The Firefly

by P. T. Deutermann

  “Yours, theirs, or ours?”

  “Whatever’s best for Lucy, pal. Listen, can I ask that you keep me in the loop on this one? I mean, if it solidifies? I trust your instincts a lot more than some poor sweaty bastard up to his neck in the inauguration security swamp.”

  “Why, Bertie, I’m flattered. I told you I’m just a recalled annuitant, right? Not SES, not even technically in the Secret Service anymore?”

  “Yes, you did. And we all understand that OSI is DHS’s version of an intel op. So, please? This might relate to something we’ve been sniffing.”

  “Which you cannot share, I presume?”

  “For the moment, that’s correct, my friend. All I can say is that you might be right.”

  Swamp shook his head. Agency guys always did this whenever information was traded. Some cardinal rule over in Langley said that the Agency always had to appear to know just a little bit more than anyone else. About everything. You could always tell you were there because they broke into clichés. “Some of those famous straws in the wind, huh?” he said.

  “More like burning embers in the wind, Swamp.”

  “A fire up the canyon?”

  “Truly disturbing portents,” Bertie said solemnly, going with it. “The real possibility of tectonic shifts in—”

  “Bertie.”

  “Yeah, okay. But saying please here?”

  “Okay, Bertie, of course. Can I trust this Lucy La Mamba?”

  “To a point. She’s a professional, flint-hearted bureaucrat, like the rest of us, so if it ever comes down to you or her, Lucy will save Lucy.”

  “Well, thanks for that, Bertie. And I’ll let you know what shakes out with my firefly.”

  He hung up the phone and stared at nothing for a minute. So Lucy VanMetre was a player. La Mamba. Bit over the top, that, he thought. But then, he didn’t know her and Bertie presumably did. She’d been professional and perfectly pleasant, as well as positively radiating intelligence. Gary White came walking over, a grim expression on his face.

  “Been on the horn with the District,” he said. “That lieutenant didn’t make it. Stroked out early this morning. Too much blood loss.”

  “Whoa boy.” Swamp sighed. “And I suppose the hunt is on in earnest now?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re out there tearing up Rock Creek Park again, now that it’s daylight. Definitely looking for two people: the nurse as a material wit, and the bad guy, the one who probably laid the blade.”

  “This in the papers yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re hoping she’ll read it and come in?”

  “Right.”

  “Did they release that the lieutenant died?”

  “Negative.”

  Swamp nodded. If she thought he was still alive, she might be more willing to surface into their loving arms. “The hive pretty stirred up?”

  Gary nodded. Swamp remembered Gary had been a Homicide cop over in Fairfax County. He would absolutely relate to a cop-killer frenzy. He decided he needed to talk to Carl Malone as soon as possible.

  Connie had to wait nearly two hours before she could get her hands on the current edition of the Washington Post. Apparently in this branch, the staff got to read the day’s papers before the patrons. She had spent the time cleaning up in the ladies’ room and then wandering the stacks between sessions of magazine reading in a lounge area. At least she was warm. When one of the staff finally brought the day’s papers out to the rabble, Connie covered her face with a recent Time magazine until the woman left, then grabbed the morning paper.

  The story was featured on the front page of the “Metro” section, along with two pictures: one of Lieutenant Ballard, who was reported in guarded condition at Walter Reed Army Medical Center; the other one of her, taken from her driver’s license.

  She stared at it in shock, then looked around to see who might be watching. There were two men in the lounge now, older gentlemen, who were pawing through the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Probably looking for the Post, she thought, so she moved to the far corner of the lounge with the paper, sitting down with her back to the main room.

  She examined the picture and tried to think of what she could do to alter her appearance now so that it wouldn’t be such a damned good resemblance. Not much, other than go blond in a bathroom somewhere. She felt like putting on the sunglasses, but it would look very strange here in the library reading lounge. Then she felt a presence behind her.

  “That today’s Post?” one of the old men asked.

  “Yes,” she said without turning around. Like I’m reading it here, bub.

  “If you’re done with the front section, can I have it?” he asked.

  She casually folded the “Metro” section over and then handed the front section back over her shoulder without turning around. She felt him take it and leave. Some people, she thought. But she was in no position to make a scene or step on the guy’s feelings.

  So now what? Why not just call the cops and turn herself in? According to the paper, they no longer thought she’d harmed Cat Ballard, and right now, without money, transportation, shelter, or ID, she was as good as homeless. She might find some money at the clinic, but that wasn’t really going to solve her problem. But suppose the District cops took her statement, held her for a while, and then handed her over to the Secret Service or the FBI? What had happened to Cat was serious enough, but she could visualize being taken to some CIA farmhouse over in Virginia and worked over by big guys with rubber hoses regarding the goings-on at the clinic.

  She felt someone behind her again; now it was the other old guy, probably after the sports page. She turned to snap at him, whereupon she discovered two large men in suits and two uniformed police officers standing behind her. The staff librarian was standing triumphantly behind them, holding a copy of the Washington Post “Metro” section in her hand.

  “Want to come along with us, please, Ms. Wall?” one of the plainclothes cops said, stepping forward with a set of plastic cuffs in his hand.

  “They just apprehended the nurse,” Malone said. “Found her holed up in a branch library down near where the clinic is.”

  “Good news,” Swamp said, indicating to Gary White, who was sitting nearby, surrounded by the boxes of records from the clinic, that he should pick up the phone. “I’ve got Gary White on with me. They gonna hold her?”

  “Oh yes,” Malone said. “They’re interviewing her right now. Some of the guys are talking charges for the hijacking, felony with a gun, taking the guy’s wallet, evading, et cetera, but of course what they really want to know is who set that blade. And why.”

  “She probably doesn’t know,” Swamp said. “But if that clinic fire was deliberately set to kill all those people, the arsonist may be the same guy who iced the lieutenant. She talking at all?”

  “Word is, she got her Miranda and took it literally. They’re getting her a public defender. The Homicide crew is less than pleased.”

  “I’ll bet. Any chance I can get in line for some table time with her?”

  “Right now? I’d cool it, I were you. I talked to the chief of detectives this morning, right after we got the word that Ballard died. The timing wasn’t wonderful.”

  “I understand,” Swamp said. “Still, now that she’s invoked her rights, I’d like to swing by. Maybe you can tell your people that I’ve got an angle, and that I’ll share?”

  “Lemme bird-dog that,” Malone said. “I’ve got your number.”

  “I’ll be here,” Swamp said, and hung up.

  “They have her on the peripheral charges,” Gary said. “She did hijack the UPS truck. And use a gun in the commission of a felony. Big deal in the District.”

  Swamp rubbed the sides of his face and nodded. “Yeah, but they really want the cutter. She could always say she was fleeing for her life, and they’ve probably got corroborating evidence that the guy chased her.”

  “But why did she stay gone?”

  “Doesn’t wa
nt to talk about that clinic,” Swamp said.

  “She’s going to have to.”

  “And there’s the rub, I think. She might be more afraid of this guy who attacked them than she is of some prosecutor. We know absolutely nothing about the attacker.”

  “We know he was a patient at that clinic. And was German.”

  “No, we don’t. Know that, I mean. We’ve been assuming all that. In any event, we’ve got a much bigger problem. The District’s got a dead cop. We’ve got a transcript indicating a possible terrorist attack, a code number indicating that a patient at the clinic made the threats, and absolutely no way to ID that patient.”

  “I’ve been through every box of this shit,” Gary said, indicating the cartons of scorched papers littering the conference room. “Sampling, admittedly, but Malone was right—they’re just fragments. Take months to put this all together.”

  “We need that code list,” Swamp said, standing up. “If it’s not here in this collection of burned papers, then it might still be at the clinic. So call Carl Malone, get permission for us to reenter his fire scene, and we’ll go back to the source.”

  Gary looked at him and made a face. “The clinic?”

  “Yes, the clinic. Let’s go get lunch and then we’ll go back out there.”

  “Let’s not and say we did,” Gary replied, a worried look on his face. “Lunch, I’m talking about.”

  Connie Wall sat at the conference table in the interview room, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes looking straight ahead. A policewoman sat at the other end of the table, watching Connie intently. There was a video camera mounted near the ceiling, covering both of them. There were no windows or two-way mirrors in the room, just a bank of fluorescent lights overhead and the single door. Connie understood the matron’s hostile expression: The word was out in the hallways that they had someone in custody for the assault on one of their own. At least she had her own clothes back. The forensics people had taken them for two hours after bringing her to the police headquarters.

  The door opened, and two detectives in suits came in, one black, one white. She recognized the white man, Jake Cullen, whom she’d met socially before. Jake had known her older brother, and it was actually Jake who had introduced her to Cat Ballard. She didn’t know the young black man with him. The matron got up and walked out without a word. The younger detective sat down directly across from Connie, while Jake Cullen sat at the head of the small table. Jake introduced himself as Detective Cullen and the other man as Detective Howell. He stated that the interview they were about to conduct was being videotaped. Connie saw the tiny red light come on under the camera as Cullen was speaking. Jake then read out her Miranda rights and pushed a file folder with the written Miranda warning in it down the table for her to sign. Connie took a moment to read it, just to make sure she wasn’t signing a confession or something, but it was identical to the one she had already signed. She scribbled her name on the form and pushed it back. Howell, sitting across from her, just stared at her as if she were an ax murderer.

  “Ms. Wall, do you know why you’re here?” Cullen asked, making no indication that he knew Connie personally. She played along.

  “I presume you want to find out what happened at my house last night,” she said.

  “That’s correct, Ms. Wall.”

  “What’s my status here?” she asked.

  “Status?”

  “Am I a suspect in a crime?”

  “Yes, you are,” Cullen said calmly. “Several crimes, as a matter of fact.”

  Connie nodded. She’d made up her mind about this when she’d first been arrested, and this was not the time to waver. “Then I choose to exercise my rights,” she said.

  “Meaning what, exactly?” Howell asked. They didn’t appear to be playing any good cop/bad cop games with her. They both seemed professionally calm.

  “Meaning I intend to remain silent and that I request a lawyer.”

  Both detectives just looked at her for a moment. Howell pushed back his chair, but Cullen put up his hand. “Do you have your own attorney?” he asked.

  Connie shook her head.

  “Will you cooperate and give us a statement, tell us what happened last night, once your attorney is present?”

  “Probably,” she said. “Unless he advises me not to.”

  Cullen gave Howell a sign and they both stood up. The light went off under the camera. Howell went out into the hallway first, looking angry now, and Jake followed, but then he stopped and turned in the doorway. He cocked his head to one side. “Connie, did you kill Cat Ballard?” he asked in a soft voice.

  Connie was shocked. Kill? Cat was dead? Cullen saw the expression on her face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “He died this morning at Walter Reed. Did you do that, Connie?”

  “Jesus, no,” she whispered, unable to find her voice.

  Jake was nodding. “We don’t think so, either,” he said. “But we’re not going to be able to catch the bastard who did this unless you help us. We’ll get you someone in from the public defender’s office. It’ll probably take a few hours. You want some coffee?”

  Numb, hand to her mouth, she could only nod. She was still trying to get her mind around the idea that Cat Ballard was gone. Poor Cat, she thought. And poor Lynn, the kids. Great God! Lynn would really hate her now.

  Jake Cullen left, and five minutes later, the matron came back in, set a paper cup of black coffee down on the table, and sat down at the other end. The little red light on the television camera came back on. Connie smeared a single tear off her face. Cat? Dead?

  When Swamp came back from getting a sandwich, Gary White told him that he needed to call Carl Malone. “Said it was urgent.”

  “Problem with us going back to the clinic?”

  “No, sir. Unfortunately. But I think this is about the nurse.”

  Swamp called Malone’s office.

  “They interviewed the nurse,” Malone began. “Got zip. She’s not talking until the public defender shows up.”

  “What’s her attitude?”

  “Jake Cullen has the lead on it. Said she didn’t know Ballard was dead. He knows her, by the way. He introduced the two of them way back when. Can you believe it?”

  “Really.”

  “She comes from a cop family. Her old man, her brother. Anyway, I just sat in on a meeting. Told the Chief of D’s and the case officers about your involvement, and the possible terrorist angle in this case. The chief was a little more receptive this time. Mixed feelings in the room about who does what, who knows what, but he’s willing to let you talk to her, long as their guys can sit in.”

  “You able to get him offstage for a minute, tell him how we want to play it?”

  “Yeah. He’s cool with that. But time is of the essence. The Homicide crew wants somebody’s skin for this. Ms. Wall is the skin in hand, if you follow me.”

  “We’ll be right over,” Swamp said, and hung up.

  He told Gary White to get them a car and then went in to brief McNamara on what they were up to. Fifteen minutes later, they were signing in at the District police headquarters building. Carl Malone came down to reception to escort them upstairs.

  “Got a lawyer for her yet?”

  Malone, obviously frustrated, shook his head as they waited for the elevator. “Waiting for a judge to assign one out of the pool. Judge not back from lunch yet—he’s giving a speech somewhere. You know how that shit goes.”

  “Oh yeah,” Swamp said. Sometimes he felt he’d spent a lifetime waiting for lawyers and judges. The elevator finally arrived and they got in. Malone pushed a button for the third floor. “So what now?” Swamp asked. “Your guys want me to go in, talk to her now, or wait for the lawyer?”

  “Chief said for you to go on in. Detective Jake Cullen will go in with you—he’s the lead.”

  “Do I need to meet with the chief before I see her?” Swamp asked.

  Malone shook his head. “Chief said he wants to keep at arm’s length on any fed
eral involvement. That way—”

  Swamp understood. “That way, something goes wrong, he can deny that he knew anything about any deals,” Swamp said. “That’s fine with me.”

  “Probably why he’s the chief,” Malone said.

  Malone took them into the Homicide Unit’s office area, through yet another sign-in desk, where they got visitors’ badges, and then down a hallway to the office next door to the interview room, where Detective Sergeants Cullen and Howell met them and everyone made introductions.

  “Here’s what I propose to do,” Swamp said without preamble. “I’ll go in there and just say my piece. Lay out what I think’s going on, and why she should open up and cooperate with you guys.”

  “She flat said she wasn’t going to say anything,” Cullen said. “Legally, we have to wait now for the shyster.”

  “You do if you want to question her,” Swamp replied. “I’m not going to question her, at least not directly.”

  “Huh?” Howell said.

  “Just go with me here, Detective Sergeant. Worst that can happen is that she remains silent, which is where you are now. Right?”

  There were nods all around. “And in the process, I’ll try to elicit some body-language responses—you know, ‘Isn’t that right, Ms. Wall?’ after I lay something out. She nods, you have that on videotape. Not admissible, I know, but you can show her the tape later, maybe expand the dialogue. Like that, okay?”

  More shrugs and nods. Then they went into the interview room. The matron got up and took the remains of a vending-machine sandwich and the coffee cup out with her. Cullen, Gary White, Howell, and Swamp all sat down around one end of the table.

  “Ms. Wall,” Swamp began. “I’m Special Agent Morgan, U.S. Secret Service. You remember me?”

  “Yes,” she said. Swamp thought she looked depressed, which was appropriate, assuming she’d had some genuine feelings for Lieutenant Ballard.