by Otho Eskin
Around noon it was getting hot and I laid out my wool coat on the ground in the shade of a large elm, sat down and had an egg salad sandwich my mother had packed for me, wrapped in wax paper, an apple and a chocolate chip cookie.
I never doubted I’d find Fenton. I’d been hunting since I was a small kid—been born to it they used to say—and I’ve always had a feel for tracking. And Clyde Fenton was a stranger in the woods. He knew towns with paved streets. I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d find him.
It was almost three in the afternoon when I finally reached Clyde lying with his back against the trunk of a large tree, hidden in the deep shadows of the forest. A satchel lay on the ground next to him and in his right hand he held a Colt Python pistol.
“This ain’t no game, son.” He licks his lips. He has several days’ growth of beard. He looks at the revolver I hold in my hand and laughs softly. It was my dad’s and been in our home for years. I don’t think I’d ever fired it before. I drop the entrenching tool I hold in my left hand.
“You killed my sister, Mr. Fenton.”
“What are you gonna do about it, boy? Call the sheriff ?” He stares at me through hooded eyes the color of rainwater. “You come to hear me say I’m sorry?”
“No, Mr. Fenton, I’ve come to kill you.”
* * *
I search through the pile of evidence on the small table while Stuart stands at the door talking to the deputy in the outer office, his back to me.
The watch must have slipped off my wrist when I buried Fenton. I didn’t miss it till I got home that night. Maybe I was nervous. Except I didn’t feel nervous. Before it happened, I thought I might be scared when the time came. Panicky. Maybe sick to my stomach. None of that. I just felt empty. I always feel empty.
I pick up the watch from the table and hold it in my hand, feeling its weight, its heft. I remember Dad giving it to me on my fifteenth birthday. He’d made a big deal of it. He’d put it in a small box stuffed with white tissue paper. The watch I hold in my hand is fused together, and I can’t see the backside, but I know there’s an inscription that reads “Marko” with a date. This was my first watch. Although Dad never said anything, we all knew in his eyes I was now a man. He must also have known he didn’t have long to live. I slip the watch into my right pants pocket. “Nothing here, Stuart,” I say as I join the sheriff at the door. “I don’t see anything that would help your investigation.”
“I didn’t think you would. But had to ask.”
CHAPTER TEN
MALCOLM WU WAITS for me in his electronic lair. “I’ve accessed the victim’s health monitor.” There is no one nearby to hear what Malcolm has to tell me. “She got up on the morning of her death at seven. She had six hours of sound sleep.”
“Interesting,” I say. “But not helpful.”
“From eight to nine there are indications of strenuous activity. I’d guess she worked out, maybe in a gym. Maybe she was running on a track. Then for the next few hours normal activity for an adult her age.”
“That’s all you have?”
“At one fourteen that night all hell breaks loose.”
“Tell me about hell.”
“Her blood pressure and heart rate suddenly spike. Way above normal. It looks like she was under major stress. This lasted until one forty-six. At that point all life signs stopped.”
“What would cause that?”
“I don’t know. In the minutes before that, she engaged in intense physical activity.”
“What kind of activity?”
“Maybe rapid walking. And going up or down steps.”
“How many steps?” I ask.
“Maybe ten steps.”
“What happened during those thirty-six minutes, Malcolm?”
“No way to tell.”
“How far can you walk in thirty minutes?” I ask. “If you’re walking fast.”
“I have no idea. I never walk. You owe me two beers and you didn’t hear any of this from me. I never saw this device.”
When I return to my desk, I call Frank Townsend’s intercom number.
“Yes!” he growls.
“Good morning, Frank. Marko here.”
“I know who you are. What do you want?”
“I want to drain the Reflecting Pool.”
“Stop right there!”
“Call your friends at the United States Park Service. Tell them I’m on my way to the Reflecting Pool right now to do a site survey so we can begin the draining operation. Maybe you can call the same fellow you talked to when he complained about my behavior.”
“They’ll arrest you! The Park Service is very sensitive about their national monuments.”
“Just call and tell them I’m coming.” I hang up before Townsend can argue further. I cross the squad room to Kenneth’s desk.
“Grab your coat. Let’s play detective.”
“Sir?” Kenneth looks worried.
I make a mental note not to tease Kenneth. I feel bad enough about being mean to him after our interview with Trisha Connelly. “Let’s go. It’s time you visited the crime scene.”
“Cool.”
It’s midmorning and already the Mall is filling with tourists dragging bored children from one museum and monument to another. There are runners and joggers from nearby offices out for their exercise. We stop near the base of the Washington Monument. “Kenneth, you said you played baseball in school.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you’re in good shape. Good enough to walk fast.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you see where the Reflecting Pool is?”
He nods.
“I want you to walk there. Briskly. Don’t stop. Try not to knock over any old people but maintain a steady, fast pace.”
“You want me to walk fast from here to the Reflecting Pool?”
“That’s the idea. Then stop and wait for me at the edge of the Pool. Got that?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Kenneth walks briskly off toward the Reflecting Pool. I check my watch and follow him at a leisurely pace. I figure if I walk slow enough, I can finish a cigarette before I catch up with him. I take out the pack of cigarettes and light one with my silver lighter. Even though we are out doors, I get dirty looks from passersby.
I walk through the World War II Memorial and stop to let pass an elderly man in a wheelchair, pushed by a pretty young woman no more than twenty. A World War II vet being shown the sights by his granddaughter or great-granddaughter. It pleases me to think so.
Kenneth has arrived at the Pool. He stops and waves at me. Tourists are clustered near the end of the Reflecting Pool outside the yellow police tape. Two bored, uniformed cops keep curiosity seekers away. I crush the cigarette butt into the pavement.
When I catch up with Kenneth, I check my watch. Six minutes, fourteen seconds.
I show Kenneth where Sandra Wilcox’s body was first observed in the Pool and where we placed her on the ledge. We walk to where the single shoe was found, an evidence marker still planted, and to where I found the identification bracelet. The red marker with the number “8” is still in the ground.
There’s nothing else to see. But it doesn’t matter because we’re about to have company. In the distance a battalion of bureaucrats is headed our way, led by a short, stout man in a double-breasted, gray suit, followed by a phalanx of assistants and aides and lawyers and uniformed Park Police, including Captain Fletcher who leans down and whispers into his leader’s ear and points to me accusingly. The leader and his band head right toward me and stop a few feet away. The stout man glares at me.
“My name is Jeremy Torrance,” he announces. “You’re Marko Zorn.”
“Guilty, sir,” I say in a cheerful voice.
“I’m the director of the National Park Service. I’m told you want to drain the Reflecting Pool.” He gestures dramatically at the Pool. “I won’t have it!” He’s has a large, ruddy head. His scalp shows through his com
b-over.
“Is this your Pool, sir?” I ask.
“Of course not!” He’s angry. I guess he doesn’t appreciate sarcasm. “It belongs to the American people,” he announces.
“I’m sure the American people won’t mind if I drain the Pool so we can expose the killer of a young woman.”
“How do you expect to find the killer by draining the Reflecting Pool?”
“We may find the victim’s ID. A cell phone. Maybe one of those gizmos Secret Service agents wear in their ears. A shoe. Anything. The killer may have thrown the evidence into the Pool.”
“Who’s going to pay for this draining operation? It’s not in the budget. Let the Park Police investigate this crime. Leave it to us.”
“That’s it!” I exclaim, figuratively smacking my palm to my forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that? That’s our solution right there. Staring us right in the face. Yesterday Captain Fletcher here suggested much the same thing, didn’t you, Captain?” The captain gives me a fishy look. “Maybe I was too hasty in rejecting his offer to have his people carry out the investigation.”
“What are you getting at?” Torrance asks, suspiciously.
“If you have a problem with my draining the Reflecting Pool,” I say, “why not have Captain Fletcher and his men go into the Pool themselves and search for the missing evidence?”
Captain’s Fletcher’s face contorts with consternation, but Torrance is beginning to like the idea. He’s not the one who will have to spend hours wading through the dirty waters of the Reflecting Pool. Torrance turns to Fletcher. “Daryl, I think we may have a solution here. Get your men into that Pool.”
“But, sir …”
“If you start now you should be finished before nightfall.”
Torrance turns back to me, essentially dismissing Captain Fletcher and his troops. “The Department of the Interior wants to cooperate with local law enforcement,” Torrance says to me.
“I’m sure you do,” I say. “If Captain Fletcher finds anything, please inform my partner here, Detective Blake.” I point to Kenneth. “Your chaps can keep any loose change they find.”
“Got that, Daryl?” Captain Fletcher nods gloomily and goes off to organize his troops.
“I do have one question,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Yesterday morning Captain Fletcher and several troopers arrived at the crime scene not long after I did.”
“So?” Torrance asks.
“I don’t imagine the captain routinely patrols the Mall at seven in the morning,” I say.
“I don’t suppose he does.”
“So how did he get here so soon?”
“Is it important?”
“Maybe not, but I’d sure like to know.”
Torrance stares at his shoes for a moment, apparently thinking about my request. “Our Operations Center received a call,” Torrance says at last. “The caller said there was activity—some kind of police activity—on the Mall and said we should send in our own team to take over the investigation. The request was relayed to Captain Fletcher.”
“Who called?” I ask.
“Someone from Homeland Security.”
“Who was it that called?”
“They didn’t identify themselves. They never do.”
“You’ve been a great help.” I nod to Torrance and walk away.
Kenneth stands at the edge of the Reflecting Pool watching the Park Police officers, seven abreast, take off their shiny shoes, roll up their trouser cuffs, and wade into the water. “Do you think they’ll find anything?” Kenneth asks me.
“Not a chance,” I say. “There’s nothing to find. The killer would not have been careless and left any evidence where we could find it. Whatever evidence there was has been well hidden far from the crime scene or destroyed.”
“Then why did you make them search the Pool then?”
“I wanted to find out how in hell the Park Service learned about the murder so fast.”
“Did you find out?”
“Sort of. You stay here and keep an eye on our mermaids.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’m going to see a man about a murder.”
* * *
The Secret Service’s headquarters is located in an undistinguished office building in downtown Washington. I step into the front lobby and approach the reception desk. “I want to see Mr. Decker,” I announce to the receptionist.
“What is your business?” the man behind the desk demands. He’s heavyset in civilian clothes.
“My name is Zorn.” I show the receptionist my shield and police ID. “Marko Zorn. I need to speak with Mr. Decker about a homicide investigation.”
The receptionist studies my credentials carefully, noting down pertinent information in a log. “The Director’s not available,” the receptionist says handing me back my ID and shield.
“You didn’t check,” I say. “You didn’t call anybody.”
“That isn’t necessary, sir. We’ve been expecting you.” The receptionist looks unperturbed. “The Director is not available.”
“When will he make himself available?”
“I can’t say, sir.”
“That’s a pity,” I tell him. “I’m investigating the murder of a member of the Secret Service.” I speak in a loud, annoying voice. “One Sandra Wilcox. Do you mean to tell me the Director of the Secret Service is too busy to help in the investigation of the murder of one of his own agents? Should I report to my superiors that the Secret Service does not care enough about its employees to cooperate with an official police murder investigation?”
I sense men and woman gathering behind me, waiting to get to their appointments. They’re already late and glance at their watches and glare at the back of my head. I’m the asshole causing everyone to be inconvenienced. I imagine they are all also straining to hear every word I say.
The receptionist glances at the gathering crowd. “I’ll make a call,” he says. “Please take a seat.” He points to a couch along one wall, above which hang photographs of the President and the Director of the Secret Service.
“I’m comfortable where I am,” I tell him. “I’ll wait right here.” The receptionist grimaces, then makes a quick call, his voice lowered and, in a short time, a man approaches me, smiling a phony smile.
“I’m Francis Roth. Can I help you, Detective?” He wears a picture ID on a chain around his neck.
“I’m here to see Mr. Decker.”
“The Director is unavailable,” Roth says. There is a silence while each of us waits for the other to continue. Roth gives up first. “He’s out of the office. Can I help you?”
“Are you the Deputy Director?” I ask.
Roth looks uncomfortable. “No, that’s Andy Wood.”
“Are you the Assistant Deputy Director?”
“I’m the Deputy Assistant Director.”
“Is that better than Assistant Deputy Director?” I can never remember—is an Assistant better than a Deputy? Or is it the other way round?”
“What can we do for you?” Roth’s face flushes, his smile long gone. The people waiting in line for their appointments stare at us in fascination.
“I’m investigating the murder of Sandra Wilcox,” I announce.
“I understood that Jessica Kirkland filled you in,” Roth tells me.
“You understand wrong. Mrs. Kirkland didn’t seem to know anything. I have many questions.”
“I’m not sure how we can help.”
“Why don’t we find out?” I suggest. “Do you have an office in this building where we can sit and help one another? Or do assistants or deputies share their office with other assistants and deputies?”
“Of course, I have an office.” He’s getting seriously huffy now. Maybe he’ll want to prove how important he is by talking to me. “Follow me.” Roth leads me past the reception desk and through a metal detector. Roth seems surprised when I set off no alarms. “You don’t carry a weapon?” he asks a
s we head toward a bank of elevators.
“I don’t like guns.”
“Kind of odd for a homicide detective, isn’t it?”
“Maybe I’m an odd detective.”
We enter the elevator and rise silently three floors. The elevator doors slide open, and I follow Roth down a corridor, and we enter an office furnished with institutional, government-issue gray metal-frame chairs, and a metal desk heaped with file folders. Institutional pictures decorate the wall.
We sit opposite one another in the metal-frame chairs. “Did you know Sandra Wilcox?” I ask.
“A bit,” Roth replies.
“Did you know she had a peanut allergy?”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” I say.
“We have over 30,000 special agents, you understand,” Roth explains, defensively.
“When was the last time you spoke with Sandra Wilcox?”
“I don’t know. Not recently.”
“Where do Special Agents spend their time?”
“That depends on their assignments.”
“Like the Presidential Security Detail?”
“That is one. The Secret Service has many responsibilities. We have offices in several locations around the city and around the country.”
“Where was Sandra Wilcox on the night she was murdered?” I ask.
Roth rubs his hands together. “I can’t really say.”
“You can’t really say because you don’t know or you can’t really say because you don’t want to tell me.”
He smirks. I swear to God, Roth actually smirks. “Both.”
“Okay, who does know where Sandra Wilcox was on the night she was murdered?” Long silence. “Mr. Roth?” I urge. “Her schedule?”
“I suppose the shift supervisor would know.”
“And who is that?”
“I can’t tell you. That’s classified information.”
“Would it surprise you to know that Agent Wilcox was assigned to the White House the night she was killed?”
Roth flinches. His hands grasp the arms of his chair. His knuckles are white. “I can’t comment. I really know nothing about her whereabouts that night.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I have nothing more to say, Detective.”