Under the Color of Law

by Michael McGarrity

  Sloan pawed through an envelope stuffed with credit-card, hotel, and airplane-ticket receipts. Mitchell had been doing some whirlwind traveling during the last three months, taking short trips to places like San Antonio and Tucson, and many longer jaunts to Washington, D.C. and Georgia.

  Sloan arranged everything by date to get a clear picture of Mitchell's schedule, then totaled up the charges, which ran over five thousand dollars. Bobby wondered how the priest had been able to pay for such travel on a retired major's pension.

  Sloan fanned through a pocket notebook filled with the names and addresses of people Mitchell had kept track of. He'd known a hell of a lot of folks scattered all across the country. Some addresses correlated with the places Mitchell had recently visited, some names had stars or checkmarks next to them, and some entries had been crossed out.

  Bobby put the notebook aside and went through two correspondence files from the briefcase. One held six years' worth of letters Mitchell had written to the secretary of the army requesting more specific information about the death of his brother under the Freedom of Information Act. Each request had been turned down. All Mitchell had received for his efforts was an official army criminal investigation report that basically repeated the facts contained in the letter from the embassy.

  The second file contained letters to the Armed Forces Records Center in St. Louis demanding the release of his brother's military service records. Those requests also had been rejected. There was, however, a recent letter from a former officer who'd served with Mitchell's brother when he had been deputy commandant at the U. S. Army School of the Americas. The correspondent wrote that he had no information that would be helpful to the priest but wished him good luck with his research.

  From his time in the service Sloan knew that immediate family members of deceased veterans were, by law, entitled to those records. What was the army hiding about the brother's death?

  Mitchell had kept his checkbook in a briefcase sleeve. Sloan scanned through the entries. Two five-thousand-dollar deposits had been made the past three months. His retirement pay went into the account automatically. From the looks of the checks Mitchell wrote, he lived frugally and was a heavy supporter of a group that politically opposed the continued operation of the School of the Americas.

  Sloan filled out evidence inventory sheets and then got on the Internet and started surfing for supplemental information that might help him fill in some of the blanks. When he was done, he checked the clock. Day shift was over, and he hadn't even started writing up his supplemental report.

  Bobby decided to talk to the chief first. He dialed Kerney's extension and the chief picked up immediately. Sloan started talking about Mitchell's briefcase filled with intelligence goodies. Kerney cut him off and told him to meet him in the staff parking lot with the evidence in five minutes.

  Sloan toted everything out the back door. The chief was waiting in his unit with the motor running and the passenger door open. He got in, wondering where in the hell they were going and why. Kerney's jaw was tightly set and his mouth formed a thin, compressed line. Sloan decided it was probably better not to ask.

  Kerney took Sloan to the downtown library, where they settled into the second-floor audiovisual room. Bobby gave him a quick review of the Mitchell evidence.

  "Also, Brother Jerome told me that an envelope mailed to Father Mitchell was missing from his office," Sloan said, "so we've got a connection between the homicide and the burglary."

  Kerney gazed out the window that overlooked Washington Avenue and the bank building across the way.

  "Don't you think it's odd that we have two homicides involving national security?" Kerney asked.

  "According to what I heard, the feds took that issue off the table in the Terrell case," Sloan said.

  Kerney turned away from the window. "Two things you told me put it back on the table. During his military career Ambassador Terrell served as commandant of the School of the Americas and later was the commanding general of army intelligence."

  "That's interesting," Sloan said. "Do you think Mitchell was trying to get something on Terrell?"

  Kerney sat in a straight-back chair and shook his head. "I don't know. Mitchell's brother was at the School of the Americas long after Terrell's retirement. But he was killed while serving as a military attache in Venezuela. That raises two additional points. Embassy attache assignments are heavily geared to intelligence gathering. And Terrell is a member of a trade mission to South America."

  "You're racking up a whole lot of coincidences here, Chief."

  "Give me your thoughts on Mitchell's research."

  "It's a real slumgullion. At first I thought Mitchell was concentrating his investigation on the murder of his brother in South America, six years ago. That seemed to be what got him started. He left his teaching position right after his brother's death and wrote dozens of letters to the army trying to get more information about it. The army stonewalled him."

  Sloan took a sip of coffee from the jumbo-size takeout container the chief had bought him on the way to the library. It was cold and bitter tasting.

  "But when you watch the videos you'll see that they jump from one subject to another, so I don't know where Mitchell was going."

  "We can start with the fact that Mitchell didn't buy the story of his brother's death," Kerney said.

  "Okay, at the very least a cover-up took place," Bobby said.

  "Maybe the priest's brother wasn't whacked by banditos who simply wanted his cash and his car. But based on what I saw on the videotapes I watched, that theme isn't even touched on. There's an interview that concentrates on vague accusations that the army has been burying a sizable amount of money for the last five years in DEA aid to Colombia.

  There's a Q and A with a U. S. Treasury official about drug money being laundered through banks in Panama. In another tape a retired army major is talking about the time he spent at the Fort Benning School of the Americas with the priest's brother that doesn't reveal diddly."

  "Let's watch the tapes," Kerney said.

  Some of the videos were brief, and none ran over twenty minutes. An ex-Canadian intelligence officer talked about the National Security Agency sending cryptologists to Brazil for an unknown purpose. A former DEA agent revealed that the Joint Military Intelligence College had developed a field-intelligence and drug interdiction curriculum for the Ecuadoran army. A professor of economics explained "dollarization," an effort to persuade Latin American countries to join Panama and Ecuador in adopting U. S. currency as their official legal tender. A treasury official detailed information about a financial crimes advisory on Panamanian drug-laundering schemes. An expert on international banking summarized the ways in which large sums of money were electronically transferred between foreign and domestic financial institutions.

  Kerney quickly ran through the tapes Sloan had previewed and then clicked off the VCR with the remote.

  "What do you think, Chief?" Bobby asked.

  "I've been thinking about geography," Kerney said. "Panama, Ecuador, Venezuela, and Brazil. If I'm not mistaken, all of those countries border Colombia. Some political analysts are saying that Colombia could be our next Vietnam. Half of the country is controlled by rebels, including a lot of the coca-growing regions. Maybe the government is getting all their ducks lined up before they send in the troops. That kind of planning can't be done openly. It would raise too much of a stink here at home."

  "A secret trade mission might be the way to go," Sloan said.

  "I'd say a major clandestine military and civilian intelligence operation has been launched," Kerney said. "A trade mission could well be part of that strategy."

  "We always seem to come back around to the ambassador," Sloan said. His butt felt numb. He shifted in his chair to ease the discomfort.

  "It does seem that way," Kerney said. He straightened the leg with the blown-out knee and rubbed the sore tendons.

  Sloan yawned. "This stuff about banking, money laundering,
and international finance may have something to do with cutting off the drug money flowing in and out of Colombia."

  "Maybe so," Kerney said. "Without money the jefes couldn't fund their private armies and pay off

  the rebel forces they do business with."

  "So what did Father Mitchell learn that the government didn't want him to know?"

  "That's what we've got to find out," Kerney said. "Have you dug up any more background about him?"

  "A couple of things. Like his brother, Mitchell pulled a tour of duty at Fort Benning. In fact, that was his last post before he retired. He could have probably stayed on active duty if he'd wanted to. I cruised the Internet and learned that army chaplains are in real short supply. He made some trips back to Benning recently, but I haven't found any documentation by Mitchell about it yet. Maybe something will surface on the audiotapes.

  "Mitchell ran up travel expenses of over five thousand dollars in the last three months. You don't have that kind of money to throw around on a retired major's pay, especially if you're sending half your pension to a group called the School of the Americas Vigil Committee. I think somebody helped Mitchell out financially. He made two recent deposits totaling ten thousand dollars."

  "Follow the money, Bobby," Kerney said.

  "First thing in the morning."

  "What's this School of the Americas Vigil Committee all about?"

  Sloan swallowed hard and pinched his throat to cut off the bile. "It's run by a peace and human rights advocacy group. They want the school shut down and refer to it as 'the school of assassins." They say it violates U. S. foreign policy, doesn't promote democracy, and infringes on human rights. If that's true, I can see their point."

  "Let's wrap it up," Kerney said, eyeing Sloan's tired face. "I want you to make a complete copy of everything we've got--the papers, letters, videos, and audiotapes--everything. Do it first thing tomorrow and get it to me. Nothing goes into evidence until I say so."

  "You've got it, Chief."

  "Tell no one in the department about this," Kerney added.

  Sloan nodded.

  Kerney helped Sloan pack up. They carried everything downstairs, where library staff were roaming around announcing closing time.

  "Remember when this building was city hall?" Sloan asked.

  Kerney nodded. "City hall, the jail, and a fire station combined."

  "Doesn't seem that long ago," Sloan said.

  "Stop it, Bobby. You're making me feel old. Let me buy you a late dinner."

  Sloan rubbed his gut.

  "No, thanks, Chief. I've had this gas thing in my gut all day."

  ***

  Kerney drove through the quiet plaza. The stores were closed, only a few people were out, and traffic consisted of one car turning onto Palace Avenue. Crystal snowflakes drifted slowly past the streetlamps, glistened briefly in the soft light, and then melted away on wet sidewalks. At night downtown Santa Fe still felt like a small town.

  After a quick run down Cerrillos Road he dropped Sloan at headquarters and headed home. He couldn't shake the notion that Charlie Perry and Agent Applewhite might be staying on in Santa Fe to monitor the Mitchell homicide investigation. What else was there for them to tidy up? If that

  proved to be the case, Kerney didn't know how he'd react. He decided he would have to play it by ear and watch his back as much as possible.

  ***

  Charlie Perry waited until the lights went out in the second floor room of the public library before stopping the tape recorder. Applewhite pulled out her earphone and shut down the video camera.

  "That's it," Perry said.

  "We only got half of it," Applewhite said.

  In the darkness Perry gave Applewhite a nasty look. After tailing Kerney and the detective to the library and spotting them with binoculars in a second-floor room, he'd hustled to find a way to gain fast entry to the bank office building across the way. Fortunately, the Internal Revenue Service housed criminal-investigation agents in the building, so he'd been able to get in after cooling his heels waiting for the man with the keys.

  Perry had called Applewhite as soon as he had a fix on Kerney's location. She'd breezed in well after Charlie had the sensitive long range directional recording equipment up and running. Where she'd been all day and what she'd been doing, Perry didn't want to know.

  "This cop may not be as dumb as you make him out to be," Applewhite said.

  "Anybody can connect the dots," Perry replied. "Even Kerney."

  "You sound agitated, Charlie," Applewhite said as she lowered the blinds and turned on the lights. Her look reminded Charlie of his second-grade teacher just before she unleashed a scolding. Perry gave her the finger.

  "Calm down, Charlie," Applewhite said, dismissing the gesture. "All I'm saying is that, based on what we heard, Kerney's deductions are reasonable. But he doesn't have anywhere near the information he needs to figure out what's going on. The last remaining link in the paper trail between Phyllis Terrell and Father Mitchell has been secured."

  "You should have been the one to do the job at Brother Jerome's office," Charlie said. "No, I take that back, you would have pistol whipped him."

  Applewhite smiled sarcastically and shook her head. "Let's wrap it up for the night, shall we?"

  "What about the evidence Detective Sloan has in his possession?" Perry asked.

  "I'll take care of that," Applewhite replied.

  "How?"

  Applewhite crossed her heart and smiled. "I promise there will be no pistol whipping, Charlie," she said, although the idea obviously held some appeal.

  ***

  Bobby Sloan didn't get home until late. After Kerney dropped him at headquarters, he'd decided to get everything duplicated while the building was quiet. That way he didn't have to worry about when he could get to use the copy machine or the other equipment he needed.

  Since nothing had yet been entered into evidence, he stowed the copies at the office and carried the originals home. He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and slipped into his threadbare terry-cloth robe. It had holes in the armpits and a stain of red wine down the front that had never completely washed out. But Bobby wasn't about to give it up, no matter how much his wife, Lucy,

  complained about it.

  When Sloan got home late he always left the living room lights off and used the small bathroom at the far end of the house so he wouldn't disturb Lucy. He ran the towel over his balding head, brushed his teeth, turned off the light, saw a thin glow seeping under the bathroom door, and silently cursed. He'd woken Lucy up anyway.

  He padded down the hall to the living room, ready to apologize, only to find Lucy sitting on the couch in her nightie staring at Special Agent Applewhite with wide, startled eyes. Applewhite's coat was pulled back behind her holster to expose her semiautomatic. Her FBI credentials dangled from a cord around her neck.

  "What in the hell do you think you're doing here?" Bobby asked.

  "Official business," Applewhite said, extending the piece of paper in her hand.

  "I have an order from a federal judge requiring you to turn over all evidence pertaining to the murder of Father Joseph Mitchell."

  Sloan tore the document out of Applewhite's grip, his eyes never leaving her face.

  "Citing what legal authority?" he asked.

  "Read the order, Detective," Applewhite responded, "and then give me what I came for."

  Sloan read the paperwork. Sections of federal laws Bobby had never heard of were cited. It had national security written all over it. The name of the federal judge and the signature looked valid.

  "The order has a no-knock provision," Applewhite said. "But your wife was kind enough to let me in."

  "Get screwed," Sloan said.

  "First I'm going to call my chief."

  "Go ahead, Detective," Applewhite said, looking around the room while Sloan dialed Kerney's number. The couch, a recliner model facing a large-screen television, had a center console designed to hold remot
e controls and beer cans. The wall held cheap, poorly matted prints in do-it-yourself frames. A particularly gaudy image showed a bright pink pony grazing in a blue pasture against a sunflower-yellow sky.

  "Nice place you've got here," Applewhite said to Sloan's dumpy, chubby-faced wife.

  "Fuck you," Lucy replied sweetly.

  The phone brought Kerney out of a deep sleep. He listened to what Sloan had to say and told him to resist Applewhite's attempt to take possession of the evidence until he could speak directly with the judge who'd signed the order.

  After confirming by phone that the order was valid, he called Bobby back, told him to comply, and hung up fuming. He sat in the small living room of his South Capitol cottage, stared at the pencil drawing of Hermit's Peak that Sara had given him as a surprise gift just before they were married, and fought down the impulse to roust Charlie Perry out of his hotel bed and bounce him off the wall

  a few times. That wouldn't accomplish anything.

  In a way Perry and Applewhite had done him a favor. Kerney no longer had any doubt that the two homicides were connected. But that certainty failed to cheer him. He was into quicksand up to his neck, confronting an incredibly sophisticated intelligence apparatus with unlimited resources that could easily squash him.

  The red light on his answering machine blinked at him. He'd forgotten to check for messages when he got home. He pushed the play button. Sara had called wanting to know why he hadn't phoned her as promised.

  Kerney stared at the telephone. Calling her back would only make him miss her more than he already did. In truth, the relationship felt like a long distance love affair, not a marriage. When they were together, everything was perfect. But he wanted more than just a weekend or two with her every month.