Custos: Enemies Domestic

by Jake Aaron

  “I can’t give you that. Might reveal my sources.”

  “You know we can subpoena you and your phone records.” Zach peppered.

  “I’m not giving you my cell. This is still America. I think I’ve said enough.” Ralph protested. “Sounds like he doesn’t want to cooperate, Agent Bridger.” Barb turned on the sternness. “Mr. Betzold, do you realize how serious this matter is? You don’t want to impede a federal investigation, do you? We can hold you for twenty-four hours without a charge, you know. Have you heard of the Patriot Act? Can you spell Leavenworth?”

  “Now wait a minute,” Ralph softened. “You know I can’t reveal my sources… Otherwise, I’ll tell you anything I can… I’ll cooperate, okay. Polygraph me if you want. Besides, haven’t portions of the Patriot Act expired?”

  The agents ignored Ralph’s inquiry and quizzed him non-chronologically over details he had already given them, looking for contradictions. Eventually Zach switched to rapport mode. “So, Ralph, where were you before this gig?”

  “Albuquerque Journal. You know Albuquerque, New Mexico, home of the fall International Balloon Festival? Ever get out there?”

  “Oh yeah, love the green chili, tacos, enchiladas, and chimichangas! You had those flying saucers, too.”

  “No, that was Roswell, New Mexico… The state calls itself the Land of Enchantment. Did you see our sunsets? New Mexico has sunsets that will knock your socks off.”

  Zach continued, “Albuquerque — where the first atom bomb exploded, right?”

  “No, that was near Alamogordo.”

  Zach: “That’s right: All the women in Alamogordo are hot, verdad?… Tourists still arriving who expect to habla the Espanol, buy foreign stamps, and trade in pesos?”

  “Not as much any more. My dad complained about those things from his childhood days in Albuquerque, but most tourists know New Mexico is in the United States these days.”

  “Well, Ralph, when I visit Albuquerque again, I’ll check out the sunset over a taco and margarita, and I’ll have to get down to Alamogordo to see those hot women. Thanks for the information. I’m sure we’ll be talking again. Adios!

  _______________

  Walking to their black suburban SUV, Zach looked straight ahead and said, “C. A grade of C. And that’s generous.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I grade myself when I have to make small talk. It’s not my strong suit. After Ralph caved, I knew I needed to morph to good guy. I had to force it. I get good performance reviews that consistently say making small talk is an area for improvement. My math skills have always exceeded my verbal skills. I don’t know, it annoys me when someone can’t get to the point. I hold myself to the same standard. You help me with small talk, and I’ll help you with becoming a good agent,” Zach added with an almost imperceptible smile.

  “That’ll be the day, Watson!” Barb replied. She knew Zach would know she was speaking as if she were the master detective Sherlock Holmes. “Really, don’t be so hard on yourself. You were fine. Looked like real interest in Ralph. Good rapport… Performance reviews are a nightmare… You know, my rater once told me I needed to stop bragging about my humility.”

  That made Zach develop a full smile as each entered the SUV. “You’re good!… The trouble is that you know it.”

  Barb showed a hint of a smile. “And I have great humility!”

  “Let’s compare notes.” Barb changed subjects, “What do you think about cloning Ralph’s phone. I’m sure the vast resources of the FBI could do that without Ralph knowing.”

  “Barb, don’t even think about it. Illegal at this point, as you know, but I like your style, Fly Girl. In that vein, they may not have anything yet, but let me check in with the techies at headquarters… By the way, nice job back there putting ole Betzold back in line. I’ll bet you were hell on the doolies at the Air Force Academy.”

  “You’re very insightful, Zach; but actually, as an upperclassman, I was so well liked by the fourth class cadets that they called me a real mother when they thought I couldn’t hear. I thought that was sweet.” Her delivery was flat and matter-of-fact. Jack Benny, master deadpan comedian, move over.

  Zach pulled his chin back at the curve ball. Was she naive — or cheeky? He took a breath and sorted through his phone messages, acting as if he hadn’t heard her last remark. “The techies and their cyber buddies have identified the message sender as “Custos—C-U-S-T-O-S.” The text was probably sent from a throwaway cell, likely now destroyed. Impossible to trace the sending location. GPS portion was apparently turned off. Battery now likely out of the phone.

  Probably a foreign-bought lot.”

  Barb looked quizzical. “I’ve heard from friends that the National Security Agency — NSA — doesn’t monitor texts — just calls.”

  “Barb, who are you going to believe — your friends or this lying report we just got? My take is that if there’s a stray electron, some agency has a capability to record it.”

  “I’m glad you’ve got the lead on this, Admiral, because we are really going full-steam ahead,” Barb observed with a blend of sarcasm and humor. She knew he felt slighted each time she didn’t acknowledge his Marine history.

  Zach couldn’t digest the mixed message fast enough for a great retort, so he smiled, “It’ll get better, Zoomie.” He gave and he took away. When a team member might be losing heart, Zach knew to act optimistic and give encouragement. However, he could not resist a shot at her alma mater. He intoned the nickname for rival Air Force Academy cadets and graduates with a disdain practiced over his four years at the Naval Academy.

  It was locker room talk. As a high school quarterback, he got used to sniping. Back at Sentinel High in Missoula, MT, he frequently had to dodge verbal jabs. He was still trying to read Barb, though. He thought of Sigmund Freud. Sometimes is a joke just a joke?

  We should be a good team, Zach shifted mental gears, with her from the high school debate team and me from the football team. She can analyze; I’ll put it together. I’ll lead; she’ll follow… Yeah, that’ll happen, he smiled to himself. This could be a long case.

  Chapter 7

  September 16

  FBI Headquarters

  Late afternoon found Zach and Barbara charting on the white board on the north side of the room. The layout included timelines, names and photographs with appropriate connecting facts, unknowns, theories, tasks, etc. The resulting murder board gave order, graphic life, and meaning to dozens of facts and events connected with the case. Some give-and-take had transpired over making the depiction match their very different mental maps.

  “Results are in on Zimmer’s autopsy. Scabs on his knees, elbows, and palms. His wife mentioned ‘road rash’ to first responders — from a recent running mishap. Apparently, he also scratched those areas again with his nails during sleep. He routinely took terazosin for benign prostatic hyperplasia (bph) and zolpidem for sleeping, when needed. The lab only found the bph drug in his system. Otherwise, he was a health nut. There were a dozen herbs and vitamins in his system — all in therapeutic doses and in line with the medicine cabinet. The troponin test and creatine kinase test were non-diagnostic for acute cardiovascular infarction. That, of course, does not mean that he did not have a heart attack. How am I doing on your brainiac scale?” Zach parried.

  “Not bad for an anchor-clanker. We can’t rule out a homicide. Political enemies? What about the wife? We need to cover all the bases. You know: insurance, neighbors, bank account, spending — the usual.”

  “You been reading those spy novels where a covert operator slips a colorless, odorless liquid into a victim’s drink to induce a heart attack?” Zach asked half mockingly.

  “I like to keep an open mind, Zach. How about you?”

  “Touche! I’m glad you’re on my side… You are on my side, aren’t you?”

  _______________

  Preliminaries showed the Zimmers were a prosperous Capitol-employed family. The Zimmers had $14K in their check
ing account and $147K in savings. Their stocks, including IRAs, totaled $823K. They had been paying for tuition and living expenses for a son at Duke Medical School and the same for an undergraduate daughter at Wellesley. Mort’s life insurance was worth one million dollars. In addition, Rachel could expect the balance of Mort’s salary for the rest of his term in Congress if his position is not filled. Mort’s chief of staff said that was customary.

  Interviews with the neighbors revealed nothing remarkable. Most of the Zimmers’ neighbors had a head-of-household who was a high-ranking federal employee or an even better-paid private-sector civilian earning income directly or indirectly from the federal government — like many DC communities. The Zimmers were a seemingly happy couple. They kept terrible hours, especially Mort. Mort ran for an hour most mornings before going into work. And Mort and Rachel frequently came home after midnight from fundraising socials or political galas.

  “Let’s interview Rachel Zimmer.” Barb’s voice.

  Zach matched her mood, “Let’s roll!”

  Chapter 8

  September 16

  Silver Spring, MD

  “Hi, Mrs. Zimmer, I’m Special Agent Zach Bridger, and this is Special Agent Barbara Symanski. Both held up badges at the doorstep. We are very sorry for your loss and for imposing on you on a Sunday. If you’re up to it, we need to follow up on a possible threat made to the Washington Log by a person or persons unknown against our Congress. Is this a good time, er, as good as can be, given these unfortunate circumstances?”

  Rachel put on her congressman-wife’s game face that only friends would be able to tell was slightly off. She sat the agents down in the nice but unpretentious dining room, and left them behind as she headed out of the room to the kitchen, buying time to gain composure. Knowing they’d refuse coffee if asked in advance, she announced from the kitchen, “Please excuse me. I need coffee. How do you take yours?”

  Zach asked, “How black can you make it?”

  Barb cheerfully chimed, “Two creams and one Splenda, please.” Barb’s willowy athletic frame could easily handle sugar, but her mother counseled her to take early steps to moderate what her mom called the “inevitable metabolic time bomb of age.” Barb had the usual youthful, arrogant tendency to believe “it can’t happen to me,” but she had learned to follow the sage advice of her attractive mother.

  “Make yourselves at home. Bathroom is down the hall to the left.”

  Rachel soon returned with a tray featuring coffee in Mikasa fine China cups with saucers, cream, assorted sweeteners, and a tasty variety of cookies thoughtfully provided by sympathetic neighbors. Rachel gracefully sat at the dining room table across from the agents. Task-oriented Zach was momentarily distracted by the texture and taste of the oatmeal cookies that took him back to visits with Grandma in Bozeman, MT, many Christmases ago. Barb shunned the tempting cookies, knowing that cookie crumbs were inevitable. Her mom had said always avoid eating cookies or spaghetti in public.

  The coffee was Starbucks medium Breakfast Blend. The light roast was a good choice for guests. Rachel knew her entertaining. Barb, for example, liked something mild, which she could get with the addition of cream. Zach preferred a strong blend, but medium would do. Rachel needed any coffee to counter last night’s sleeping pill.

  _______________

  “Back to why we’re here, Mrs. Zimmer, did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary last night?” Zach wanted to get down to business.

  “Do you think that reporter from the Log is right — someone tried to kill my husband?” Rachel took a deep breath. “Now that you mention it, I vaguely remember some noise in the night, not enough to get me up. I rolled over. When I was finally awakened by that woodpecker sharpening his beak on our metal gutter, I thought that was the noise. I didn’t open my eyes until then. I had taken a sleeping pill.”

  “Was everything in order in the morning — where you left it from last night?” Zach continued.

  “It seemed to be, but the flurry of activity around Mort made it hard to tell. I hadn’t given it a thought until now.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that anyone was stalking or threatening your husband?” Barb joined in.

  “I have — had — a busy hand in my husband’s office. There were the usual threats: various splinter hate groups and an occasional deranged individual. I’ll have the office manager get you a list. Based on what I heard about Mort’s colleagues, it was above par for the course — about what I expected. All that kosher Kennedy hype from the media made that inevitable.” The beautiful Rachel was temporarily back wearing her campaign game face.

  “I always felt for Jacqueline Kennedy, but this makes me even more sympathetic,” Rachel digressed.

  Zach became impatient with the small talk that was blossoming as Rachel deflected the pain she wanted to avoid. Zach began nano-squirming with irritation when Barb asked for more coffee. Barb had her own strategy.

  Barb took the lead: “Mrs. Zimmer, I know it’s probably premature, my mom went through this when my dad died two years ago of a perforated ulcer… It was completely unexpected… We were devastated. My heart goes out to you… Speaking to you now as a person, not as a special agent, if you ever need to talk…”

  Rachel attempted to respond with a gracious platitude, but words would not come out of her moving lips. She teared up. She reached for a hankie. Time slowed for Zach and Barb, and subsequently Barb stood to hug Rachel. Barb slowly walked Rachel to the library, Barb’s right hand gently on Rachel’s shoulder. Rachel needed a listening ear.

  Zach wandered into the adjacent family room. It had a bar area, pool table, foosball table, and 12 folding chairs. On the wall were at least 50 Bay Area local union baseball caps, union signs, and clocks from breweries. The caps were cleverly arranged in a arch to form a rainbow, San Francisco’s hallmark. Zach had the picture: working class atmosphere in the dining room and family room for the eyes of the Congressman’s constituency. Former constituency, he corrected himself.

  But I’ll bet the kitchen has Viking appliances and a Bosch dishwasher. An aristocrat’s bedroom upstairs was Zach’s second induction. Predicting correctly from limited information was what made great agents. Zach knew he had the knack. Barb was intelligent, but she might not have the mental courage to be willing to act on instinct, without all the facts. Time would tell.

  Zach entered the downstairs bathroom. He checked his face and teeth in the mirror. He flushed the toilet to cover why he had been roaming about the house. He washed his hands out of habit and headed back to the dining room. In some alternate universe, Zach mused, I’m probably a world-class spy. Zach seated himself and scanned his notes from a small black book he carried in his coat pocket.

  _______________

  After reviewing Rachel’s account again over coffee, Zach asked, “Mrs. Zimmer, I wonder if we could go upstairs to take a look at the master bedroom just to better understand everything?”

  “There’s still yellow tape on the door. I couldn’t sleep up there anyway right now. Would it be okay if I stay down here. If you have any questions, I’ll be glad to answer. I’m just not ready to go back in that room. I’ll wait for you down here, if that’s acceptable.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Zimmer. Agent Symanski and I will be back down shortly.”

  _______________

  The plush carpet and deep padding on the stairs did not surprise Zach. He and Barb ducked under the crime scene tape. The Zimmers had the latest Sleep Number king-size bed. Not only could they control mattress firmness on each side, but they could also control temperature separately, as well as back elevation. Mrs. Zimmer clearly slept next to the window, based on Mort’s C-PAP location on the other side. If there had been an intruder, the noise from the C-PAP machine would certainly tend to mask footfalls. The bed remained unmade. Everything consistent with initial investigator reports. Window still unlocked. A pristine window sill — no sign of an intruder.

  “Zach, you know, if a perp were involv
ed, he’d probably be less conspicuous coming through the front door than using a ladder for the window.”

  “Not bad, Agent Symanski. The initial reports also said no ladder imprints outside nor impressions on the window sill, as you know. Good to check their thoroughness. Have you already ruled out the hypothetical perp’s being female?” Zach teased about her choice of pronouns. “You got me,” Barb smiled good-naturedly. She knew her razor wit had two edges that frequently left opponents scarred and herself bleeding. A great time for soft words to turn away anger. She was self-aware enough to learn from her mistakes. She occasionally chastised herself for having an off-scale IQ but being her own worst enemy deploying it.

  “So I guess lunch is on me,” Zach said in good spirits.

  It works every time, Barb thought. Better to tactically concede than duel over a pronoun. Thanks, Mom. Her mom had often counseled: Your sharp mind must control your sharp tongue. You’ll have a lifelong battle. Don’t let your tongue win!

  As Barb and Zach came down the stairway, the phone rang for Rachel. Apologizing, Rachel took the call. Mort’s chief of staff, Troy Carlson, wanted Rachel to know that the party’s“king maker” was on his way to see her. While the congressional office would remain open, there would be no voting representation until Mort’s seat was filled by a primary and general election. The Governor of California intended to accelerate the process at the urging of the “maker.” The party’s first choice to fill the seat was Rachel. The sooner Rachel was busy, the happier she would be. It was clear that life would go on — at least for Mort’s colleagues and the political machine.

  _______________

  Back in the black government SUV, Zach inquired, “How did it go?”

  “Mrs. Zimmer is having a hard time.”

  “That’s helpful. I thought she was having a day at the beach,” Zach sounded annoyed. “Did you get anything?”

  “What kind of agent do you think I am?” Barb shot, feigning insult. “Of course, I got something. You never know for sure, but my gut — sorry, my tummy, tells me she’s not a suspect. She thought her husband was in excellent health. She said, as a nurse, she worried about Mort’s sleep apnea and family history. I told her that, based on the newspaper claim and her possibly hearing noise at night, she should expect an evidence response team unit to look over her house for prints, DNA, etc. that local CSIs may have missed.”