Murder in the Supreme Court (Capital Crimes Series Book 3)

by Margaret Truman

  She felt the onset of panic. She drove by rote, passing corner after corner, wanting to turn at each of them. Eventually she crossed the Kutz Memorial Bridge and parked along the Tidal Basin under Japanese cherry trees that were waiting for spring.

  “My God, what’s happening to me,” she said as she gripped the wheel and tried to squeeze control into her body. She hated herself when she allowed this to happen. It was weak, pathetic, dangerous. It always frightened her to become confused. She was usually the one who could see things clearly in the midst of chaos, focus on the real issues, make crucial decisions to restore order and resolve conflicts.

  But now she sat alone and afraid, and desperately wished there was someone to comfort her, to grab hold of, to touch and be touched by. The sense of weakness was overwhelming. She started the car and drove to M Street, Northwest, in Georgetown, where after considerable searching she found a parking spot. As she walked up the street the sound of loud community singing and a piano came through the partially open front door of Club Julie. She almost turned and retraced her steps to her car but the pull of the music, the human voices, laughter, drew her inside.

  The club was unusually crowded for a weeknight. The smoke was thick, which was why the front door had been propped open.

  She’d decided that if she couldn’t find a secluded place at the bar she wouldn’t stay. She wasn’t one for joining in community sing-alongs, although she rather enjoyed listening and watching others indulge. She’d felt uncomfortable the last time she’d been here, which was the only other time. Her escort had insisted on sitting close to the piano. She thought about that night and winced.

  She glanced nervously about. A stool at the corner of the bar nearest the front door appeared to be vacant, so she went to it. A reasonably well-dressed man on the next stool smiled and said, “Hello there.”

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked. She noticed an empty beer glass in front of it.

  “I think he left,” the man said. “It’s all yours.”

  She sat and waited to be served.

  “Let me buy the lady a drink,” the man told the bartender.

  “Thank you, no,” Vera said. To the bartender: “A vodka and tonic, please.”

  When the bartender returned with her drink he said, “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  She was startled by the comment. “I’ve been very busy,” she said, wishing he hadn’t spoken to her.

  “Yeah, right,” said the bartender. “Anyway, good to see you again. Enjoy.”

  Julie played a song familiar to the man next to her, who began to sing, turned to her and said between the lines, “Know this one?”

  She shook her head.

  He stopped singing. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I was only here once, a long time ago.”

  “Nice place. I don’t get here much myself but I was coming home from a meeting and thought I’d stop in for a pop and a little music.”

  She sipped her drink.

  “You live around here?”

  “No.”

  “Work in the neighborhood?”

  “No.”

  “I’m vice-president of a computer company. We’re not very big but…” He pulled out a business card and shoved it at her. She tried to read it in the dim light.

  “Name’s George Jansson,” he said, extending his hand.

  She took it. “My name is Vera.”

  “Vera? Nice name, very old-fashioned.” He scratched his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a Vera before.” He laughed. “Lots of Georges around, though. Can I buy you a refill?” He held up both hands to offset a negative reply. “No strings, no ulterior motives. I just enjoy talking to you.” He looked down the length of the bar and called out, “Robbie, another round here.”

  He shouldn’t have had any additional drinks, Vera decided twenty minutes later. He’d become tipsy, not less of a gentleman, just sillier. She didn’t dislike him. His hair was close cropped and gray at the temples, he had kind eyes.

  “Another?” he asked.

  “No, thank you, I really must go.”

  “It’s too early. Come on, hang in, or at least keep me company.”

  “I’m sorry but it’s been a rather difficult day and tomorrow will be the same…”

  Julie announced that he was about to play a request and that a favorite regular patron would sing it. A portly man wearing a shirt collar too tight for him, and carrying a drink, stepped to the microphone and waited for Julie to play the introduction to “Chicago.” He sang with gusto, pronouncing the title, “Chick-cargo, Chick-cargo.”

  Vera’s bar companion called for another round of drinks.

  “No, please, I can’t stay—”

  “How about a nightcap someplace else?”

  “I’m sorry…”

  He put his hand on her arm and looked at her. “Look, you don’t have to worry. I’m a pretty nice guy, if I do say so. I just… well, I like being able to talk to a woman. I’m not hustling you, please believe me. We could just go and have coffee, just sit a little longer, that’s all.”

  It was, of course, just what she wanted, in fact badly needed… “Well, all right, but just for a bit…”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell you what. There’s an all-night place six blocks straight up M Street. I’ll meet you there. They have great cheesecake. You like cheesecake?”

  “Yes, matter of fact I do.” She found herself able to smile. He was nice.

  “Good.” He paid the checks, helped her on with her coat, said good night to the bartender and held the door open for her. The cold night air felt very good on her face.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  She pointed. “Two blocks up.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “My pleasure. Never mind what they say, chivalry isn’t dead, and it doesn’t cost a dime.” He took her arm and they started up the street.

  Their progress did not go unnoticed. Detective Martin Teller had pulled up at the curb across from Club Julie as they were leaving. He recognized Vera immediately. “What the hell is she doing here?” he asked himself. He considered following them but saw that they’d stopped at a car. The man opened the door and Vera got in.

  “And who is that?” Teller asked himself as he got out of his car and went into his favorite club. The seats previously occupied by Vera and the computer executive were still vacant, and he took one. “Robbie,” he called to the bartender.

  “Hiya, Marty,” Robbie said, “good to see you.”

  “Same here. Robbie, that woman who just left with the guy in the suit. Do you know her?”

  Robbie shrugged, shook his head.

  “Did she come in with the guy?”

  “No. He bought her a couple of drinks and they took off. He comes in regularly, though.”

  “You never saw her before?”

  Robbie leaned on the bar. “Yeah, I’ve seen her before, once, I think.”

  “In here?”

  “Yeah, months ago.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Robbie made another customer’s drink, filled a waitress’s order at the service end of the bar, then returned to Teller. “What can I tell you, Marty? I can’t remember every woman who comes in here.”

  “Try.”

  “Important?”

  “Maybe. Give me a gin while you go down memory lane.”

  He came back with the drink. “Okay, I do remember more about her than I might some others. She’s a type, you know, very uptight, sort of prissy, pinched face like she kind of disapproves of everything. For some reason she didn’t strike me as the sort who’d enjoy our place. Most everybody’s pretty loose here, right?… Let me see. Oh yeah, there’s another reason for remembering her. The real reason, I guess… She had a tiff with a guy at the bar and left.”

  “The same guy as tonight?”

  “No, no,
a lot younger.”

  “She pick him up here?”

  “Nope. They came in together, and that was another reason I remember them. He didn’t look like he belonged here either. He was young, a sort of snotty character if I remember right. Good-looking guy, though, dressed nice. They didn’t fit in here, and they didn’t seem to fit together either. Still, who knows who fits with who anymore? Anyway, they sat down there.” He pointed to the end of the bar nearest the piano. “I served them and everything was okay for a while, but then they started arguing. I think I tried to finesse them out of it, offered a drink on the house, something like that.”

  “How’d it end up?”

  “That I remember. She left and he stayed. I think he ended up leaving with another girl.”

  Teller drank half his drink. Robbie started to walk away but Teller said, “Wait, Robbie. Tell me what the guy looked like.”

  “I don’t really remember. Like I said, he was young, blond, snotty, looked down his nose all night.”

  “Remember the picture of the Supreme Court clerk who was murdered?”

  The bartender rubbed his chin. “Sure, what was his name?”

  “Sutherland.”

  “Right… Jesus…”

  “What?”

  “That’s right, that could have been the guy she was with that night. It looked like him…”

  Teller sat back and threw up his hands. “Here I am investigating the most important murder case in Washington history, aside from Lincoln, and you, a trained observer of mankind, miss something like this. Was it the same guy or not, damn it.”

  “Could be. I’d have to see a picture.”

  Teller went to his car, took an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Clarence Sutherland from his briefcase in his trunk and returned to the bar. He led Robbie into the kitchen, where there was more light. Robbie examined the photograph.

  “Well?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s the same one.”

  “You think?”

  Robbie looked at Teller. “Come on, Marty, this place isn’t a lineup. Lots of guys come through. I can’t be sure, but if I had to lay a bet on it I’d say it’s the same guy.”

  Teller leaned against a sink, drew a deep breath. “Don’t tell anybody about this, Robbie.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Just don’t.”

  The chef, an illegal alien named Juan, grinned at Teller. “Hey, detective, you want something to eat?”

  “Yeah, fries and a Julieburger, medium, and easy on the anchovies. But not too easy.”

  ***

  Vera passed the all-night diner and saw George, the computer executive, get out of his car. She didn’t want to disappoint him, go back on her word, but any guilt about that took second place to a compelling need to be home. She accelerated, and the diner became a red neon dot in her rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER 23

  Chester Sutherland decided as he approached his house in Chevy Chase to drive around the back and then enter through his office. He noticed as he came up the long driveway that all lights in the house were off with the exception of his bedroom.

  He did not immediately get out of his car. The last seven hours were a blur to him. After leaving the two-hour meeting with Bill Stalk at CIA Headquarters he’d gone to his club, where he had dinner alone. He then did something he had not done in years, went to the movies. He hadn’t liked the film, an attempt at comedy by names he was only vaguely familiar with from having once watched “Saturday Night Live.” The young people in the audience loved it though. It didn’t matter, though, whether he liked the film or not. It was something to do, a way to blot out what had happened during the two hours with Stalk.

  The meeting had started pleasantly enough, Stalk again telling of his fascination with video electronic games and how he’d decided to take a few days off in the future and spend them practicing so that he could better compete with his son. Sutherland had listened politely, even offered comments of his own on the subject, but he knew the badinage would soon be over and the serious subject that had brought him there would take its place.

  “So,” Stalk said as he sat behind his desk and propped his feet on it, “you wanted to talk to me, Chester. You sounded upset on the phone, although I suppose if someone had broken into my office I’d be upset too.” He laughed. “It’s a good thing for us that you never did keep files on the MKULTRA Project. If you had I’d be concerned that whoever broke into your office might have taken a peek.”

  Sutherland knew Stalk was playing with him. If he’d had any doubts earlier about who had broken into his files, they no longer existed.

  “Did the Company do it, Bill?”

  Stalk assumed an expression of surprise, shock. “The Company? Why would we do such a thing to someone who’s been an important, trusted part of our operation?”

  Sutherland, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast and then had only partially finished because of Vera’s call, suddenly was hungry and would have liked a drink. He was, he knew, in a touchy position. If the CIA hadn’t taken the files, his admitting that he had in fact kept them, despite his constant denials, would brand him a liar and, worse, a fool. Still, if it hadn’t been someone from the Company, he felt obliged to report it to the man and the agency most jeopardized by the theft.

  He decided to admit he’d kept files and that they were now missing, hoping that his candor would bring a parallel honesty from Stalk. It did not work that way… After Sutherland finished telling Stalk the truth, the director stood, brought his fist down sharply on the desk. “Damn it, I knew it.” He quickly went to the expanse of windows overlooking the woods, and for a moment Sutherland thought that he was going to put his fist through the glass. Instead he rolled the fingertips of both hands over the pane.

  “I’m sorry, Bill,” Sutherland said, standing and coming halfway across the room. “You must understand that I had several motives for involvement in the project. I do care about serving the country when and as I can, but I’m also an individual. I’m a scientist, or at least I’m involved with science, and for someone like me the payoff is in the excitement of discovery, of breaking new ground, creating understanding where it hasn’t existed before. I couldn’t devote all that time and knowledge without having something to show for it personally. I’ve never talked about it to anyone, and the files have been secured in my private office for as long as they’ve existed. But it was important to me that I at least had them.”

  “Like Nixon keeping the tapes,” Stalk said. He was not amused. In fact, his face looked like granite. He went back to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of file folders. Sutherland recognized them immediately as the ones taken from his office.

  “It was you,” Sutherland said.

  “Of course it was us, Chester, and a damn lucky thing it was. A few years ago if we’d known these files existed we’d have done the same thing, only we would have been rather less discreet about it. The American public has seemed to demand more discretion these days with their break-ins.”

  Sutherland leaned forward. “But why take them now? I told you that no one has ever seen them except me. Every entry was made personally by me.”

  Stalk slapped the files back in the drawer and closed it hard.

  Sutherland sat in a chair and drew a deep breath. He was afraid he knew what was coming.

  “You weren’t the only one to have access to those files Chester, and you know it. Your son did too.”

  Sutherland looked at the floor. “Whatever my son might have been, or might have done, he’s paid for it, Bill. Do we need to attack him now? Whatever he knew… about people, other things, whatever he might have done to hurt… God knows, he’s been punished, and with no chance for appeal, no chance of parole. My son, sir, is dead. Isn’t that enough?”

  Stalk nodded. “I do sympathize with you, Chester. I was thinking about your son this morning while I was playing that video game with my boy. I suppose there’s no greater loss than the death of a child, no mat
ter the age.”

  Sutherland felt his stomach clutch.

  “Are you all right, Chester?”

  “Yes… I’m not happy with what your people did, but I suppose I can understand it—”

  “Chester, it’s been a very difficult period for us. We’ve been hit on from all sides, which does not exactly make our mission any easier. There have been so many leaks that damaged us, and we were forced to release some of MKULTRA under the Freedom of Information Act. Sure, we sanitized everything we could and held back more than some think we should have, but you know as well as anyone how compromised this nation would be if the entire project had been laid open. When we realized that material we hadn’t released was beginning to surface, we became, to put it mildly, concerned. Our first assumption was that the leak was within the division, and we went to a good deal of trouble to find it and shut it off. But then we looked outside and uncovered that your son was making it known in certain places he had access to his father’s files. Naturally, I can’t reveal the source of that information. What a shame, was what I said, and felt, when the picture became clearer. What a damn bloody shame.”