A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  “You better not be blowing sunshine up my ass, Marty. Because if you are, so help me—”

  “I’m not.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have connections.”

  “I do now.”

  Another silence. Charlie was a careful guy. You didn’t become the air force’s top cop without being careful. He was trying to decide if I really had this much influence with Senator Garber. Finally: “Give me the names again.”

  I did. There were eight: the four generals, the two aides, Gustin and Weller, Sergeant Blake, and of course Secretary Churchfield, whose personnel records were in the database because of her years in the air force. I also reminded him that we’d needed a user name and password to access the Pentagon server.

  Charlie still sounded reluctant. “I can’t promise anything, Marty. Some general up the chain can deny the request.”

  “Use Senator Garber’s name. Just get us the damn passwords, Charlie.” I hung up before he could change his mind.

  • • •

  Simon was not a happy man when I told him we had maybe a fifty-fifty shot that Charlie would come through. I asked him if he knew anyone in DoD who could help, since Simon had contacts squirreled away everywhere.

  He shook his head. “Not in a position to obtain the passwords.”

  “Try your other sources,” I said. “See what they can dig up.”

  He was already reaching for a phone. As he made his first call, I decided to make one of my own, on the second line. On the passenger roster, I found two numbers listed for General Garber’s home. The first had a Virginia prefix; the second, D.C.

  I went with the D.C. number. A woman picked up. She sounded young, her tone cautious. “Mrs. Garber’s residence.”

  “I’m Martin Collins. I’m a military investigator with the air force—”

  She exploded in my ear, “I can’t believe thenerve of you people. Haven’t you harassed her enough?”

  “Sorry—”

  “You heard me. If you call again, I’ll slap you with a restraining order so fast it will make your head spin. You got that? Now leave us the hell alone.” And she banged down the phone hard enough to make me wince.

  Simon and Amanda were eyeing me curiously as I ended the call. “What was all that about?” she asked.

  I thumbed the redial to find out.

  This time the answering machine picked up. I left a message, further identifying myself as a military criminal investigator who was looking into General Garber’s death. I said I hadn’t tried to contact Mrs. Garber before and had no intention of harassing her. “Mrs. Garber,” I said, “I’m convinced your husband was murdered, and it’s important I talk to—”

  A click. I heard breathing, but no one spoke. I said, “Mrs. Garber?”

  The young woman came on, her voice still suspicious. “I was told the general’s death was an accident.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  A pause. “That might explain it.”

  “Explain what?”

  She ignored me. “Why should I believe you, Agent Collins?”

  “I assume you aren’t Mrs. Garber, Ms.—”

  “Tracy Roberts. I’m Mrs. Garber’s niece. Answer the question.”

  “Are you an attorney, Ms. Roberts?”

  “I’m in my final year at Georgetown Law.”

  Close enough. “Tell your aunt to call the senator. He’ll vouch for—”

  “Try again. My aunt and the senator don’t speak. Haven’t for years. Not since she moved out on his son. Besides, she’s too frightened to call him or anyone else.”

  I said, “Frightened?”

  Frowns from Simon and Amanda. On the phone, there was no reply. I had the feeling that Ms. Roberts thought she’d said too much. I said, “You can trust me, Ms. Roberts. Would I have told you the general was murdered if I wasn’t on the level?”

  She considered my logic. “Maybe.”

  “Why would I?”

  “How should I know?”

  I sighed. “Ms. Roberts, the government wants the murder covered up. If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to help them do just that. It’s up to you. If you want the general’s killer to go free, hang up. I won’t call again.”

  I waited, half expecting a click. Instead she said, “You trying to lay a guilt trip on me, Agent Collins?”

  “I’m telling you how it is.”

  A silence. Finally, in a resigned voice: “You better be on the level.”

  “I am.”

  Simon abruptly ended his call and mouthed,speaker . “Ms. Roberts,” I said, “I’m putting you on the speaker so my colleagues can listen.”

  “Colleagues? What colleagues?” She was instantly suspicious again.

  I quickly explained, adding, “You might have heard of Lieutenant Santos.”

  She seemed to relax. “Right. Sure. The homicide cop. I guess it’ll be okay.”

  Simon touched the overhead control screen as I hung up the phone. I said, “Ms. Roberts, why is your aunt frightened?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. She called me this morning, said to come over. She was crying on the phone, but wouldn’t say why. When I arrived, she told me that General Garber had died in an accident. That she was supposed to keep it a secret. Later, around nine, a man came over. He said he was from the Pentagon.”

  “Was the man in a uniform?”

  “No. A suit. And he was pretty creepy-looking. His face had a lot of scar tissue. Like he’d been badly burned.”

  I said, “This guy give a name?”

  “Not to me. But I think my aunt knew him.”

  “Oh?”

  “When she saw him, she didn’t ask who he was. She just asked him what he was doing here, and he told her he wanted to discuss a private matter. That’s when they went into the library. After he left, my aunt was close to hysterics. She was shaking so much she could barely talk. She wouldn’t tell me what the man had said to her, and I could tell she was scared. All she said was, it was better if I didn’t know.”

  “Do you think she’d tell me?”

  “I know she won’t. She won’t talk to anybody. She’s locked herself in her bedroom. I’m telling you, she’s scared.”

  “Could you tell her General Garber was murdered, and we need her help in solving the case?”

  She hesitated.

  “We’ll arrange protection for her,” I said, receiving a nod of confirmation from Simon.

  “Hang on a minute.” She still sounded reluctant.

  After a few moments, we heard faint knocking, followed by a muffled conversation. Then a sudden, surprised shriek and what sounded like an argument. The voices came and went as if Mrs. Garber and her niece were moving in and out of the room. Occasionally we heard clear snippets, but only for a few moments.

  Mrs. Garber cried out angrily, “How could you, Tracy?How could you? I specifically told you—” Seconds later, in a more anguished tone, “—can’t protect me. No one can. Don’t you understand?”

  “But they promised, Auntie. Please. If you’ll just talk to them.”

  Mrs. Garber’s response was muted, unintelligible. She sounded like she was crying. We heard Ms. Roberts ask her aunt why she thought the police couldn’t protect her.

  “—have to understand…killed Michael. They’re too…still blaming him because…all these years—” Her remarks kept fading in and out. I was frustrated at my inability to decipher the words. I asked, “Anybody catch what someone’s blaming General Garber for?”

  Head shakes from Simon and Amanda. She said grimly, “But it’s pretty clear she knows her husband was murdered.”

  “And why,” Simon murmured.

  We heard the sudden slamming of a door. Then a silence.

  “I tried,” Tracy Roberts said, returning to the phone. “She won’t talk to you. She won’t talk to anybody.”

  I asked her to explain Mrs. Garber’s blame comment.

  “Apparently people in the military blamed the general for some
kind of a mistake he made years ago. She wouldn’t say what the mistake was.”

  “Did she tell you why she’s convinced we can’t protect her?”

  “Sort of, but I’m not sure it makes much sense. She kept saying no one can protect her from a crazy man. I asked her if she was talking about the burned guy, but she said no. That it was somebody else. You know who she could be talking about?”

  Simon shook his head.

  “No,” I lied.

  26

  Since there was nothing more Tracy Roberts could tell us, I gave her my cell phone number, and requested that she keep trying to convince Mrs. Garber to talk to us. I also asked her to find out from her aunt whether the general had expressed any concerns about an Asian man.

  “Concerns?” she said. “What kind of concerns?”

  I related General’s Garber’s remark to the flight attendant, Sergeant Blake.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I really can’t. It’s like a bad dream. Some man from the Pentagon scares my aunt half to death. Now you’re telling me General Garber might have been murdered, possibly by some Asian. The next thing you’ll be telling me is that someone might actually try and harm my aunt.”

  I hesitated. This time Simon was nodding. I said, “It’s a possibility, depending on what she knows.”

  “The killer. You think she knows who it is.”

  “Or at least suspects.”

  A long pause. “You mentioned something about protection—”

  “Of course. Simon?”

  In a reassuring voice, he outlined his plan.

  “It’s all arranged,” Simon announced, ending his conversation with JeffZimmer.

  Jeff was a retired homicide cop who ran a firm that specialized in protection for people rich enough or famous enough or egotistical enough to think they needed it. One of Jeff’s men would remain at Mrs. Garber’s until this was over.

  While Simon resumed calling his contacts, I gazed out the window. Traffic was lighter than anticipated, and we were making good time. As we approached Anacostia to pick up I-395, I heard Amanda murmur, “I don’t understand….”

  I looked over and saw her frowning at her notepad. I asked her what the problem was.

  Closing her notepad, she nodded at Simon. “He said he also saw Secretary Churchfield become emotional at the sight of General Garber’s body. If we assume Churchfield had some personal connection to Garber, why would she continually act like he was a dirtbag? It makes no sense.”

  I tossed out the obvious. “Maybe she was a woman scorned.”

  “Then I’d think she’d feel only contempt for him. I sure would.”

  She made this remark in an offhand manner. But the instant she’d uttered the words, her eyes focused on me, as if she was suddenly aware of what she’d said.

  Her comment cut through me, and it was all I could do to keep my face blank. Anything less would have tipped her off that I was aware of her feelings.

  After an awkward moment, she thankfully turned away. She said lightly, “I’m getting hungry. You guys want something? Marty? Simon?”

  I accepted; Simon declined with a head shake.

  As Amanda rummaged inside the small refrigerator, I tried to understand the emptiness that gripped me. It was an intensely hollow sensation, the kind of feeling you get when you lose something you care about.

  Contempt, she’d said.

  It never occurred to me that she might feel this way toward me. Possibly even hate me because—

  “Turkey, pastrami, or Italian club, Marty?” she asked.

  “Uh, turkey.”

  As Amanda passed over one of the sandwiches that were delivered daily by a deli-owner friend of Simon’s, she squinted at me. “Say, Marty, you okay? You don’t look too good.”

  “I’m fine. Never better.”

  And I gave her a big smile to prove it.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Amanda and I ate, sipped Perrier, and watched as Simon made phone call after phone call. As far as we could tell, no one turned down his requests, but then they wouldn’t.

  Simon had spent years cultivating, nurturing, and protecting his army of contacts. The last aspect was by far the most important, since many were influential members of the media or held sensitive positions in the government. To ensure their anonymity, Simon never revealed their names to anyone, including me. He also never kept a written record of their identities, choosing instead to keep all their contact information in his head.

  While some were paid informants, most weren’t, at least not technically. Simon was a master at making people feel obligated. Whenever he thought someone might be of future use to him, he’d begin doing them favors, usually without being asked. These favors ranged from something as small as tickets to a Redskins game or a sold-out Kennedy Center performance to arranging no-interest loans or, as he often did, simply paying off someone’s mortgage or bankrolling their children’s college tuition.

  In my case, he’d hooked me by flying out a high-priced oncologist to consult on Nicole’s cancer and hiring Mrs. Anuncio to care for Emily, so I could shuttle Nicole to her radiation and chemo treatments. After Nicole died, Mrs. Anuncio stayed on, and to this day I haven’t paid her a dime in salary.

  Simon’s latest “favor” was the pony for Emily’s birthday. He knew she’d wanted one and had called me up a few weeks earlier, saying he could get me a good deal. I told him I needed to think it over; I wasn’t convinced Emily was ready for the responsibility of caring for an animal that large.

  The next day, Mrs. Anuncio phoned me at work, all panicked. A man had delivered the pony. I didn’t attempt to reimburse Simon; I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Over the years, I’d sent him dozens of checks. None were ever cashed.

  Like I said, Simon wanted people to feel obligated.

  As Simon worked the phone, Amanda and I noticed he was careful not to lump all the suspects’ names together. He passed on no more than three names per call. From his conversations, we figured two calls had gone to media types, three to individuals connected to a financial institution or possibly the IRS, and the rest to people in various branches of law enforcement, both federal and state. Whenever the person wasn’t in, Simon hung up. He never left messages.

  It was amazing, watching him work the phones. The way he would make a call, then sit for a moment and sort through the Rolodex in his head until he retrieved the number he wanted.

  And it was during one of these pauses that he received a call on his cellular phone. So did I, seconds later.

  Simon’s tightlipped expression confirmed he’d gotten bad news.

  I figured mine had to be worse.

  Andy was swearing so loudly, I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Amanda eyed me quizzically, then rolled her eyes in disgust when she realized who it was.

  “That goddamned cocksucker,” Andy raged. “He threw me out. You believe that crap. The son of a bitchactually threw me out. I’m telling you it was close thing, Marty. It was all I could do not to deck the son of a—”

  “Andy, calm down. Take a breath, fella.”

  He did, loud enough for me to hear. I heard the click of a lighter, followed by a minor coughing fit.

  I said, “So Billy Bowman ordered you out—”

  “Not Billy. I didn’t get within twenty feet of Billy. It was that asshole SP commander, Major Vega.”

  “Vegaattended the autopsy?”

  This tweaked Amanda and Simon’s interest, and they both looked at me. Simon turned away, resuming his phone conversation.

  “Not just him,” Andy said to me. “There was a squad of SPs camped outside the autopsy room. The bastards were waiting for me.”

  “Andy, they might have been there to ensure security—”

  “Bullshit. Vega was under orders from General Morley not to let me inside. He showed me the clipboard with one fucking name. Mine. When I told Vega he could go to hell, he shoved his fucking gun in my face and ordered me to leave.”

  I mur
mured, “Jesus.”

  “You got that right. Someone talked. Someone tipped them off I was coming. I find out who, his ass is mine.”

  “Forget it. It could have been anyone in the hangar.” I told him about the missing evidence and explained that a number of persons from the forensics team were probably under orders to sabotage the investigation.

  “Give me an hour,” he growled. “I’ll find the bastards who sold us out.”

  That last thing I needed now was an out-of-control Andy conducting his own private witch hunt. I said, “No, Andy. We can’t afford to—”

  I was talking to myself.

  After I gave Amanda the highlights of my conversation with Andy, we waited for Simon to finish with his call. He was listening intently, his expression tense. He said little other than the occasional “Yes” or “I understand.” The limo abruptly shifted into the far right lane, and car horns blared in annoyance. Glancing outside, I saw that we were approaching the exit for the Pentagon’s south entrance.

  Simon said, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” He replaced the receiver and eyed me. “You first, Martin. I take it Andy wasn’t able to attend the autopsy.”

  “No.”

  “It may not matter. Events are rapidly overtaking us. Everything might be out of our hands soon.”

  “Churchfield,” Amanda said. “Don’t tell me she’s already contacted Senator—”

  “No. That was one of my media contacts. He learned his paper is planning on releasing a story on General Garber tomorrow. An investigative piece they’ve been researching.”

  “An investigative piece?” Amanda said. “You mean the storyisn’t related to the murder?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me over the phone, but apparently not. The paper has been working on the story since Garber’s appointment to the chairmanship.”

  “That’s two weeks,” I said. “It can’t be about the murder.”

  “This article,” Amanda said. “I imagine it’s not exactly favorable.”

  “Damning,” Simon said softly.