A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

I turned, saw the big cop, Richie, click off his radio. Another cop with lieutenant’s bars was glaring at him. Richie’s face reddened.

  “That explains it,” Simon said softly.

  I nodded. In an effort to keep the press in the dark, the military was officially referring to the shooting as an exercise. We now understood why no one had appeared panicked.

  Simon shut the blue folder he was holding. He no longer seemed troubled. Apparently, the radio call had also tempered his concerns about Markel killing Stefanski in such a public fashion, though I had no idea why.

  Simon produced Markel’s confession and began to read. He handed me the pages as he finished. There were only three. I deciphered Markel’s scrawl and realized he hadn’t told us anything new.

  That meant we were still left with unanswered questions. This bothered Simon. He still wanted to know why Markel had called Secretary Churchfield so soon after killing Garber, and why Colonel Weller had tried to make Garber look like a rapist. In Simon’s way, he was telling me he wasn’t finished with investigation.

  Even with the confession.

  Even with the killer dead.

  Even though we generally knew what had happened and why.

  Even though there was nothing to be gained except to embarrass the military even more.

  He still wanted to continue.

  It was too much.

  It had been a long, trying day, and I was spent, both physically and emotionally. I didn’t want to think about the case anymore. I didn’t want to think about Andy, who was lying on a slab in a morgue. I didn’t want to think about Markel, who in the end proved to be more of a man than I could ever envision being. I didn’t want to think about my roles in their deaths and how they’d probably be alive if I’d simply walked away. I didn’t want to think about Amanda, and how she was going to withdraw from my life.

  I just didn’t want to think.

  All I wanted to do was go home and spend a few hours with my daughter, Emily. Hold her close and see her excitement when I told her she was going to have a birthday party she’d never forget.

  So I asked—Ibegged Simon to let everything go. What did it really matter about Weller or Churchfield? We’d done what had seemed impossible. We’d found the killer and solved the case in a day. Simon had kept his promise to Senator Garber.Let the damn thing go.

  Simon was genuinely surprised by the passion of my response. It never occurred to him that I would have no desire to continue.

  But then, I had a life.

  “All right, Martin,” he said reluctantly. “But there’s something you need to know.” He passed me the blue folder. “Look at the schedule.”

  “Simon, I’m really not interested—”

  “Look.”

  I sighed, opened the folder.

  “The third page.”

  I turned to it. There wasn’t much there. Seven little bullets, indicating the sequence of the press conference. The Pentagon Press secretary would play emcee. At the conclusion of the president’s address, he would introduce Secretary Churchfield and General Markel. Churchfield would make her remarks, answer questions, then leave. Markel would remain to make additional remarks and also field questions.

  An hour after the press conference began, it would be over.

  I glanced at Simon. “So?”

  He gave me a little smile. “You don’t think it’s odd?”

  “What’s odd?”

  “Agent Collins!”

  Simon and I turned away from the window and saw General Sessler standing by the door, grimly motioning to us. No mystery what he wanted to discuss.

  I returned the folder to Simon. “Let me do the talking.”

  “Martin, I think it’s best if—”

  “You said I was in charge. You said this was my case.”

  He sighed. “I don’t think—”

  “You promised me.”

  It was my trump card. I’d reminded him he’d given his word. He surrendered with a nod, but clearly wasn’t happy about it.

  As we walked over to Sessler, I told the big cop, Richie, to retrieve my pistol. He hesitated.

  “Get it, officer,” Sessler ordered.

  So Richie hurried over to Captain Roche, who was still standing with a knot of his men outside Markel’s door. The two men conversed briefly, looking back at us. Roche’s grimace made it clear he wasn’t enthused about the prospect of his two key witnesses leaving, even for a little while. Still, he knew better than to argue with a four-star general, and I saw him turn to a second police officer, the one who had disarmed me.

  After Richie returned with my pistol, Sessler led Simon and me out into the hallway.

  “We’ll talk in my office,” he growled. “It’s on the third floor.”

  I nodded; I knew where the army chief’s office was.

  As we headed for the staircase, Simon asked if there was a rest room nearby. Sessler shot him a look of irritation, but directed him to a door behind us. When Simon rejoined us five minutes later, Sessler glared at him. Like me, Sessler suspected that whatever Simon had been doing in the john, he hadn’t only been taking a piss.

  Sessler strode into his office and pointed Simon and me to armchairs before his desk. As he sat down, he muted the television, which was tuned to CNN. On the monitor, a former secretary of defense continued to talk soundlessly. A scrolling banner below him read: “President Addresses Nation on Iraq War, 8P .M. EST.”

  Tossing the remote aside, Sessler eyed Simon and me. “Tell me what happened.”

  Simon handed him Markel’s confession, then sat back with his arms folded, letting me know this would be my show. Once Sessler looked over the confession, I filled him on what we’d uncovered. The only item I withheld was Billy Bowman’s role in confirming Garber’s time of death. I danced around this topic by saying we’d deduced Garber had been killed in England, and left it at that. As I went through my spiel, General Sessler’s expression never changed. I had the feeling he knew beforehand what I was going to say.

  As I thought about it, I realized I shouldn’t be surprised. Markel certainly would have told him about Andy’s death and that Stefanski was responsible. Markel may have even mentioned his intention to confess.

  But as to Markel telling him he’d planned to kill Stefanski and commit suicide? No way.

  “Any additional issues that I need to be concerned about?” Sessler asked.

  I told him that civilian police could pose problems, since they were pursuing Andy’s killing and the shooting at Mrs. Garber’s.

  “We’ll attend to them,” he said.

  I wasn’t about to ask him how. I said, “Captain Roche also wants us to give a statement.”

  “Forget about Roche.”

  Another anticipated response.

  “Anything else?” Sessler asked.

  I shook my head, struck by his matter-of-fact tone. Like we were completing a business transaction. I’d continually been on edge, waiting for him to lash out that our pursuit of the investigation was somehow responsible for Markel’s death. After all, this was the man who earlier had laid the guilt trip on me, saying I was going to hurt innocent people.

  But he never once played the blame card. Even more curious, he didn’t appear all that upset over Markel’s death.

  I began to wonder if my initial hunch was mistaken. Perhaps Markelhad told Sessler about his intentions to—

  Sessler held up the confession. “Is there any reason you need this, Collins?”

  I glanced at Simon. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. He intended to hold me to my statement that I’d do all the talking. I said to Sessler, “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “I understand there’s a tape.”

  Confirmation that he had spoken with Markel. Again, I looked to Simon.

  He sighed, his hand reaching into his jacket. He produced the tape and placed it on the desk.

  “Play it,” Sessler said.

  Simon hesitated, dug out his tape player. He popped in the tape
and hitplay. Markel’s voice: “I’m responsible for the death of—”

  “That’s enough,” Sessler said.

  Simon removed the tape and passed it to him.

  “Any copies?”

  Simon shook his head.

  “Now,” Sessler said, sitting back, “Secretary Churchfield has one more request. She’d like to be assured the matter is fully resolved. The president speaks in a few minutes.” He looked to the TV screen in a particularly suggestive way.

  I understood what he was asking. I waited to see how Simon would respond. This was the test. If he really believed there was anything in the case worth pursuing, he would never make the call.

  But moments later, he took out his cell phone.

  “Senator Garber? Simon. You can inform the president that your son was murdered by General Markel.”

  As Simon and I left, the president’s voice blared out from the TV. The witching hour had arrived and I still had a call to make. I phoned Martha Jones and told her to tell the forensics team to go on home.

  45

  Petulant.

  That’s the only way to describe Simon’s demeanor during our seven-minute walk to the Corridor Two exit. He never said a word the entire time. He wouldn’t even look at me. He reminded me of the proverbial spoiled kid who was pouting because he didn’t get his way.

  Did I care that he was ticked off with me?

  Not particularly. We’d been through these disagreements before. After a few days, he’d get over it, and all would be forgiven.

  But he’d never admit he was wrong to want to pursue this case further. He’d never admit that every investigation had questions that were impossible to resolve and that it was crazy to even try.

  Frankly, this fanaticism for answers is what set him apart, made him such a good cop. Usually, I was willing to play along. But not tonight.

  Not tonight.

  We stepped out onto the bridge. It was noticeably colder, the night air filled with a light mist. At first I didn’t see the limo, but once we started down the steps on the other side, Enrique drove up. He’d obviously been parked where he could watch for us.

  As Simon and I got in back, Enrique handed him a yellow manila envelope—the package Simon had wanted. Across the top someone had written “Hold for Lt. Santos.” Rather than open it, Simon placed it in a side compartment and stared out the window.

  After grabbing a beer from the fridge, I returned to my seat beside him. I sipped, watching him. Finally, I said, “You want to talk about it?”

  Nothing. I shrugged; I’d given it a shot.

  Enrique called out, “Where to now?”

  Simon remained silent.

  I told Enrique to head for Walter Reed so I could catch a ride home with Amanda. Before she’d left the bar, Simon had arranged for a car to be delivered to her.

  Enrique cranked the engine, began pulling out. He asked, “So how’d it go? You arrest General Markel?”

  I started to explain what had happened.

  “Stop the car,” Simon ordered. “We’re not leaving.”

  Enrique hit the brakes so suddenly, I lurched forward, spilling my beer. I swore, turning to Simon. “Dammit, I knew it. You couldn’t let this go. You always have to—”

  He cut me off with a sharp: “The truth, Martin. Do you want to know the truth?”

  “We know the fucking truth.”

  “You’re certain? You have no doubts?”

  “Markel’s dead. It’s over. None of it matters. Churchfield, Weller—”

  “But itdoes matter, Martin. Markel played us for fools. It was an illusion. We were deceived. I will not allow him to—Where are you going?”

  I’d jammed my beer into a cup holder and had clicked open the door latch. Without looking back, I climbed out and shut the door hard. The Pentagon had a Metro stop, and I swung back toward the bridge. After a few steps, I heard the window whir down behind me.

  Simon called out, “Markel was lying. He didn’t kill Garber.”

  I picked up the pace. I was his ticket into the Pentagon. He’d say anything to get me to return.

  “I can prove it, Martin. I can prove he set us up.”

  I slowed.

  “Senator Garber believes Markel was innocent.”

  I came to a stop. I stood there, shaking my head. Aw, hell—

  When I turned around, I saw Simon looking up at me, his face dimly visible from glow of nearby streetlights. “Simon, if you’re bullshitting me—”

  “Senator Garber received confirmation that neither Markel nor the other generals could have killed his son.”

  I frowned. “When did you—The bathroom?”

  “Yes. Senator Garber phoned me after speaking with the president. That’s when he told me about the sworn statements the president had received from Secretary Churchfield. The ones Churchfield had requested from the British.”

  “What sworn statements?”

  The interior lights came on. Simon opened the door and gave me a sardonic smile. “Come on back, Martin. Our job isn’t completed. We still have work to do.”

  After a deep breath and a final head shake, I returned to the limo.

  Simon hadn’t misstated or exaggerated; Markel’s confession was a complete fabrication.

  From Simon’s conversation with Senator Garber, he learned that seventy-three British officers and dignitaries had attended the dinner with the four American generals. At the behest of Churchfield, all the attendees had faxed signed statements, stipulating that during the course of the evening, only one American general had left the dais prior to 2300 hours.

  Garber.

  If their statements were true, Markel’s innocence seemed irrefutable.

  I said, “The Brits could be lying.”

  “All of them? Including the civilians?”

  I tried again. “Did Churchfield tell themwhy she wanted the statements? Because if she did, and the attendees were pressured to—”

  “Unlikely. She wouldn’t risk the story of Garber’s death being leaked.”

  We were parked at the end of a mostly empty row, about a hundred yards from the bridge. Enrique and Simon were both watching me. I gathered my thoughts with a swig of beer. “What about Billy Bowman? What if his estimate of the 2130 time of death was wrong?”

  “You’re familiar with Dr. Bowman’s proficiency. Could he be mistaken by two hours?”

  He was allowing for the time it would take Garber to travel from the dinner to his room and get into the confrontation with Markel. “No,” I admitted. “Billy’s too good an ME to be off by that much. So unless he lied to us about the time of death—”

  Simon shook his head.

  “Then Markel’s out. He couldn’t have done it. Neither could Sessler and Johnson. Not if they also were at the dinner until 2300.”

  “So,” Simon said quietly, “it seems Andy was telling us the truth after all.”

  He was referring to Andy’s defense of Markel, moments before he was killed by Stefanski.

  “Let me get this straight,” Enrique said. “You guys are telling me this guy Markel confessed to a murder he didn’t commit and then killed himself. Why?”

  Simon didn’t reply; he was frowning at his watch. He turned and began rummaging in the side compartment, the one where he’d placed the manila envelope earlier.

  Tell them it was me.

  Those were the words that Paul Carter had overheard Markel say to Sessler and Garber. In light of that statement, there seemed to be only one response to Enrique’s question. I told him General Markel was obviously covering for the real killer.

  “He’d shoot himself to do that?”

  “Possibly. If he thought it was the only way to protect someone he cared about. The one candidate who fits the bill is his former aide, Colonel Weller.” I grimaced as my train of thought derailed. “But the problem is, Markel had no reason to protect Weller. None. We weren’t anywhere close to making a case against her.”

  “So there has to be som
eone else,” Enrique said. “I mean, a guy just doesn’t kill himself—”

  “Now,”Simon said. “Now we’ll know if I’m right.”

  In a sudden, dramatic gesture, he thrust a remote toward the television, which was affixed to the roof in a manner similar to those on aircraft. Under the soft glow of the interior lights, we could see the hard set of his jaw and the tension in his eyes. Enrique cocked an eyebrow at me.What’s with him? I shook my head.

  The screen flared, and an instant later, we saw the president sitting at his desk in the Oval Office. His voice was low, barely audible. Enrique said, “You mind, Simon? I’d like to see this.”

  A nod. Simon tapped on the remote, increasing the volume.

  Enrique hopped out from behind the wheel, jogged around, and took the seat to my right.

  I said to Simon, “Mind telling us what you’re looking for?”

  “Patience, Martin.”

  So I nursed my beer and listened to the president. His demeanor was somber, almost regretful, belying the emotional undercurrent of his words. He reminded us of the three thousand innocent lives that had been lost and promised that this war with Iraq was necessary to prevent an even greater catastrophe in the future. He listed a wide array of chemical and biological weapons in Saddam Hussein’s arsenal and chillingly detailed their lethality. Staring directly into the camera, he asked whether America could afford to wait until these weapons fell into the hands of Islamic extremists.

  “In two short years,” the president continued, “we estimate that Iraq will possess two to three nuclear weapons. If the terrorists on 9-11 had been in possession of one, America would still be grieving over the deaths of untold thousands and possibly even millions. Much of New York City would be uninhabitable for generations. Our country, this beacon of freedom, would cease to exist as we know it. No, my fellow Americans, there is no other alternative. The terrorists started this war, and America will finish it. We will not be victimized by such horror again. Saddam Hussein’s weapons threaten not only America but the world. If the world is unwilling to join us in this fight for peace, America and her allies will wage this battle alone.”

  He paused. The camera closed in tight, and the president’s face filled the screen. “The threat is real. Let’s roll, America.”