by John Case
‘Under your sister’s nails – the skin was John Doe’s, no question. Even without the DNA test, the doc says our boy was raked – four fingers across the cheek, right to left. We couldn’t see it because of the bandages.’
The knife: ‘We had an artist sit with him on the burn ward. He did some sketches, and the last one – it’s good! It’s him: John Doe – no burns, no bandages. But this time with hair and eyebrows – which, of course, he doesn’t actually have, not at the moment. Anyway, unless this guy wore a pompadour, we know what he looks like.’
‘So what?’
‘So we took the sketch to twenty gun stores, half a dozen army surplus joints, and – guess what? Clerk in Springfield says he sold the guy a K-Bar knife, three, maybe four weeks ago.’
‘He remembers that?’
‘Like it was yesterday.’
‘And how does he do that?’
‘Easy. He says the guy stood out like a stork. Says he was wearing one of those droopy foreign suits –’
‘Armani.’
‘Whatever – they don’t see a lot of that at Sunny’s Surplus. What they see is guys in jumpsuits and cammies, kids with shaved heads and black jeans. . . . This guy was, quote: “Right out of G.Q.” Unquote. I’m tellin’ ya, Joe. The case is a lock.’
And so it went. At the hospital, one bored policeman after another stood guard outside the prisoner’s room, checking the credentials of everyone who entered and left. But there wasn’t much point: all of the visitors were hospital employees, and other than Joe Lassiter and the press, no one called to ask about the man’s condition.
It was the Monday before Thanksgiving that Riordan telephoned to say that the doctors were removing the breathing tube from John Doe’s throat. Doe was well enough to answer questions, and an interview was set for Wednesday.
‘Then what?’ Lassiter wanted to know.
‘We’ll move him to Fairfax. Then we’ll arraign him – in a wheelchair, if we have to.’
According to the doctors, the patient’s condition was remarkably improved – though he’d never be ‘as good as new.’ There was deep scarring to his neck and to the left side of his face, and the tissues of his lungs and larynx had been damaged. ‘He’s not gonna like that,’ Riordan said.
‘Who would?’
‘I mean, what I get from the doctors – the guy was a jock. Or like a jock. Anyway, they say he’s in tremendous shape – or was.’
‘A runner?’
‘No – well, maybe. But this is a big guy. Bulky. A boxer, maybe. Or a linebacker. Bouncer. I dunno. Something big. Maybe, I’m thinking – a soldier.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he’s been through the mill. Doctors showed me his X rays, and you can tell – the guy’s taken some knocks. Like he’s been tortured or somethin’.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got some old fractures – and scar tissue. A lotta scar tissue on his back – like he’s been whipped.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not kiddin’. You should see it. Plus, he’s been shot. He’s got what looks like an old rifle wound: front entry, right shoulder. Exited half an inch from the spine. Something else, too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My opinion? I think this guy – professionally – I think he lays tile.’
‘What?’
Riordan chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. ‘That’s the other thing. Doc says the guy’s got calluses on his knees. Big ones – thick. So I figure – tile. I mean – where else you gonna get something like that?’
Lassiter thought about it. Finally, he said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Aha,’ Riordan said. ‘I rest my case.’
12
ON THE WEDNESDAY morning that Riordan was to interview John Doe, Joe Lassiter drove to his office in Foggy Bottom, where he sat down and pretended to work while waiting for the detective to call.
The office was a large and luxurious one, with a working Georgian fireplace, dove-gray carpeting, and windows that looked out toward Capitol Hill at the far end of the Mall. The walnut-paneled walls were softly lighted, and hung with Hockney lithographs. At one end of the room was a richly carved desk; a pair of wing chairs and a leather couch were at the other. The effect was one of gravity and discretion, and it was meant to put the rich, the cautious, and the troubled at ease.
Lassiter Associates occupied the entire ninth floor of the building, which meant there were three corner offices in addition to the one in which the firm’s namesake was resident. One of those offices was a conference room. The other two were assigned to the company’s managing directors, Judy Rifkin and Leo Bolton. There were eight other windowed offices, each of which was assigned to a senior investigator or case manager. Field researchers and data-base staff, secretaries, and clerical personnel, occupied a warren of cubicles in the interior of the floor. Besides Joe Lassiter, there were thirty-six people in the firm’s headquarters – and about forty others in New York, Chicago, London, and L.A.
Security was tight, and ostentatious – as security is meant to be. It began in the reception area, where a state-of-the-art, video surveillance system recorded the comings and goings of employees and visitors alike. Behind the reception area, access to the windowed offices was controlled by a biometric locking system that scanned thumbprints. Once inside, a visitor would find that all of the windows were hung with rubberized drapes, which absorbed vibration in the unlikely event that someone might try to use a laser device to read conversations off the window glass. The filing cabinets were fitted with heavy combination locks, and there was a shredder next to every desk. Other security features were less obvious. Because Lassiter Associates reported largely to CEOs and lead attorneys, its reports were not meant to be copied. Accordingly, and unless directed otherwise, the company printed its reports on paper impregnated with phosphorus, so that any effort to copy a document – other than by hand – would yield a black page.
The computers in the office were equipped with locks, but from a security standpoint, a more important feature was what they lacked: floppy drives. In effect, this meant that none of the firm’s data could be downloaded to disc. There were internal devices that controlled the dissemination of E-mail. And if the data processing system should ever be hacked – and the OpSec people swore that it couldn’t be – a 128-bit algorithm made certain that its contents could not be decoded for at least a million years, using contemporary technology.
All of this was expensive and, some thought, excessive – but Lassiter knew the truth. The security paid for itself. This was so because most of the firm’s income derived from two sources: litigation involving large corporations and the very rich, and Mergers & Acquisitions, which everybody called M&A’s. Whether the matter involved a commodity trader’s wife who was seeking a divorce (and half her husband’s assets), or a hostile takeover (and the prospect of greenmail), the stakes could be very high. Often, hundreds of millions of dollars were involved, and so secrecy, absolute secrecy, was an imperative. Ideally, to Lassiter’s way of thinking, the opposition (and there was always opposition) shouldn’t even know that his firm was involved in a matter – unless, as sometimes happened, it was felt that news of the firm’s involvement would have a favorable impact in its own right. Then the investigation would be a ‘noisy’ one, with leaks to the press, aggressive surveillance, and adversarial interviews.
Even more to the point, Lassiter thought, his clients liked it. The lawyers liked it, the bond sellers liked it, and the CEOs liked it. The cameras, codes, and locking systems gave them a feeling of confidence and, also, of money well spent. Not least of all, Lassiter knew, it made them feel as if they were players. Or, as Leo put it: ‘What the hell? For two hundred bucks an hour, we should put the men’s room on springs.’
Even so, with all the high-tech in the world at his disposal, Joe Lassiter couldn’t get Jimmy Riordan to telephone him. That morning, he’d told his secretary to hold all calls but Riordan’s, and the
result was an uncharacteristic silence in the southwest corner of the ninth floor. The morning sun dragged quietly into the afternoon, and still the phone didn’t ring. Lassiter ordered sandwiches from a takeout called Le Bon Appetit – or, as the GWU kids called it, ‘the Bone’ – and ate alone in front of the fire, leafing through a copy of Information Warfare. Slowly, the afternoon dwindled toward evening, and Lassiter thought about going home.
There must have been a problem, he told himself. Maybe Doe wanted a lawyer present, and they were having trouble finding one. Maybe it was the language – though he didn’t see how that could be a problem: Riordan had said he was taking a translator along, ‘someone who speaks Italian and Spanish.’ Maybe Doe had taken a turn for the worse. Maybe –
The telephone rang at five-fifteen, just as the sun was sinking into Arlington Cemetery.
‘I just got back,’ Riordan said.
‘And?’
There was a pause. ‘What I found out? What I found out was absolutely nothing,’ Riordan said.
‘What?’
‘Hang on,’ Riordan said, and yelled away from the receiver: ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, give me five minutes, all right?’ And then his voice came back. ‘He stonewalled me. I didn’t get word one. Nada.’
‘What about a lawyer? Did you ask him –’
‘You don’t get it. I’m telling you: he didn’t say jack-shit. Nothing. We read him his rights in three languages and –’
‘You sure he understood?’
‘Yeah, he understood. You could see it in his eyes. He understood every word we were saying.’
‘He’s got to have a lawyer.’
‘Of course! And after a couple of hours I got one appointed for him. I figure, what the fuck, maybe he can get something out of him. A name. Something. So we wait a couple hours for the lawyer. And then we cool our heels for, I don’t know what – half an hour – while he’s in there, talkin’ to him. And guess what? The lawyer’s doin’ all the talkin’. Doe doesn’t say fuck-all. So I go back in the room and I explain it to him. I tell him what a great country this is, how everybody’s equal and how it doesn’t matter who you are – it’s what you’ve done that counts. Good deeds or bad. I tell him we don’t need his name to try him – or even to execute him. For all I care, he can go on trial as John Doe – and when it’s over, the sentence will still be the same. He doesn’t cooperate – he’s a dead man. A generic dead man, but still dead.’
‘You said that?’
‘Yeah, and I told him he’s charged with first-degree murder and arson, and that we have the evidence to convict. I listed the evidence and I showed him the knife –’
‘You took the knife to the hospital?’
‘I took a couple of things to the hospital. Don’t worry, I signed it out.’
‘How’d he react?’
‘He didn’t react. You seen the Sphinx?’ Riordan let go one of his sharp chuckles. ‘The only rise I got out of this guy was when he saw the bottle.’
‘What bottle?’
‘The perfume bottle, or whatever the fuck it is. The little bottle from his pocket.’
‘What’d he do?’
‘I don’t know, he sort of . . . you could see it meant something to him. It was like his eyes got . . . wider, or . . . like that.’
‘His eyes got wider.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Huh.’
Riordan ignored the sarcasm. ‘I’m serious. The bottle surprised him. So I’m gonna have the lab run another test on the water. Maybe there’s something in it they missed. Drugs, or something.’
‘Then what?’
‘Anyway, I’m sitting there with him and his lawyer, and I mention the fact that I’m in a position to make a recommendation to the Commonwealth’s attorney. Whether he seeks the death penalty or life – it’s a fine line, y’know? I tell him we have evidence of premeditation, we got a chain of evidence solid as a rock, and we got a heinous crime. I tell him the way I see it, he’s on a downward spiral: in a couple of days we’re gonna move him to the strong room at Fairfax General. And then –’
‘What’s a “strong room”?’ Lassiter asked.
‘Just what it sounds like: it’s a hospital room, but the windows are bulletproof. You know how many suspects get injured, committing crime? You wouldn’t believe it. So every jurisdiction’s got a strong room. In Washington it’s at D.C. General. Out here it’s Fairfax. Costs a hell of a lot of money, you know, posting a twenty-four-hour guard. So as soon as someone’s in halfway decent shape, they get moved to the strong room. There’s bars, a steel door – the lock’s on the outside . . .
‘Anyway . . . I explain that after he’s well enough to leave the hospital, the strong room, things start getting worse because then we arraign him, and then he goes to county jail. Maybe to the infirmary if he’s still iffy, but definitely to the jail. It’s a real downward spiral, like I said. Meanwhile, what I know is: the doctors are cutting back on his medication – just for the day – so we can talk and he’s not too dopey. And I can see it’s getting to him, he’s wantin’ his little shot. Now, obviously, his lawyer’s right there, and I can’t actually threaten him, but I did let him know that the medical personnel at the county jail are about as busy as a dog with two dicks –’
‘Jesus, Riordan.’
‘Hey, I’m just telling him the truth. They’re busy and he probably won’t have the same level of comfort there as he does where he is now. And I’m not lying. I told him: a year ago – and you can look it up in the Post – there was a scandal. Terrible thing. Turns out, none of the prisoners in the infirmary were getting anything for their pain because the nurse was giving ’em placebos and selling the real stuff on the cell block.’
‘Jim –’
‘So I said maybe, if he’s a little more helpful, maybe he could stay in the hospital – in the strong room – a little longer. A week, maybe. Two. Give him some time to get on his feet.’
‘And . . .?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘You’re sure he understood you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If he doesn’t say anything, how can you be sure?’
‘Because he speaks English – he talks to the nurses. He’s thirsty. He’s hungry. He hurts. He’s been speaking to them, all right. Besides . . . this is something I know about. I’ve probably questioned a couple thousand people. And this guy? My opinion? This guy is a very hard case. I can promise you this was not the first time he’s been questioned by a cop.’
Lassiter believed him. This was, indeed, the kind of thing that Riordan knew. ‘So . . . that’s it?’
‘More or less. The doctor kicked us out.’ Riordan spoke in an irritated singsong: ‘“The patient needs his reh-est.” So he sends the nurse for a shot of Demerol, and we’re getting up, and John Doe – John Doe looks bad. I mean, he’s in considerable pain. You can see it. He’s sweating and every once in a while – he moves or something? – there’s this sound. Quiet, like: uhnhhh. Like he’s having a hard time keeping control. So, I put on my hard look and I tell him I’ll be back – and he looks up at me with his shit-eating grin, and you know what he says to me?’
‘No, what?’
‘He says: “Ciao.”’
‘Ciao?’
‘Like it’s “Baywatch” or something. I swear to God, if he wasn’t already in the hospital, I would of put him there.’
Lassiter was silent for a moment, and then asked, ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Everything I told him I was gonna do,’ Riordan said grimly. ‘Starting with the move to the strong room. Doc says, if he comes along the way they expect, we can move him next week.’
Thanksgiving Day, Lassiter rolled out of bed at eight A.M. to see that the weather was beginning to turn – with a vengeance. Snowflakes drifted past the atrium windows, huge and perfectly defined. It was the kind of snow that fell a flake at a time, the kind of snow that came at the beginning of a Christmas movie.
He dressed quickly, gra
bbed a couple of cans of tuna fish from the kitchen, and went out to the car. The food was his entrance fee to the Turkey Trot in Alexandria, a flat five-miler that drew about two thousand runners each year. As the car nosed through a vortex of swirling flakes, he leaned over the steering wheel. The visibility was so poor that the cars in front of him were little more than glimmers of red, winking off and on through a wall of falling snow. It was the kind of snow that evokes the remark that ‘it won’t last,’ or ‘it won’t stick,’ but by the time he reached Alexandria and found a place to park, the world was draped in white.
Many people claim to do valuable thinking while running, finding that the repetitive motion of the body allows the mind to float free. Lassiter was not one of them. He never thought when running, except in the crudest and most narrowly focused terms: Where to put his foot, whether he should take his gloves off, when he should turn around, and was the pain in his knee serious or just a trick of his mind?
In today’s race his thoughts were of the same kind. He thought about his pace and how far the next mile marker was. He plotted vectors that would take him past the runners in front of him. He blinked the snow from his eyes, listened to the stertorous breathing of the people around him, and marveled at how warm he felt – and how cold the air was. His mind drifted with the snow, taking him toward the finish. What he liked about running was the way it stopped the mind. When he ran, it was as if he’d vanished from himself and the only thing left was motion.
Approaching the finish line, he became aware of the welcoming crowd that lined both sides of the road for the last quarter mile of the race. They whooped encouragement, exhorting the runners with shouts of ‘Looking good!’ and ‘Almost there.’ When he crossed the line, the digital display was crusted with snow, but he could see his time: 31:02. Not bad, he thought. He heard the race coordinator yelling, ‘Men to the left, women to the right,’ and ran into the chute behind a short guy in red tights. He was aware of the people around him, breathing hard, their faces pink, steam rising from their shoulders and the tops of their heads. The snow continued to fall in big weightless clumps.