A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  “Agents Gardner and Collins?” the colonel said as we walked up.

  Amanda and I nodded.

  Her manner was brusque, professional. “I’m Colonel Tinsdale. If you’d sign in—”

  We did and received a badge from the cop, marked “Escort Required.”

  “This won’t do, Colonel,” I said, passing back the badge.

  She frowned.

  I said, “We need visitors’ badges that don’t require an escort.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “That’s not possible. You’re not authorized unrestricted access.”

  “Then get us authorized, Colonel.”

  Her eyes flashed. She addressed me in a patronizing tone, as if talking to a child. “Agent Collins, my orders were to escort you to—”

  “Who gave you those orders, Colonel?”

  “Rear Admiral Wheeler,” she snapped.

  The SECDEF’s sweaty-palmed military assistant. I told her to contact the admiral and relay our request.

  Her jaw tightened. “I will do no such thing. The admiral is a busy man. Now either you—”

  She frowned when I produced my notepad and began making a notation. “What are you doing, Collins?” she demanded.

  “Hmm,” I said mildly. “Writing down your name for our report.”

  “What report? What are you talking about?”

  “The one that will explain why we missed the meeting.” I gave her a smile.

  Tinsdale stared at me in disbelief. The cop in the booth was grinning, enjoying this little scene. I casually returned the notepad to my jacket and nodded to Amanda. As we turned to go, Colonel Tinsdale called out after us, “You can’t do this, Collins.”

  We continued walking.

  “You can’t just leave. The generals are expecting you.”

  Still walking.

  “Damn you, Collins. Get back here!”

  We finally looked back and saw Colonel Tinsdale hurrying after us. She pulled up, saying, “There’s no time. The generals are expecting you in five minutes. I simply can’t—”

  “You’re wasting time, Colonel.”

  She still didn’t move. She stood frozen, unwilling to yield to my power play even though she had to know she’d lose.

  “You’re down to four minutes, Colonel,” Amanda said.

  That got a reaction. She wheeled over to the booth, frantically motioning to the cop for a phone. As he handed it to her, he gave me a wink.

  It took her less than a minute to get the approval.

  As she held open the door for us, I said, “We know the way, Colonel.”

  She fixed me with a withering glare, twirled on a heel, and stalked off.

  The cop was laughing as we clipped on our badges and went inside.

  We went down a brightly lit corridor, past the National Military Command Center. We took a left and walked down a hallway of dark paneling and soft-blue wallpaper. Stern-faced portraits of former chairmen of the Joint Chiefs gazed down upon us from the walls. We made another left and strolled past a series of offices, including the one belonging to the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Markel. Harried-looking men and women continually streamed by us, most lugging thick files in a testament to the endless paperwork shuffle that defined the nation’s military headquarters. Through open doors, we heard the constant clicking of keyboards and the hum of voices.

  The chairman’s office was a few doors down from the vice chairman’s. We didn’t see the Pentagon cop standing outside; he would have been under orders not to advertise his presence. We stopped at the double doors, and I handed Amanda the briefcase. While I played question-and-silence with the generals, she would sign it over to someone, then start searching Garber’s office.

  “I’d also better call Martha, tell her to keep an eye on Andy.”

  “All right.”

  “You know,” she said, eyeing me, “there’s one way we might be able to confirm whether Andy is part of the cover-up.”

  “Call Billy Bowman?” We’d discussed the possibility that Andy had fabricated the story about being denied access to the autopsy room.

  “Odds are Dr. Bowman will back up Andy’s story—”

  I was nodding.

  “—so it might be better to check Andy’s personnel file, see if there’s a connection to Markel or Sessler.”

  I realized what she was after. She was thinking that one of the army four-stars who’d been aboard the plane might be Andy’s rumored sponsor. “It’s a long shot. We don’t even know if Andy has anyone in his pocket.”

  She gazed back skeptically.

  I sighed. “Fine. Pull his file.”

  Her gaze turned sympathetic. “You sure you don’t want me to come along for the interview? It could get a little rough.”

  I smiled to let her know I appreciated the offer, but we both knew I had to do this alone. As a civilian, I could press the generals’ buttons without much fear of retribution. “I’ll be okay.”

  Our eyes lingered on each other. She said softly, “Be careful, huh? Markel’s pretty unpredictable. No telling how he’ll react.”

  “I’m counting on that,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

  She impulsively squeezed my hand, then disappeared into the office. For an instant, I felt the hollow sensation return.

  I shook my head and continued down the hall. I was about to butt heads with three four-star generals, and all I could think about was what I would say to Amanda tonight.

  Nuts.

  At the end of the hallway, I entered a large anteroom. Faces peered up from their desks. A navy captain sitting near the door grunted, “You Collins or Gardner?”

  “Collins. Gardner won’t be coming.”

  He jabbed a thumb toward a corridor at the back. “You might want to wait a sec. The meeting’s just ending.”

  Moments later, a line of senior officers emerged from the corridor. The chief of naval operations and air force chief of staff led the way, trailed by two three-star admirals, a one-star air force general, and a line of full colonels.

  The two service chiefs eyed me as they went by, but never said a word.

  As the entourage departed, the captain said, “Coast should be clear.”

  I nodded my thanks and headed toward the corridor. It was a dark-paneled hallway not more than twenty feet long. At the end, I could see a small wooden door. A thin man in a gray suit was standing outside.

  When he spotted me, his face spread into a big, almost predatory smile. He had a raspy voice that sounded like he gargled with rocks. “Hello, Agent Collins.”

  Tracy Roberts had called it; he was creepy-looking as hell.

  I’d seen people who had been burned before, but nothing quite like this. From his upper cheeks to his scalp, his face was a featureless mass of scar tissue. He was completely bald and had no discernible eyebrows or eyelashes. From a distance, his ears appeared normal, but as I came closer, the skin on them looked too smooth, and I realized they must be prostheses. What really got to me were his eyes. They were dark, almost black, and peered at you as if through openings cut into a flesh-colored mask. Think Darth Vader without his helmet, and you get the general idea.

  I now understood Mrs. Garber’s fear. If this guy had paid me a visit when I was a kid, I’d probably have had nightmares for a week.

  Up close, I decided he was much older than I first thought. I could see deep wrinkles in his undamaged skin and there were the beginnings of jowls hanging from his jawline.

  Looking past me, his smile faded. “Where’s your partner, Collins?”

  “She’s won’t be coming, Mr.—”

  “ColonelStefanski,” he corrected smoothly.

  Noting my surprise, he added, “Retired army. I’m General Markel’s executive assistant.”

  That, at least, came as no surprise.

  He held out his hand, which was similarly scarred and had a nub where his baby finger had once been. “If you have a cell phone or a pager, I’ll take them now.” T
he required drill whenever you entered a room classified as a SCIF, a special compartmentalized information facility. I shut off my phone and handed it over. He placed it in a metal box affixed to the wall.

  We stood in silence.

  Stefanski glanced at his watch. “You still have another thirty seconds.”

  “You sure you got a good time hack?”

  Another smile, thinner. “I’m sure.”

  I asked, “So what do you do as General Markel’s executive assistant, Colonel?”

  A third smile. He seemed to enjoy smiling. Maybe he liked to show off the one part of his face that was normal. “Whatever the general requires.”

  “Including scaring widows?”

  The mask never even blinked. “Time’s up, Collins.”

  He reached past me and opened the door.

  29

  The Tank.

  The first and only time I’d set foot in the Joint Chiefs briefing room was almost ten years earlier, and it still looked pretty much the same. It was a rather intimate, windowless room dominated by a shiny conference table that seated maybe ten and a floor-to-ceiling built-in projection screen. Mahogany wainscoting accented the soft gold walls and drapes, projecting a sense of understated elegance and power. At the very back stood the prerequisite flag display, which included the Stars and Stripes and the colors of each service. Over to the right was a long, narrow table where various staff members normally sat, nervously waiting to be asked their input and often praying that they wouldn’t be called.

  As I followed Colonel Stefanski inside, I heard the sounds of an angry conversation. My eyes went to the center of the conference table, to the place where the chairman of the Joint Chiefs customarily sat. General Markel was there, talking heatedly with two four-stars seated beside him. General Sessler, the army chief, sat to his left, and General Johnson, the marine commandant, to his right.

  “Goddammit, Dave,” Sessler was saying to Markel, “I think the president is jumping the gun on this. We can’t possibly deploy another hundred and fifty thousand troops in a month. We need at least two. Three would be better.” Sessler had a nasal, high-pitched voice that fit his appearance. He was small and bookish, and wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that dwarfed his narrow face.

  “I’m with Bob on this,” General Johnson said. “A month is out. We haven’t got anywhere near the airlift or sealift. We need more time.” In contrast to Sessler, Johnson was a hulking man, with a square jaw and the flat, misshapen nose of a former boxer who did his share of losing. His voice boomed as if he were giving commands on a parade field, and he wore his red hair mowed to the scalp.

  “The president,” Markel growled, “says the timetable is non-negotiable. He’s concerned the French and Germans could succeed in convincing the UN to withdraw its approval.”

  “I understand that, Dave,” Sessler said. “But the president is assuming that the Iraqis will lose the will to fight once the bombing starts.”

  “They did during Desert Storm.”

  “But what if they don’t? We could be caught without adequate forces for the ground war. We could lose a lot of boys unnecessarily.”

  “Thirty days,” Markel said icily. “Those are your orders, General. Now if you can’t handle it, I’m sure Secretary Churchfield can find someone who—”

  Colonel Stefanski pointed me to the chair at very end of the table. The hot seat. As I angled toward it, I glanced up at the projection screen. A map of Iraq, with military symbols marking the estimated strength and positions of Saddam’s forces. There were literally hundreds of symbols; Saddam had been a busy boy.

  I stood beside the chair as Stefanski settled behind Markel in a position of parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. The three generals continued to argue among themselves, apparently completely oblivious to us. I waited for Stefanski to say something about me to Markel, but he never did. He just stood there like a statue. A minute passed, then two. No one even looked my way.

  It became clear Markel was playing another one of his intimidation games. He was telling me I was someone who could be ignored. That I didn’t count.

  I finally sat down and took out my notepad. No one seemed to notice. I cleared my throat sharply. Not even a glance. I said, “General Markel, if I may…” I might as well have been talking to myself.

  What I was contemplating was completely unprofessional, not that I really gave a damn. Markel was making this easy for me. I wouldn’t have to try and appear angry now; I was already there.

  Reaching back, I slammed my hand flat against the table. Hard. The crack sounded like a shot, and the three generals practically jumped out of their chairs.

  “What the hell.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Collins,” Markel snarled savagely, spinning to me, “that was insubordinate. If you ever do something like that again, I’ll have you—”

  I sang out, “General Garber was murdered, sir.”

  His mouth hung open. An instant later, all tension was gone from his face. It was creepy how he could do that. Just turn off his rage. He calmly eased back in his chair and contemplated me. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How do you explain the compartment door being locked from the inside?”

  “We’re working on a theory, sir.”

  He looked surprised. “Which is—”

  “I’d rather not say, sir.”

  “I see. Do you have any suspects?”

  General Sessler and General Johnson rocked forward, as if anticipating my response.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I’d rather not say, sir.”

  Markel smiled thinly at my response. Gesturing to Sessler and Johnson, he said casually, “Are we suspects?”

  “Sir, I’d like to ask the questions.”

  The smile chilled. “I’m trying to save you some time, Collins. You’re obviously here because you want to know if we had a motive for killing General Garber.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “You can quote me: I considered General Garber a self-serving, gutless, immoral son of a bitch. That clear enough, Collins?”

  I blinked, struck by his candidness. “Yes, sir.” I shifted to General Sessler. “And you, sir?”

  Sessler tented his fingers, glancing at the others. “We all shared the same opinion of General Garber. Frankly, he should have been run out of the military years earlier. He certainly would have, had it not been for his father.” General Johnson backed him up with a nod.

  I was confused. I had no idea why they were making this so easy for me. To see how far they were willing to take this, I said to Markel, “Did you hate General Garber enough to kill him, sir?”

  He seemed amused by the question. “Let’s just say his death was in the best interests of the country.”

  “Is that a yes, sir?”

  “You’re a big boy, Collins. You figure it out.”

  I looked at Sesser; he was nodding. So was General Johnson.

  I finally realized what they were up to. It was another little twist in their deception plan, to keep me off balance.

  What the hell.

  I bluntly asked Markel if he had killed General Garber, or knew who did. He answered as I expected, as did General Sessler and General Johnson. None of them even hesitated.

  “No comment,” they said.

  And then Markel sat back in his chair and gave me a smug smile. He thought he had me.

  But I still had a few cards to play, assuming I had the balls.

  All for one and one for all.

  In a nutshell, that little Three Musketeers’ ditty explained their strategy. As Colonel Weller had done, they were also trying to appear guilty, knowing I couldn’t possibly focus my energies on all three of them before the clock ran out. I had to admit it was a damn smart move.

  But it wasn’t perfect.

  The weakness in this plan was that it would work only if they all stuck
together. I was willing to bet they wouldn’t, because of what Colonel Weller had said.

  She’d called them honorable men.

  For the next ten minutes, I went through my list of questions. No, they hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious. No, they had no idea how anyone could have entered the compartment without them seeing. No, Colonel Weller didn’t spend more than a few minutes in their section; she’d only come up briefly to drop off a report to General Markel. Sergeant Blake was mistaken. No, they were certain no one went near the closet doors after they entered and found the body.

  At that statement, General Markel said, “Is that your theory, Collins? You think someone locked the doors after we entered? Well, no one touched them. We’ll swear to it.”

  This was my opening. I said, “You were only in the compartment for a few minutes, sir.”

  Markel frowned. “Are you saying someone locked itafter we left?”

  “Anything’s possible, sir.”

  “But the compartment was under constant guard. No one could have gotten inside to lock the doors.”

  “General, I really can’t comment.”

  He made a dismissive wave. “Bah. You’re suggesting one of the CID men was compromised? Ridiculous.”

  But I could tell the seed I’d planted was starting to germinate. For the first time, I noticed a flicker of doubt in Markel’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if I was blowing smoke or I really had something. He exchanged glances with General Sessler and General Johnson. Colonel Stefanski smoothly came forward and whispered in Markel’s ear. At a nod from Markel, he left the room. I checked the time; I had a pretty good idea what Stefanski was going to do.

  Now that I had Markel guessing, I played my second card and asked him where Colonel Stefanski was going.

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  He locked me in a flat gaze, as if daring me to respond. It was unsettling, but I had to see this through. If I gave in to the power of his personality, I might as well tuck my tail between my legs and go home.

  So I looked right at him and said calmly, “Does he usually do your dirty work for you, sir?”