Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  One more drink to fortify him after the others had left. Bill then picked a tape recorder off the shelf, crammed in a new cassette, and took off for the second interview.

  The word had spread quickly. A member of Chesterton’s congregation had arrived to extend sympathy and help. It was only with difficulty that Bill managed to get the bereaved husband alone.

  “Was your wife wearing any jewelry/”

  Chesterton looked puzzled, then shook his head.

  “No earrings, no necklace, pin or anything.?

  Again a head shake and, “She never wore jewelry.” A pause. “She did have a wedding ring.”

  Bill remembered the ring on the corpse.

  “Do you have any idea what she might have been carrying in her purse.”

  “She didn’t take her purse with her.”

  The alcoholic haze was still there, stronger than ever, but Bill knew there was something wrong.

  “Would you roll up your sleeves please?”

  Seemingly without thinking, Chesterton rolled up his sleeves, explaining the scratches as he did so. “I might as well admit it,” he said, “We quarreled. That’s why she left. I tried to stop her. That’s how I got these.” He raised his arms like a surgeon waiting for the plastic gloves.

  “What was the quarrel about?”

  “She said she was in love with someone else. Someone from the Boise congregation where I preached a few times.”

  Bill felt a mixture of empathy and horror. The memory of Emilie saying he was a small-town sheriff who would never amount to anything returned. He wished he had a drink. How had he felt when she left? He’d thought of suicide. Why had he felt the way he did? Would he have felt differently if she’d walked away down a path to her death? Yes, her leaving had been a blow to his male vanity. Her death would have left that part of him unscathed. And the finality of it would have made it possible for healing to begin.

  Then it occurred to him. Perhaps Chesterton had reacted very differently to the discovery that his wife was leaving him for another man. No souvenir had been taken from Isobelle’s body. The pathologist would know whether the scratches had been made immediately before her death, or many minutes before as Chesterton claimed. The conviction grew. This was no Snake River Stalker death. He looked at Chesterton, who averted his eyes.

  It took only a little pressure. Bill weighed the alternatives. Chesterton was ready to talk—was talking. Another witness was almost essential, but minds changed quickly. Chesterton was talking now. He might not talk later. Pulling out the tape recorder, Bill pressed the record button and read Chesterton his rights.

  The story changed little—except for the ending. They’d quarreled. There was another man. She’d run out of the house. Chesterton had followed, caught up with her, strangled her and been scratched in the process. It was then he thought of the Stalker. Going back to the house he found a rope and returned to where he’d left her.

  There were still some blank areas, but Chesterton was exhausted and made no effort to resist. Back at the office, Bill sent Simms off to Spokane with the scrapings from under the victim’s fingernails along with a sample of Chesterton’s hair. “We’ve got his confession, but I want to be absolutely sure.”

  Al checked his watch. “It should take me less than two hours to get there this time of day. With luck you’ll have the results by 9:30.”

  “Fine. I’ll stick around and wait for them.”

  The evening went slowly. The night shift was out on patrol. Chesterton was the only guest of the County, and the place was remarkably quiet. Not even a phone call. Bill opened the bottom drawer of his desk and fished out the half-full pint of whiskey, thought better of it, and put it back.

  He looked at the recorder on his desk and decided to replay the interrogation. Pushing the button, nothing happened. He flipped the lid to reveal a mass of unwound tape on top of a cassette that had been jammed in at an angle. The full horror struck only a bit at a time. A well-known minister in jail for killing his wife and the only proof a confession that had been witnessed solely by him and never recorded. That was when the quiet of the office and adjacent cells struck home.

  Bill was convinced at that moment that Chesterton had committed suicide. Rushing down the hall to the cells, he felt a sense of utter relief at seeing his charge sleeping peacefully. Even then, he had to watch closely for signs of breathing. The phone rang.

  The nasal twang of the lab attendant greeted him. “You’re right on, Sheriff.”

  “The blood matches the hair?”

  “Yup. All the samples?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The hair, the hair. You know. The Stalker’s hair. A perfect match. You’re famous, now. Better be prepared for the media. They’ll be all over you before morning. We’re betting here at the lab that you’ll win the Law Enforcement Officer of the Year Award for sure. You’ll be on headline news with the President pinning the medal to your chest.”

  Bill wondered as he returned the phone to its cradle why it hadn’t occurred to him. He’d suspected Chesterton because the killer hadn’t taken any souvenir from the victim’s body. But Chesterton, the Snake River Stalker, hadn’t needed to take any souvenirs from his wife. After all, he had a house full of reminders.

  Bill reached into the bottom drawer, took out the bottle and dropped it into the wastebasket.

  SPY LIST

  Huang Li could feel the heat radiating from his hands and cheeks. He knew his heart was pumping faster. He also knew the worst was over. As Security Chief for the Chinese embassy he was familiar with every security measure and had disabled all of them. The night watchman had been no problem. He’d lived long enough in Washington DC to have developed a taste for American whiskey. One tablet in his drink had been enough.

  Taking care of External Assets Attaché Tang Kaifu hadn’t been quite so easy. The miserable fellow drank only tea. And, though Huang Li had been assured the tablet would still go undetected, it was a relief to see that his supplier had been right. Then Huang Li still had to use Tang’s lifeless finger to activate the fingerprint recognition to bring up the list on the computer screen.

  Huang Li now needed only to download the names and descriptions—seventy-three of them. These were “assets” scattered across the country, in defense plants, in electronics companies, in a variety of sensitive positions in and out of the U.S. government. He quickly calculated that the CIA would be paying him about six thousand dollars apiece for the names. For a moment, he wished he had bargained for more. They had been generous in the past, and would certainly have paid heavily for this treasure trove. Too late to do much about it now, though.

  He scrolled through the list, then stopped as one name stood out. No, it wasn’t too late. That name was too good to turn over to the agency. That one he would hold in reserve for later bargaining. Selecting the name and description on the computer screen, he printed it, folded up the printout and slipped it into his wallet. All he had to do then was to copy the list to disc, omitting only number thirty-six, now safely stored away.

  Turning off the power, he took out the disc—an old-fashioned CD because Beijing still was reluctant to bring its computers up to twenty-first century standards— placed it in a leather dispatch case, stepped over the attaché’s body, and made it out of the building after turning on all of the security devices he had earlier so easily rendered ineffective. Now that it was all behind him, his stomach churned. Ignoring the warnings of dyspepsia, he slipped behind the wheel of one of the embassy’s Mercedes town cars, carded the garage gate, and headed across the Potomac to the outskirts of Arlington for the rendezvous with his contact.

  In two hours the dispatch cases would have been traded, and he’d be safely on a plane to Frankfurt, first leg to Taiwan. He smiled to himself, thinking of how the Minister of Public Security back in Beijing would react to the news of the dead attaché, the missing Security Chief, and perhaps—if he was clever enough to realize it—the leak of Beijing’s most pre
cious piece of information. Huang Li also smiled at the reception he knew awaited him from Wu Cheng. He had promised her he would see her in Taipei, and they would have enough money to live on comfortably for the rest of their lives. She would be more than grateful, more than generous with her favors.

  With the drop site now only a couple of miles away, the pain in his stomach was the only shadow cast on a bright future. The one last antacid tablet he fished out of his pocket would not be enough, but there was still time before he needed to make the drop. He pulled off at a convenience store on the outskirts of town.

  So concerned with his now raging stomach, Huang Li took no notice of the man ahead of him at the counter. Only when the man turned—gloved, ski masked, gun trained at Huang Li’s chest—did he become fully aware he’d walked into a holdup.

  “Down on the floor!” The gun waved him over next to the Korean storeowner who was already spread-eagled near the counter with another masked man standing over him. Swift hands removed Huang Li’s wallet and emptied his pockets. He heard the sound of the opening cash register while face down on the floor.

  A last warning. “Look up and you’re dead.”

  The taller of the two men led the way out of the store, waved Huang Li’s keys at his companion and said, “Let’s travel in style.”

  In moments they were out of the parking lot, masks off, and headed toward D.C. in the Mercedes.

  Looking over at his companion, the one behind the wheel said, “There couldn’t have been more than fifty bucks in the till. What was in that guy’s wallet, Sil?”

  Sil was busy rummaging through it at the moment. “Twenty-seven dollars. Credit cards I wouldn’t touch. A lot of shit in what must be Chinese. Yeah. Here’s his license. Guy named Li. Nobody carries money around any more. Even the Chinese lug plastic. That was a dumb-shit thing to do, picking that place, Marcus.”

  “You were the one who picked it.”

  Sil looked gloomy. “Well, it was the wrong time of night. They must stash all the big money in the safe after eleven. Hell, I’m a two-time loser already. That seventy bucks could get me twenty years. It’s just not worth it.”

  Marcus shrugged. “Check the brief case. Maybe there’s something there.”

  “Good leather,” Sil commented as he snapped it open. “Uncle John will give us twenty for it. Nah. Nothing here either except for a computer disc.” He held the object up for Marcus’s quick inspection.

  Marcus pressed the automatic opener for the passenger’s window and shoved a thumb in that direction as they crossed the Potomac. Sil was about to skim it out over the river when Marcus, who had been watching the side mirror, yelled, “Cop!”

  “Where?”

  “He made a U-turn just before we got on the bridge. He must have seen us.”

  “So what? We weren’t speeding. And they couldn’t have had a call out on the plate this fast.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Cop sees a couple of black faces in a car like this and he’s going to check us out. I might be able to convince him I’m the chauffeur, but you ain’t never going to pass as the millionaire owner.” He rammed down on the gas. “I’m going to turn into Haskell, then left into the ABC car lot. As soon as I slam on the brakes, haul ass. Meet you back at the apartment.”

  A blue light flashed a block-and-a-half behind. Marcus took the first corner at fifty and almost destroyed the car as he careened into the lot. Doors flew open and the two had disappeared before the patrol car had made the turn into the street.

  ***

  Sil was glumly watching TV, remoting from channel to channel with one hand and drinking a Steinlager with the other. Marcus was checking the wallet again, emptying it on the table. “Nothing else. Just that piece of paper with a lot of Chinese on it. Why couldn’t he have been one of those electronics millionaires who carries a pocket full of cash?”

  “Marcus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That heist was a damn fool thing to do.”

  Marcus screwed up his face, popped the top on a can of Diet Pepsi, and said, “You were the one who came up with the idea. Remember? You said you’d been in there a dozen times, and the register was overflowing.”

  “Well, I was wrong. And I get the feeling we’re going to keep on being wrong until we both end up behind the walls. I’ve been there, you haven’t. It ain’t exactly a hometown picnic.”

  “So whatuh you got that’s better.”

  “Going straight.”

  Marcus laughed. “Back to baseball?”

  “Nah. You know I can’t, not after tearing up my knee in that car wreck. Wish I could though.” Holding the bottle in his hand, he waved it around. “Fastest fast ball in the minors, and I could put it in a tin can a hundred feet away. If it weren’t for that car wreck and this damn knee, I’d be pitching no-hitters for the Giants right now.

  “What I’m talking about is a job with Harry Southern. He runs the African-American Daily and it’s taken off like a rocket. He needs drivers and warehousemen. Said he’d hire me in a minute. And I know he’d take you on, too. But no dope. And no boozing on the job.”

  Marcus grinned and held up his soft drink. “Wouldn’t be hard for me. Might for you.”

  “Eight hours a day away from beer beats sitting in the pen, anytime. Want to try it?”

  Marcus re-counted the day’s take and nodded. “We can’t do much worse than we been doing. My Cousin Fred’s been in the newspaper business for ten years. Working all that time for the Post and he’s doing fine.”

  “Hey. Wait a minute, man. He’s a reporter. You’re going to be pushing bundles of paper around. And the African-American Daily ain’t the Washington Post.”

  Sil suddenly sat straight up in his chair. “Shit, Marcus. Look at that!” He pointed the control at the TV and turned up the sound.

  “Shortly after being robbed during a store holdup in Arlington, Huang Li, a Chinese Embassy employee, was an apparent suicide.” The camera was focused on an ambulance crew sliding a covered stretcher into an ambulance. “Witnesses at the scene said that he threw himself under a passing bus and that it would have been impossible for the driver to avoid hitting him. The police state that no one was near the victim at the time, and there seems little doubt that Huang Li committed suicide. The investigation is continuing, however.

  “The earlier robbery of the convenience store is also under investigation. The suspects are two African-American males who were pursued into the District by police. The car, a vehicle belonging to the Chinese embassy, was driven off by the suspects and abandoned a short distance from the exit off of Highway 61.”

  Sil and Marcus stared at each other. “A diplomat!” Sil said. “Now we’ll have the Feds after us too.”

  Marcus reached for the briefcase, pulled out the computer disc, waved it and said, “This may be our lucky day. He must have been carrying around the secrets of the A-bomb here. That’s why he committed Harry Carry. Isn’t that what Chinese do when they fuck up?”

  “Fat lot of good that disc is going to do us. How you going to find out what’s on that thing?”

  “You already said it. Cousin Fred. He knows computers inside and out. And he’s the one who writes stories about all those foreign embassies. If anyone can figure out what’s on it, he can. C’mon. Let’s go.”

  ***

  The last time Leo Forest had been called into the office at two in the morning was when the African embassies had been bombed. The CIA had needed to get its ducks in a row back then. Whatever this was, it was going to definitely involve more ducks needing attention. The tall, stoop-shouldered Internal Security Officer had checked the news as he drove in, and the only item of significance was the suicide of his counterpart over in the Chinese Embassy. He could think of possible connections, but the meeting might be about something entirely different.

  It wasn’t. Only three of them were at the meeting: himself, the Director and George Timkins, head of Counter-Intelligence. A few words from the Director made the embassy bombing
fiasco pale into insignificance beside the circumstances surrounding Huang Li’s death.

  “George and I were the only ones who knew that Huang Li was our agent,” The Director began abruptly after the most cursory of greetings. “It was absolutely essential to keep the knowledge down to as few as possible. Having their head of security feeding us information was a gold mine we couldn’t risk exposing. Last night, at eleven-thirty, he was supposed to drop off the list of all of Peking’s agents in the U.S. You’ve heard the news, I’m sure. Huang Li is nobody’s agent now.”

  Utterly fantastic! Leo couldn’t believe his ears. To have turned Huang Li was a major CIA achievement. To have lost him was little short of disaster for the Company. And there could be no overstating the importance of the list. “What happened to the list?”

  “It was in his briefcase, in his car, which was stolen by the two characters who robbed the store. We’ve checked with the DC police. There was no sign of the case in the car when they found it. The thieves have it—and the list. That’s where you come into the picture, Leo. There’s no longer any need for secrecy. The Chinese know he defected, know he’s dead and probably suspect that he was carrying information on him, but just possibly don’t know what it was. You liase with the police and move in on those crooks just as soon as the cops find them. I’ll clear it with the Chief of the DCPD, and they’ll let us take over. If the Chinese don’t know about the list, it’s worth its weight in gold. And even if they do, we want it to find out just where they infiltrated so we can start assessing the damage.”

  Leo didn’t have to be told how urgent it was to find the list. He stood up abruptly. “Any leads on the holdup artists?”

  The Director nodded. “We lucked out. The store clerk recognized a ring one of the perps was wearing. Says he knows the guy, in spite of his mask. That he’d been in before several times. A black. Has a slight limp. The Chief says a patrol is bringing the clerk in to go over mug shots.”