Butterfly Knife

by Larry Matthews

Chapter Thirty-Six

  The D.C. field office of the F.B.I. was busy, even at that late hour. Men and women were at desks and in offices, staring into computer screens and chatting in small groups. The first floor cafeteria was open and agents were sitting at the picnic-style tables, drinking coffee and laughing. Some of them looked up when Ossening brought Dave and Elena up to the counter and got a coffee for Dave and tea for Elena, who was wearing a white bandage on her face, which had been stitched up by an F.B.I. contract physician who had appeared as soon as the SUVs pulled up to the front door.

  “Get what you want and we’ll go upstairs,” Ossening said in his most neutral F.B.I.-trained manner. “How are you feeling?” He offered Elena a look of deep concern.

  She looked back at him with an expression of exhausted contempt. “I want to go home, take a shower, and sleep for three days.”

  “You can rest soon. I know you’ve been through quite a lot.”

  “How long will this take?” Dave asked. His hands were shaking. He looked down at them. “I think I’m coming down from all of this.”

  “Let’s go upstairs where we can talk.” Ossening led them to a small lobby where an elevator was waiting. They rode up in silence. Dave wondered if the silence was part of the treatment, a way to make him and Elena uncomfortable. He leaned against the elevator wall and closed his eyes. He felt the floor slowdown and the door opened to a government-issue hallway that reeked of the lowest bidder. The tile floor was shiny and showed new buffer marks. A cleaning woman was pushing a cart loaded with paper towels and plastic garbage bags and she stopped and stepped aside as the three walked past, not looking at anyone’s face. Ossening stopped at a small conference room. “Dave, you can sit in here. I’ll be back shortly. I’ll be taking Elena to another room where someone will take care of her.” His voice was less friendly and his eyes were hard.

  Dave entered the room and saw a round table with four chairs, all padded in neutral colors. Two additional chairs were against the wall on opposite ends of a small credenza upon which was a multi-line telephone and triangular device that was used for conference calls. The credenza was locked and a printed sign that said “secure” was taped over the space between the doors that opened to the shelves inside. There were no pictures on the walls. There was nothing in the room of interest to someone who was passing the time. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and saw that the battery was nearly dead. He called Sid but the line went dead before Sid could pick up. An agent stood in the door. “I’ll have to ask you to turn that off or we’ll take custody of it.” The man had no smile and his voice betrayed no human warmth. Dave wondered if he was under arrest.

  It was nearly an hour before Ossening returned. Dave was in a semi-sleep and his head was on the table when he heard the door open. “Knock, knock.” The agent was attempting a smile but his eyes were glaring at Dave. “We have Elena settled. She seems to be bearing up well under the circumstances. How are you doing?” Ossening sat at the table in a chair opposite Dave. He was carrying a small, hand-held recorder and a leather-bound legal pad. “Why don’t we get underway?”

  Dave sat up and rubbed his face. “What can I do for you?” he asked in what he hoped was a friendly, service-desk voice.

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning? How do you know Captain O’Neil?”

  “I thought this was about the priest killer, Father Darius.”

  “We’ll get to that. When did you first meet Captain O’Neil?”

  The sun was up before Ossening announced that they were finished “for now”. He had questioned Dave about O’Neil, everything that had happened at the farm, the priest murders, how he found Elena in Arlington, the chase, and, finally, the events at the Shrine. He asked the same questions over and over and picked at Dave’s answers if they were not consistent to even the smallest details. At one point Dave asked Ossening if he was under arrest and he was told that, no, he was not but that he was considered a material witness to criminal activity. Dave knew that he could be detained, probably indefinitely, under the prevailing statutes and chose not to ask whether he was in custody. He would find out soon enough.

  “May I see Elena?”

  “She’s resting. She’s been through an ordeal. She’s being very helpful. Listen, I know you would like to go home and maybe go back to work but I’m afraid that won’t be possible right now. As I said, you’re a material witness, so under the law we can hold you. I’m sure you know all that. We do have a problem with what you can report because it has a direct bearing on a criminal case in which you are involved. We have some issues to resolve along those lines. An assistant U.S. Attorney will be here shortly to explain the situation. After that you may telephone your boss and we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “It sounds like I’m under arrest.”

  “At the moment you’re being held as a material witness. You’ve committed no crime that we know of. If there’s something you would like to tell us, we would be glad to listen.”

  “Can I get something to eat?”

  “By all means. What would you like?”

  “Some fruit and coffee would be nice.”

  “I’ll have to ask you to remain here. You can use the men’s room if you like. You’ll have to be escorted, of course.”

  Elena was resting on the sofa in an office belonging to a supervisor who was not due for another hour or so. She was in a half-sleep and worked to keep her mind off the nightmare she had been through. She wanted to go home and make it all go away but, like Dave, she was being held as a material witness and was being watched by a female agent who, to Elena’s judgment, had no personality whatsoever.

  Father Darius was in a basement interrogation room where he was handcuffed to the floor. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings and paid no attention to the men who were trying to ask him questions. He was looking up, seeking a vision of Her, which eluded him. He took that to mean that she had abandoned him due to his failure to fulfill his mission, which was to return Her to Her rightful place in Heaven. He believed that such a failure doomed him to an eternity of fire and damnation. Under the circumstances the demands of these men around him were of no consequence.

  “Mater doleo. Ignosces.” Mother I am sorry. Please forgive me. He repeated it over and over.

  “What’s he saying?” one of the agents asked.

  “He’s saying he’s a shitbag,” another responded.

  “Father Darius. Can you hear me?”

  “Mater doleo. Ignosces.” The priest was sweating and the wounds on his back were beginning to bleed.

  “This guy needs a medic,” an agent said.

  “He needs more than that. He’s either nuts or he’s playing us. How long are we gonna do this?”

  “I’ll call Ossening, see what he says.”

  Father Darius was allowed uninterrupted access to his delusions while the agent placed a call to his boss. “It looks like he’s going to St. E’s,” the agent said, closing his cell phone. St. Elizabeth’s Hospital on Alabama Avenue Southeast is the District’s public psychiatric facility and a convenient drop-off for federal prisoners and others in need of quick and intense mental health services. It has been home to high profile Americans, including the poet Ezra Pound, who was found to be too crazy to commit treason during World War Two, for which he had been charged, and John Hinkley, who shot President Ronald Reagan. The hospital was founded in 1852 by act of Congress and has held the great and near great of the psychiatric world’s delusional beings for decades. It was about to get one more. “They’re sending somebody over,” the agent said. “Who wants to babysit until they get here?” No one raised a hand, so an agent was assigned to sit and listen to the priest’s demented ranting until the men in the white coats arrived.

  Dave was pacing in the small conference room when a thirty-something woman in a dark, skirted business suit knocked on the door and entered. She was dark complexioned and Dave could not determine whether she was Hispanic, Italian or Arab. She
wore her hair to her shoulder. She wore fashionable glasses. She wore a plain gold wedding ring. She wore no smile nor did she attempt to be friendly.

  “I’m Patricia Stanford and I am an assistant U.S. Attorney here in the District of Columbia. I’m here to ask you a few questions and to discuss a number of issues. Is there anything you need? Water? The restroom?”

  “I’m fine.” Dave was dizzy from lack of sleep and stress and he told himself all he had to do was listen and try to understand.

  “You are not being charged with a crime. Has Agent Ossening told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are a material witness to several serious crimes, as I understand it. Is that your understanding?”

  “I’ve been told I’m a material witness, yes.”

  “Then you understand that we can, under the law, detain you?”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “We do not believe it would be wise for you to go home just yet. We have made arrangements for you to be housed at a location near here. Your friend will also be in administrative custody for a few days. You will be well looked after.” She paused to see the effect of her words on him.

  “So I’m under arrest.”

  “No, if you were under arrest you would be in a cell.” She gave him a look that was intended to whither opposing witnesses in court.

  “I’m a reporter. As far as I’m concerned, this is a story. I need to report it. For that to happen, I must be free to do my work.”

  “We are seeking to enjoin you from releasing certain details of these cases. We are not attempting to block your First Amendment rights, only to protect the legal aspects of the cases we are or will bring against certain perpetrators. In this case, you are not an ordinary journalist.”

  “I suppose we can hash that out in court.”

  “If you choose, but for now we are acting in what we believe to be the best interests of justice. Have I made myself clear.” She had the tone of a kindergarten teacher addressing a boy who had just thrown a mud-ball.

  “May I call my boss?”

  “Soon. We’ll make arrangements in a little while and you can make the call before you are moved. It’s important that your employer understand your status.” She reached into a soft leather briefcase and removed some papers. She looked them over and pushed them across the table. “This will explain everything. You should read these thoroughly before you sign them and if you have any questions please ask for clarification.”

  Dave picked up the papers and scanned them. It was clear that he needed to discuss them with a lawyer before he signed anything. His first reading was that he was agreeing to anything the government wanted and waiving his right to speak publicly about what he had seen and done regarding the events of the past few days. “I’ll have to talk to an attorney about this.”

  “I need you to sign these before we can move forward,” she said in her best clipped prosecutor tone.

  “Not going to happen,” he said, pushing the papers back across the table.

  “Take a moment to think about it. We have you and we can keep you.”

  “As I recall, the Supreme Court ruled that you guys can lie and mislead anyone, all, presumably, in the interest of justice. I, on the other hand, face criminal charges if I lie to you. Is that right?”

  “If what you’re saying is true, why would you care how I responded?”

  Dave laughed. “Excellent point. So let me get to my point. I want a lawyer. Now.”

  “You’re not under arrest.”

  “I am in custody.”

  “True. But so what?”

  “I have nothing more to say.”

  “Have it your way.” She got up, stacked the papers into a neat pile, and pushed them back to Dave. “Think about it. And think about your friend, Elena.” She walked to the door, glanced at Dave, and closed the door. He could hear her shoes clacking on the tile as she walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven