Official Privilege

by P. T. Deutermann

“No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, what’s the warrant say?”

  “Ain’t no warrant.”

  There was a pause in the conversation, then the sounds of the first man coming into the room that had the microphone.

  “You say there isn’t a warrant here?”

  “That’s right, sunshine. This is a favor for Vann.”

  “Oh man …”

  “Don’t get your tits in a flutter, Williams. Vann looks out for people, people need to return the favor. The word around the Homicide dicks is that this is personal, off the books. He’s doing it for some Navy guy.

  He’s gonna meet with the Navy guy Monday. Needs the place tossed, see what we see. Let’s just get it done and get outta here, all right?”

  Williams protested some more, until the sergeant began to speculate on the joys of Anacostia patrol duty.

  But it was enough for Malachi. He listened to the rest of the tape, but there was nothing significant, other than that they had not appeared to find anything worthy of exclamation. The tape ran out while they were talking about the District’s latest round of personnel cuts.

  Malachi took off the earphones and dropped the recorder on the floor. He pulled the phone over to his lap and thought about what he was going to do. So Vann was a cop, and he was working for some Navy guy— probably moonlighting. The bastards were pulling the strings, all right. And moving right along—his house getting an unauthorized search even before the fire, and a meeting with the Navy guy, which of course meant the captain, sometime today. He looked at his watch. Probably like right now.

  He shifted his body on the couch, trying to ease the pain in his leg. It was just like he’d figured—the captain was operating off the books, behind the scenes, manipulating contractors and moonlighting cops, moving in on him. Well, that would make it almost easy.

  The captain was still the only guy who can directly finger him for the Hardin shit. Time to tie that bleeder off.

  He would call the captain, tell him he was going to fold his tents and steal away into the desert night, and then propose a final meeting. Let the captain pick a place.

  Then pack out the barest essentials in the truck: the money, both guns—one to use, one to have after he disposed of the first—some clothes.

  He knew that, after the fire, the captain might be too spooked to meet with him. But Malachi was counting on something—the captain might see opportunity in such a meeting. He had to be just about in a panic about now, even though he was getting some unofficial help. The cops would have to investigate the fire in Georgetown, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out that the guy who torched Snow’s house might have a relationship to the captain, which would put an end to the moonlighting. So, from the captain’s point of view, the chance to get Malachi alone, in some remote spot of his own choosing, should be enticing.

  Especially since Malachi intended to ask for the meet under the pretext of getting some money in return for a promise to disappear. He figured the captain would meet him, either because he would be grateful that Malachi was going to take some money and run or because he was going to try to take Malachi out and end his problem. Malachi would be able to tell a lot from the meeting place the captain proposed, but either way, he was going to ice that supercilious bastard. That would take care of his problem, and then he could slip away into wild and wonderful West by God Virginia.

  He would make the call around 5:00 p.m. and leave the duplex phone number, which would silently forward the return call here to the apartment. He dropped the soggy towel on the rug and hobbled back out into the kitchen to get the bottle of Harper. The leg was actually a little better. He had to take it easy on the sauce, because he might have a long drive ahead of him tonight.

  He dismissed the notion that the captain might be waiting for him with a gun or even some help. The captain was an executive assistant, not a player. Guy like that could set a dozen ambushes for Malachi, and even with one eye and one leg, Malachi would have his ass. He should have saved some of that ice.

  dan, grace, and Captain Vann were silent as they rode the long escalator up from the Pentagon Metro station to the concourse entrance. At five in the evening, the three of them were in lonely contrast to the steady stream of people riding the down escalator, as the Pentagon’s 23,000 employees emptied the building.

  Grace was dressed as she had been in the morning. Dan had kept the neck brace but had changed into service dress blues, and Vann was wearing a dark suit. Dan was keeping an eye on Grace, who was looking very tired, having spent a good part of the day on the telephone with her bank, credit-card companies, and her insurance company, which had not lived up very well to its advertising. And the meeting with Vann had been difficult, as well.

  Since they had to be back at the Pentagon by five o’clock, Dan had driven up to the Pentagon from Old Town and parked the car in north parking. They then took a Metro to Judiciary Square for their meeting with Vann. The trip from Vann’s office to the Pentagon by car at rush hour would have taken them at least forty minutes; the Metro did it in fifteen. Vann had been late and was in a foul humor after his day of sensitivity training, and he had come into the office muttering imprecations about every variant of hyphenated Americans.

  He debriefed the two of them on the results of the preliminary search through Ward’s town house, which had turned up nothing of particular interest.

  “He’s got a hidey-hole somewhere; the place was cleaned out of anything interesting, but not abandoned.

  My people had another look early this A. M., right after the fire, but there was no sign he’d been back. I’ll have someone go back in to see if he’s been back today. But I have a feeling he’s still in town.”

  “Which means we’re not out of the woods yet,” Dan had said.

  “That’s right. What’s happening on your end?”

  Dan recounted his theory about who the players really were, then told Vann about the summons to see the vice chiefs EA at five o’clock. Vann whistled when he heard what Malachi had said, but then he made the obvious comment about lack of evidence.

  “I know,” Dan said. “But you have to admit it fits together pretty well.

  Remember the valentine with W.T.

  on it? And it’s why I need you to be at this meeting this afternoon—if they’re getting ready to move on me, the fact that the District police are in it can block any funny business.”

  Vann had shuffled some papers on his desk. “The District police are only sort of in it,” he said. “Technically, the Hardin case is still federal.

  The fire last night and what happened to you two—well, we have no evidence that any of that is tied to the Hardin case, except for what he said to Miss. Snow here. But, see, this is shaping up as a conspiracy rap—and the feds will probably retain overall jurisdiction.”

  “But the feds who have the jurisdiction are under the thumb of the guy we think is behind it,” Grace interjected. “That’s been true from the start, when this same admiral took the investigation away from the NIS.”

  Vann acknowledged that problem. “I can go with you, but we’re gonna be on thin ice. Look, I want to get these guys as badly as you do, but I know enough about the system to realize that we can also end up dropping our case into that crack between feds and locals. I’ve already done something I shouldn’t have.”

  “What?” Dan asked.

  “The search of his house was done without a warrant.

  Sunday night, actually, probably while he was waiting in your house. I made some calls after we talked to Angela, and some guys did me a favor.”

  “But after what he did last night, surely you have probable cause.”

  “Miss. Snow, I don’t think the courts recognize after the-fact probable cause.”

  “Okay,” Dan said. “But you said they didn’t find anything, so there’s been no evidence compromised, right?

  I need you at this meeting for your deterrent effect: You don’t have to say anything. J
ust your presence ought to be enough to make them realize they can’t just order me out to Alaska tonight.”

  “They can do that?”

  “The vice chief can call up the CNO’s personal airplane at Andrews and have me airborne in an hour, he wants to. Or he could greet me at his office with a squad of Marines and have me disappear into the brig at Quantico. One phone call can do that.”

  “Shit,” Vann said. “I wish I could do that.”

  So Vann had agreed to come along, but Dan knew that it was going to be shaky. If the vice chief was the eminence behind all of this, he had tremendous power at his disposal. He could indeed have Marine guards waiting in his office to arrest Dan and then have him detained in a military brig anywhere in the country, at least for a while, because Dan, as an active-duty military officer, was subject to military discipline under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the UCMJ. The code also had preferential jurisdiction over any civil court for whatever military offense they might decide to throw at him. After all, he had disobeyed direct orders to stay out of the Hardin case.

  They reached the top of the escalator and went through the double glass doors into the concourse entrance, where the familiar Federal Protective Service cops, the walk-through metal detectors, and the luggage scanners were in operation, along with four very large Army military policemen in camouflage utilities. Dan swallowed hard as he walked up to the security checkpoint.

  Since he had a building pass, he did not have to go through the metal detectors, but the other two did.

  Vann identified himself to the guards as a D.C. cop, and they waved him through, but Grace had to go through the whole check. The MP’s just stood there, trying not to stare too hard at Grace, but to Dan’s great relief, they did not appear to be looking for him or anyone else in particular.

  He escorted Grace and Vann up the ramps to the fourth floor and took them to Op-614. It was 5:20 by the time they reached the office, and Captain Summer field was alone waiting for them. Snapper and Yeoman Jackson had secured for the day. Summerfield invited Grace and Captain Vann to sit on the couch, and Dan stood in the doorway.

  “Well, boys and girls,” Summerfield said, fiddling with his unlit pipe.

  “We are ‘on call’ with Captain Ran dall. Their lordships do not appear to be amused.”

  “Wonderful,” Dan said. “Why did I know that already?

  Any idea why there are MP’s at the checkpoints?”

  “Bomb scare today; I think they use it as an excuse to exercise the troops.”

  “What exactly does the EA want to meet about?”

  Grace asked. Dan smiled in spite of the pit in his stomach.

  Grace was right on point again.

  “Captain Randall remembered the name Snow when he saw the television news about the fire,” Summerfield replied. “He made an educated guess about the ‘friend’ and called me. Asked me if Dan here was involved in the fire in Georgetown and if it had anything to do with the Hardin case. I had to say yes to both, but that that was all I knew. Hour later, I was told to get you in here this evening. Now, Dan, you want to tell me what’s going down here?”

  Dan hesitated. “I’m not sure if I should, Captain.

  How much of what I’ve told you already has gone straight up the chain of command here?”

  Summerfield stopped fiddling with the pipe and gave Dan a studied look.

  “Whatever I thought was pertinent,” he said. “You have a problem with that?”

  “I do if the guy responsible for one murder, possibly two, and perhaps for what happened to Grace and me last night, happens to be at the upper end of that chain.”

  Summerfield took a deep breath but held his temper.

  “Okay, you better explain that.”

  Dan ran through the details of what had happened last night, and then the gist of his theory about the identity of the flag officer behind the Hardin killings.

  Summerfield listened intently, putting his pipe down with a frown when Dan told him what he suspected about the vice chief. He began shaking his head as Dan finished.

  “Admiral Torrance is a powerful, politically astute, ruthless when he has to be, highly ambitious, and very smart four-star admiral,” he declared. “If I reach real, real hard, I could maybe entertain the notion of his having a girlfriend, although I think he’s much too intelligent, given what he’s in line for, to do something that stupid.

  And besides, I know his wife, and she’s a treasure. But more importantly, I cannot for the life of me get my mind around the notion that he, or any other flag officer, for that matter, would orchestrate a murder, let alone two murders.”

  “Four if you’d like to count us,” Grace suggested.

  “That reinforces my point,” Summerfield said.

  “I don’t necessarily think he did—I think his EA did,” Dan said, fingering his neck brace. “At best, the admiral might very well not know anything about it. He might suspect that someone has been operating on his

  behalf, but he can maintain his deniability. At worst, he’s orchestrated the whole thing.”

  Summerfield thought about that as he picked up his pipe and began to load it with tobacco. Then he put it down and swung around in his chair, looking at his watch.

  “Now that is possible,” he said, finally, swinging back around. “Randall is as smart, ambitious, and as ruthless as his boss. He’s also, in my opinion, a heartless cold fish—a purely political flag selectee if there ever was one.”

  “If this vice chief fella was in danger of going down in flames, would this Randall guy be affected?” Vann asked, speaking for the first time.

  Summerfield looked at him. “Yes, he would. He’s a captain who’s been selected for rear admiral, but he’s not yet officially been promoted.

  Sometimes that can take two years.”

  “So?”

  “So some EAs do their job without becoming identified body and soul with their flag officer. But Randall is the other kind—the new vice, Torrance, made him his EA when I had to withdraw from the job, and he also got him selected for flag. Eldon Randall has never been bashful about wearing, hell, flaunting, his sugar daddy’s four stars. Yeah, he’d be affected. You think this theory has legs, Captain?”

  Vann shrugged. “It may, but evidence is in kinda short supply, and our system feeds on evidence. Lemme ask the reverse question: If the EA was guilty of all this, would his admiral go down, too?”

  Summerfield nodded again. “You mean if it turned out that his EA was behind a couple of murders to protect the vice chiefs personal reputation? Yes. Even if the vice maintained that he knew nothing about it, the scandal would at the very least end his chances to become the Chief of Naval Operations.”

  “Uh-huh,” Vann said. “So in a way, they might both have a motive to muzzle Commander Collins here.”

  “Which is a pretty fair description of what they’ve been trying to do all along, ever since we brought the investigation back to Washington,”

  Grace pointed out.

  Summerfield nodded slowly and frowned. “Shit,” he said as the phone began to ring in the outer office.

  Summerfield indicated for Dan to pick it up. It was one of the chief yeomen in the vice chiefs office, informing him that their meeting with Rear Admiral-select Ran dall would be at 1745. Dan acknowledged and hung up.

  “It’s show time,” he said, looking at his watch.

  “Since this may go late, I’ve got to make a quick call home,”

  Summerfield said to Dan. “You start securing the office.”

  Dan closed up the office while Vann and Grace waited out in the E-ring corridor and then he joined them while Summerfield finished his call. A minute later, Summerfield came out and they walked up the empty corridor toward the vice chiefs office. They passed the OP-06 front office, where the EA did not appear to be in residence. When they reached the vice chiefs front office, Summerfield led the way in, followed by Dan, Grace, and Captain Vann. To Dan’s surprise, they found Captain
s Manning, the OP-06 EA, and Randall, as well as Rear Admiral Carson, OP-06B, waiting for them. The clerical staff appeared to have gone for the night, which left the administrative office suite partially darkened. The door to the admiral’s inner office was closed, but light was shining through the opaque glass window. Nobody looked particularly happy to be there.

  Randall went right on the attack.

  “Captain Summerfield,” he said, pointedly ignoring Dan, “who are these people?”

  Summerfield was unruffled. “This is Miss. Snow, who was on the original Hardin investigation from NIS, and this is Captain Vann, from the D.C.

  Police Department.

  And of course you know Commander Collins.”

  Randall looked at Vann and then back at Summer field, continuing to ignore Dan. “The D.C. police department?” he asked, going behind his desk. “This meeting was supposed to include you and Commander Collins.

  Why are these other two here?”

  Dan was relieved to see that Summerfield was his usual unflappable self, and holding steady as Randall pressed him.

  “You said this meeting was inspired by the fact that Miss. Snow’s house was burned down last night; if we’re going to talk about that, I thought it best to hear from the people who were present when it happened, especially since it appears to involve the Hardin case.”

  “And this police officer?”

  “This is a police captain. The fire last night took place in Washington, and one of the Hardins also died in Washington. There are now indications that it was not an accident, as originally believed, which is why Captain Vann is here.”

  “I see. Well, your first assumption is unwarranted, Captain,” Randall replied, tapping a pencil impatiently on the top of his desk. “This meeting concerns Commander Collins and his direct disobedience of orders regarding the Hardin case. This is essentially going to be a preliminary hearing to determine if Commander Collins ought not go to Admiral’s Mast.”

  “Mast!” exclaimed Dan. “You want to take me to mast? That’s really funny, Captain. I think Captain Vann here ought to arrest you for complicity in a murder.”