Call to Treason (32 page)

    Hood nodded. "Thanks again," he added.

    "Sure," McCaskey said.

    The former FBI agent left, and Hood was alone once more. Alone in the Tank, the brain of Op-Center encased in its electromagnetically protected skull. Alone while his staff struggled to put the other organs together again. There was one, however, that Hood wondered if they would ever be able to retrieve. The one they needed almost as much as the brain: the heart.

    

    Washington, B.C. Tuesday, 6:31 p.m.

    Darrell McCaskey picked up two things on his way to the Metro Police.

    The first was a cheeseburger. The second was his wife.

    Maria had not asked to be involved in the investigation. But McCaskey knew she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and in his mind this was as dirty as things got. Politics and murder. As old as Genesis. McCaskey did not tell her about Hood's conversation with Debenport. It was important that he convey the information objectively. He wanted her opinion, not her reaction to his own upset.

    The murders were being investigated by the Metro Police First District Substation at 500 E Street SW. Lieutenant Robert Howell was leading the Focused Mission Unit, which consisted of four sergeants on loan from homicide.

    McCaskey had phoned ahead. Howell said he would still be at the station house when they arrived. He greeted the McCaskeys in his small, clean, second-floor office. The men had spoken on the phone the day before, after District Commander Charlie Alterman agreed to let Op-Center run the Wilson investigation. That meant Howell got to keep the case, which otherwise would have shifted from FMU to Homicide. The murder of Lawless was added to the FMU "dig," as they referred to forensics investigations, since the team had already been fielded.

    There were photos of his parents and himself and framed diplomas from the Florida State University School of Criminology on the office wall.

    McCaskey was not surprised. The thirty-something lieutenant looked like a "college cop," as they used to call them in the FBI. He was a lean, clean-cut, tightly wound man with short red hair and deep-set eyes. His voice had the hint of a Southern accent. His white shirt was heavily starched so it did not wrinkle. Wrinkles suggested perspiration, and perspiration suggested worry or insecurity. Those were conditions that schooled detectives were taught to avoid. Howell did not sit until Maria had been seated. He was polite. That did not mean he would be cooperative. McCaskey had made his team look foolish and also had stolen their assignment.

    As the men sat, Howell expressed both concern and genuine outrage about what happened at Op-Center.

    "Officially or not, our resources are at your disposal," Howell said.

    The detective's words gave McCaskey a whisper of hope. Men with vastly different interests could still find common ground in their response to horrific acts. Maybe the rest of what they did the jockeying and the politics, the bargains made and assurances broken was just not important enough to worry about.

    "I very much appreciate your offer," McCaskey said. "Actually, I came by because I did not want you to think the attack has slowed our work on the Wilson case. It was based mostly on fieldwork, which is ongoing."

    "Have you made progress?"

    "Possibly," McCaskey said. "I'll be checking with one of my operatives in a few hours." He did not want to tell the detective about Mike Rodgers's full-court press against Orr's team. The job of the Metro Police was to protect and serve. The reality was they protected and served government heavyweights with special care. Their budget came from Congress. They would not appreciate Op-Center's more intrusive methods. "Do you have anything to freshen the mix?"

    "We have what may be a nail polish and fiber sample from the second crime scene," Howell told him. "But that does not help because, first, Lawless may have picked those up somewhere else and, second, we do not have a suspect."

    "Meaning there is nothing to compare it to," McCaskey said. "Where did you recover it?"

    "From Lawless's silver-link watch band," Howell said. "It may have snagged the hem of her sleeve or lapel when he tried to defend himself."

    "Do you have the specs?"

    Howell nodded and went to his computer. He brought up the laboratory data. "The nail polish is a silky beige manufactured by a Chicago firm, Niles Polish. It's sold in shops nationwide, so it's unlikely we'll find the buyer. We cross-referenced charge card purchases with Senator Orr's guest list, but that turned up nothing."

    "She probably paid cash," McCaskey said.

    "That, and she could have done so anywhere in the country. As for the fiber, that is satin, navy blue, just like the dress we saw in the security camera video. The dye was manufactured by the Fuchun River Chemical Corporation of China, which does not tell us anything about the garment itself."

    "One of those things did not come from the killer," Maria said. "Unless she has a terrible fashion sense."

    "That was our conclusion," Howell said. "Mr. Lawless might have picked up the nail polish from a handshake or making a purchase.

    Hypodermic needles are easy enough to come by. We have been looking into individuals who would be qualified to have given both victims an injection. But there are over three hundred female dentists and hygienists alone in the metropolitan region. Then there are literally thousands of other medical doctors, nurses, even veterinarians.

    Besides, the killer might not even be from this area."

    "I believe she is," McCaskey said. "I'm convinced the murder of Robert Lawless was organized quickly to cover our discovery that William Wilson was murdered. If that's true, then the assassin was still in the neighborhood."

    "Reasonable," Howell said. The detective turned his pale poker face from the computer monitor. "Does the possible progress you mentioned a minute ago have to do with Senator Orr?"

    "We would like to clear the senator if we can," McCaskey answered.

    "Does that mean he or someone in his office is a suspect?" Howell pressed.

    "No," McCaskey replied. If he had said yes, Howell would have informed the detectives on his team, and they would have told others. McCaskey did not want to be responsible for starting rumors. "Detective, I don't want to keep you from your dinner plans or family any longer than I have to. Are there any leads besides the nail polish and satin fiber?"

    Howell shook his head. "I have to admit it has been tough getting off Go on this one. The security camera images have not helped, no eyewitnesses have come forward to tell us about the killer's movements, and our profiler has not found a hook to hang a psychological sketch."

    "Did the medical examiner find anything unusual about Lawless's body?"

    McCaskey asked.

    "Nothing," Howell said. "He died exactly as Wilson did."

    "Was any hair recovered from either scene?" Maria asked.

    "Plenty," the detective told her. "Blonde, brunette, black, red, white, even green. Hotel rooms are cleaned but not that thoroughly. We have thirty-seven different strands. Six of those match the housekeeping staff. We are checking with previous guests in the room.

    That will take time. If our killer was wearing a wig, that may make her untraceable."

    As the detective was speaking, McCaskey suddenly flashed on something that made him want to kick himself. Hard. "Actually, Detective, now that I think of it, there is something the Metro Police could do for me. Do you have a computer I could borrow for a few minutes?"

    "Sure. You can use mine," Howell said. He swung toward the keyboard.

    "Is there something I can look up for you?"

    "Thanks, but I need to do this myself," McCaskey said. "Op-Center security."

    "I see."

    "We'll lock up, if you want to leave "

    "I can't do that," Howell said. "We have security procedures. But I will step outside."

    "Thanks. I should only be five minutes or so."

    The detective left without shutting the door. McCaskey went behind his desk.

    "Shall I close it?" Maria asked, indicating the door.

    "No," her husband replied. He typed in the address of the Op-Center web site which was backed up in a secure Tank. Thanks to software designed by Stoll, any subsequent addresses he typed into this remote keyboard would be unrecorded. He went to the District of Columbia personnel files. These were accessible to intelligence agencies in order to do quick security checks in the event of a crisis.

    Maria stood behind him. "What was so important it had to be done now?" she asked.

    "There is one woman I overlooked. Minnie Hennepin, the medical examiner. She would know how to give an injection and she would be in a position to overlook the puncture wound."

    "She could also be an incompetent who got her high-paying job through what is the word?"

    "Patronage," McCaskey said. "That is certainly possible. We may know more after checking her background."

    He accessed the medical examiner's file and read her curriculum vitae.

    "Red flag number one," he said. "She graduated from the University of Texas Medical School."

    "So did thousands of other men and women," Maria said. "That does not mean anything."

    "Do me a favor, hon? Don't play devil's advocate right now," McCaskey said as sweetly as possible.

    "Why? You told me you needed extra eyes and another brain working on this problem."

    "I do. But that doesn't mean shooting down everything I say."

    "That was not everything. It was one thing."

    "Okay," he said. "I'm sorry. Let's just drop it."

    "If I say something contrary, will you think I am covering for her?

    Will I become a suspect then?"

    "Don't be extreme," McCaskey said, looking back at his wife. "I was just thinking out loud. I don't want to hit a speed bump every time I open my mouth. Look, just forget I said anything."

    "You are the one being extreme. I was simply pointing out that coming from Texas may be a false blip. Each of Senator Orr's senior staff members comes from a state of the union. Would they all be flags as well?"

    McCaskey turned back to the computer monitor. He intended to let the subject drop. He hoped that she would, too. He did not want to explain to the Spanish-born lady that Texans shared a special bond, that they helped Texans, that he would not be surprised to learn that Senator Orr had promised her the surgeon general job if she helped him.

    Yes, it was a leap. But that was what detective work was about.

    McCaskey heard Maria breathing heavily through her nose. He tried to ignore her as he continued to read. Following her internship at the Cambridge Medical Center in Minnesota, Dr. Hennepin went to work at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center Department of Clinical Investigation. She was eventually promoted to assistant chief and placed in charge of the team performing oversight of research involving human, animal, and laboratory-related studies. When Hennepin was passed over for directorship of the division, she filed a discrimination complaint with the medical center and the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Three weeks later, she went to work as the assistant medical examiner. Within the year, Dr.

    Hennepin had the top spot. There was no indication that anyone, Senator Orr included, had helped her. Of course, that was the kind of information that might be deleted if Dr. Hennepin were planning on becoming an assassin.

    "Well? Did you find any other red banners?" Maria asked.

    "Flags. And I'm not sure."

    "I learned to give injections, too," Maria said testily. "My little sister Penelope is a diabetic."

    "You were with me last night," McCaskey said. "Listen, honI said I'm sorry. Can we please just let it drop?"

    "With pleasure," she said.

    McCaskey could hear the angry pout in her voice. This was not going to be buried until he put a stake in its heart. And maybe that was his responsibility. Some of the useful speculation in this case had come from her. He closed the Op-Center site, turned back to his wife, and took her hands.

    "Maria, I do need help, your help," he said. "We have a different idea what that entails, but I was wrong. I should have deferred to you."

    "Are you just saying that?"

    "No. I got defensive. This whole situation, this whole goddamn week has been a nightmare. Forgive me?"

    Maria hesitated, but not as long as she would have if she were really angry. "All right," she said. "Then let me ask you something that I have been wondering."

    "Shoot."

    "Are you sure the killer was even a woman?" Maria asked.

    "You mean, could it be a man dressed as a woman?"

    "Yes."

    "That was one of the first things I considered. I asked Detective Superintendent Daily whether Wilson's interests went in that direction.

    The Yard keeps track of such things about prominent citizens because potential blackmail could adversely impact the national economy. They also do not want the crown to be embarrassed by announcing a knighthood for someone who is trafficking pornography. They insist that Wilson is heterosexual."

    "Wilson may not have known his date was a man," Maria replied. "Some of the 'women' who party at Los Pantalones Para Vestir a Club, in Madrid, are extremely convincing."

    "That is a possibility," her husband agreed as he glanced into the hall. Detective Howell was hovering there like a buoy in rough seas.

    "Come on," he said, still holding his wife's hands. "Let's get coffee and think about a next step."