“What happened?”
“The Vietnamese knew we were coming. They ambushed us. The place we were headed was at the end of a valley. We were caught at the base of these hills. An eighty-deuce-uh, eighty-two-millimeter round — exploded about fifteen feet from me. There was shooting all around. I tried to get out of the clearing where they trapped us and into the forest to apply first aid.”
“You were wounded?”
“In the stomach, but not bad. It burned. You know, like if you were jabbed with a hot poker, and my leg was numb and I was nauseated, but after a while the pain became steady, a sharp, burning sensation I could handle. Besides, when it happened I was just moving and I was scared because there was so much shooting.
“I crawled along a washout and into the jungle. I could hear the men fighting and dying. Then I heard one of the Vietnamese soldiers order some of his men to hunt me down and the others to check the bodies to make sure they were dead. I managed to slip past my pursuers and head for the boat. When I got to the river the boat was gone. If it had been there, I would have escaped, but I wasted so much time getting to the river that the soldiers caught up to me. By that time I was too weak from my wound to put up a fight.”
“What happened after they got you?”
“They cleaned the wound and removed a lot of the shrapnel. They took most of my clothes. I had to walk barefoot and they would go in circles to make the trip longer.”
“How long was the march?”
“I have no idea. I just know it took a long time to get to the prison.”
“What did they do to you?”
“It wasn’t Club Med.” He laughed harshly. “The Vietnamese had a penchant for torturing my feet. Once they tied my arms behind me with wet leather strips so my shoulders were pulled clear back around. At one point I was put in a steel box in the sun and left.”
“What did they want from you?”
“That was the funny thing. They didn’t question me. They just tortured me. It was like they didn’t need the information because they knew everything I knew.”
“How did you get out?”
“We were in a village. They didn’t have cells. I was in a hut with guards out front. At night, my hands were placed in front and shackled to a post. They shackled my feet, too. I managed to dig under the post to the hard packed earth. I’d replace what I’d dug up and smooth it out when I saw daylight. Eventually I got under the pole and worked the chains out from under it. When the guard made his rounds I used the chain like a garrote and broke his windpipe. He had a knife in his boot. I used it to kill the guard who was outside the hut. Then I found what looked like a roller skate key that fit the locks on my chains. I got out of the camp and started running. I had a general idea where I was and I know how to live off the land.”
“How did you get back to the states?”
“I headed for Thailand. When I crossed the border I stole some money, bought a fake ID, and sailed back as a deckhand. It was almost a year before I landed in San Francisco. I figured I was owed, so I went looking for Peter Rivera. Only Rivera was dead, murdered the same way I had killed Eric Glass. And there was evidence that pointed to me as his murderer. That’s when I figured out what must have happened. Wingate shut down the Unit and stole the money from the secret fund. He framed me for Rivera’s murder and the theft. Everyone bought it because Vanessa had seen me kill the congressman.
“A few months after Rivera was murdered the General retired from the army and moved to his estate. He lived quietly for five years. Then he made a very large investment in Computex, Simeon Brown’s software company. I think he used money from the secret fund. With his contacts in the military, Wingate was able to get contracts for Computex. He was living off his dead wife’s money until Computex took off. Once the company got hot, Simeon Brown died. A lucky break for the General, no?”
“Did you ever try to get even?”
Carl shook his head. “I was tired, Ami. I was sick of it. Living in the jungle all those months changed me. I didn’t want revenge. I wanted peace. I went underground and I was happy living off society’s radar screen. Hell,” he said with a smile, “I haven’t paid taxes for years, and solicitors never call me. What more can you ask?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ami had not seen Vanessa standing with the other reporters when she rushed across the hospital lobby with her head down and her shoulders hunched, obviously uncomfortable with the size of the crowd, the television lights, and the shouted questions. Even if Ami had studied the mob of reporters, she would not have recognized her client, who wore a black wig, makeup, and dark glasses and looked more like a society reporter than a haphazardly dressed representative of a sleazy tabloid.
While the other members of the press waited for the return of the reporters who had been chosen for the pool that was to be allowed to record Morelli’s arraignment, Vanessa slipped away from the press corps and stationed herself around the corner from Leroy Ganett’s office. Shortly after the arraignment ended, Ganett returned with Brendan Kirkpatrick at his side. Fifteen minutes later, the two men walked out of the doctor’s office, and Vanessa heard Ganett tell the prosecutor that he was going to the cafeteria to get something to eat. She waited until the elevator doors closed and took the next car to the basement.
Vanessa pretended to look over the hot dishes while Ganett put a sandwich, an apple, and a soft drink on his tray. As soon as the doctor paid the cashier, Vanessa followed him. He was unwrapping the cellophane from his sandwich when she spoke.
“Dr. Ganett, I’m Sheryl Neidig,” Vanessa said as she slipped onto a chair opposite the doctor. “I flew in from LA to look into the Little League case.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk about that.”
“And I don’t expect you to, right now. I know that you have to honor the doctor-patient privilege.”
Dr. Ganett looked confused. “What do you want with me, then?”
“I’m an executive with Phoenix Productions. We’re an independent production company based in Hollywood and we’re exploring the possibility of making a television movie-of-the-week about Daniel Morelli’s case.”
“I still can’t discuss my patient with you.”
“Actually, you can if Mr. Morelli agrees to waive the physician-privilege. And, I assure you, it will be in his financial interest to do so. Yours too, in fact. If he sells us the rights to his story, our movie would have a character based on you.”
“On me? Well, I don’t know…”
“We wouldn’t use your name, unless you wanted us to, but Mr. Morelli was wounded and he is in a hospital. Naturally, there would be a doctor in the movie, and we would need a technical consultant to help us make the film as realistic as possible.” Vanessa flashed her sexiest smile. “Would you be interested?”
“Uh, well, I don’t know. What would I have to do?”
“Oh, it would be a snap for you. You’d supervise the technical aspects to make sure our actors behave like real doctors; you’d explain medical procedures, stuff like that. We might even arrange a cameo role, if you’re interested. You know, give you a small part in the film.” Vanessa smiled. “Who knows, this could be the start of a whole new career.”
Ganett looked interested and nervous. “I’d have to clear this with the hospital administrator.”
“Then you are interested?”
“I might be.”
“You’d be paid, of course.”
“Oh?”
“We’d have to negotiate the fee, but-and don’t tell anyone I told you this-ten to twenty-five thousand wouldn’t be out of the question.”
“That sounds, uh, fair. When can I tell you if I can do it?”
Ganett sounded eager now. Vanessa smiled. “Why don’t I call you tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
“Great. What’s your office number?”
Dr. Ganett told her, and Vanessa made a show of writing it down in a spiral notebook she took out of her purse. When she’d put away th
e notebook Vanessa stood up.
“I’ll call LA and tell them you’re interested. My boss will be excited. And we’ll touch base soon.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ami had trouble containing her excitement on the drive back to her office. George French had warned her about the dangers of investing too heavily in the type of story that Carl was telling, but she was certain that he wasn’t lying.
As soon as Ami was seated behind her desk, she dialed her expert’s number.
“George, it’s Ami. I just got back from the hospital.”
“How did it go?”
“Morelli opened up to me, only his name isn’t really Daniel Morelli.”
“Who does he say he is now?”
“This is highly confidential, George. You’ll understand why you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone once you hear what he told me.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Ami.”
“Okay. Morelli says that his real name is Carl Rice and that he went AWOL from the army in 1986. He told me some other things, George. If he’s telling the truth, this is huge.”
“What does that mean?”
Ami told French about Carl’s claim that he worked in a secret unit run by Morris Wingate. She recounted his missions and ended with Rice’s claim that Morris Wingate had ordered him to murder Congressman Glass.
“What do you think, George?” Ami asked when she was done.
“Either our boy has a very active imagination or you’re sitting on top of the biggest scandal in the history of American politics.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“Honestly? I go with door number one. The whole story is too fantastic. One of the leading candidates for president of the United States is out to get him. That’s right out of the introductory chapter to Paranoid Behavior for Dummies. And I’ve seen that prison escape in several movies.”
“We should be able to check on some of his story now that we know Carl’s real name.”
“If it is his real name.”
“Can you ask your friend to find Carl Rice’s military record?”
“Yes, but this is the last time.”
“No, I agree. If Carl lied about this, then I’ll wash my hands of him.”
“I’ll call you when I know something.”
Ami hung up and thought about calling Vanessa Kohler, but she decided against it. She wanted to meet with Vanessa face to face and she wanted to be prepared for their meeting. Ami booted up her computer. Moments later, she had found a story about a black belt in San Diego named Mark Torrance who had been beaten up during a burglary.
Next, she searched the Web for articles about the murder of Congressman Eric Glass. The results were encouraging. The congressman had been murdered at Lost Lake, California, in 1985; and a witness, whose identity had been kept secret by the police, had named Carl Rice as a suspect. There were more stories about the case, but they added no new information.
Ami brought up articles about the murder of General Peter Rivera. One of them contained disturbing information. General Rivera had been tortured and killed in his home in Bethesda, Maryland, in a manner similar to the way that Congressman Glass had been killed, and Carl Rice was named as a suspect. An enterprising reporter for the Baltimore Sun had connected the cases of Rivera and Glass and had looked into the background of Carl Rice. According to a follow-up written by the reporter, Rice had been discharged from the army for psychological reasons.
Ami’s intercom buzzed, and her receptionist announced that Brendan Kirkpatrick was calling. Ami toyed with not taking the call from her least favorite lawyer, but she was still representing Carl Rice until another attorney took the case off her hands.
“Hello, Mr. Kirkpatrick.”
“Hello, Mrs. Vergano. Recovered from your first arraignment yet?”
Ami’s blood pressure started to go up until she realized that the question was not a taunt but had been asked in a friendly tone. Still, she wasn’t ready yet to forgive and forget.
“What can I do for you?” Ami asked.
“It’s what I can do for you. I met with my investigator. He’s talked to some more witnesses, and I have a better picture of the case now. I have a proposition for Mr. Morelli.”
“And that would be?”
“I’m willing to drop the charge of attempted murder in exchange for a plea to the assault on the officer. I’ll recommend a sentence of three years. With good time, Morelli will be out in about a year.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I’m convinced that Morelli was trying to protect the coach when he fought with Barney Lutz.”
“So why not dismiss, if he was acting in self-defense?”
“Your client used too much force and he attacked a cop.”
“Morelli was attacked from behind. He didn’t know he was fighting with an officer.”
“He could see he was fighting a cop after he threw the cop over his shoulder. The other officer says that he shot Morelli because Morelli was about to spear his partner in the throat.”
“He was acting in the heat of passion.”
“Maybe, but he didn’t stop when he saw the uniform, so that’s the best I can do.”
“I’ll relay the offer to my client,” Ami said.
“There’s another condition.”
“What’s that?”
“To get the deal, your client has to tell us his real name.”
“Why does he have to do that?”
“So we can be sure that he’s not wanted for other crimes. We’ve reached a dead end trying to identify him. That’s a little spooky nowadays. Someone like Morelli should have fingerprints on file.”
“He’s a drifter. He doesn’t hold regular jobs, and he gets paid in cash.”
“Tom Haven, the cop that shot Morelli, was in the military and knows something about self-defense. He told me that no one handles himself the way your client did without serious training. Haven thinks that there’s a good chance Morelli is ex-military, which makes it even odder that his prints aren’t on file.” He paused. “You may not want to believe it, but your boy is probably a trained killer. I need to know if he’s hurt other people the way he hurt my cop and Mr. Lutz.”
“I’ll talk to Dan and get back to you.”
“Good. One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I want to apologize for coming on so strong that first day. I didn’t know you, and I honestly thought that you were trying to chase Morelli’s ambulance. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”
Ami was surprised by the apology but was still angry with Kirkpatrick.
“That’s right, you shouldn’t have,” she answered.
“I said I’m sorry. I checked around. You’ve got a good rep.”
“I’ll get back to you,” was Ami’s terse reply.
Ami hung up and stared out her window. “Well, well,” she thought, “miracles do happen.” Maybe she’d been wrong about Kirkpatrick and he wasn’t a total prick. She remembered what Betty Sato had said about the prosecutor’s wife. Ami knew what it was like to lose a spouse you really loved. It changed you.
Ami picked up a picture of Ryan and held it in front of her. He was so beautiful and so good. She had lost Chad, but she was so lucky to have Ryan to love. Kirkpatrick didn’t have a child to soften the blow of losing his wife. Kirkpatrick’s work had become his life, and his work was dealing with the horror that the worst people in society imposed on innocent men, women, and children. You would have to become hard and mistrusting if that was all you thought about every day. Ami closed her eyes and thanked God for Ryan. After Chad died, Ryan had kept her sane and given her hope. Without him she could have easily slipped into despair. Despite everything that had happened to her, she knew that she was fortunate to be the mother of someone as special as her son.
Ami turned back to her desk and opened Carl Rice’s file. Inside was the number of Ray Armitage’s hotel in Boulder, Colorado. She wasn’t experienced e
nough to know if the plea offer Kirkpatrick had made was good or bad. That would be a job for a seasoned criminal defense attorney. Fortunately, Armitage was in his room. Ami didn’t tell him about any of the new developments in the case except for Kirkpatrick’s plea offer. The defense attorney said that the offer sounded okay but he couldn’t advise Morelli about it until he’d studied the facts thoroughly. Then he told Ami that there had been a new development in the case of the Olympic skier that would keep him in Colorado for three more days. He promised to call her as soon as he knew when he was returning to Portland and assured her that he was very interested in Morelli’s case.
Ami hung up. She was disappointed that she would have to stay on as Rice’s attorney. The case was too big for her, and the story in the Baltimore Sun bothered her. If Rice had been discharged from the military because of mental problems, maybe Dr. French was right and Carl’s wild tale of a secret unit run by a presidential candidate was pure fantasy. She had been hoping that she would be able to hand off the job of figuring out the truth about Carl Rice to Ray Armitage. Now she had to soldier on.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Ami arrived at work the next morning she found a message from George French asking her to come to his office as soon as possible. Ami was nervous during the crosstown trip and she didn’t feel any better when she saw how grim Dr. French looked when he greeted her in his waiting room.
“My friend faxed me a copy of Rice’s military record,” the doctor said as he escorted Ami to his office. “You’re not going to like it.”
As soon as Ami was seated French handed her a government document titled “Report of Transfer or Discharge.” While Ami read it the psychiatrist gave her a quick synopsis of the report.
“Carl Rice was drafted into the service from the San Diego area and was in Special Forces. After a year of learning Vietnamese at the Army Language School at Fort Meyer, Rice was sent to Vietnam, where he saw combat. After this mission, Rice was hospitalized for combat-related stress. After his discharge from the hospital, Rice returned to the states and was assigned to be a language instructor at Fort Meyer. After his tour in Vietnam his records show no further service overseas.”
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