A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  Walking up steps of the bridge, Simon produced his phone, saying he was going to have Amanda verify whether Mrs. Garber had overheard an argument between her husband and General Markel. When I told him I’d already passed the word to Amanda, he appeared surprised. I guess he really had been asleep after all.

  As we started across the bridge, we could see people emerging from the building, but few were going in. I didn’t notice anyone who remotely resembled Stefanski, but I didn’t expect to. Chances were, he was already here; if not, he’d be using the river entrance.

  My eyes drifted over the parking area. Because of the hour, the majority of vehicles were gone. Of those that remained, a number were press vans and satellite trucks, which had arrived to cover Churchfield’s news conference. I didn’t spot any Pentagon cops or men in SWAT team Ninja suits. Captain Roche hadn’t wasted any time in recalling his men. Once again, I found myself hoping Simon wasn’t making a mistake.

  After searching Simon, the soldiers cleared him past on my entry badge, since I was authorized to escort. Three minutes later, we were through the metal detectors and heading down the A-ring toward the JCS area. This time there was no welcoming committee, but the guard was the same man I’d met earlier, who had been told to expect us. As he handed us our badges, he mentioned my earlier confrontation with the female colonel. We both had a chuckle.

  It was a little before seven when Simon and I entered Markel’s anteroom. A crowd of close to a dozen, a mixture of military and civilians, was wedged into the small sitting area. Most were seated; the rest stood. All were leafing through identical blue folders marked with a gold DoD seal. General Clay, Markel’s exec, addressed the group, saying, “The secretary’s press conference will begin immediately after the president’s televised remarks. If you’ll turn to the schedule, you will see the secretary will answer questions for thirty minutes. That’s all. Please note, she’s only going to discuss the deployment—the size, scope, and a rough timetable. She doesn’t want to get into justifying the war against Iraq. The president already has made a strong case for—Yes, Maria?”

  A pretty brunette seated on the couch pointed a nail at something in her folder. “It says here that General Markel will accompany the secretary on the podium—”

  “Correct. He’ll also make a few remarks and entertain follow-up questions, once the secretary departs.”

  “Where’s General Garber, sir? Shouldn’t he be the one—”

  “General Garber is indisposed.”

  She frowned at him.

  “That’s all I know,” Clay said.

  “And that’s what we tell the press?”

  “Yes.”

  She persisted, “So General Garber is ill?”

  “Indisposed,” Clay repeated.

  Maria still seemed confused as Clay resumed his briefing. Simon and I hung by the door, waiting for someone to notice us. A lieutenant colonel and a captain darted past, disappearing into the hallways to the right. Against the windows at the back, two sergeants were standing at a long table, collating foot-high stacks of pages into more blue folders, which were obviously press kits. Markel’s white-haired secretary was hunched over the keyboard, typing away.

  Simon and I went over to her. She smelled of lilacs. I said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Without glancing up, she said, “Collins and Santos. The 1900 meeting. Right?”

  “That’s us.”

  My smile was wasted, since she was already picking up a phone to inform Markel we’d arrived. Hanging up, she said, “He’ll be with you shortly. If you’ll please have a seat.”

  I looked around. None were available. Simon asked her, “Is Mr. Stefanski with the general?”

  “No. He called and said he was running late.”

  “Thank you.”

  We drifted toward an open space near the table where the two sergeants were working. We gazed out the window, which overlooked the river entrance parking area, the gray-black waters of the Potomac beyond. The two sergeants chatted away as they mindlessly stuffed the folders. The topic was sports, specifically Redskins football and Coach Spurrier’s fun-and-gun offense. After a while, they shifted to basketball and argued whether Michael Jordan would play a third season.

  “Doesn’t really matter,” one sergeant said gloomily. “Either way, the Wizards will suck. Always have and always will.”

  A conclusion I unfortunately shared. Fingering my watch, I said to Simon, “It’s been five minutes. Could be Markel’s stalling.”

  Simon ignored my comment and the intimation it contained. He continued to gaze out the window, following each car as it pulled into the parking area. He was looking for Stefanski’s blue Lincoln.

  More minutes went by. I began an impatient two-step. The sergeants had covered all the local sports teams and were now discussing hunting. One mentioned that Markel hunted deer every year in North Carolina. “The general’s been hunting since he was a kid,” the man said. “That’s the reason he was one helluva sniper in ’Nam. Shooting, to him, was like breathing. He’d been doing it since he could walk.” He went on talking about Markel’s marksmanship as if he were a modern-day Daniel Boone.

  I became aware of the silence behind me. Glancing back, I saw that General Clay had returned to his desk. The crowd in the sitting area was filing out the door. I made another time check. Seven-twelve.

  Screw this. Stefanski wasn’t going to show. I was about to urge Simon that we should make our move now. Throw cuffs on Markel and pressure him into—

  I stiffened at a comment by one of the sergeants. Turning, I saw Simon staring at the two men. He’d heard the remark, too.

  I tried to keep my voice casual. “What was that you said, Sergeant?”

  They both glanced at me in surprise. I was addressing the shorter of the two, the beefy guy with dark hair. I said, “Just now. You were discussing General Markel.”

  The sergeant still seemed puzzled. “You mean that he likes to hunt, sir?”

  “After that. You said something about a bolt—”

  “Oh, right. I was telling Joey here that I just returned from General Markel’s house, over on Fort Myer. The general sent me there to pick up the original bolt and a box of shells for his rifle. He’s thinking about using it for deer hunting next month and wants to shoot a few rounds at the range over at—”

  But I wasn’t listening to him any longer. I stood there, trying to convince myself that Markel reallywas making the gun serviceable only to hunt. But the little voice in my head kept talking about another possibility.

  Shit—

  As I pivoted toward Markel’s office, someone grabbed my arm. It was Simon. He spoke in soft tones, telling me that it was better this way. That we should let things play out.

  There was something in the way he said it, the calm acceptance in his voice. I stared at him.“You knew this would happen?”

  He gave me a sad smile. “The general is a proud man. I realized it would be humiliating for him to—”

  And then we heard it. The loud, cracking sound of a gunshot. The secretary gave a gasp and dropped the phone she was holding. General Clay grunted, “What the hell—” He was out of his chair, sprinting down the hallway. Simon and I ran after him, the two sergeants following. From up ahead, a woman shouted, “It came from General Markel’s office!” We got to his door. The cute admin sergeant I’d met earlier was standing outside, frantically trying the knob. It was locked. Clay pushed her out of the way and called out Markel’s name. He tried the knob again, swore, fumbled a hand into his pocket.

  He removed a key chain, selected a key, and inserted it into the lock. I ordered him to step back. He turned as if to argue, then saw I had my gun out. I went in first, Simon right behind me. The smell of cordite was heavy in the room. Markel wasn’t at his desk, and when we looked toward the window, we finally saw him.

  My voice was wrong.

  43

  In an instant, my surprise gave way to confusion and then to fear. Markel stood with h
is back to the window, his rifle trained on Simon and me. Markel’s eyes were flat, dead. When he saw the pistol in my hand, he shifted the barrel fractionally to my chest. We stood there with our weapons pointed at each other, like a scene out ofHigh Noon. Any second, I expected to feel the impact of a bullet.

  Even though the room was chilly, I began to sweat.

  Simon said, “Please put the rifle down, General.”

  Markel said, “I had to do it. I had no other choice.”

  Simon nodded as if he understood, but I had no idea what Markel was talking about. Behind us came the sound of Clay’s voice: “General, please. Do as they say.”

  “Close the door, Jim,” Markel ordered.

  “Sir, I don’t think—”

  “Close the fucking door.”

  A murmur of anxious voices. There were shouts to call for the police. Someone said, “Jesus, he really is crazy.” Then we heard the door close. It was quiet. From outside the window, there was more shouting, but the words were too faint to make out.

  Simon said again, “General, please put down the rifle. This isn’t necessary.”

  Markel didn’t answer him. He’d turned to look at the portrait of William Travis hanging on the wall. His attention was completely off me. This was my chance. All I had to do was pull the trigger, and—

  Abruptly, Markel began to speak. His voice was somber, almost reverential. As I listened, I grew increasingly mesmerized by his words. He was talking passionately about things like courage and honor and duty. Slowly he drifted toward the portrait, as if drawn by an invisible force. That’s when I noticed the hole cut into the window behind him. His body had blocked me from seeing it. But Simon had a different angle, which explained how he’d known what had occurred.

  Since the Pentagon’s windows didn’t open, the hole had been necessary. A small glass-cutter on the desk confirmed that Markel had planned this. I shook my head, still having difficulty accepting what had just transpired.

  Markel was talking about loyalty now, the kind of loyalty forged only in the heat of battle. He kept mentioning someone named Denny. I soon realized he was referring to Colonel Dennis Stefanski. He said, “That night on Hill 114 was pure hell. So many men, dying or dead. I found Denny barely alive. Everyone told me to leave him, that he wouldn’t make it. But we’d been through so much. Two tours. I carried him to the chopper. His skin came off in my hands.

  “But he made it. He lived. God knows how. Ever since then, he felt he owed me. His loyalty to me drove him to do what he did. He was only trying to protect me. It was my fault. I placed him in the position. I told him that I’d killed General Garber. I told him about the phone call and that Garber’s wife had heard me. It was Denny’s idea to talk to her, scare her into keeping quiet. I went along with it because I was desperate. What other option was there? But I never foresaw the lengths he would go to. And Andy. Why the hell did he have to shoot Andy? Dammit, we all fought together. We were brothers…He should have realized that Andy would never…”

  He trailed off with a pitying head shake. Simon and I watched him. We knew better than to say anything. After several seconds, Markel gathered himself with a ragged breath and nodded to a thin sheaf of pages on his desk. “It’s all there. I wrote out a complete confession.”

  Simon came forward and picked up the pages, which were handwritten. As he scanned them, Markel said, “Read it later.”

  “General, I need to ensure—”

  He broke off when Markel pointed the rifle at him. My finger tightened on the pistol trigger. “Don’t, General.”

  No reaction. Markel was focused on Simon. His eyes had that unbalanced look, the one I recalled from the hangar. He said, “You have your confession, Lieutenant. The case is closed. I want you to leave.”

  Simon gazed back coolly, completely unafraid. For a moment, I was worried he might try and argue. Thankfully, he pocketed the pages without comment.

  “General,” I said. “Put down the rifle. It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  “You think I’m crazy, Collins?” He still had the unbalanced look.

  I hesitated, thrown by the question. “No, sir,” I lied.

  “Areyou crazy, General?” Simon asked bluntly.

  Jesus—I held my breath, expecting Markel to react with anger.

  But he appeared amused by the question. He even gave Simon a little smile.

  “In some respects,” he said, “I suppose I am. A lot of people say they have values they would die for, but they don’t mean it.” His voice hardened. “I do.”

  “Including honor?” Simon said.

  “Especiallyhonor.”

  “Suicide has no honor, General.”

  Markel laughed harshly. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant. The crucial element is the motive behind the act. Mine is noble. I am repaying a debt the only way I can.”

  “A debt?” Simon said.

  There was a long pause. Markel seemed reluctant to respond. He finally did, peering right at Simon, as if to be certain he understood.

  “I owed Andy,” he said with feeling. “He saved my life in Vietnam.”

  Simon passed on making a comment. There was nothing he could say.

  Markel motioned impatiently with the rifle, signaling he was through talking and it was time for us to go. Simon asked him if he was a religious man. Markel shook his head, no.

  Producing his rosary beads, Simon said, “Do you mind if I say a prayer, General? It won’t take long.”

  Markel stared at him in disbelief. “Look, either you get out of here or—”

  But Simon had already begun to pray, reciting the Twenty-third Psalm from memory. It was an eerie feeling, hearing the haunting finality of the words and being with someone who was about to take his own life. I suspect the reason Simon had chosen this prayer was to give Markel a final chance to reflect. Perhaps reconsider.

  When he finished, Simon gazed at Markel as if waiting for a comment. Markel’s only response was to motion once more with the rifle. This time Simon complied, and we left. Within seconds of the door closing behind us, we heard an audible click. Then came the sound of the gunshot.

  44

  Chaos.

  That’s the only way to describe the scene that greeted us in the hallway. The moment we emerged from Markel’s office, uniformed Pentagon cops swarmed upon us and shoved guns in our faces. One wrenched the pistol from my hand. A short, balding cop confronted Simon and me and demanded to know what the hell was going on. He wore captain’s bars, and his name tag said Roche, confirming he was the guy whom Simon had pissed off earlier. As Simon was about to answer him, we heard the rifle shot. A few cops flinched, but none ducked or flattened against the wall—a notable display of self-control, considering they were dealing with a crazed general who’d killed over a hundred men.

  Captain Roche angrily repeated the question. Simon calmly replied that General Markel had just killed himself.

  Roche ordered us to remain in the reception area. “Don’t move. Don’t even fucking blink. I’m going to want some goddamn answers.” He grabbed the mike clipped to his collar and radioed for the SWAT team.

  “That’s really not necessary, Captain.” I grabbed the doorknob. Locked.

  Roche tore my hand away. “Richie, get them out of my hair!”

  A big cop came forward and puffed up his muscles to make sure we noticed. He followed Simon and me down the hall. More cops were in the anteroom, the staff having been cleared out. Richie went over to the door, which was open, and stood by it, eyeing us. From the outer hallway, we could hear shouts—cops ordering people to clear the offices.

  Two civilian women walked past but didn’t seem unusually alarmed. A major followed, talking on a cell phone. Two colonels calmly strolled by moments later.

  Simon remarked on everyone’s composure. I mentioned this could be a lesson gained from 9-11. In the Pentagon, people had learned that there was nothing to be gained by panic.

  “I disagree, Martin. They should be frig
htened. It’s human nature to be frightened.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t about to get into an argument over this.

  At the sound of a siren, we walked over to the window. It was almost dusk, and we could see two Humvees blocking the entrance to the nearly empty parking lot, uniformed cops taking cover behind the vehicles, their rifles aimed at Markel’s office. Looking right, we spotted the blue Lincoln Town Car parked in the front row. The body of a man lay face-up a few steps from the driver’s door. In the dim light, we couldn’t make out his facial features, but we could see the shininess of the blood on the asphalt.

  Another Humvee roared up, squealing to a stop near the first two. This time soldiers piled out, their weapons trained on the building. “I don’t understand this,” Simon murmured.

  My brow furrowed. “What? That Markel blew Stefanski away?”

  “Yes. It’s inconsistent. From the beginning, General Markel has sought to protect the military from negative publicity. Yet he does this in full view? Kills Stefanski in such a dramatic fashion?” He looked uneasy. “No. I don’t understand it.”

  Brother.Simon always had to dot all the i’s and cross the t’s. I said, “Markel told us why. He was repaying a debt. Andy saved his life, so he feels honor-bound to avenge him. Besides, Markel’s got a few loose screws. Who the hell really knows what motivates a guy like him…”

  I trailed off. Simon wasn’t listening to me. He was shaking his head, murmuring to himself. Something about a door…

  He became still, as if a thought had just struck him. Abruptly, he walked over to the table, dug out a blue folder from a box, flipped it open, and began to read.

  A radio squawked loudly behind us. A scratchy voice estimated twenty minutes until SWAT arrived. Moments later, we heard another radio call: “This is an exercise. All units treat this as an exercise. Repeat, all units—”

  “Turn that damn thing off!”