Deadly Disclosures

by Julie Cave

  The next hour or so blurred for Dinah as she checked every single transaction made. The Whitfields bought groceries, paid their phone and electricity bills, and dined out frequently at nice restaurants. Then she realized that a pattern of regular interstate travel was emerging. Over the past six months, Thomas Whitfield had purchased airline tickets on an increasingly regular basis. Prior to this time frame, there had been no airline tickets bought at all for a period stretching back at least two years. She tapped her chewed-down nails on the desk as she thought about what this might mean. Any change to a person’s routine behavior, no matter how innocuous it might appear, could often hold clues to what Dinah had termed a person’s secondary life — that secret, shadowy world kept close to one’s chest where lived the gambling addiction, the drinking problem, the spousal abuse, any of the secrets a person didn’t want the world to see.

  Dinah rifled through the file they were building on Thomas Whitfield and found the schedules Lara Southall had printed out for them, which contained the secretary’s movements over the last 12 months. She flipped through the schedule until she had the date of the first ticket.

  There was no corresponding entry in Thomas Whitfield’s calendar.

  Dinah checked every single ticket Thomas had bought, and there was no explanatory entry in the calendar. Dinah frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps the tickets had been bought for family members or friends.

  She called the airlines office for information and got a vacuous, indifferent female voice that spoke so slowly she instantly irritated Dinah.

  “This is Special Agent Dinah Harris of the FBI,” said Dinah, using an authoritative tone. “I require information regarding flight details for a person who has been abducted.”

  There was a long pause while the girl digested this. “Uh …I’m not sure I’m authorized to do that,” she said finally. “Should I ask my supervisor?”

  “Please do,” said Dinah, relieved. She listened to light and inoffensive classical music interspersed with advertising from the airline while she was on hold.

  After what seemed like a decade, the music was finally replaced with: “This is Lisa Atkinson speaking. How can I help you?”

  “I need some flight details for a person whose abduction I am currently investigating,” she said, then gave her badge number and the phone details so that the airline supervisor could confirm that she was indeed an FBI agent.

  While Dinah waited for the supervisor to call back, she drummed her fingers on the desk impatiently and wondered if she had any wine left in the refrigerator at home.

  The phone burst into life and Dinah answered.

  Lisa Atkinson asked, “What flights are you concerned with?”

  Dinah looked at the earliest statement. “The first is April 20, 1999,” she said. “The flight was booked using a credit card in the name of Thomas Whitfield.”

  “Oh,” said Lisa Atkinson, recognizing the name. “Do you have a flight number?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, this will just take a little while.” Dinah heard the sounds of a keyboard being clicked rapidly.

  “Okay, that was Flight 235 to Denver, Colorado,” said Lisa, brightly. “Mr. Whitfield flew there on the 20th and returned to Washington on the 26th.”

  “It was definitely Thomas Whitfield traveling?” Dinah inquired.

  “Yes, our passenger manifests are directly linked to the ticketing system.”

  Dinah wrote this down, thinking hard. Had Thomas Whitfield clearly gone to Colorado for vacation? If it had been a work engagement, it would have appeared in his calendar.

  “Next date is March 1, 2000,” Dinah said.

  There was another pause while the computer waded through passenger manifests. “That flight was to Detroit, Michigan. He flew in on March 1 and flew out March 3,” said Lisa.

  Dinah discovered that Thomas Whitfield had also flown and briefly stayed near San Diego, California, in 2001 and Cold Spring, Minnesota, in 2003.

  There was nothing immediately suspicious about these flights, but it was interesting that these quick trips had commenced suddenly, and none of them had appeared in his work schedule. Perhaps Thomas Whitfield had accepted a heavier public speaking workload.

  Dinah thanked Lisa Atkinson and immediately dialed Catherine Biscelli, the director of public affairs at the Smithsonian Institution.

  When Catherine picked up the call, after going through a switchboard and a receptionist, her voice was noticeably cool. “How can I help you, Agent Harris?”

  “It’s Special Agent Harris. I’m just checking some details of Mr. Whitfield’s recent travels,” said Dinah, recognizing there would be no small talk about the weather or football. “I want to know if they were work-related. I assume you would have access to Mr. Whitfield’s daily schedules?”

  “Yes, of course,” Catherine Biscelli said, with a faint tone of derision. “I’m the one who vets all of his engagements. I was under the impression Lara had already given you a copy of the calendar. Doesn’t it have the information you require?”

  “While I appreciate the advice on how to do my job,” replied Dinah acidly, “the information I need is not in the calendar and that is why I need your confirmation.”

  Dinah could imagine the other woman biting back several responses in the silence that followed. “Fine. What do you need?” Catherine said at length.

  Dinah gave the other woman the dates and destinations of the flights Thomas Whitfield had taken. In spite of Catherine claiming to know Thomas’s every move, she still had to look up the schedule on the computer to check. Imagine if all the computers went down, thought Dinah, no one would know anything.

  “I’m sorry, there is no record of these trips in our schedules,” said Catherine after a long pause. “They were not related to the work of the institution. Mr. Whitfield must have made them for private reasons.”

  “You’re sure of that?” Dinah asked. “He wouldn’t have attended a speaking engagement at the last minute or something like that?”

  “Yes, Special Agent, I’m positive. If it’s not in my schedule, it’s got nothing to do with his work here. Is there anything else? I’m rather busy.”

  Dinah felt an instant surge of anger at the other woman’s condescension. Also, she noticed that Catherine Biscelli had not once asked if the FBI had discovered Thomas Whitfield’s whereabouts or whether he was okay. Dinah filed that bit of information away.

  “That’s all, Ms. Biscelli. I understand you are very concerned about Mr. Whitfield, as we all are. I promise to let you know the minute I have some relevant information.”

  There was a strained silence on the other end of the phone, and as she hung up, Dinah gleefully imagined the outrage on Catherine Biscelli’s face.

  Dinah rang Eloise Whitfield next on her cell phone.

  “Have you found Thomas? Is he okay?” Eloise asked immediately.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have any information for you in that regard,” said Dinah. “I just wanted to ask you a question about Thomas’s recent travels.” She gave Eloise the dates and destinations. “Do you know anything about these trips?”

  “Not really,” said Eloise. “I knew he was going away, obviously, during those times. He said the trips were for a special project at work.”

  Work doesn’t know anything about them.

  “You didn’t accompany him on any of these trips?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you know if he traveled with anyone else?”

  “No, I really didn’t know anything about them at all. I assumed he went with people from the institution.”

  “I see,” said Dinah, circling the notes she’d made. “That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Mrs. Whitfield.”

  Deep in concentration, Dinah stared at her notes until her eyes lost focus. Where would Thomas Whitfield be traveling, sans wife and the knowledge of his workplace, and why?

  And what did any of it have to do with his disappearance?

  • •
• •

  Jimmy Perez had just finished a sports magazine and was thinking about having a cigarette and closing up the yard when he heard three short, sharp blasts from the horn of a tow truck. He sighed and hauled his sizable girth to his feet. There would be no getting home early tonight or beating rush hour, he thought.

  Jimmy leaned out of the window of his office, gave the tow truck driver a wave, and flicked the switch that would open the gates. The gates began to open begrudgingly, emitting an occasional grinding metal screech.

  Jimmy stood in the yard of his auto-wrecking lot, a round, middle-aged man dressed in greasy overalls with black hair in dire need of a wash, and watched the truck drive in.

  The car on the bed of the truck had once been a Chevy, a sensible family sedan. It now resembled a battered Matchbox toy car, the roof crushed in, the front and back panels crumpled. There was no division between the front and back seats; they were virtually on top of each other.

  Jimmy shook his head. “What happened here?” he asked, always fascinated by the macabre.

  “Nose-to-tail flip, landed on the roof,” the driver said.

  “Yeah? Anyone get hurt?” Jimmy was the kind of guy who would slow down on the freeway to get a nice, long look at a car accident.

  “That’s the weird thing, man,” the driver said. “There was no one in it. Just this totaled car, sittin’ on the edge of the road. Whoever was drivin’ it must have got lucky and walked away.” He shrugged. He didn’t really care, one way or the other. His job was to drop the car off at the auto-wrecking yard and keep going. Rush hour was a great time for business. All those busy people trying to get home, thinking about work or what was for dinner and — WHAM!

  “So where do you want it, man?” the driver asked.

  Jimmy considered. There might be some salvageable parts left on the car, but all in all it was a pretty sorry looking thing. It wasn’t even worth giving a once-over. He decided to crush it into a nice little cube.

  He pointed to a nearby lot of recently acquired car wrecks and lit a cigarette while the truck laboriously groaned its way over to the lot.

  Jimmy noticed that all four tires were blown and he shook his head again. What a mess, Jimmy thought. The guy who’d been driving it sure was lucky. He ought to buy himself a lottery ticket with that kind of luck.

  Jimmy wandered toward the truck while the driver was messing with the hydraulics of the bed, lifting it to an angle so that the car could roll off the truck and come to rest on its blown-out wheels.

  The driver jumped out of the truck and loosened the straps that had held the car in place.

  “Ready?” he called to Jimmy. “I’m gonna let her go.”

  Jimmy acknowledged this with a wave.

  The damaged car rolled off the back of the truck and came to a shuddering halt when it smacked into another wrecked car and the trunk came flying open.

  “Hey, watch the merchandise!” called Jimmy, joking. The driver opened his mouth to reply when the odor from the trunk hit their nostrils at the same time.

  Jimmy couldn’t have explained the smell precisely, but it was a strong and belligerent odor, almost demanding that people take notice of it. He and the driver approached the trunk of the Chevy cautiously.

  Inside the trunk was the bound form of a dead adult male.

  The driver cursed under his breath while Jimmy almost inhaled his lit cigarette. Jimmy couldn’t tear his eyes away and he felt bile rise in his throat.

  The driver turned away, still cursing from the shock.

  Jimmy dropped his cigarette from shaking hands. He felt light-headed and out of control, and for a brief, strange moment, he resolved never to slow down to look at a car accident again.

  “He dead or what, man?” the driver asked in a reedy voice, clearly hoping that the figure inside the trunk would come to life, and soon.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s dead,” said Jimmy. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911. It took him several attempts because he was trembling so violently.

  The operator immediately began to ask questions that were too hard. Had they checked the pulse? Were the airways clear? Had they tried resuscitation? She asked Jimmy to go back to the body and at least check for a pulse.

  The thought of this made Jimmy feel cold and hot at the same time, but he went back to the trunk.

  He wiped his free hand on his jeans and reached toward the still figure. He had trouble remembering how to take a pulse, but the emergency operator instructed him to place his fingers on the neck.

  The skin was waxy and cold and felt like anything except how a human being should feel. It sent shivers down Jimmy’s spine. “No,” he said into his cell phone, “he’s definitely dead.”

  While he waited for the police with the tow truck driver, Jimmy had the uncomfortable feeling he recognized the body. The thought was lodged deep in the recesses of his mind and wouldn’t shake free. Given everything that had happened tonight, he decided he probably wouldn’t remember who it was until 2 a.m. when he would awake with it as a single lucid thought.

  Jimmy lit another cigarette. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 6

  It was long past midnight — Dinah had long since given up keeping track of the time. Her mind was a whirling mass and it meant that she hadn’t gotten any sleep. Instead, she lay staring at the ceiling, trying to force herself to relax, and failing miserably with every passing moment.

  It was a dark and quiet night and Dinah was acutely aware of herself, a sensation new for her. She breathed in the stillness, existed in the darkness, and listened in the quietness. The night was drifting around her, and instead of hearing the clanging in her mind she heard a deep silence. She felt that if she could breathe deeply enough, the calm and peacefulness would seep through her pores, flow through her veins, and quiet her soul.

  An insidious suggestion piped up in her brain: isn’t that what death would feel like? How often had she imagined lying down, welcoming death, and succumbing to the eternal sleep? Could someone actually wish himself or herself to death? If you believed with your heart and soul that you had finished with this earth, that there was nothing endearing about this place anymore, could you literally give up the will to live?

  No, Dinah. Not yet.

  She closed her eyes and breathed, wondering what it would feel like to draw a last breath.

  Her cell phone buzzed on the night table beside her, startling her. It was Ferguson.

  “Ferguson? What’s up?”

  “We’ve found him, Harris,” replied Ferguson, who sounded tightly wound. “We’ve now got a murder scene.”

  Although Dinah hadn’t expected to find Thomas Whitfield alive, she had always hoped for a small miracle. A much larger percentage of her was relieved that they’d found a murder scene, because it meant a wealth of clues.

  “Where is it?” Dinah asked, starting to pull on clothing haphazardly.

  “An auto-wrecking yard down near the Potomac,” said Ferguson. He gave her the address. “I’ll meet you there?”

  Dinah paused, rapidly counting the wine she had consumed earlier and the hours that had passed. “Could you pick me up?” she asked, feeling about two inches tall. She could almost feel Ferguson’s frustration through the phone line.

  “How bad are you, Harris?” he asked shortly. “The last thing we need is a mistrial because one of the lead investigators was. . . .”

  “I’m not at all drunk!” interrupted Dinah, desperately trying not to hear the words Ferguson was saying. She had already had her integrity questioned once before; she couldn’t bear for it to happen again. “I just don’t think I should drive.”

  Ferguson sighed. “Fine, but eat something quickly and use some mouthwash.” He hung up before she could reply, and she knew he was seriously hacked off with her.

  Dinah finished dressing and did as Ferguson had asked, swallowing down two pieces of stale bread with peanut butter and rinsing her mouth twice with a foul-tastin
g, possibly noxious green liquid.

  Ferguson sniffed at her as she climbed into the car. “Good,” he grunted. He didn’t speak as he drove, but that wasn’t unusual. He didn’t like to color her perception of the crime scene with his own opinions. He liked her to go in with a clean slate, to absorb the crime scene and surroundings, and to sense the clues speaking to her.

  The auto-wrecking yard was several blocks from the Potomac and was currently awash with blue and red strobe lights. Dinah got out of the car and was struck by the cold — the air was close to freezing and it bit at her bones like a hungry vulture. A tight cluster of Washington Police Department officers, some uniformed and some plain-clothed, stood near the entrance to the wrecking yard.

  A black man built like a linebacker spotted them and beckoned them over. He was the second level detective assigned to the murder from the police department, and his name was Samson Cage. Quickly he told the agents about the wrecked car being towed to the yard, unloaded from the tow truck, the trunk flying open, and the subsequent discovery of Thomas Whitfield’s body. He pointed to the tow truck driver and the owner of the wrecking yard, both huddled together drinking instant coffee out of Styrofoam cups and looking decidedly weary and annoyed.

  The car in which Thomas Whitfield had been found was cordoned off by bright yellow crime scene tape, and the forensic technicians were getting ready to go over the scene.

  “Listen,” Samson Cage said with faint embarrassment. “I know you have been operating on the premise that Thomas Whitfield was abducted and it was in your jurisdiction. Now that it’s a murder, it’ll fall into our jurisdiction. I’m happy to have you here, but I’m just warning you that my chief is probably going to feel that it’s our case to solve, you know what I mean?”

  Dinah rolled her eyes as she pulled the plastic protective clothing over her own — the booties over her shoes, white jumpsuit, hair cover — so that she didn’t contaminate the crime scene with her own material. She hated the inter-departmental jockeying that went on between the police and the FBI — when jurisdictions overlapped, the police particularly resented the FBI getting involved. It was resentment that was ages old, but heightened since 9/11, where the police felt that they had sacrificed hundreds of their own in a tragedy that the FBI should have prevented.