A Slow Walk to Hell

by Patrick A. Davis

  “Sure,” she said, when I asked her. “I was really going to vote for Teresa Harris. You can’t help but admire a woman like her.”

  Proving that for some, gender was more important than party affiliation.

  “Congressman Harris,” Simon called out suddenly. “A final question.” He waved an arm over his head and ran across the grass toward him. And Simon never ran.

  It didn’t take Simon long to get an answer.

  He spoke with the congressman for only a few seconds before Harris followed Slater into the helicopter. Hassall crawled in behind them and pulled the door closed.

  Simon stepped away as the engine roared to life. He watched the helicopter lift off, then began retracing his steps.

  “Okay, Marty,” Amanda said, “any guesses why Harris wants this to be a hate crime perpetrated by Colonel Kelly? Because that’s damn sure what he seems to want.”

  “Harris must believe he can use the hate crime angle to gain a political advantage.”

  “How? By indicting the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy? Suggest it influenced Colonel Kelly to commit the murder?”

  “That’s the scenario the SECDEF was worried about.”

  The helicopter noisily chattered past us, heading east toward the Potomac River and the congressman’s Maryland estate. As it disappear into the night, Amanda appraised me with skepticism. “I dunno, Marty. All that will do is put the military on the defensive and he’s trying to gain their support.”

  I shrugged. “Even with Murdock’s endorsement, Harris knows most of the military won’t vote for him. Maybe he figures he’s got nothing to lose by attacking Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”

  “I still don’t see how that translates into a political advantage for Harris. It’s not like the president is going to be tainted by this.”

  “He’s the commander in chief. Chances are, he’ll feel obligated to defend the military’s position.”

  “But most of the public doesn’t support gays serving openly in the armed forces. Look what happened to Clinton. He got his ass handed to him over the issue.”

  I wasn’t sure if her assessment held true any longer. Over the years, the American public had grown more tolerant and it was possible that—

  “Uh-oh,” Amanda said. “Bad news.”

  Simon was less than twenty yards away, striding rapidly, his lips pressed into a tight line. Obviously, Harris’s response had displeased him. As he walked up, I asked him what the problem was.

  “Time, Martin.” He made an angry, stabbing motion in the direction of the departed helicopter. “I don’t understand how Congressman Harris knew the time.”

  “Of?”

  “Colonel Kelly’s message. How could Harris have known when it was made?”

  Amanda said, “I thought you told him—”

  “I didn’t. I only told him Kelly had left a threatening message. I never said anything about the time of the call. So how did he know?”

  She was unsettled by the intensity of his gaze. “I…well, I suppose it could be because—”

  She visibly started. I caught on a split second later and we both regarded Simon in shock.

  “Simon, this is crazy,” Amanda said. “You’re suggesting that Congressman Harris would—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you that there are only two ways Congressman Harris could have known about the time of Colonel Kelly’s message. The first is if Major Talbot had mentioned it to him or his wife. But the congressman informed me that he hadn’t spoken with his nephew in several weeks and his wife hasn’t mentioned any recent conversation. Now whether Harris was involved in the murder, I don’t know. What I do know is that someone listened to Colonel Kelly’s message and relayed its contents to him. It’s highly unlikely that this person would be one of the maids, and since we know Talbot lived alone, that leaves only—”

  “The killer,” Amanda said.

  24

  The night was cool and quiet. A light breeze felt good on my face. From the gate, we heard the scattered shouts from the reporters, calling out to us. In the distance, a dog began to howl. Amanda slowly shook her head, her expression dazed. She still had trouble grasping the impact of what Simon had just told us.

  A man who would be president could be a killer.

  She went still and stared off into space. It gradually dawned on me that she was trying to recall the conversation. To be absolutely certain.

  “Simon’s right,” I said, breaking in on her thoughts. “Harris did mention that the message had been recorded last night.” I’d remembered because of Simon’s surprised reaction to this remark from Harris.

  A nod of acceptance. Amanda briefly closed her eyes and when they opened, we heard her barely restrained rage. “His own nephew. The son of a bitch had his own nephew killed—”

  “We don’t know that,” Simon said.

  Amanda’s head swung around to him. “Huh? Dammit, you just said—”

  “The killer told Harris of the message. We still don’t know Harris was involved in the murder.”

  “Get real. That proves Harris knew the killer. You think that might just be coincidence? Please.”

  “All I’m suggesting is to withhold judgment until—”

  Amanda was too spun up and talked right over him. “What about the way Harris is pushing for this to be a hate crime? He practically ordered us to arrest Colonel Kelly. I wondered about that. We all did. Marty had this theory that Harris was going to use the issue to embarrass the military and the president, but now we know the truth. Harris wants Kelly arrested to cover for the real killer. It all fits. You know it does.”

  Her speech completed, she jammed her hands on her hips, defying him to respond.

  “I agree with your assertions…”

  “I’m thrilled.”

  “I agree Harris’s actions are suspicious. I agree he appears guilty—”

  “So what’s the problem? Don’t tell me you’re still on the kick that he’s got too damned much integrity to be a murderer.”

  “That can’t be completely disregarded—”

  “Like hell it can’t.”

  “But what concerns me is what you mentioned earlier. The motive. What reason could Harris have for wanting Major Talbot dead?”

  “They didn’t get along. That resentment could have escalated to the point where Harris hated Talbot enough to kill him. Or possibly it was money. I mean Harris is shelling out over a million a year to support Talbot. I suppose Harris could have cut Talbot off, but that would have meant getting into a confrontation with Teresa.” She saw I was about to chime in. “Let me finish, Marty.”

  As if I had a choice.

  “It could also be,” she went one, “that Harris was worried that Talbot might be outed and it would cost him votes. Sure, I know Harris said we could go public with Talbot’s homosexuality, but that’s conveniently after the fact. With Talbot dead; Harris knows the American public won’t give a damn he was gay. This could be where the missing tape comes in. Let’s say Harris knew it was going to be released and figured the only way out was to kill Talbot before…”

  She trailed off, noting our dubious expressions. She sighed. “Bass ackwards, huh? If Harris was going to have anyone killed, it’d be the person who took the tape and not his own nephew.”

  Simon and I nodded. I said, “Harris has a sizeable lead in the election. I’m not even sure if he would have considered the tape all that damaging. If you noticed, he didn’t seem all that interested in the other videos we found.” I added, “I also don’t buy the money motive. So what if he was shelling out a million bucks to Talbot each year? That’s pocket change for a guy like him.” My brow knitted at a sudden inconsistency.

  “Yes, Martin?” Simon said.

  It took me several seconds to follow the thread. “The torture still bugs me. Especially the penis jammed in Talbot’s mouth. I can’t believe Harris would order Talbot brutalized in such a fashion. Even if he wanted the killing to look like a
hate crime, that act seemed unnecessarily sadistic. Harris could have told the killer to scrawl a note about Talbot being a fag. Something.”

  Amanda said, “The killer might have acted on his own.”

  “True, but…”

  “Martin’s intuition is correct,” Simon said. “The killer didn’t dismember Talbot’s penis on impulse. Remember, Talbot was alive while this occurred. To me, this is crucial. I believe the killer was making a symbolic statement, to ensure Talbot understood why he was being killed.”

  “A cocksucker,” Amanda said. “The killer was telling Talbot he was dying because he was a cocksucker.”

  “Ah, but that implies a hate crime. And if we rule that out and concentrate on the placement of the penis…”

  He drifted off, looking at her. Waiting to see if she could connect the dots.

  She did, saying, “Got it. The mouth. The killer put the penis in Talbot’s mouth because he was going to talk, reveal something he shouldn’t.”

  A nod of approval. A teacher pleased with a pupil.

  Not that Amanda would see it that way.

  She announced stubbornly, “It has to be Harris. He must have found out that Talbot was going to go public with something damning. Had him killed before he could.”

  “And the missing videotape?”

  Her mouth hunted for an explanation. But the truth was, there was no plausible way to link the missing tape of one of Talbot’s gay lovers to Harris.

  “What if,” she tossed out finally, “it was taken to confuse the real motive?”

  “But the missing tape suggests blackmail and Harris wants this to be a hate crime.”

  Logic she couldn’t deny. She responded with a frustrated grimace.

  “The point is,” Simon said, with a tolerant smile, “we must be careful not to jump to conclusions. Blackmail, a lover’s quarrel, a hate crime—nothing can be ruled out. We have no choice but to follow every lead, beginning with the most likely. Do you understand, Martin? The most likely.”

  And he looked at me in a suggestive manner.

  I had no argument. After all, Simon had gone out on a limb for me and deserved an explanation why General Baldwin was here this afternoon. I told him I’d like to question Major Coller first, since he might be able to confirm whether Talbot had a relationship with General Baldwin.

  “We don’t know when Coller will return home this evening,” he said.

  Translation: He didn’t want to wait. I told him I’d go question Sam now.

  “We’ll question him,” Amanda corrected.

  Second translation: She didn’t trust me.

  As Simon, Amanda, and I entered the foyer, we saw the two med techs rolling the gurney with Talbot’s body toward the hallway at the rear. By the staircase, Enrique was camped on the bottom step, simultaneously talking into a cell phone and scribbling in his notepad. Spotting us, he motioned emphatically with the pad, then continued to write.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” Amanda said.

  A statement rather than a question. “Probably,” I said.

  Another cell phone rang and we automatically looked at the ones we were carrying. It was mine.

  General Charlie Hinkle was on the other end and sounded upset. “You were supposed to fucking call me, Marty.”

  “Sorry, Charlie, it’s been hectic and—Ow!” I felt an intense pain in my elbow. I wrenched free from Simon’s grip. “What are you—”

  Hang up, he mouthed.

  I frowned, confused. Charlie said, “What the fuck is going on, Marty? Marty? You there? Dammit, quit screwing around—”

  Simon snatched the phone from my hand. “General Hinkle, Lieutenant Santos. Martin will call you back in a minute.” Amanda and I could hear Charlie sputtering as Simon canceled the call.

  As he handed me back the phone, I said, “For chrissakes, Simon—”

  “I didn’t want you to do anything foolish.”

  I glared at him. “Define foolish.”

  He glanced around, saw no one was in earshot, then gave me a hard look. “No one,” he said, “can know about our suspicions concerning Congressman Harris.”

  I was with him now, but thought he was overreacting. “Charlie can keep his mouth shut. I’ll tell him to keep his mouth shut.”

  His eyes locked on mine. “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Simon’s on to something, Marty,” Amanda said. “General Hinkle will have to tell the SECDEF and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Once that happens, there’s bound to be a leak. Someone on the staffs. Think about the fallout. The public and the media will assume it’s all politically driven. That we’re just trying to smear Harris.”

  I understood their concerns, but—“So we don’t tell anyone? We keep our suspicions completely to ourselves?”

  Solemn nods. Simon said, “We have no alternative. Once Harris becomes aware we’re investigating him, he’ll use the power of his position to stop us. And he will succeed.”

  “That’s what worries me,” I said. “Harris is too powerful. Without help, we haven’t got a chance of getting him.”

  “You’re admitting defeat, Martin. Don’t.”

  “Like hell I am,” I flung back. “I’m being a realist. To arrest Harris, we’re going to need an airtight case. That means we need a boatload of evidence and then some. We can’t collect it all on our own. We can’t.”

  No response. He and Amanda looked at me, disappointment creeping into their eyes. My phone rang again. I made no move to answer it.

  “It’s your decision, Martin,” Simon said quietly.

  But it wasn’t. Not really. It wasn’t so much that I’d been outvoted two to one. Rather it was the growing realization that there was no good option. Whichever way we went, if Harris was guilty, he’d probably walk. The reality was that justice didn’t apply to the rich and powerful. It just didn’t.

  “Screw it,” I said and punched “talk.”

  Charlie chewed me out for almost thirty seconds before he got around to asking about the case. Under Simon and Amanda’s attentive ears, I answered no to every question except: “Yes, Major Talbot was gay.”

  This generated more swearing from Charlie. While I waited for him to unscrew himself from the ceiling, I debated whether I should tell him that his worst fears might be realized. I decided to pass. If—and at this moment it was still an if—if Congressman Harris intended to portray Talbot’s death as a hate crime, there wasn’t much the DoD or the administration could do about it.

  Why tell Charlie and give him an early coronary?

  When I ended my conversation with him, Enrique had finished interviewing the maid Mrs. Johnson and was in the process of briefing Simon and Amanda on what he’d learned.

  Referring to his notepad, he methodically went through the questions he’d asked her, paraphrasing her responses. This was his style. Despite his cavalier attitude, he had a reputation for being smoothly thorough and deliberate.

  Mrs. Johnson’s negative answers outweighed the positives.

  No, she had no idea who might have murdered Major Talbot, or why. No, she’d never heard him mention Colonel Kelly or General Baldwin. Yes, she did know Major Coller—he visited often. No, she never recalled him staying over. No, she hadn’t known Major Talbot was gay. No, she didn’t know anything about a video camera in the bedroom. Yes, it was a little over a week ago when Major Talbot installed the security cameras and purchased the guns. No, he never told her if there was something specific he was trying to protect himself against.

  And so on.

  I stood there, with my pen poised over my notepad, waiting to jot down something of interest. But all the information Enrique passed on was what we already knew or suspected.

  Until he mentioned the priest.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” he said, “suggested we talk to Father Carlacci, Major Talbot’s priest. He’s the pastor of the Church of the Sacred Heart.”

  “On Randolph Street?” Simon said.

  “Yeah. The two men were quite close. Father Ca
rlacci dined here several times a month. He enjoyed good booze and after dinner, he and Talbot would retire to the study, where they’d spend half the night drinking and talking. Whatever they discussed, Mrs. Johnson doesn’t know. They usually clammed up whenever she or Mrs. Chang were around. I said usually, because last Thursday Mrs. Johnson went to the study to refill their drinks. As she approached the door, she could hear them arguing. It was mostly Father Carlacci’s voice she heard. She could tell he was angry and half in the bag. The door’s pretty thick and Mrs. Johnson’s hearing isn’t all that good. Still, she managed to understand a few phrases. One because Carlacci repeated it.”

  He scanned his notes. “ ‘You’ll have to tell them, Franklin. It can’t continue. You’ll have to tell them.’ ”

  He glanced up.

  “Who is them?” Simon said. “What can’t continue?”

  Enrique shook his head. “Mrs. Johnson didn’t know. Right about then, she figured she’d better not intrude. As she left, she heard Major Talbot’s response.”

  His eyes again went to his notepad. This time he looked up before he related what he’d written down down.

  “ ‘They’ll kill me, Father,’ ” he said. “She heard Major Talbot scream, ‘They’ll kill me, Father.’ ”

  “Son of a bitch,” a voice said.

  It was mine.

  25

  That was it. That was all Mrs. Johnson heard. Just three short sentences. Still, it was enough.

  We could cross off hate crime and put blackmail into the possible but unlikely category. More importantly, we had a source who could provide us the motive and possibly the killer’s identity. The question was whether Father Carlacci would tell us. Being a part-time Protestant, I had to ask.

  “It depends,” Simon replied, “on whether Father Carlacci considered Talbot’s statements protected by the sanctity of the confessional.”