A Long Day for Dying

by Patrick A. Davis

  The camera slowly faded back as the president continued to sit at his desk.

  “Wish I was still a SEAL,” Enrique murmured.

  I nodded. With his three final words, the president had simultaneously reminded us of the courage of the passengers on Flight 93 and awakened a surge of patriotism. Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter who killed General Garber or why Markel had confessed. I said, “Simon—”

  “Wait. We’ll soon know.”

  He was sitting at the edge of his seat, eyes riveted on the television. I returned to the monitor, where a solemnfaced Harvey Jenkins was sitting at the CBS anchor desk.

  “As of eightP .M. Eastern Standard Time, America is again at war with Iraq. Now to the Pentagon for Secretary Churchfield’s press conference…”

  The familiar blue-draped Pentagon press room appeared. Ron Hammond, the silver-maned Pentagon press secretary, was standing at the podium. Ron leaned toward the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the secretary of defense.”

  Simon sprang forward, thrusting out a finger. “Look. You see him?Look. ”

  I almost dropped my beer.

  I stared at the screen in disbelief. I couldn’t accept the reality of the image I was seeing. It was impossible. It had to be impossible.

  And yet…

  My mind went back. Slowly, event by event, I shifted through the inconsistencies, the little things that seemed to not quite fit:

  Markel locking his office door after Simon and I left.

  The controlled reaction of the Pentagon police, at the instant Markel fired the second shot.

  Captain Roche’s grabbing my hand to prevent me from reentering the office.

  The radio call, saying it was an exercise.

  General Sessler’s seeming lack of concern over Markel’s death.

  Simon’s comments: Why would Markel do this? Why would he kill Stefanski in such a public fashion?

  And, of course, the schedule in the press kit. The one that still showed Markel accompanying Churchfield on the podium.

  Taken singly, none of these items meant anything. But together…

  I felt angry with myself. I should have noticed. I should have paid attention. But I didn’t because…

  Because I’d been in turmoil over this case from the beginning. Deep down, I never wanted it solved. I never wanted to know the truth. So I’d let myself be fooled. Let myself see only what they wanted—

  Someone was tapping my arm.

  Enrique’s voice: “Look atwho? All I see is Secretary Churchfield, on the stage with a four-star general.”

  “That’s him,” I said. “That’s the guy Simon’s talking about.”

  “Doesn’t look familiar,” Enrique said. “Have I heard of him?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “He’s General Markel.”

  46

  On the screen, we watched Secretary Churchfield approach the podium, while General Markel remained a few respectful paces behind her. The camera moved in, framing Churchfield. Her sharp features were set in a taut, confident line, matching her gaze. She looked out over the audience as cameras flashed continually. It occurred to me that she was posing. This was the image she wanted plastered on the front pages of the world’s newspapers tomorrow, that of a tough, supremely competent military leader.

  Gradually, the flashes tapered off, and she began to speak, but not about the war. Rather, she opened by announcing a tragedy, the death of a great American soldier.

  General Michael Garber.

  She didn’t discuss the details of his death, other than to say he’d fallen in the compartment of his plane and suffered a fatal hemorrhage. She briefly mentioned that an investigation of the accident had been completed, and a summary of the report would be available after the briefing. She went on for a several minutes, eulogizing General Garber. She recounted his career, described him as her right arm, and magnanimously credited him with orchestrating the campaign to be employed against Iraq.

  “Our success in the upcoming war,” she said, “can directly be attributed to General Garber. America will miss him in this crucial time. I will miss him. Our prayers and thoughts go out to his family and to his parents, Senator and Mrs. Garber.”

  She paused, as if looking down at the podium for her notes.

  “Did you hear it?” Simon murmured.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Hear what?” Enrique asked.

  “The catch in her voice,” I said. “When she said she’d miss General Garber.”

  Enrique still appeared lost. I explained our suspicion that Churchfield had some emotional attachment to Garber.

  As Churchfield began discussing the troop deployment, Simon muted the volume. No one said anything for a few moments.

  Enrique gave a little cough. “Look, I’m still confused—”

  I said, “You should be.”

  “This guy General Markel,” he continued, tugging on his earring, “confessed because it was the only way to get you to pull off the cops. Give his buddy Stefanski a chance to get away?”

  I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Simon, wondering if he’d admit he never should have canceled the APB on Stefanski. But he continued to sit quietly; his ego didn’t allow him to own up to mistakes.

  Enrique asked, “What about the rest of it? Why’d General Markel stage Stefanski’s shooting and his own suicide?”

  Simon’s eyes sought out mine, to see if I had a response. I did. I said part of the reason he’d staged the stunt was his arrogance. By making us look foolish, Markel was sending us the message that he was smarter than we were. I added, “But the main reason was that Markel needed a way to get us to turn over his confessions. Once we thought he was dead, we had no reason to keep them.”

  “But his confessions were bogus,” Enrique said. “Markel could prove he wasn’t the killer—” He broke off with a head shake. “Jeez, I must be tired. The press. They couldn’t take the chance that the confessions might fall into the hands of the press. If that happened, Markel would have to explain why he confessed to a killing he didn’t commit.”

  “You got it,” I said. “And that’s the reason General Sessler appeared so soon after we left Markel’s office. Sessler’s job was to get us to hand over—”

  I sighed. Simon was giving me his unsettled look, which meant he disagreed. “Am I missing something?”

  A nod. “You’re partially correct; they wanted to retrieve Markel’s confessions. But onlyafter I called Senator Garber and told him Markel was the killer. This was a crucial element. They were trying to destroy Senator Garber’s credibility with the president. Make it appear as if the senator really was on a witch hunt.”

  “Okay…” But I only had a vague idea where he was going.

  “You see, Martin,” he went on, “that was the purpose of those sworn statements. The ones proving Markel’s innocence—Ah, you understand now?”

  My head was bobbing. “I think so. Once Garber informed the president that Markel was the killer, the president would confront him with those sworn statements. Without Markel’s confessions to back him up, Senator Garber couldn’t prove he wasn’t accusing Markel without cause. Gotta give them credit. They’re damn good. They had all the bases covered.”

  “Except they made a mistake,” Simon said, “It never occurred to them that the president would call Senator Garberbefore Garber made the accusation, and reveal to him the existence those sworn statements.”

  True, not that it really made much difference in the long run. They’d jerked us around so much that we still had no idea who really killed Garber or why.

  Enrique said, “And General Markel staged the shooting of Stefanski because—”

  I couldn’t even venture a guess, and I didn’t see how Simon could either. But he did, without hesitation.

  “A message,” he said. “Markel was telling us he would take care of Stefanski.” He punctuated the comment with a knowing look.

  My eyebrows widened at the implication. Be
fore I could respond, Enrique said, “Are you suggesting—”

  “I’m not suggesting anything; Iknow . Markel not only demonstrated his intention, he told us.” Simon turned to me. “Do you recall his exact words when we entered the office? He said he had no choice, that he had to do it. This was a direct reference to killing Stefanski. Later, Markel spoke of honor, said he was repaying a debt, told us he owed Andy. At the time, the general seemed to be explaining his suicide, but now we know the truth.” He shook his head emphatically. “I don’t think there’s any question. In Markel’s eyes, Stefanski’s crime was unforgivable; he’d killed one of their own. If he isn’t dead already, he soon will be.”

  Enrique squinted dubiously. In his mind, it didn’t compute that Markel would kill a friend. Frankly, this bothered me, too. But we were talking about a man who defined himself by his own rigid moral code and a sense of honor few could understand. And if his code required him to kill a man whose life he’d once saved, I had no doubt he would do so.

  Like I said, the man was nuts.

  “So what now?” I asked Simon.

  A shrug. “Nothing. We wait for Amanda’s call. I’m hopeful she’ll learn something useful from Mrs. Garber.” He pushed past me, sat down by the computer, and lifted up a seatback to reveal a row of shelves. After removing a thick file—the one containing the background information on the suspects that he’d downloaded earlier—he clicked closed the seatback and began scanning the file’s contents.

  “Mrs. Garber, the murdered general’s wife?” Enrique said.

  “Yeah.” I frowned at Simon. “Hopeful? Earlier, you said Mrs. Garber would be too frightened to—”

  I stopped. He was smiling at me. I’d missed something obvious.

  “Amanda,” I said, catching on. “She’s the real reason you went to the rest room. You called her, had her tell Mrs. Garber that Stefanski and Markel were both dead.”

  “Yes. Here.” He handed me a thick sheaf of pages, then passed a similar stack to Enrique.

  “Anything in particular I’m looking for?” Enrique asked.

  Simon’s explanation was cut short by the ringing of a car phone. His hand snaked out to a receiver. At the mention of Amanda’s name, I punched the speaker icon on the overhead console. When I heard her excited voice, I immediately grasped the significance.

  Simon’s call had worked, and Mrs. Garber had finally decided to talk.

  Amanda spoke at a frenetic pace, the words pouring from her in a series of disjointed phrases—“told me everything. Mrs. Garber said she receivedtwo phone calls from her husband. That’s how I know she was in Garber’s room. She was supposed to meet him.Son of a bitch. This changes everything. Our rape theory could be right. That would explain why—”

  Simon said, “Amanda, slow down. You’re not making any sense.”

  “I’m trying to tell you, General Markellied . He wasn’t the one who argued with General Garber. He tried to make it appear as if he did, but his call—the one Weller made—came too late. Hours after Garber was already dead—”

  Simon, clearly annoyed: “Amanda, will you please—”

  “Just listen.I’m telling you, she was there. She was the one who came to Markel’s room. She was the one Mrs. Garber heard—”

  “Weller?” Simon said. “Are you talking about Weller?”

  A pause. When Amanda answered, she spoke in a hushed tone, as if afraid someone would hear.

  “Churchfield,” she said. “Churchfield was with Garber in England.”

  47

  Five minutes later, I punched off the speaker. Afterward, we all sat around with stunned expressions. None of us felt like talking; we couldn’t. We were still reeling from what Amanda had revealed.

  Mrs. Garber had indeed told her everything. Most of the loose ends were wrapped up. What we didn’t know for certain, we could now make educated guesses at.

  Simon should have been pleased at the dramatic turn of events, but he wasn’t. He was staring gloomily out the window. I asked him what was wrong.

  He sighed. “The past. I knew the truth had to be connected to the past. The missing photographs, Churchfield’s connection to Garber, Weller’s behavior—the signs were all there. I should have realized. But I let myself become rushed by the time constraint. I lost my focus.”

  I said, “They put up too many roadblocks. No one could have known.”

  He shook his head. “I should have known, Martin.”

  The disappointment in his voice told me he really believed it.

  A car slowly drove past. We watched in silence until it disappeared around the corner.

  “Evidence,” Enrique said. “You guys still don’t have any evidence supporting Mrs. Garber’s statement.”

  Which wasn’t quite true. We had the evidence. At least some of it.

  Now all we had to do was find it.

  So we each took our stacks and began going through them. Since we knew what we were looking for, it took only about fifteen minutes. Afterward, Simon phoned Mrs. Garber’s home number. I turned on the speaker, so we could listen in. When her answering machine picked up, Simon punched in the code that Amanda had given him.

  General Garber’s call was the sixth one, after a message from a dry cleaner. A metallic voice gave yesterday’s date followed by the time: 1848 hours local.

  Over two hours after Garber’s death.

  Instead of the dead general’s voice, we heard a woman say tentatively, “Mrs. Garber, this is Colonel Weller. General Garber wanted me to call and say he would be returning home tomorrow—”

  Weller broke off, as if surprised by something. In the background we heard male voices arguing. One man’s words were garbled; the second we understood clearly. It was General Markel. He sounded enraged. “You gutless son of a bitch. You killed all those men and never had the balls to admit—”

  Colonel Weller, rattled: “Mrs. Garber, I…I…Good-bye.”

  The phone went dead.

  Simon slowly cradled the receiver, looking at Enrique and me.

  “Smart,” Enrique grunted. “General Markel was doing his damnedest to look like the killer. Cover up for the earlier call General Garber made to his wife.”

  Simon and I nodded. According to Amanda, General Garber had phoned his wife at around 1735 local time, within minutes of his death. While they were speaking, Mrs. Garber heard a woman enter General Garber’s suite and ask to talk to him. Even though the woman never said her name, Mrs. Garber knew it was Churchfield because her husband had told her he’d returned from the dinner early, to meet with the secretary of defense.

  More significantly, General Garber had also mentioned to his wifewhat Churchfield wanted to discuss. It was this topic, a similarly shocking revelation, that had been our focus as we sifted through the pages of background information.

  The key document had been in Enrique’s stack. After I pocketed it, I assumed Simon would want to immediately return to the Pentagon. Instead, he slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. A minute passed, then two. He never moved. This time I knew he wasn’t sleeping.

  Simon’s pride was bruised. He’d been made to appear foolish. To ensure it didn’t happen again, he was taking his time, analyzing every facet of the case.

  He finally opened his eyes, sat up, and adjusted his bow tie; he was ready.

  I said to him, “You realize the investigation is officially closed. They don’t have to talk to us. Odds are, they won’t. They could even have us forcibly removed from the Pentagon.”

  Simon pressed his lips into a tight line. “So we make them a offer they can’t refuse.”

  I nodded.

  But rather than contact Churchfield directly, he phoned Senator Garber. Three minutes later, the senator called back. As we anticipated, Churchfield had reluctantly agreed to meet.

  “Looks like the press conference is over,” Enrique said.

  Simon and I glanced at the TV, which was still on, the sound turned down. The camera was trained on Markel, who’d step
ped back from the podium and was talking to Ron Hammond, the press secretary. While the two men conversed, Markel handed a folder to a female officer who’d approached the stage. She pivoted and slipped out a rear door.

  “Weller, “I grunted. “It seems she’s not wasting any time, reclaiming her old job.”

  “Looks young,” Enrique said.

  “Good genes.”

  He smiled, picking up on the irony of my statement.

  As I opened the car door, I heard a sudden hiss of disapproval. Turning, I saw Simon staring fixedly at the television. He began shaking his head.

  I sighed. “Now what’s the matter?”

  But his attention was still on the screen. He looked increasingly disgusted. “I’m a fool.I’m a fool. ” He spun to me and demanded, “Who is responsible for packing a general’s luggage?”

  I blinked. “Uh, usually the aide—”

  “Colonel Weller’s number? Do you have it?”

  I gestured vaguely to the cabinet he’d opened earlier. “I think Amanda put it—”

  He popped up the seatback and located the file, which contained the contact information for the passengers. He opened it, pawed through the pages. He stopped, reading quickly. Enrique and I watched him with a puzzled expression. I said, “Simon…”

  He shut the file and looked up at the monitor. Markel was still talking to Ron Hammond. Simon gave a grunt of satisfaction, picked up a phone, and made a call. To me, he said, “There is a second possibility, Martin.”

  “There is?”

  “Yes. We have to be certain which one—” Into the phone: “Colonel Weller? Lieutenant Santos. I’m advising you that you are a suspect—Do not hang up.I know you packed General Garber’s luggage the night he died. That places you in his room at the time of his murder.” He paused; she’d interrupted him. Whatever she told him, it was the wrong thing to say. He snorted angrily. “I know you were there. I know why you tried to incriminate yourself. If you do not cooperate, I will arrest Secretary Churchfield.Do you understand? ”