A Slow Walk to Hell (5 page)

I
t was a windowless room roughly twenty feet square. The walls were dark blue, almost black, and were made of a porous, sound-absorbing material. A stocky man and a petite blonde woman stood just inside the door, backs to us. The guy checked us out and drifted over to make room. Peering over Simon and Amanda’s shoulders, I went clockwise and saw a refrigerator, a wet bar, a couple rows of plush theater chairs, and a wall-mounted movie screen. I could also make out the upper half of two people, a reed-thin man with a camera and a heavyset woman with short gray hair. They were standing in front of the screen, bending over something on the floor.

“All right, Jerry,” Dr. Cantrell said to the photographer. “When I cut the rope, you shoot the ligature marks on the hands and the feet. Ready—”

The room was punctuated by a series of clicks and flashes.

I eased to the right. The chairs in the front row still blocked my view. I took another side step.

And saw him.

Christ—

I tried to prepare myself for what I would see. But nothing can prepare you for this.

Talbot was lying on his side, hands and feet bound behind him and secured to the legs of the theater chairs. His pullover shirt and jeans were stained dark red from numerous stab wounds to the torso and thighs. The zipper of his jeans was tented open and glistened with the tacky wetness of drying blood that had flowed down his right thigh and soaked into the carpet. From his televised press conference, I recalled Major Talbot had been an exceptionally handsome man, but he didn’t look handsome now.

Kneeling, I forced myself to focus on his face. Talbot’s eyes were locked wide, staring sightlessly in horror. Thin strips of duct tape covered much of his mouth, except for a slight opening above his lower lip.

That’s where I was looking now. At the tip of a penis that was sticking out.

The camera stopped flashing and Dr. Cantrell and Jerry straightened. Cantrell held a surgical knife in one hand and two lengths of blood-stained rope in the other. As she passed them to the woman who was her assistant, Cantrell said to Jerry, “Get me prints as soon as you can.”

“Sure, Doc.” He gathered his equipment and left the room.

Cantrell stretched her ample frame. “Jesus, my back’s killing me. I’m getting too old for this.” She focused on Amanda and me. “Long time since I’ve seen the Air Force. What’s it been? Couple years?”

Amanda nodded mutely. “About,” I said.

“Do you have an estimate for the time of death, Doctor?” Simon asked.

“Give a girl a chance, huh?” Cantrell motioned to her assistant and the two women wormed Talbot’s jeans below his buttocks. As they did this, Doctor Cantrell kept a running conversation with Talbot’s body, saying things like, “I don’t like this any more than you do, Franklin. But you heard the man, you’ve got to tell us when you died. It won’t take long. We’ll find who did this to you. I promise, honey.”

Anyone who witnesses Cantrell talking to a corpse for the first time assumes that she has to be a little nuts. If she is, it’s certainly understandable. Several years earlier, she got called out to process a young male who been killed in a car jacking. Since the victim’s wallet was missing, no one knew who he was. When Cantrell arrived, she got the shock of her life.

The victim was her son.

Dr. Cantrell resisted all attempts to get her to leave. She was determined to process his body and by all accounts, did so in a calm, efficient manner. According to the cops on the scene, she gave no outward indication that she was working on her son, except for the loving way she spoke to his corpse.

She’s continued the practice ever since.

Cantrell extended her hand. “Maggie. The thermometer—”

Her assistant produced a long rectal thermometer from a black case.

Two minutes later, Cantrell had her reading and passed the thermometer back to her assistant. Stepping around the bloodied carpet, she approached Simon and Amanda. “Between four-thirty and five-thirty
P.M
. I can narrow it down, if you can tell me when he last ate.”

Simon said, “We’re checking. It would have been lunch; the housekeeper had come to make dinner. How many wounds?”

“Fourteen.”

“Including the fingers?”

“Fingers?” I said. Amanda and I swung around to look at Talbot’s hands. Because they were tied behind his back, we’d missed seeing the injuries to his fingers.

“Yeah,” Cantrell said to Simon. To us: “The tips of the index and forefinger on his left hand are crushed. Probably by pliers.”

Amanda and I saw the tips of pulverized bone and flesh now. Enrique had called it. Whatever Talbot knew, he’d revealed to the killer.

Simon said to Cantrell, “You still conclude that the cause of death was cardiac arrest due to blood loss?”

A nod. “None of the other wounds are fatal, per se. Figured it took Talbot three, four minutes to expire, once his penis was severed.” She sighed, looking down at Talbot. “Real shame. He was a good looking kid. For him to die like this…”

The room fell silent, all eyes on Talbot’s corpse. We were picturing his final moments, as he lay there wracked with pain, swallowing and gagging as his life ebbed away.

“The sick son of bitch,” Amanda muttered.

I had a theory about why the killer felt the need to stab the victim and also crush his fingers. When I mentioned it, I saw nods from both Simon and Cantrell. This was something they’d discussed.

“You’re correct, Martin,” Simon said. “The killer stabbed Talbot repeatedly, trying to make him reveal information. Talbot must have resisted, so the killer increased the pain level by crushing his fingers. When he got what he wanted, he finished Talbot off.”

“It appears,” Amanda said, “that there must have been more than one killer. It would take at least two people to tie up Talbot. One to hold a gun on him while the second person bound him.”

“Could still be a single perp.” Cantrell motioned to her assistant. “Maggie, be a dear and pass me the rope.”

After Maggie handed over a plastic bag which contained the bloodied rope, Cantrell held it up to us. “Slip knots. Easy enough for one person to keep a gun on Talbot while he slipped the loop over his wrists and cinched it tight.” She passed the bag back to Maggie.

Of course this didn’t prove there wasn’t more than one killer, but only that one person was capable of securing and torturing Talbot.

Simon shrugged. “For now, we’ll assume a single perpetrator.”

“Information,” I said suddenly.

All eyes went to me, but I was looking at Simon. He knew what I was asking.

“Assuming Talbot was killed for information,” he said, “that would seem to rule out a hate crime. I understand Major Talbot worked in the Pentagon…”

I said, “Talbot’s office served an administrative function. He wouldn’t have been exposed to classified information. Certainly nothing anyone would kill him for.”

“You’re convinced the motive was unrelated to his military duties?”

“That’s the most likely conclusion. Yes.”

A faint smile. He’d already determined this. “Excuse me, Doctor.”

When Cantrell moved aside, Simon knelt over Major Talbot, fingered his rosary beads, and began to pray.

Simon recited his two favorite Psalms dealing with death, the twenty-third and the thirtieth. This was another of his unique talents, an ability to accurately recall information stored in his mental Rolodex.

When he finished, Simon crossed himself and rose, looking down at Talbot. He took a couple of shallow breaths and seemed to struggle with his composure. “I want who did this,” he said with feeling.

“Join the club,” Amanda said.

His eyes sought hers and something unspoken passed between them. She placed a reassuring hand on his back and left it there. Another indication that their relationship had become much closer than I realized.

I told myself not to read to much into it. But I couldn’t forget Amanda’s ring and inference that came with it.

Bob had money.

As Amanda withdrew her hand, Simon said to Cantrell, “You appreciate the priority of this case?”

“Relax, Simon. I’ll have the autopsy finished by tonight. Say around two.” Addressing her assistant, Cantrell said, “Maggie, bag his hands and feet. Leave the duct tape on his mouth. I’ll remove that when—problem, Simon?”

Moving toward her with an apologetic expression, Simon explained that Congressman Harris would arrive in a little over an hour to view his nephew.

“Aw, Christ.” Cantrell threw up her hands and appeared really put out. “Why can’t he come down to the morgue? We can be there in thirty minutes.”

“I’ve explained that would be preferable. He insisted he wanted to view the body here.”

Cantrell grimaced in frustration. “Fine. What do I care? So I’ve got to stay up half the night. It’s not like someone my age needs beauty sleep. I assume it’s okay to prep the body for transport and Nate here can still do his thing.”

“Of course.”

On cue, Maggie and the criminalist Nate went to work. Nate’s job was to scour the room for trace evidence left behind by the killer.

To Simon, Cantrell said, “Let Maggie know when she can transport the body. Me, I’m going to get some dinner. Prima donna politicians give me a headache. The morgue is closer to the airport, but you know that. If I were you, I’d ask myself why the hell he really is coming here.” She punctuated the comment with a knowing look, popped off her gloves, and walked out.

“She’s right,” Amanda said to Simon. “Harris would save fifteen minutes if he drove straight to the morgue. Why is he really coming here?”

He gave her a long look. “Don’t you know?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “He’s afraid we’ll find something?”

“I don’t think there’s much doubt.”

No one said what that something was; we all knew. After all, with a politician, image was everything.

Checking his watch, Simon said, “We don’t have time. I want to determine the truth before Harris arrives. Let’s see how the search is going upstairs.”

As we retraced our steps down the hallway, Amanda and I tucked in on either side of Simon. I said to him, “You realize this might still be a hate crime.”

He shook his head. “Talbot was killed for information.”

“Unless the killer tortured Talbot to confuse the motive. Make us think it was a hate crime when it wasn’t.” My terminology sounded a little ridiculous in light of the horrific nature of the killing, but I was going by the legal definition of a hate crime, where the motive would have solely been based upon Talbot’s sexuality.

“Why would he, Martin?”

“Try this. According to General Hinkle, Talbot received a lot of hate mail when he was accused of being gay, most from people with a military connection. It could be the killer was someone who wrote one of the letters. Hell, he could even be one of Talbot’s co-workers. We know Talbot knew his killer, right?”

A skeptical look; he wasn’t buying the hate crime angle. I wasn’t either, but you never knew.

“Uh, guys,” Amanda said. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a little? For all we know, Talbot was straight.”

I kept quiet, waiting for Simon to point out why this couldn’t be true, but he never did. He just gave her a little smile. It was as if he didn’t want to disagree with her and I tried not to dwell on the reason why.

As we entered the foyer and continued toward the staircase, I asked Amanda why Congressman Harris was coming here if not to suppress information that his nephew was gay.

“It could be something else he’s worried about us finding.”

“Such as…”

“How would I know?” She stopped at the staircase and circled a hand around the room. “Take a good look, Marty. This guy wasn’t a Sunday Catholic; he was a
believer
.” She glanced at Simon. “Your people have been searching for what? An hour? How come they haven’t found anything suggesting Talbot might be gay?”

“The obvious reason,” Simon said, finally speaking up, “was that Talbot was careful not to leave anything incriminating that his housekeepers might find. He was under investigation once before and knew he couldn’t risk—”

“Simon!”

We looked up the stairs and saw Enrique standing on the railed balcony. “Simon, you better hear this!”

T
albot’s office was the first door on the left. As with the family room, the furnishings were heavy and dark and included the requisite religious paintings on the walls. A formidable desk topped by a computer and a phone sat against a curtained window at the very back. A file cabinet with a couple of open drawers was tucked in the far right corner, a stack of files sitting on top. A pretty Asian woman and a short, muscular guy stood in the middle of the room, watching us as we entered. The guy was talking on a cell phone, asking someone to check a phone number.

“Yes, yes, I’ll hold.” He cupped the mouthpiece and announced, “It’ll take a couple of minutes.”

Nodding to the woman, Enrique said, “Teriko found the message on the answering machine and—”

“I thought you checked the messages, Enrique,” Simon said.

“On the machine downstairs. This is the one for Talbot’s second line.”

He indicated the phone, which had a built-in answering machine, then appraised Teriko expectantly.

“It’s the fourth message, Lieutenant,” she said to Simon.

Without being asked, Teriko stepped around the desk to the phone and pressed play with a gloved finger. A metallic voice said, “Thursday, seven-twenty
P.M
….”

She skipped it and the next two calls, then stood back.

“Thursday, nine-sixteen
P.M
.” A pause, then a man with an extremely deep voice came on. His words were slurred, as if he’d been drinking. “Talbot? You there, Talbot? You fucking faggot. What the hell did you do? Go crying to your uncle? Jesus, you’re one gutless son of a bitch, you know that. You’d better remember one thing, asshole; your uncle won’t always be around to fight your fucking battles. Watch your back ’cause someday you’ll turn around and I’ll be there. You hear me, Talbot?
You hear me?
Goddamn fag.”

A click.

The speaker hissed. Teriko punched it off and we all gave Enrique a sideways glance. If the vitriolic outburst bothered him, he gave no sign.

Simon said to Teriko, “Caller ID?”

“Only the number, Lieutenant. Richard’s trying to get us a name.”

Richard said, “Shouldn’t be much longer. The phone company will fax out a printout of Major Talbot’s calls—” He spoke into the phone, “Could you repeat that, Ma’am? Thanks.”

He pocketed the phone, looking at Simon. “A pay phone at a bar in Crystal City, Lieutenant. Quigley’s.”

The bar’s location was suggestive. A number of military lived in Crystal City because of its close proximity to the Pentagon. Enrique said, “That cinches it. The guy’s got to be in the military. It’s pretty clear that Talbot reserved this line for his work.”

I said, “You listened to all the messages?”

“I did,” Teriko said.

“And you’re sure all the calls came from military personnel?”

“Pretty sure. Here. You can listen for yourself.” She pressed the play button.

After the day and time, a woman said, “Major Talbot, Sergeant Crowley. You have a fifteen hundred meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Sanders on—”

I said, “Move on.”

She went to the next message. “Hey, hey, Major Talbot, it’s Captain Bingle. I won’t be able to gin up numbers on the force structure allocations. I just got the word I’m being sent TDY to Barksdale—”

At my nod, Teriko skipped to the third message. “Franklin, Lowell Tenpas. Bad news. We’ll need your talking paper on the POM by Tuesday morning. Sorry for the short notice. I’ve scheduled you to brief…”

Terkiko looked up at me. “There are eleven messages. All similar. Everyone who called made a reference to military rank or—did I say something?”

I didn’t reply. The message had just ended and I was staring at the machine.

“My God,” I murmured.

The words just came out. The instant I said them, I knew I’d made a mistake. Looking around the room, I saw everyone staring at me.

“What is it, Martin?” Simon asked. “What did you hear?”

My mind was spinning as I tried to figure out my next move. I asked Teriko to play the message again. After she did, I knew there’d been no mistake; I’d heard the name correctly.

“All right,” Simon said, eyeing me. “What’s so significant about the message?”

I shrugged. “Major Talbot was supposed to brief Major General Baldwin on Tuesday.”

“No kidding,” Amanda said dryly.

Simon said, “I assume you know this General Baldwin.”

I hesitated. “I know him.”

He waited for me to expand. I didn’t.

He went on, “I recall a General Baldwin who ran the Air Force during the Gulf War?”

“An older brother. The Baldwins are a prominent military family.”

Amanda nodded. Everyone in the military was familiar with the Baldwins, whose service to the country dated back to the Civil War.

Simon again contemplated me, expecting me to say more. He bluntly asked me how General Baldwin could be connected to the murder.

“I don’t know that he is.”

“I see.” He seemed increasingly puzzled by my reluctant manner. “Could he have made the call threatening Talbot?”

“It wasn’t his voice.”

“But you still think the general could somehow be involved?”

“I have no reason to believe that.” It was more of a quibble than an outright lie.

Simon’s jaw tightened in exasperation. “Martin, please. If you know something pertinent—”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Oh, stop it, Marty,” Amanda said. “You practically laid an egg on the floor. You think General Baldwin might be connected to the killing. Why?”

I felt her eyes cut through me. “I’m not allowed to say.”

She was incredulous.
“Not allowed?
This is a homicide investigation.”

Simon’s face darkened. “Enough of this nonsense, Martin. I want you to tell us.
What are you doing?”

The only thing I could.

I was walking out the door.