A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  We walked along. They kept looking at me, waiting for me to say it.

  “Fine,” I said, caving in. “We’ll put her down as a possible suspect.”

  “There, now,” Amanda said cheerfully. “Was that so hard?”

  I ignored her and focused on Simon. “By the way, Sergeant Keele says he never told you he thought some of the new people might have taken the evidence.”

  “Really? How odd?”

  “I thought so.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Sergeant Keele is probably confused.”

  “He says he isn’t.”

  Simon shrugged. “He must be. Either that, or he lied to you.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  He gave me a tired smile. “Possibly he doesn’t want his coworkers to be irritated with him. Whatever his reason, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Maybe Keele lied to you because he’s one who took the evidence.”

  “It’s not Keele.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Forget about Keele. It’s not him.”

  He wouldn’t discuss the subject further.

  24

  Most of the Arlington PD called Simon’s limo the Batmobile, even though I’ve always thought a comparison to the Green Hornet’s car might be more accurate. I’m not suggesting that Simon’s limo has built-in rocket launchers, or machine guns, or any of that comicbook crime-fighter stuff. Of course it doesn’t.

  But it has practically everything else.

  Last year, Simon blew an arrest because he didn’t receive a crucial fax in time. To ensure he was never placed in that position again, he shelled out big bucks for a limo packed with every luxury item and high-tech gizmo your average multimillionaire homicide cop could possibly want. In addition to the prerequisite stocked bar and fridge of goodies, there was a plasma-screen TV, a VCR and DVD player, two independent satellite phone systems, both broadband Internet capable, a modular desk that contained a laptop and a dual-purpose printer and fax machine, and probably another half-dozen little items I still don’t know about—all controlled by an overhead touch-tone screen that looked like it could launch the space shuttle.

  “No hot tub?” Amanda said as we climbed in.

  Simon and I took the rearmost seat while Amanda camped beside the computer desk, which swivelled on a steel arm attached to the reinforced frame. The chauffeur du jour was a bespectacled, timid-looking man in his fifties. As usual, Simon didn’t bother to introduce him to us. He just rolled down the partition, instructed the guy to drive to the Pentagon, and promptly rolled the partition back up. Simon wasn’t being elitist so much as determined to maintain an emotional separation from his drivers. If he didn’t get close to them, it was easier to let them go.

  So much for accepting Romero’s death.

  As the limo cruised down the flight line, Simon said, “Is there anything you haven’t told us, Martin?”

  “No.” During the walk to the limo, I’d given him and Amanda a detailed rundown of my conversations with Sergeant Blake and Colonel Gustin, and my calls to maintenance and Pax Services. I also mentioned the fact that only a single hair had been recovered from the shower, and it apparently didn’t belong to General Garber. I didn’t pass on the forensics team’s suspicions concerning Andy, which I considered little more than an unpopularity contest.

  Simon eased against his seatback and closed his eyes. He was mentally preparing his top-ten list of items he deemed curious, interesting, suggestive, or puzzling.

  Amanda and I waited, knowing better than to interrupt. When Simon was ready, his eyes fluttered open and settled on me. “General Markel seems to be our most likely suspect—”

  “Yes.”

  “—and we need to pursue his relationship to Weller. Colonel Gustin’s use of the termfavorite is suggestive.”

  Glancing at Amanda, I said, “We’ll ask around. If their relationship was more than professional, someone will know. It’s hard to keep something like that secret.”

  He continued, “General Garber’s statement that an Asian person could be responsible for his death is also puzzling. Frankly, it strikes me as ludicrous.”

  “Garber might have just been talking,” I said. “Sergeant Blake said he was pretty drunk.”

  “I assume you’ve checked the contact information.”

  I fingered the papers in my jacket pocket. “No Asian names listed as either passenger or crew.”

  A nod. “I also find General Garber’s apparent preference for martinis of interest. If true, it might indicate—”

  “No dice,” I said. “Andy confirmed with the customs officer that the whisky belonged to General Garber.”

  “I see.” He looked less than pleased. “It might be worthwhile to request all the customs forms so we could check for ourselves.”

  I knew what he was trolling for, but considered this a dead end. Amanda obviously disagreed, saying, “It’s worth a try. If someone else bought the booze and added it to Garber’s customs form, the entry should be written differently. We might even find a line marked out on another form, where someone had originally declared the Glenlivet.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Whoever bought the whisky would have filled out a new form. Be silly not to.”

  “Could get lucky,” Amanda said. “The killer might have panicked. Gotten careless.”

  “Hasn’t been careless so far.”

  “What about the killing?”

  She won the point. This was the singular irony of the case. The contrast between a crude, hurried killing and a methodically planned cover-up.

  I looked to Simon, who had flipped up the lidlike top of an armrest, revealing one of the half-dozen satellite phone receivers. It took him two calls to track down the number of the customs officer, Margie Benson. She wasn’t in, so he left a message that included the limo’s fax number.

  “Turn on the laptop, Amanda,” he said, ending the call.

  She twisted around and swung the desk to her. The laptop sat in a form-fitting receptacle built into the modular top. Amanda flipped up the screen and punched the power button. As the hard drive booted up, Simon touched icons on the overhead console to route any incoming faxes to the computer. Those of interest we’d print out later.

  “All set,” Amanda said, pushing the desk away.

  I said, “I have an explanation for the absence of hair in the drain.”

  Once I had their attention, I told them someone must have removed them because they were incriminating.

  Amanda batted her eyes skeptically. Simon was more direct in his disagreement. “No, Martin.”

  I said, “So you’ve already considered this?”

  “Among other scenarios. None are feasible.”

  “Marty,” Amanda said. “Why would the killer take a shower? There wasn’t any blood from the murder.”

  “I’m not necessarily talking about the killer,” I said.

  “I’m only saying thatsomeone besides Garber must have been in the shower, because—”

  “Sex?” she said. You think Garber had sex in the shower?” Her tone indicated she didn’t believe this at all.

  “Why not? That would explain why the bed wasn’t used, and why no semen traces were found.”

  “I understand all that, but—” She searched for a hole in my argument.

  “Sex would have been awkward, Martin,” Simon said. “Garber was a large man. There wasn’t much room in the shower.”

  “They were screwing, not dancing.”

  A scowl of disgust. “How do you explain the unopened condom we found?”

  “The obvious. He had more than one.”

  “We found no others in his luggage.”

  “What’s that prove? He probably only took along a couple in case he got lucky.”

  “If Garber used a condom, where did he dispose of it? One wasn’t found in the compartment’s trash bin. Neither was the wrapping it came in.”

  I paused, thinking.

  “Flushing i
s out,” Amanda said. “Garber would know that’s a no-no, because it could have clogged the waste disposal system.”

  I said, “So the woman disposed of the rubber. Or maybe Garber didn’t use one. For all we know, the woman could have been on the pill.”

  “Wouldn’t Garber have been aware of that fact beforehand?” Simon asked.

  “How should I know?” I was getting tired of playing twenty questions. “Look, if you’ve got a better explanation—”

  “I don’t. Certainly nothing more plausible.” He sighed. “Frankly, that’s the problem, Martin.None of my solutions are plausible.Nothing fits the evidence we’ve uncovered. The one thing…theonly thing I’m certain about is that the killer is a man. Yet everything points to a woman. It’s as if…as if…”

  Unable to find the word, he slumped back with a frustrated grimace. Amanda and I glanced at each other. Simon letting a case get to him?

  Simon spent the next few moments staring out the window. Since it was approaching midday, the base traffic was light. As we drove past the sprawling Base Exchange complex, he said quietly, “Even here.”

  He was looking at the roped-off parking areas in front of the BX. Farther down, we could see more red cones in front of the commissary and the theater. This was yet another reminder of how the world had changed since 9-11. Even on a secured military installation, the home of Air Force One, even here, there was no guarantee of protection from an America-hating zealot with a car bomb.

  To me, this was the damning legacy of 9-11. The realization that the world,my world, was no longer a safe place for me to raise my daughter.

  Once again I felt unsettled. I tried to convince myself we were doing the right thing. That regardless of my personal feelings toward Garber, someone had to be held accountable for his death.

  When I glanced at Simon, he was contemplating me. As if sensing my thoughts, he said, “It’s not easy.”

  “No.”

  “If we pursue this, our loyalty will be questioned.”

  “I know—”

  “People will question our motives. Our patriotism. It will be unpleasant.”

  “It already is.”

  A sympathetic smile. “We’ve spoken of this earlier, but before we go any further, I want—I need—a commitment of your resolve. How far you’re willing to pursue the matter.If you’re willing to pursue the matter.” He looked at Amanda.

  She hesitated, then said carefully, “I’m a cop. It’s who I am and how I think. It would bother me to let a killer walk away. I’d like to think I could put my feelings aside and pursue an arrest.”

  “But you’re not certain?”

  “No.”

  He said, “Martin…”

  “I feel the same as Amanda. I’m not sure what I’ll do. It’s all too unclear.”

  Simon nodded and resumed gazing out the window.

  Amanda said to him, “You feel the same way, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.” He gave her a smile.

  But as he turned away, his smile disappeared, and I detected something on his face that surprised me.

  A look of regret.

  The limo waited at the light across from the gym. Two rights and a left would bring us to the main gate. Simon had set the radio to a soft jazz station. For the last five minutes, he hadn’t said a word. Since he’d questioned us, he seemed a little distant, but perhaps it was my imagination. When the light changed, he looked at me and said, “The absence of hairs in the shower, Martin.”

  “What about them?”

  “You’re right,” he said. “There is no reason for someone to have removed them unless they were incriminating. But assuming the killer was a man, why take a shower? He wouldn’t.”

  “That’s why it had to be a woman.”

  “Possibly. But not because she had sex with Garber. I’m confident we can prove General Garber didn’t engage in sex before he died.”

  “Semen,” I said, jumping on the statement. “That’s what you want from Dr. Bowman, right? You want proof that General Garber didn’t have sex because—”

  I broke off. I thought I was onto something, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t see Simon forking out big bucks just to prove Garberhadn’t been humping someone before he died.

  Simon seemed amused by my confusion. “You still understand, Martin? No? Amanda?”

  She was shaking her head.

  “What is the common thread in this case?” he asked her. “The one constant?”

  “Constant?” Her brow knitted. “I’m not sure I know…”

  “Correct,” he said.

  Which only served to heighten her confusion and mine.

  “The constant,” Simon explained, “is the fact that we don’tknow anything. We can’trely upon anything we’ve learned.” He shifted to me. “I told you earlier that Churchfield was organizing the cover-up like a military operation. No doubt with the assistance of the three generals. We can assume the scope extends beyond Colonel Weller’s false statements, or the timely removal of key evidence.”

  He folded his arms, waiting for our response.

  “What you’re suggesting,” Amanda said, thinking as she spoke, “is that much of the evidence has beenarranged for us to find.”

  “Yes.”

  “Including the whisky bottle and the glasses?”

  He hesitated. “It bothers me that they were hidden in the trash.”

  She asked, “Wouldn’t we have been expected to find them there?”

  “Probably.”

  “The military has a term for what you’re describing,” she said. “It’s called a Deception Plan. The intent is to confuse the enemy—us—so we don’t know if we’re coming or going. And it’s working. We don’t know who the hell we can trust or what evidence we can rely on.” She gave him a long look. “You could be right. They could be treating this like a war.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. I tried not to think about General Markel.

  Turning to Simon, I said, “So the hairs in the shower might have been removed simply to deceive us. Make us think a woman could be the killer, when it was a man.”

  “Yes.”

  “Same thing with Colonel Weller’s shirt, the buttons, the picture in her wallet,” I said. “Everything could have been staged for us to find.”

  He was nodding.

  “Even the heel marks in the closet.”

  “Yes. And don’t forget the temperature on the plane. They obviously kept it cold to obscure the time of death.”

  That was a given. To me, this seemed a pointless exercise, since the exact time of death didn’t seem to matter much. Still, this was another indication of Churchfield’s resolve to alter all the facets of the case and keep us off balance.

  “Dr. Bowman,” Amanda said to Simon. “What you really want from him is—”

  “The truth,” Simon said.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Amanda frowned, and so did I. We still didn’t buy that Simon would shell out all that money unless he had something specific—

  “There’s the gate,” Simon said, sitting up. “Amanda, take the right side. Martin, the left. Pay attention. We should know soon.”

  25

  Three guards were manning the Andrews main gate as we drove through. A female sergeant immediately stepped into the gatehouse and picked up a phone. Her eyes stayed on us until we turned at the light.

  “Be lucky if they let us back on,” I said.

  No response. Simon and Amanda were studying the traffic behind us. I resumed my vigil, even though I figured no one would tail us, since Churchfield knew where we were going. But Simon insisted on being certain.

  Once the limo merged onto the Suitland Parkway toward D.C., we relaxed. If someone was tailing us, they were too good for us to spot them. Turning down the radio, Simon asked me to request the personnel files on our main suspects. He wanted to check out their backgrounds and assignment histories, hoping to find something that might suggest a defi
nitive motive.

  Since military personnel records were stored in giant computer databases, Simon was really seeking passwords that would allow us to access the records. Normally, obtaining the passwords was no big deal. But this situation was far from normal.

  “The problem,” I told him, “is I don’t have the firepower to make a password request on a four-star’s records. And you can forget the SECDEF.”

  “Who has the authority?” he asked.

  “Try the president,” Amanda said. She wasn’t kidding.

  “Charlie Hinkle,” I said, “is our best bet. He’s got some clout as OSI chief.”

  As I reached for a satellite phone, I saw Amanda already had one out. She spoke less than thirty seconds before cupping the mouthpiece and eyeing me sourly. “This is a quote: No fucking way.”

  “His reason?”

  “Balls the size of marbles.”

  I grinned, picked up a phone, and toggled the extension she was using. On the other end, I could hear Charlie engaged in his heavy, precoronary breathing. In the background, a TV was going with what sounded like the news. I said, “Charlie, we need those pass—”

  And then he was all over me: “Sweet Jesus, Marty. You know what you’re asking? You’re talking about accessing the records of four chiefs of staffand the SECDEF. Everybody and their mother will want to know why. What the fuck am I supposed to tell them?”

  “Nothing. You’re the head of the OSI. Remember?”

  “We’re talking a murder, right? We gotta be talking a murder. Dammit,I knew it. Was the victim one of the generals? Shit, it has to be. Who was it?”

  “You’re not cleared, Charlie.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. If I’m going to hang my ass on the line—”

  “Charlie, I don’t have time for this. I need those passwords.”

  “Then you better start talking.”

  “You’re not cleared.”

  He made a choking sound. It was killing him, not knowing.

  I decided to sweeten the pot. “Charlie, you’re not thinking this through. If you get us the passwords, you could come out smelling like a rose. Senator Garber would be very grateful.”

  A long pause. I could almost see his fleshy face pique with interest. Like every colonel, Charlie desperately wanted to become a charter member of the constellation club.