“Expectants?”
Still staring at the photo, Holly explained gently, “Means the poor fuckers were going to die.”
“Oh, honey!” exclaimed her mother. “You mustn’t say that!” Holly had glanced at her, thinking for an instant that her mother meant they should not have given up, should have tried to save everyone. Then she’d realized what the problem was. The chasm between them that she’d been struggling to bridge suddenly yawned into a gigantic gulf. Hopeless. She’d gathered up the photos and stood up.
“Honey, don’t be angry. You know I just want what’s best for you. You’ve been in a very crude place, I know, but you mustn’t use such language. You’re home now. You must put it behind you.”
None of her friends wanted to hear about it either. “Tell us a funny story,” they’d plead. “LikeM*A*S*H.”
So she’d put it behind her.
Ignored the news. The body counts. The demonstrations.
Torn up the letter to Billie Ann she’d started to write.
Gotten out of nursing because the emergency wards stirred up the adrenaline and the nightmares, and the other wards bored her to distraction.
She’d worked hard. Drunk hard. Put it behind her.
Until this year. In January, the mad scramble as the last Americans scurried onto helicopters. Peace with honor. Whoopee. In March, overhearing a snippet of a news program that stopped her in her tracks. The South Vietnamese had pulled out of Pleiku. No fight. Just plain pulled out. All her boys had fought to keep Pleiku for the south. They’d lost legs, faces, brains, lives. All wasted. Why? Why?
Did heaven look on, and would not take their part?
Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn.
She still struggled against it but since then she’d hardly had an undisturbed night’s sleep. Her defenses were eggshell-thin. Work usually still helped, but last night, a swollen belly and a peace sign had snapped her like kindling.
“Holly.”
She realized it was the second time Gabe had called her. “Sorry,” she said. “Just thinking deep thoughts. What’s up?”
“You’re looking a little raw this morning.”
“I’m okay. What’ve you got?”
“Two things. One local, one national.”
“Wonderful.”
“Yeah. The local—well, here he is.”
Holly looked around to see a frail old man of erect military posture, wearing a light gray summer suit, his long face elegantly lined with wrinkles, his pale eyes troubled. He seemed vaguely familiar.
Gabe said, “Mr. Taynton, this is Detective Schreiner. Mr. Taynton is the curator at the John Singleton Mosby Museum.”
Holly remembered him now. Every historic affair that Mosby held included a speech by this man, a walking encyclopedia of the Civil War guerrilla battlefield in the area. One of his grandfathers had fought with Mosby. Against the prevailing winds of the glorification of the Union cause, Taynton and his friends took their stand, staunchly championing the valor and nobility of the losers.
Holly wondered if anyone would ever do the same for her boys.
She shook his hand and asked, “How can we help you, Mr. Taynton?”
“Our museum has been robbed,” he said shakily.
Gabe put in, “He’s given the details to us already, but he wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry to hear Chief Posey is on vacation,” said Taynton fretfully. “Good friend of mine.”
“We’ll help you, Mr. Taynton,” said Holly in resignation. Looked like bouncing it back down to the local uniformed cops was not an option. “What was taken?”
“Our wonderful painting of Colonel Mosby’s forces. Cut out of its frame—it’s terrible!”
“Any leads?” Holly asked Gabe.
“Yeah. Mr. Taynton says a tour bus arrived from D.C. at opening time. He gave them the tour and they were back in the bus heading for Manassas already when he noticed the missing painting.”
“Nothing like this has ever happened!” Mr. Taynton was clearly very upset despite his rigidly dignified bearing. Holly could understand; to him this was violation of a shrine, of a sacred trust. “We’ve had some vandalism outdoors, of course—but when I walked into that room and saw the bare wall—”
“I thought you said it had been cut out of the frame. Was the frame there?”
“It was broken into pieces, on the front steps. Strips of the canvas still tacked on the stretcher on the back but the painting cut out. And the tools were there—razor, crowbar, glass-cutter.”
“Looks professional, then. Not just someone grabbing it on impulse,” Gabe pointed out.
“Okay, Gabe, get Winks on this. Tell him to contact Manassas right away.” She turned to Taynton. “We’ll do our best.”
“It’s so distressing!”
True. With the chief and three senior detectives on vacation, they were already stretched thin. But Mr. Taynton had clout around here, so they’d have to make room for his problem.
Gabe returned from escorting Taynton to Winks. Holly sighed. “Shit. I needed him to follow up the Colby thing.”
“Well, here’s more on Colby,” Gabe told her. “Remember I said there was local news and national news?”
“Congressman Knox?”
“Got it in one. D.C. called. A Sergeant Thornton. Says they’re up to their ears now what with guys on vacation—”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“So he can’t put anyone on it there, but he’s set things up so we can visit the congressman at ten. He said there’d be two of us.”
Holly glanced at her watch. “Shit. I’d wanted to hit Moffatt and the pilot’s sister first.”
“Yeah. But you know how much more important a congressman’s time is than a cop’s.”
“Yeah, I know.” Rear echelon motherfucker. She looked over her desk. Nothing but a note to call Olivia Kerr, who probably just wanted the latest for her story. She’d catch her later at the newspaper. Holly said, “Okay, Boy Wonder, let’s go. Can’t disappoint the bigwigs.”
Knox’s office was pretty much what she’d imagined: thick carpet, dark masculine furniture, personable young brunette in a linen suit at the reception desk, the Ohio state shield flanked by well-lit photos of the congressman smiling with Johnson, with Ford, with some schoolchildren, with a hog. A less well-lit photo of him smiling with Nixon. The brunette took them to an inner office where the real-life Knox, also smiling, put down a sheaf of papers, stood up to show off expensive tailoring on a trim athletic frame, and said, “Glad to meet you. Please sit down,” with a practiced handshake. Then he assumed a more sober face. “But is my understanding correct? This terrible business of the plane crash has brought on another tragedy?”
“We don’t know yet, sir.” Holly studied him: longish face with photogenic smile creases, intense eyes, hair cut carefully to disguise a receding hairline.
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“A reporter was murdered. One of the stories he was investigating was the January crash. But as yet we don’t know that it was related to his death.”
“I see. Colby? That’s the one the district police said, right, Dot?”
“That’s right.” The brunette nodded.
“Dale Colby, of the Mosby, Virginia Sun-Dispatch,” Gabe confirmed.
“Just spoke to him the other day.” Knox shook his head. “Unbelievable!”
“What was the subject of your conversation?” Holly had her notebook out.
“Well, in fact, I just said hello on my way into this office. Carol took care of him.”
“Carol?”
“Carol Carson. Runs the office here, right, Dot?”
“That’s right,” agreed the brunette.
“Can you tell me anything about Mr. Colby’s interest in the crash, sir?” Holly asked.
“Not really, except that he’s been one of the most persistent in asking for updates. Generally he just took the releases, came to the scheduled news conferences, that kind
of thing. I didn’t have any reason to give him a special interview.”
“I see.” Washington papers or Ohio papers would get the interviews. Yet Dale had kept chipping away. She asked, “Did you have any sense of whether he was interested in some particular angle of the investigation recently?”
Knox shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry. Just didn’t talk to him enough.”
“What is your own idea about the cause of the crash?”
“Terrorists,” he said confidently.
“Terrorists?”
“I’m one of the sponsors of an anti-terrorism bill. And I was planning on being on the plane until an important vote came up at the last minute.”
“So you think you were the target?”
“Makes sense. Kennedy, King …”
And Knox, yeah, sure. Holly asked, “Have there been any attempts since?”
“Not that we know of. Maybe the publicity about the crash made them realize we’d be on the alert.”
“What about the other sponsors of the anti-terrorism bill? Any attempts to harm them?”
A testy frown flitted across the photogenic face. “Not that I know of. But Carol Carson could probably help you.”
“Yes, we’d like to talk to her too.”
“Fine. Dot, why don’t you take them over there?” Knox picked up his sheaf of papers again.
11
Carol Carson’s office, behind the reception area, was less grand than Knox’s swagged and paneled room, but just as masculine. Carson herself was stocky, gray-haired, and dynamic. Nothing grandmotherly about her except her age. This was Rosie the Riveter thirty years further along. She was leaning back in her chair, talking to someone in the corner, when Dot opened the door to announce Holly and Gabe. Carol Carson stood up behind her massive teak desk and extended her hand.
“Glad to meet you!”
“Same here.” Holly entered to shake hands and glanced at the person getting to her feet in the corner.
Wonderful.
“You’ve met Maggie Ryan, I understand?” asked Carol Carson.
“Yes. And today I seem to be following in her footsteps.” Watch it, Schreiner, don’t sound cranky.
Maggie shrugged airily. Today there was no peace sign, just a sky-blue summer dress that drifted gently across her breasts and belly. She said, “I told you I was curious.”
“Well, Ms. Ryan, sorry to interrupt, but—”
“Hey, it’s okay! I’ll just grab a Coke for Sarah and see you later, Mrs. Carson.”
“Fine. Don’t go far. I’ll dig out that photo you wanted to see.”
“Great! Bye for now.”
“Bye!” piped Sarah. Gabe wagged his fingers at her and she giggled. He beamed and shut the door behind them.
“Please sit down,” said Carol Carson. “Interesting young woman, isn’t she? From Ohio.”
“She wanted to see a photo?” Holly asked.
Carol smiled. “Yes. Her mother is mayor of a town near Cincinnati, and I have a photo of her at a conference we both attended once.”
“I see.” Holly noted it down.
“She was asking about the plane crash investigation too. That’s why you’re here?”
“Yes. The congressman said you could fill us in on that.”
Carol Carson handed over a folder of papers. “Here’s the press packet. Exactly what Dale Colby received. Everything we know about it.”
Holly glanced through the papers. CAB reports, interviews, Xeroxes of newspaper articles, brief bios of the victims. She passed it on to Gabe. “Mrs. Carson, could you tell us something about the people who died?”
“Whatever I can.”
“Mr. Moffatt. What was his connection with the congressman?”
“He was an Ohio man. Made his money here in Washington but kept an interest in Ohio politics. Like Mr. Resler. They were going back to Ohio for a fund-raising conference. Always supported us, served on committees.”
“I see. Do you know Moffatt’s son Leon?”
“Not well. I’ve met him, of course. He was something of a disappointment to his father for a while. But they’d reconciled recently.”
“The son was upset about the stories being written.”
“Really?” Carol Carson shrugged. “Maybe it’s just that he wants things settled. Mrs. Resler feels the same way.”
“Did Leon Moffatt talk to you about your investigation?”
“Yes. Said basically he wanted it over with. He asked about our findings, just like the reporters. But this was back in June, and we had only the preliminary results to pass on.”
“I see. Have other people expressed an ongoing interest in this investigation?”
Carol Carson smiled, pulled open a file drawer, and handed Holly a list of names. “These are the people we mail to on this topic. The asterisks indicate relatives of the victims. I thought you might ask so I made you a copy.”
The list was dauntingly long. But the relatives, except for the few with Ohio addresses, were already on her own list. “Thank you, Mrs. Carson. Can you tell me if any of these people are—well, unusually interested in some way? Persistent, or angry, or with odd questions?”
“Not really.” Carol Carson’s brow wrinkled. “Moffatt’s son has been in, as I said. Mrs. Resler has checked in frequently but not antagonistically. She’s also asking us for advice on the foundation she’s establishing in her husband’s memory. Priscilla Lewis was upset because her brother—he was the pilot—had some medals that disappeared, and she wanted us to check with the Air Force to see if it would be possible to get replacements. Ann Kauffmann’s father was extremely distraught—it’s natural, she was still in college, she was—she only worked with us a few weeks, from about Thanksgiving, I think—and of course, her father was, um, upset—” Carol Carson stared down at her own well-groomed hands, both spread tensely on the blotter of her desk, as though pressing away an unwelcome image.
Holly played it gently. “He’d lost his daughter. He might have said something he didn’t really mean.”
Tears hard as diamonds stood in Carol Carson’s eyes. “He said Chappaquiddick. He said she had died in shame. It’s not true! There was nothing shameful, only tragic!”
Gabe’s glance flicked toward Holly, silent congratulations at pulling out this bit. Hanky-panky involving the virile Knox? Holly moved smoothly on. “Did he know it wasn’t true? Or was he upset enough to believe it?”
“Oh—I don’t know. I think it was just the first rush of grief.”
“Did he feel the press was reflecting badly on his daughter?”
Carson pulled herself away from her thoughts, frowned, and then said, “Oh, I see. You want to know if he might have had a grudge against Colby. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask at the newspaper. We corresponded with him only in Ohio, so I don’t know if he even knew Colby’s work.”
“I see.” Holly turned the page. “Tell me something about Peter Church.”
“My predecessor,” said Carol Carson soberly. “A talented man. He’d been with the congressman about ten years.”
“What does the job involve?”
Carol Carson smiled. “Just about everything! Meeting constituents, making up schedules, meeting the press, running the office here and in Ohio—you name it.”
“Advising on votes?”
“Sure. There are lots of other advisors too. His legal advisor, other experts. But I’m the one in touch with the grass roots, to tell him what’ll fly politically.”
“So yours is a position where you could make enemies.”
“I do my best not to. Peter did too, of course. But there are always idealists who think it has to be all or nothing. They don’t understand that there are people just as idealistic on the other side, and the best we can do is compromise.”
“So it’s possible someone might have thought Peter Church had sold out?”
“Yes. I’ve thought about that, obviously. Since I’m in the hot spot now,” Carol Carson admitted. “Ours is a r
ural district, has its share of good ole boys who admire frontier justice. But blowing up a plane doesn’t seem quite their style. A rifle out the window of a moving pickup truck would be more likely.”
“Yeah.” Holly had to agree with her; the good ole boys were not as promising as some other leads.
“My own feeling is that it’s likely a terrorist organization upset about the bill.”
“Yes, the congressman mentioned that. But no one has claimed responsibility for the bombing.”
“No. But maybe they don’t want publicity, they want to try again.” Obviously Carol Carson had thought this out too. She leaned forward, emphasizing her point with a stubby, neat index finger jabbing at the desk. “So if Dale Colby had found out something incriminating, they’d definitely want him out of the way.”
“You think the congressman is in danger, then?”
“We’re taking precautions, yes.”
“Are there any particular terrorist groups you suspect?”
“Not really.” Carol Carson handed over another paper. “Here’s a list. You probably know most of them. A few are apparently limited to Ohio.”
Holly skimmed the list. Free Kolumbus. Symbionese Liberation Army. Now there was a thought. Patty Hearst had disappeared, reappeared as Tania, disappeared again, and was still at large despite the efforts of parents, cops, the FBI. Maybe the SLA had perfected getting in and out of locked rooms. She handed the list to Gabe and said, “Thanks, Mrs. Carson. Do you know if any of the co-sponsors of the bill have had threats?”
“Not that I know of. That’s why we’re paying special attention to the Ohio groups on our list.”
“I see. Can you think of anything else that might help us now?”
“Not really. But—well, I did get a call from Colby yesterday afternoon.”
“Yesterday afternoon? What time?”
“About two-thirty. But it was strange. Gibberish, almost. Identified himself, and I asked what I could do for him. He said something, sounded like Moffatt. Then something I couldn’t understand and he hung up. I thought maybe he’d dialed the wrong number and really wanted someone else.”
Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) Page 13