by Otho Eskin
“I wish one of you would tell us what this is all about,” Ron says. “What happened to Sandy? What’s Tony got himself into?”
Arora looks at me, nodding slightly to indicate I should answer his questions.
“Here’s what we know,” I say. “Sandra was found drowned.”
“Could it have been an accident?” Ron asks.
“It doesn’t look that way.”
“Who did it? Who would hurt Sandy?”
Arora says, “We think Tony might have gotten involved with some people who are very dangerous.”
“You mean the Brotherhood of the Aryan Dawn?”
“You know about the Brotherhood?”
“Tony told us about them,” Anne says.
“Tony told you?” I didn’t expect this. “He talked to you about the Brotherhood?”
“Yeah. When he visited us here in Greensboro.”
“He wouldn’t shut up about it,” Ron intervenes. “It was crazy talk. The enemy is taking our country away from us, he kept saying. That kind of thing. Over and over. I think he was trying to sign us up.”
“Tell us about Tony.” Arora’s voice is low, encouraging.
Anne glances at Ron as if for approval. “Tony and me, we grew up together. Went to the same high school in Colorado Springs and all. He was the sweetest kid. He loved to hunt and fish. He was a crack shot with a rifle. Well, I guess you know all about that. He was planning on going to college but then he got it into his head to join the Army. Went through basic training, then shipped out to Iraq.”
She looks at me. Then at Arora. I can see the confusion in her eyes. She doesn’t know which one of us to talk to. She takes a drink of iced tea and goes on.
“Tony trained as a sniper. His tour in Iraq went well. He returned Stateside and was given a lot of medals. He was a kind of war hero for what he’d done there. That’s when we got married.”
She stops and seems lost in thought. “We had the baby and I thought everything was fine. Then Tony was sent to Afghanistan. He had problems there and they sent him back. Tony was sick for a while. In a VA hospital. Our marriage wasn’t working out and we separated. I moved to North Carolina to be near my family. Then, a month ago, Tony called. Out of the blue. He wanted to see his boy.”
“Tony came here to North Carolina?” Arora asks.
“It was okay at first,” Anne says. “Tony seemed happy. Then Sweet Daddy showed up.”
“Tell us about Sweet Daddy,” Arora says.
“One morning—this would have been three or four weeks ago—I was in the kitchen getting breakfast ready and I saw this man standing in front of our house. I went to the kitchen door and asked him what he wanted. ‘Tell Tony Sweet Daddy has come.’”
“That’s all he said?”
“That’s all he said. The man frightened me. I can’t explain why. He made my skin crawl. Ron was at the hospital, and I didn’t want the man in the house. I got Tony and he came down. He and the man talked, standing out front. Then the man left. I asked Tony who the man was and all he’d tell me was he’s ‘The Leader.’”
“Can you describe the man who came for Tony?” Arora asks.
“He was around sixty, I’d say. Not tall. His hair was white. Curly. And he wore a white suit. And a bow tie. That’s all I can remember. Sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“I was very upset,” she goes on. “There was something about the man that disturbed me. The next day the man returned and waited outside our house and Tony went off with him. They spent the day together. The same thing the next day. I could see Tony changing. He became agitated. Angry over little things.
“I called Sandy. Thought she should know about Tony’s visitor. Understand, she and Tony were very close.” Anne dabs at her eyes with a paper tissue. “They lost their parents when they were young. Basically, Tony raised Sandy and they looked after one another. Until Tony left for military service they were inseparable. On the day he left for his last oversees assignment, he said to me, ‘If anything happens to me, please take care of Polly and little Tony.’”
“Who is Polly?” I ask.
“Polly was his name for Sandy. It’s a baby name. When she was very little, he called her Pollywog. All their life he called her Pollywog or Polly for short. Until little Tony came along, Sandy was the most important thing in Tony’s life. And he was the most important thing in hers.”
Anne’s shoulders shake with sobs while Ron holds her hand. We sit in silence until Anne recovers.
“I told Sandy about Sweet Daddy and how Tony seemed to be changing. She said she’d come to North Carolina and talk to Tony. She drove from Washington that night and she and Tony spent hours talking. Actually—arguing.”
“About what?”
“About the Brotherhood. About Sweet Daddy. They sat here in the living room. I remember Sandy saying Sweet Daddy was dangerous. He was using Tony. Sweet Daddy was evil. Sandy pleaded with Tony to have nothing to do with him. ‘For the love of God, get rid of this man or he’ll destroy you, he’ll destroy us all.’
“The next day Sweet Daddy arrived in the morning, as usual, and waited for Tony out front. It was raining and Sandy went out and confronted the man. They both stood in the rain.”
“Do you know what they said?” I ask.
“I couldn’t hear most of it. Not at first. At the end I could make out some. By that time, they were yelling at one another.”
“Can you remember any of their words?”
“Sandy told the man to leave Tony alone. Sweet Daddy told Sandy she should not turn Tony away from his fate—from his destiny. He said he was Tony’s savior and she would regret interfering until her dying day.”
Arora leans forward. “He said ‘dying day’?”
“Those were his exact words. ‘Anybody who interferes will be crushed,’ the man said. ‘Tony is mine,’ he yelled. ‘Stay out of my way, bitch, or I’ll burn you.’
“At that, Sandy charged at Sweet Daddy, and he stepped back and hid in his car, locking the doors. He was intimidated by her, I could see, by her anger. By her strength. He lowered the car window a crack and called to Sandy, ‘You’re my enemy.’
“Sandy went back to Washington later that day. She was scheduled to travel somewhere with the President and First Lady. Two days after she left, Sweet Daddy showed up again. This time he didn’t come near the house. He stayed in his car. Tony went to meet him and they spent the day together.”
“That’s when the business with the gun started,” Ron interjected.
“What gun?”
“Tony left early one morning,” Anne explains. “Tony said he and Sweet Daddy were going over to Clinton for the gun show.”
“That’s two hours’ drive,” Ron explains. “But Tony insisted he had to go to Clinton to find the kind of gun he needed. One that had been specially adapted.”
“That evening Tony came back with his new gun.” Anne is almost crying now. “I don’t allow guns in the house. You know—because of the boy. But Tony insisted he had to keep it with him at all times. He kind of went crazy. Started yelling and screaming at me. Said I was plotting against him, was spying on him and reporting him to the CIA. He said I would perish on Doomsday. Along with all his enemies. Then the range shooting began.”
“Tell us about the range shooting.”
“Tony’d leave the home early in the morning,” Ron says. “Take his rifle and go to a nearby shooting range. He’d practice shooting for hours.”
“What was he practicing for?” Arora asks.
“I asked him,” Ron said. “‘Doomsday,’ he told us. ‘What’s Doomsday?’ I asked. ‘Just Doomsday. When the enemy shall perish.’”
“Understand, I like Tony. He’s a good kid. He’s had some tough times but he has a good heart. When he first came here, we got along great. Even went out a few times for beers. But later … later he changed. He became angry very quick. That was after Sweet Daddy appeared. Tony said it was the enemy who made him that way.�
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“Did he say who the enemy was?”
“Tony was crazy by that time. There was no enemy. Except in his head.”
“You said he used a specially adapted rifle,” I say.
“That’s right. A left-handed rifle. Tony was left-handed, you know. The day came when Tony totally lost it. Tony began ranting. Standing right here in the living room. He was holding his rifle in its carrying case then took the rifle out of its case. I was scared to death. He’d never done that in the house before. He was normally very careful with weapons. I took little Tony into the bedroom and locked the door. The next day Tony was gone. Sweet Daddy picked him up first thing in the morning, and that’s the last I ever saw or heard from Tony.”
“Do you know where they went?” Arora asks.
“He just said they were going to Washington, DC.”
“Is Tony in trouble?” Ron asks.
“Tony’s in big trouble,” I answer.
* * *
“Did you guys learn anything useful?” FBI Agent Martin Tolls asks as he drives us back to the airport.
“Not much,” Arora answers. “A few details is all. Doesn’t move us forward in solving Sandra Wilcox’s murder.”
“Your trip was a waste of time, then?”
“Not a complete waste,” I say. “We learned one very important thing.”
Arora looks puzzled.
“Tony Wilcox is left-handed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I THINK I know a way you can help,” I say to Kenneth
Part of my brain is telling me: Marko—stop this! Don’t do it! It’s that part of my brain I usually pay no attention to.
Kenneth’s at his desk when I appear clutching my morning coffee, still limping slightly from the bruise to my leg. Kenneth is reading what appears to be a manual on the identification of tire treads.
“How can I help?” Kenneth asks with bubbly excitement.
“We’re looking for a left-handed sniper.” I know I’m making a mistake the minute the words are out of my mouth.
* * *
Arora and I had left Greensboro on the FBI jet on time and got back to Andrews Air Base in early evening. We didn’t talk much on the trip back. She finds a seat in the back of the plane and is on her cell phone. When done talking, she works on her laptop computer, I suppose writing up a detailed report of our meeting. She’s still angry with me. When we arrive at Andrews, I offer to drive Arora home, but she declines, saying she’ll catch a ride into the city with one of the special agents at the FBI liaison office at the base.
* * *
“Good morning, sir,” Kenneth says enthusiastically when I sit at my desk. “What’s this about a left-handed sniper? How does that help with the case?”
The Office of Human Resources once required me to attend an all-day team-building exercise that stressed the importance of cultivating a positive atmosphere in the office. “A happy workplace is a productive workplace,” I was instructed. Is it because I feel bad about how I treated Kenneth when we interviewed Sandra Wilcox’s roommate? I try to create a sense of good spirits even though I’m never in good spirits until much later in the morning.
“Our murder victim, Sandra Wilcox,” I tell Kenneth, “has a brother. His name is Tony Wilcox and he was a skilled sniper in the U.S. Army before being medically discharged. This Tony was married at one time. Yesterday I went to Greensboro, North Carolina, and met with Tony Wilcox’s ex-wife. She told me her brother was left-handed. Do you feel ready to take on an assignment, Kenneth?” Part of my brain is screaming at me: don’t do this!
“Absolutely, sir.”
“It will be a kind of undercover assignment,” I say. “And there might be some risk. You think you’re ready to handle this?”
“Sure I am.”
“I believe Tony Wilcox may be in the Washington area,” I say. “Tony will try to practice shooting every day as if he’s in training. Which, I suppose, he is.”
“How do we find him?”
“He can’t go around shooting a high-powered rifle in the city. Can’t even do it in the country. He might shoot a cow or something.”
“So he has to go to a firing range.”
“That’s exactly right. I want you to draw up a list of firing ranges and gun clubs in the area and contact them. Snoop around a little. Keep your eyes open for a highly skilled, left-handed sniper.”
“Absolutely.” Kenneth makes a note on a piece of paper. “A left-handed sniper.”
“If you should find someone fitting that description, don’t approach him. Don’t go near him. Don’t under any circumstances tip your hand you’re on to him.”
“Got it,” Kenneth says eagerly.
“This Tony is a trained killer. He knows how to use weapons and he’s mixed up with a very dangerous crowd. This group, maybe even Tony himself, may have killed Sandra Wilcox. If you observe anybody who looks suspicious, you are to contact me immediately. Under no circumstances approach Tony on your own. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, sir.”
Kenneth goes to his desk and starts a computer search of local shooting ranges. I watch him at his desk from across the squad room. What could go wrong? I ask myself. Before I have time to think through what I’ve done, my phone rings. “Detective Zorn?” a voice demands.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Myron Clark.” There is a pause. I can tell the man at the other end expects me to know who he is. “Myron Clark,” he goes on, his voice irritated. “Special Assistant to the President.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Clark.” The name rings a bell. I’m not much interested in politics but even I have heard of Myron Clark. He’s quoted frequently in the New York Times and shows up on CNN. “Yes, Mr. Clark, what can I do for you?”
“We must talk.”
“About what?” I ask, innocently. I know perfectly well where this is going.
“We need to talk about Sandra Wilcox.”
“That could be difficult. This is an ongoing police investigation.”
“Come to my office. Immediately.”
“I suppose I can manage that. Where is your office?”
“The White House.” Left unspoken was: You idiot. Where else would my office be?
“Okay,” I say. “Can we set a time?”
“Now.”
“You mean now?”
“I mean now. Come to the checkpoint on 15th street. Someone from the White House staff will meet you there. Be here in fifteen minutes.”
I’m about to leave when Kenneth hurries over to my desk. “I’ve found something, sir.” He’s holding a map of Virginia in one hand. “There’s a range near Springfield. I’m going to check it out.”
I’m distracted by the White House phone call so I don’t do what I know I should do. I should say no. I should say wait until I get back. Instead, I murmur, “Great, Kenneth.”
I decide against using a police cruiser or my Jag. Parking is a bitch near the White House so I grab a cab and go to the 15th Street entrance only to find a traffic jam at the checkpoint. Half a dozen limousines and SUVs are stacked up at the entrance that is swarming with uniformed Secret Service agents—many more than normal.
I show my police ID and I’m moved through quickly when I give the name of the man I’m here to see. I’m processed through a security check where I have to deposit my police badge, my cell phone, and my watch and silver lighter into a little plastic box. I don’t have to take my shoes off.
At the end of the security belt an attractive woman with platinum blonde hair is waiting for me. She’s the same woman I saw at the book signing attending the First Lady. She observes me with amusement as I put my police badge and ID into my jacket pocket, slip my watch on my wrist, and retrieve my silver lighter from the plastic bin.
“Nice lighter,” she says.
“I like nice things.”
“Detective Zorn.” She holds out her hand and we shake. Her nails are a bright scarlet and her grip is firm. “My name’s Shaw.
I’ll take you to Mr. Clark’s office. Please follow me. Sorry about the delay at the checkpoint.” We walk along a path in front of the White House. Or is it the back? I can never remember which is which. We pass half a dozen Secret Service agents in black battle dress uniforms, armed with P10 submachine guns. They watch us carefully as we pass.
“Heavy security today,” I say.
“We have a situation. Your first time in the White House?”
“I’ve been here a few times. I’m usually let in through the service entrance.”
Miss Shaw leads me down a dozen steps and we approach one of the entrances to the West Wing. “I’ve seen you before.” Miss Shaw studies my face carefully. “At the bookstore. When the First Lady signed copies of her new book. You bought one.”
“You’re very observant.”
“I wouldn’t take you for someone with a deep interest in prison reform.”
“You’d be surprised what interests me,” I tell her.
“This way to the service entrance,” Miss Shaw says as she leads me to a side door. Two uniformed Secret Service guards meet us just inside the door and examine my credentials and I’m taken through metal detectors. Once again, I place my credentials, my watch and lighter, as well as my cell phone, into a plastic box.
The guards keep my cell phone.
“You’ll get your phone back when you leave,” Miss Shaw informs me. “It’s the camera. They don’t like cameras.”
Miss Shaw is not required to go through security procedures. I notice a man standing in a side corridor, watching us. He’s the same man I saw at the bookstore observing me. Miss Shaw leads me down a nondescript hallway and we stop outside a door. “Have you met Mr. Clark before?”
“I’ve never had that pleasure,” I reply cautiously, sensing there’s more to her question than a mere pleasantry.
“Then you’re in for a treat.” With that, Miss Shaw opens the door and steps inside. “Mr. Clark, your visitor is here.”
She gestures for me to enter the office and shuts the door behind me. I’m in a small, well-appointed office with modern art on the walls, a Persian carpet on the floor, a teak desk, well-oiled, and a conference table, surrounded by six upholstered chairs.