by Brian Haig
They seemed particularly interested in who killed whom, so I related what MaryLou told me and I hypothesized that—by process of elimination—the rest were murdered by Clyde or Hank. I shared my view that I didn’t think Jason pulled any triggers himself.
Bob confided that in fact, ballistics comparisons from the weapons found on the bodies at the townhouse confirmed this guess. Yet there remained open questions about who fired the LAW on the beltway and who pushed the button that exploded the bomb that killed Joan Townsend, as though it really mattered.
But these people wrote reports for a living, and their lives were dedicated to leaving no blank spaces on any form. So they batted around a few theories, and I listened politely, without comment, until we got down to the nutcutting, which turned out to be not an inappropriate metaphor.
Larry said to me, “So when you arrived at the townhouse, only the red pickup was present. Correct?”
“No, the yellow pickup was also present. I was driving it.”
Larry didn’t like being corrected and snapped, “That’s what I meant.”
“Then say what you mean.” I didn’t like Larry very much.
Bob asked me, “Do you know where the black pickup was? The one driven by Clyde Barnes?”
“Why?”
“If you don’t mind, we’ll ask the questions.”
“Bob, I do mind. If you want me to keep answering your questions, you’ll answer my questions.”
Bob leaned toward me and said, “I’m not here to cure your curiosity, Major. We can always compel your testimony.”
“How, Bob?”
“What?”
“I don’t work at your Bureau. How will you compel my testimony?”
“We have our ways. Answer my question,” Bob insisted. Incidentally, I didn’t really like Bob either.
Larry again asked if I knew where the black pickup went after we departed the shopping center and before Clyde returned to the townhouse.
I replied, “Larry, I’m developing a serious memory lapse.”
Bill appeared to be the designated good cop. He said, very amiably, “All right, Sean. Some of the money seems to be missing.”
“Seems to be missing?”
Bill smiled unctuously. “Hey...you got me there, didn’t you? All right—it is missing.”
“How much is missing, Bill?”
Time for Bob, and he said, “None of your business.”
“It is now.”
Larry felt the need to assert himself. “Drummond, I don’t like your attitude. I’ll remind you again, this is an official investigation.”
When that didn’t seem to work, Larry turned to Phyllis and said, “Reason with him.”
Phyllis smiled at Larry and replied, “I’ve tried from the day he started working here. The only advice I can offer is to answer his questions. He sometimes responds well to reciprocity.”
Larry, Bob, and Bill looked a little baffled by this insight. I’m sure Bureau employees were scared out of their wits by these guys. I’m sure Larry, Bob, and Bill asked, and everybody popped out answers. I was just as sure I’d be an idiot to answer another question without knowing what this was about.
It was Bill’s turn again. He said, “About twelve million is missing.”
“About?”
He smiled again. “Twelve and a half, to be precise.”
I remarked, “Precision is always good, right, Bill? I mean, what if you guys had identified yourselves as internal investigations or whatever you are, and what if I had been distrustful of you right from the start. What if I knew this was an interrogation, not a debriefing. That wouldn’t have been good, would it, Bill?”
Bob said, “You’d be well-advised to can the sarcasm, Drummond.”
Phyllis interjected, “He can’t. It’s like Tourette’s syndrome. It just spills from his lips, an uncontrollable river.”
I smiled at Phyllis. She smiled back. I really liked her. I think she was getting used to me.
Bob and Larry thought Bill had the best chance with me, and he took over. But I didn’t really like Bill either, to be honest. He was the sneaky type. Bill said, “Help us determine where the money went. You told us it was loaded in the back of Clyde Wizner’s truck when he departed the shopping center. Between our discussions with Agent Sanchez and with you, we’ve managed to time out approximately how long it took each pickup to arrive at the townhouse. You arrived with MaryLou Johnson, you said, perhaps ten to twelve minutes behind Hank Mercer. Correct?”
Bill examined my face for confirmation. I stared back at him, sort of blankly.
Eventually Bill said, “We know for sure that Clyde Wizner arrived at least thirty minutes later. What did you and MaryLou Johnson talk about during the nearly forty-five minutes you were alone together?”
“Mostly, Bill, we argued about where my cut was to be delivered.” Obviously this was a joke. Right? I should work on my comic timing.
Bill did not laugh, or even smile. Bob examined me more closely.
Larry decided I was kidding. He was sharp. He leaned toward me and said, “When Clyde Wizner first called, he specified that you had to be the courier. Why you? And how did he know you?”
“Ask him.”
After a moment, Bob also leaned forward and informed me, “The Army would not allow us to view your military records, which they said are classified and sealed. However, the Office of the Judge Advocate cooperated with our request for information. We were informed that although you were never actually stationed at Fort Hood, on three different occasions you were there on temporary duty, once for over two months. Isn’t it possible that during those months you might have met Clyde Wizner?”
“Of course, Bob. It’s possible.”
Larry saw that Bob wasn’t doing well, and said, “Here’s another thing we find interesting. Agent Sanchez informed us that you initially refused to take the tracking device.”
“She called it a suppository. I don’t like people looking up my ass. I was joking.”
“Yes. That’s what she thought at first—a perfectly innocuous misunderstanding. She then assured you it was taken orally, and your excuse disappeared.”
“Sounds right.”
Bob hit his hand on the table and pointed out, “However, a pool of vomit was found beside the van at the shopping center.”
“Hank kicked me in the stomach. I blew lunch. It’s in my oral statement. So what?”
“So maybe you were trying to dislodge the tracking device. Maybe you stuck your finger down your throat, initiating an involuntary gag.”
“I still had the tracking device, Bob.”
Larry stopped using conditionals and switched to straightforward accusations. He said, “But you didn’t know that. Through the dense smoke you couldn’t see whether it came out or not. And considering the hectic circumstances, you were in too much of a hurry to dig through your vomit to be sure it was gone.”
Bob wanted back into the action and said, “Nor was there a bomb in the van, as you informed Sanchez and Margold. We’ve listened to the transcripts of all your phone conversations with the control van. You demanded they remove all coverage, and you threw a fit when you discovered the tails were still on you.”
I think Bill was tired of playing the good cop, which wasn’t a particularly comfortable fit for him anyway. Ticking off fingers, he said, “As we reviewed the activities of that day, Drummond, you’re the sore thumb. Wizner asked for you, and you eagerly volunteered. You tried to refuse a tracking device. Later you tried to get rid of it. You lied about the bomb and tried to get the coverage eliminated.” He paused and then, with half-assed melodrama, pointed a finger at my chest. “Where’s the money, Drummond?”
Larry, Bob, and Bill sat back in their chairs and studied me. Now I knew what they thought, and I knew why they thought it. Nor did it escape my notice that they hadn’t read me my rights or formally charged me. Ergo, they lacked evidence. They had a strong suspicion backed up by a strong circumstantial constr
uction. Period.
Also they suspected that the moment they initiated the rights process, I would clam up and demand representation, and around and around we would go. Smart guys.
So I looked at Larry, Bob, and Bill and, speaking clearly into their recorder, I said, “Sean Drummond has the right to remain silent...” and they sat quietly and watched dumbly as I gave myself a Miranda warning.
When I finished, Bill, with a disappointed pout, said, “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s very helpful, Bill. If I had twelve and a half million bucks salted away, would I confess?”
Bob said, “We know it’s not in your possession yet.”
“How?”
Nobody answered. Nobody needed to answer. They had staked out my apartment, probably tapped my phones, and surely accessed my minuscule checking and savings account. That meant they had a court order, and that meant I had at least one foot in the crapper.
No further good was going to come from this conversation, so I stood and, directing my words at Larry, announced, “Unless you have a warrant, I’m outta here.”
Larry replied, “We don’t have a warrant—yet.”
Phyllis said to the three gentlemen, “Actually, he works here, and he’s not leaving. You are.”
Larry nodded. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a business card, and flipped it at me. He said, “If you rediscover your conscience, give me a call.” Then Larry and Bob and Bill collected their notepads and recorder, and with nasty expressions filed out the door.
The door closed and there was a moment of silence. Phyllis finally said, “Sean, look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have the money.”
I looked Phyllis in the eye. “It’s mine, all mine. You’re not getting a dime of it.”
I thought I heard a sigh of relief.
She said, “It’s preposterous. I assigned you this case. How could you have arranged this when you had no intimation you would become involved?” She confessed, “I now feel a certain burden of guilt for involving you in this.”
I made no reply to that. However, I did make a note in my mental chitpad that she thought she owed me one. I said, “Well...I’m not worried.”
“You should worry.”
“I’d be very worried if they made me meet them across the river, rather than here. I’m a lawyer, Phyllis. Trust me.”
She did not comment on that oxymoron. She said, “They presented a very convincing case, Sean.”
“A pile of dough’s missing, and the accountants in the basement are demanding a pass from internal investigations. Standard procedure. They have to shake the bushes.”
“You’re missing something.”
“Am I?”
“George Meany. He was fired this week. Of course, ‘fired’ wasn’t the expression used, because it seldom is. But you know how it works. A lot of people are dead, and somebody had to take the blame. It was announced that George is the new assistant to the Bureau’s spokesperson.”
This was news to me. “I had nothing to do with it. George was in charge, and rank and responsibility are a double-edged sword. And at the end he chose to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and ended up without any helpings of glory.”
“I believe that what matters is not what you think, what matters is what Meany thinks.”
Good point. She continued, “He has a vindictive streak, Sean, and he’s not without connections within the Bureau.” She added, “Incidentally, Mark Townsend submitted his resignation as Director this morning. The President is going to accept it. Also, your friend Jennie is now the acting ADIC, and I hear there’s a good chance that’ll be made permanent.”
“She earned it. I’m sorry about Townsend.”
“Me too. And about Margold, yes, she did earn it. She did better on this case than anybody.” After a moment she added, “As did you.”
I had turned toward the door, and I spun around and faced Phyllis. Had I been seated this unexpected praise would’ve caused me to fall out of my chair. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.” She added, “I’ll give you two days to get your professional and personal affairs sorted out. The Agency doesn’t need this messiness, nor do you. Fix it.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Actually, I did have a big problem. It was even possible I had two big problems, one personal and one professional. Worse, there was a chance my personal problems were my professional problems. But I wasn’t ready to say that yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY - THREE
THE FBI’S WASHINGTON METROPOLITAN FIELD OFFICE IS AMONG THE four largest and busiest field offices in the country.
I located a place to park near the corner of 4th Street, NW, crossed the street, and passed through the surprisingly nondescript entrance. I flashed my CIA credentials and was allowed by the nice front-desk guard to sign a form and wiggle through the metal detector directly into the inner sanctum. His directions were good and I had no trouble locating the office with the plaque that read, “Senior Agent in Charge, National Security.” At least, very little.
I opened the door and entered the office, which turned out to be an outer office with a door leading to the boss’s office. Elizabeth, Jennie’s nosy, chatty executive assistant, looked up and was surprised, though not delighted, to see me. She said, a little uncertainly, “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Drummond.”
I smiled back. “Nice to see you, too, Elizabeth. That’s a...lovely dress you’re wearing.”
“Oh...well...” Actually, her dress was surprisingly ugly, a pink paisley top with a bright red skirt, and I wondered if Elizabeth was color-blind, or, these days, I guess, “chromatically challenged.” She giggled self-consciously and confessed, “I made it myself.”
“Well...who would ever have guessed?”
“Do you think?”
“I think you should open a business...start a line. You’ll be the talk of Washington in no time,” I informed her with some insight. “So is her ladyship in?”
“I’m...well, you should have called ahead. She’s in a meeting downtown.”
“I see.” Actually, only forty minutes before I had called ahead, though Elizabeth could be forgiven for her faulty recall, as I think I might have been a little confused and identified myself incorrectly. So I knew that Jennie had left the building twenty minutes before, and I knew she would not return till one, which was fine. I said, “I wanted to surprise her. Take her to lunch.” I leaned against Elizabeth’s desk and complained, “Now that the case is over, we’re experiencing a little trouble connecting. Her schedule...my schedule...”
Apparently something on Elizabeth’s computer screen suddenly became very absorbing, because she avoided my eyes. “Yes, it’s certainly gotten...hectic...around here. Miss Margold is now carrying two very demanding jobs.” Just in the event her boss’s butt wasn’t covered enough, she pointed at a stack of message slips and added, “She doesn’t even have time to return her calls.”
“Of course. I just wanted to be sure she’s okay. Considering what’s going on.”
“She’s fine. Very busy, as I said.”
“Good. I’m glad the internal investigation’s not weighing on her. I mean, if I had something like that hanging over my head, I’d be a wreck...I couldn’t sleep or—”
“Investigation?”
“Yeah...about the missing money.”
“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”
I withdrew from my pocket Larry Boswell’s business card, which I displayed for Elizabeth’s benefit. “This guy dropped by to see me this morning. What nonsense. Twelve million in bounty money’s missing. Do you believe they suspect Jennie has it?”
Oops, there I went again, getting my identities confused. The thing is, this lady was very protective of Jennie and, given the sensitive nature of this office, was not likely to be forthcoming with me. Sometimes it takes a lie to get truth; the point is, I needed to know if Jennie had spoken with Larry, and I needed to know whose side she was on.
Elizabeth eyed the name on the card, and I detected a note of recognition. I said, “I mean, in the event Jennie didn’t know they were interviewing people behind her back, I thought...you know, I’d give her a heads-up.”
“I...well, I think she must already know.”
“You think?”
She hesitated momentarily before she pointed at the card. “He’s been here. Last week. Several times, with two other agents.”
This was the last thing I wanted to hear, though I obviously wouldn’t be going through this charade had I not suspected something. Of course, the topic Larry came to discuss with Jennie was not her, but me. So I could now put a motive behind Jennie’s repeated failures to return my calls. Either she had a guilty conscience because she had dumped on me to Larry, or Larry had ordered her to withhold contact until I was cleared—or on my way to Leavenworth. Oh, there was, I suppose, a third possibility, but being irresistible, I completely ruled that out. The point is, my personal problems were becoming my professional problems.
Regarding me, I was sure Jennie told Larry to piss off, that Sean Drummond was one of the good guys, pure in mind, body, and soul, that obviously I had nothing to do with the disappearance of the money. Partners help each other out in a jam, right? But by the same token, don’t partners also call each other when somebody’s ass is hanging out?
Elizabeth misinterpreted the worried expression on my face and asked, “Do you think this is serious? Is she in trouble?”
“Nah. A waste of everybody’s time. She’s a hero.”
Elizabeth was proud of her boss and said, “She is amazing. Her intuition is extraordinary. I sometimes think she can read minds and predict the future.”
“Well...I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Oh, I would. Do you know that three months ago, she studied our file on that Jason Barnes character? Almost as if she foresaw this coming.”
I looked at Elizabeth.
She said, “What were the chances of that?”
What were the chances of that? “Elizabeth...what file?”
“Jason Barnes’s clearance packet. As I recall, Barnes’s Top Secret clearance was nearly five years old. They expire at that point. A complete new background investigation had to be completed.”