“So I’ve heard. Thanks for calling, Ms. Talbot. I’ll put my associate, Ms. Combes, on, and she’ll get contact information for you. You have a good day.”
Brixton followed Mac into the attorney’s office.
“Annabel called earlier,” Smith said, and told Brixton about the threatening call that she’d received.
“Sounds like somebody in Gannon’s camp is getting serious,” Brixton commented.
“And I don’t like it,” said Mac. “Gannon’s walking a tightrope. The stakes for him are big. He’s proved himself to be a serial liar as well as a serial adulterer. There’s no telling what lengths someone like him, with so much to lose, will go to.”
“We have this Ms. Talbot who just called,” Brixton said. “It’s the first example of a direct confrontation between Gannon and Laura Bennett, and an angry one, at that. Seems to me that once she gives her statement, it should be enough for Borgeldt to haul him in for another round of questioning.”
“I’ll suggest that to Zeke.”
Brixton handled some paperwork while Mac called the superintendent of detectives about the call from the former flight attendant. He came into Brixton’s office and said, “Got some free time?”
“Sure.”
“Borgeldt wants to see us. He’s available now.”
“Let’s go,” said Brixton.
On their way to police headquarters on Indiana Avenue, Brixton asked, “You and Annabel been on a plane lately?”
“No, but we’re due to take a vacation once this Gannon business is resolved. Why do you ask?”
“I see why this Ms. Talbot quit. The stewardesses working the plane I was on—I still call them stewardesses—were a grumpy bunch, and who can blame them? Every passenger was grumpy, too. The seats are designed for dwarfs, they nickel-and-dime you for everything, and even the expensive bags of peanuts are stale.”
Smith laughed. “In other words you had a wonderful flight.”
Brixton laughed, too. “Yeah, it was the highlight of my life. Let’s hope Zeke decides to bring Gannon in for more questioning. That would really be a highlight.”
CHAPTER
33
Congressman Harold Gannon arrived at the office of the polygraph examiner with mixed emotions.
On the one hand, he viewed the test as confirmation that he was considered a suspect in the murders of Laura Bennett and Cody Watson, and he initially refused to participate. But he eventually acquiesced to his attorney’s insistence that taking and passing the test would put to rest any speculation about his involvement in the killings, at least in the general public’s mind.
Nichols prudently pointed out to his client that passing the test would not prove to the authorities that he was innocent of any wrongdoing. The use of polygraph test results in courts is banned in many states; in those states in which it is admissible, juries were told that its results weren’t always accurate. It was estimated that as few as sixty percent of polygraph tests were valid. But taking the test was a good PR move that could go a long way toward tamping down the scuttlebutt that had arisen about Gannon’s possible connection to the disappearance and murder of Laura Bennett and the more recent slaying of Cody Watson.
The test would take upward of four hours, including the preliminary questioning by the polygrapher, who would ascertain whether Gannon had any physical or psychological problems that would preclude his participating. He would also ask the subject questions about the crime in question to establish a baseline of answers before hooking him up to the polygraph machine. He would then provide the questions that would be asked during the test so that the subject wouldn’t be blindsided, which could taint the result. And then Gannon would be attached to the machine’s leads, and changes to his cardiovascular activity, respiratory activity, and galvanic skin reflexes (sweat) would be recorded on the moving chart, the squiggly lines to be interpreted by the examiner. There were only three possible results: truthful, lying, or inconclusive.
Gannon’s attorney had provided the examiner with most of the questions to be asked. Standard procedure prohibited questioning about more than one crime at a time, so the session was limited to Laura Bennett’s disappearance and murder. Nothing else was to be probed, including—and especially—rumors of Gannon’s affair with Laura, or with other women outside his marriage.
* * *
Charlene Gannon had returned to Tampa the night before the test, which pleased her husband. Their time together in D.C. had been tense, a gross understatement, and he was nervous enough about the test without her probing the rumors of his infidelity. He’d managed to coax her into accompanying him on various public appearances, but she soon tired of putting on a false happy face and refused to continue. Their final night together had turned nasty, and he’d slept on the couch. A car service picked her up the following morning and took her to Reagan National Airport for her flight home. As he walked her to the limo, he said, “Joe has some events lined up in Tampa that he wants you to attend on my behalf.”
“Tell your Mr. Selesky to shove it,” she snapped.
“We can get through this, Charlene,” he said. “It’s worth doing.”
She glared at him. “I don’t intend to be made a fool of, Hal. You say that none of what’s being said about you is true. Well, when you prove it, then we can talk. In the meantime, the kids need me and that’s where my efforts will be directed, them and my art. Good luck with the polygraph.”
She got in the vehicle, slammed the door, and didn’t look back as the driver pulled away.
* * *
At the end of the polygraph, the examiner told Nichols and Gannon that he would have a final evaluation of the answers within the hour. But he added, “Based upon my preliminary reading, I’d say that the congressman was being truthful.”
Four hours later, Roseann Simmons conducted a hastily convened press conference.
“Under ordinary circumstances,” she said from a makeshift dais, “Cody Watson would have stood here. But these are not ordinary circumstances. As you all know, Cody was the victim of a senseless, brutal attack, as was Laura Bennett. Because both victims were connected with Congressman Gannon’s congressional office, a spate of vicious rumors have circulated regarding the congressman and his relationship with these individuals. While we mourn the deaths of two exemplary young people, we also must also make sure that the truly guilty party or parties be brought to justice, and that scurrilous charges leveled in the heat of a political battle be exposed for what they are—lies, blatant lies. I’m here today to announce that Congressman Gannon has taken a polygraph test and the results are rock-solid. It has exonerated Congressman Gannon from every aspect of these tragic events. With this phase of the investigation completed, he is now free to do what the people of Tampa, Florida, have sent him here to do, legislate for the good of the American people. I’ll take a few questions.”
Simmons deflected any queries about the details of the polygraph except to name the examiner and to laud his credentials as a retired FBI special agent. “The examiner has said without a shadow of a doubt that Congressman Gannon told the truth when answering every question he’d posed. Those who have done everything possible to sully Congressman Gannon’s good name had better look for someone else to attack.”
* * *
Smith and Brixton’s visit to Superintendent of Detectives Zeke Borgeldt, prompted by the call from former flight attendant Peggy Talbot, resulted in more than they’d expected.
After Brixton had recounted for the superintendent what Ms. Talbot had said, Borgeldt assigned a detective to contact her and arrange for a Dallas detective to take her statement. “Better it be done in person,” he said, to which Mac agreed.
“Seems to me,” Brixton said, “that this is the first evidence of a direct confrontation between Gannon and Ms. Bennett.”
“Still doesn’t prove anything,” Borgeldt said, “but I agree with you. “It justifies our requesting another interview with the congressman.”
&n
bsp; “Requesting an interview?” Brixton said. “Since when is a prime suspect in a murder case requested to give an interview?”
“Back off, Brixton,” Borgeldt said. “Gannon is still an elected member of Congress.”
“So what?” said Brixton. “That doesn’t give him immunity from banging interns and killing them to keep their mouths shut.”
Borgeldt looked to Mac Smith. “Maybe you ought to inform your compatriot, Mac, about being innocent until proved guilty.”
“Robert knows that, Zeke. But it does seem that Gannon has to be at the top of your list of possible suspects. He’s lied repeatedly about not having had an affair with Laura Bennett, and now we know that they had a heated exchange.”
“Based upon what some airline flight attendant says.”
“And Laura Bennett’s college friend, and her roommate here in D.C., and what she told her aunt,” Brixton said. “Oh, and there’s Rachel Montgomery, who knew about Gannon having had an affair with his intern. Yeah, yeah, I know that none of what they say nails Gannon as having killed Laura Bennett, but he sure as hell had one great big motive to see that she never lived to talk about the fling they had. Screwing a twenty-two-year-old intern isn’t a vote getter.”
Borgeldt shifted conversational gears. “We brought in the Russian kid we questioned earlier about the two female victims in Rock Creek Park,” he said. “He’s still high on our list with those murders, but he had nothing to do with Ms. Bennett’s death. Our initial analysis was that she was killed somewhere else and taken to that vault in the Congressional Cemetery. We’ve changed our mind. We’re now going on the theory that she was killed there, not in the vault, but in its vicinity, and placed inside it.”
“Which probably means that she agreed to meet someone there,” Smith said.
“Like what, a stranger?” Brixton said.
“Why would she agree to meet a stranger?” Borgeldt said.
“The Congressional Cemetery,” Brixton said, “close to the Capitol Building, home of the House of Representatives, which happens to be where Congressman Gannon plies his dubious trade.”
Borgeldt checked the clock on the wall. “I have to run,” he said.
“We appreciate the time,” Smith said.
“What are those pictures?” Brixton asked, pointing to a pile of eight-by-ten color photographs on Borgeldt’s desk. He’d been going through them when Mac and Brixton arrived.
“Photos taken off Ms. Bennett’s cell phone camera,” Borgeldt explained.
“Mind if I take a look?” Brixton asked.
“I suppose it’s all right.”
“I’ll take responsibility for them,” Smith said.
“Give them to Officer Sims outside.”
“Shall do,” Smith said.
Borgeldt left the office, and Brixton and Mac slowly perused the photos. Some were selfies, pictures taken of herself by Laura while holding the phone at arm’s length and catching herself making funny faces.
“She sure was pretty,” Brixton commented.
“Very,” Mac agreed.
There was a picture of Laura, Roseann Simmons, Cody Watson, and other members of Gannon’s staff posing in front of the Capitol Building. Laura had taken a few shots of scenes around Washington, and she’d snapped off a picture of two squirrels wrestling while she was on a hike. But the majority of the photos appeared to have been taken in bars and restaurants where Laura had gathered with friends. Everyone in the pictures seemed in a festive mood, broad smiles everywhere, tankards of beer raised, couples hugging. There was one shot of Laura with a young man with a heavy five o’clock shadow who had his arm around her. Another young man had donned a funny hat and mugged for the camera.
“Makes you realize how precious life is,” Mac muttered as he tossed the last of the photos on the desk. “One minute you’re having a party with friends, the next you’re dead in a cold, damp vault in a famous cemetery.”
Brixton thought of his daughter Janet and pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. “Let’s go,” he said.
“I have to give these photos to the officer outside,” Mac said as he scooped them up. He and Brixton were about to leave when Brixton said, “Mind if I take another fast look at those?”
“Go ahead,” Smith said.
Brixton discarded the ones that hadn’t been taken in bars and restaurants and focused on the rest, bringing them closer to his face and squinting.
“Damn,” he said into the air.
“What?” Smith asked.
“See if they have a magnifying glass,” Brixton said.
Smith went to the bullpen outside Borgeldt’s office and asked, and was immediately handed one, which he brought back to Brixton. Brixton used it to enhance the image of the photograph that had captured his attention.
“Look,” Brixton said, handing the glass to Mac, who also used it examine the picture.
“What?” Smith asked.
“That man at the bar behind Laura Bennett and her friends.”
Mac looked again. “Yes, I see him. What about him?”
“I’ve seen him before,” Brixton said.
“Where?”
“At the bar in the Hotel Lombardy, the night I met with Cody Watson. He walked in right after Watson.”
Smith handed the glass back to Brixton.
“How about that?” Brixton said. “He shows up where Laura Bennett is enjoying a night out. He shows up the night Cody Watson had a drink with me and tells me about Gannon’s affair with Laura. Laura Bennett is dead, murdered. Cody Watson is also dead, murdered. And this guy has been hanging around both of them.”
Smith didn’t need Brixton’s analysis of the situation. He’d thought the same thing.
“Know who he is?” Smith asked.
“No, but I think we’d better find out.”
“Is there any way to identify the bar the picture was taken in?” Smith asked.
“We can go back and ask some of the people we know palled around with Laura,” Brixton said. “There’s that guy, Caruso, who dated her and blew me off when I called. The police questioned him. Let’s see what they have on him. Maybe he can identify the joint.”
“What about when he came into the bar at the Lombardy?” Smith said. “Did he pay with a credit card?”
“Easy enough to check,” said Brixton.
“Could be just a coincidence,” Smith said.
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Brixton said, grabbing the photo. “Let’s see if Zeke is still in the building.”
They found Borgeldt, who’d been meeting with two members of the Laura Bennett case team. Smith explained what Brixton had seen in the photograph.
“I thought that one of the guys in the picture could tell us what bar it was,” Brixton said.
“Morey’s working the case,” Borgeldt said, nodding toward the detective who’d been in the meeting. Brixton handed him the photo.
“That’s Caruso,” Morey said without hesitation.
“The guy I talked to on the phone,” Brixton said.
“I interviewed him,” Morey said. “He went out with the victim a few times, said she told him that she was seeing somebody else and wouldn’t go to bed with him.”
“Must have made him mad,” Brixton said.
“He didn’t seem that way,” Morey said.
“He can tell us what bar this photo was taken in,” Smith said.
“Let’s ask him,” Brixton said, handing the picture to Borgeldt. “Can I get a copy of this?”
Ten minutes later, Brixton and Smith thanked the superintendent, left headquarters, and drove back to the office, where Brixton placed a call to Caruso.
“We talked before,” Brixton told the Senate staffer, “about Laura Bennett’s disappearance and murder. Remember?”
“Sure, I remember. What do you want? I already talked to the police.”
“I know that. I have a photograph that was taken with you and Laura at some local bar. I need to know what bar it was.”
Caruso snorted. “We went to a couple of bars.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did, but maybe something in the picture would help you identify where it was taken. I’ll meet you anywhere you say.”
“Now? I’m real busy now.”
“Is that so? Well, Mr. Caruso, I think the police will want to talk to you again, probably more than once, when I tell them how uncooperative you are. I’m working closely with the police on this case, and they gave me the photo. If you’d prefer, I can have them bring you in to ask about it. By the way, Mr. Caruso, you’re still a suspect.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” Caruso said.
“Believe it, Mr. Caruso. This is not a game. Where can we meet in a half hour?”
There was an angry silence on Caruso’s end, and Brixton heard him mumble curses under his breath. Finally, he said, “All right. How about A BAR on Pennsylvania? You know it?”
“I’ll find it. A half hour. Don’t be late, Mr. Caruso. I really get upset with people who are late.”
After telling Smith where he was going, Brixton looked up the address for A BAR and headed for it. His evaluation of Caruso as an arrogant guy after their first phone conversation hadn’t changed, and he would have enjoyed seeing the police put pressure on him and take him down a peg. But that wasn’t at the top of his priority list. If Caruso recognized the bar in which the photo was taken, it might help track down the identity of the man with the ponytail.
Brixton knew the minute he stepped inside A BAR that it wasn’t his kind of watering hole. It was sleek and modern, and featured wine and small plates, tapas as they were called in Spanish restaurants. He took a stool at the bar and ordered red wine: when in Rome. A few minutes later Caruso arrived and sat next to him.
Brixton wasted no time with greetings and small talk. He laid the photograph on the bar and said, “Recognize the place?”
Caruso picked it up and scrutinized it.
“Yes,” Caruso said. “Laura and I went there a few times. She liked it.”
“I’m listening.”
Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder Page 25