw hanging slack and his eyes staring at an aluminum bed rail and whatever memories he could find in his drug-hazed brain. Eric Stone resolved, then, to regret nothing. To live in the moment. That meant having power.

  The elder Stone’s illness devoured their savings and kept the young boy from graduating with any distinction. The only way he could get an education was by enlisting in the military. Having spent his life landlocked in the agricultural belly of the nation, he joined the navy, where he caught the eye of then-Rear Admiral Link. It was in San Diego, after the Persian Gulf War. There was a reception for the vice president of the United States at the Space and Naval Warfare Systems facility. SPAWAR provided more than half of the tactical and nontactical information management technology the navy used to complete its operational missions during the war.

  To help pay the bills at home, Eric had worked as a waiter for a catering company. He was ordered to work the windy al fresco party. Something about his manner captured Link’s attention. His intensity, perhaps. He handled a tray as carefully as he would nitroglycerin. The wind stirred the fabric of his dress blues, but he did not lose a single drop of champagne.

  Eric Stone lived in the moment.