Murder at the Pentagon (13 page)

Annabel shook her head. “No, nothing stupid. Mac is like any man his age who falls asleep each night pitching in the crucial game of a World Series, or throwing the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. There he is, called back into action in middle age, the team’s only hope, relying on his cunning and experience to overcome a weak arm. And of course he wins the game in the final seconds.”

Margit couldn’t help laughing. “How nice to fall asleep with visions like that.”

“I agree. As long as they happen in bed. I just hate to see him tempted to get involved again in controversial cases. He did it when Senator Ewald’s aide was murdered at the Kennedy Center, and again last year at the National Cathedral when our friend Reverend Singletary was found murdered in
a chapel.” She shrugged. “I know I’m being selfish when I try to control him this way. It’s just that I like him as a professor.”

“I understand,” said Margit.

Smith pulled up and opened the door for Annabel. As she slid into the passenger seat, she winked at Margit and said in a stage whisper, “I’ll get him to think about it.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, but I won’t need you today,” Margit told Lanning the following morning.

“But I was told to drive you.”

“I think you misunderstood the order,” Margit said. “You were told to be at my disposal should I need transportation. I don’t. Please close the door after you.” Dejectedly, he backed out of her office.

She opened a recently revised telephone directory for the Central Intelligence Agency and turned to the
R
pages. There were two Reichs, neither a major. She called the Central Personnel Locator number, identified herself, and asked for Major Reich. “No Major Reich listed,” she was told.

She hung up and made a note to ask Cobol for more details about this superior who, according to Cobol, had bent the rules on his behalf.

Next, she opened a folder in which she’d collected newspaper accounts of the Joycelen murder. There had been something in the press every day; once she’d been assigned to defend his accused murderer, Margit tried to keep up with
the clips. She made another note to have the assistant she’d inherit on Wednesday conduct a more thorough search.

She removed one clipping from the file and read it again. It consisted, in part, of an interview with Joycelen’s fiancée, Christa Wren. Ms. Wren said she was devastated by the sudden death of the man she was to marry, and that he was the finest, brightest man she’d ever known. She said that although it could never replace him in her life, there was some small satisfaction in knowing his murderer had been apprehended. Her final comment was in response to the interviewer’s question about rumors that Joycelen was homosexual. “Utterly ridiculous! Absurd!” Christa had replied.

Margit opened a city phone directory and looked up Wren. There was one—C. Wren. Her address was a new apartment building in the recently completed and fashionable Washington Harbour complex, on Georgetown’s waterfront.

Margit had been thinking about contacting Christa Wren from the moment she’d got up that morning. She knew she should include her on a list of people to be interviewed by her investigator, but felt compelled to make the call herself—and to do it today. If nothing else, it would give her a sense of having actually begun the process of defending Cobol. And because she’d met Christa Wren at the picnic, however briefly, it made her feel as though she knew this woman.

Her phone rang a half-dozen times before she picked up.

“Ms. Wren, this is Major Falk. I’ve been assigned to defend Dr. Joycelen’s alleged killer, Captain Robert Cobol.”

Christa Wren said nothing.

Margit continued. “I met you at the picnic the morning of his death. Maybe you remember me.”

“What do you want?” Wren asked.

“I’m not sure I want anything. I do, of course, extend my condolences. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” The two simple words were delivered icily.

“Ms. Wren, I know this will be difficult, but I would like a chance to meet with you.”

“To help you defend the man who killed my fiancé?”

“Yes, I suppose that is the purpose. As distasteful as it
may seem, Captain Cobol, like any other accused criminal, is entitled to a proper defense. I did not choose this assignment. I was ordered to defend him, and I follow orders.”

Wren let out a rueful laugh. “How very military. You want to speak with me, interview me about Dick?”

“Yes.” Margit considered saying that an investigator might conduct the interview, but she decided to keep the option open.

Christa said, “Sure, why not? If you come in the morning, I’ll serve tea. Any time after noon the bar is open. I’ve been making good use of it lately.”

“Thank you, Ms. Wren. I’ll get back to you.”

Later that morning, as Margit prepared to leave for National Airport to pick up Flo Cobol, she was summoned to Colonel Bellis’s office. “How goes it?” he asked.

“I’m not really sure. I’m on my way to pick up Cobol’s mother at the airport and take her to see him.”

“Sure you want to do that?”

“Yes, sir. Why wouldn’t I?”

Bellis, who was in shirtsleeves with cuffs rolled up, raised his hands into the air. “It just seems to me that you should be busy enough without interviewing people yourself. That’s why I acted quickly on your request for an assistant and an investigator.”

“And I appreciate that, Colonel Bellis. I’m sure once the list of people to be interviewed grows, I’ll be happy not to be doing it myself. But, in this case, I feel it would be helpful for me to know more about Captain Cobol’s family and early life.”

“Suit yourself, Major Falk, but don’t get trapped into too personal an involvement with this. I know you don’t have a great deal of experience as an attorney, so take it from this warhorse. Approach it the way doctors do with patients they’re about to cut open. Do your best professional job, but keep a distance.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir, and I appreciate the advice.”

He laughed gently. “I hate to admit it, Major, but I’m developing a sort of fatherly interest in you.”

“Fatherly …? I’m flattered.”

“I’m getting old, I suppose. I took another look at your service record. Damned impressive. I like the mix, chopper pilot, lawyer. Commendations from the Panama exercise. Your father was career military.”

“Yes, he was.”

“I don’t want to see you take any missteps to sully that fine record.” She started to ask him to be more specific, but he waved her off. “Let me finish. Assignment to the Pentagon carries with it a whole set of potential pitfalls that you don’t run into out in the field. Missions are pretty straightforward out there. Not here. This is Washington, D.C. Right across the river are the elected officials who pretty much determine what we can and can’t do, mostly because they pull the purse strings. Assignment to the Pentagon is considered a privilege, as you know. It can help an officer’s career. It can also sink one.”

Margit listened carefully. He wasn’t giving her the standard inspirational lecture. He was delivering a message. What was it? Whom for? Should she ask? No. That would be accusatory.

“Captain Cobol deserves a good defense,” Bellis said in a tone that indicated he was ending the conversation. “But he’s only part of a messy situation. Joycelen was important. Controversial. Keep that in mind.”

“I’ll certainly try, sir. I have to admit that I’m not quite sure what you …”

“What about that woman who was supposed to have been Joycelen’s fiancée?”

Margit’s eyebrows went up. “I was just reading an interview a reporter did with her,” she said.

“I’ve read some of those. I suppose she’ll be on your interview list.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m sure whatever investigator sent you by DCI will take care of that interview.”

Was he telling her that she was not to interview Christa Wren? Should she take his previous comments about Flo
Cobol to mean the same thing? She didn’t ask for clarification because she didn’t want to hear an order prohibiting her from doing what she’d already set in motion. As long as she wasn’t specifically told not to talk to Mrs. Cobol and Christa Wren, she could justify doing it, at least in her own mind.

“Is that all, sir?” she asked.

“Yes. I’d like to touch base with you on a regular basis. I thought a brief meeting every morning would make sense, and one at the end of the day. That okay with you?”

“Of course.” She didn’t like the idea of a strict schedule of meetings, but it wasn’t her decision to make.

“Check back with me after you’ve met with Cobol and his mother.”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be with them,” Margit said.

“I’ll be here all afternoon.”

Although Margit had never met Mrs. Cobol, she knew her the minute she came through the door from the Delta shuttle. Margit’s first thought—and it certainly wasn’t meant to be flippant—was that she looked like a typecast mother from a TV situation comedy. She was a tall, plain woman with thin, mouse-brown hair. She was dressed in her threadbare finery, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a small bag.

Flo spotted Margit, who’d said she’d be wearing a tan summer air-force uniform, but approached as though unsure whether she should. Margit closed the gap. “Mrs. Cobol, I’m Margit Falk.”

“Yes. I saw you. I saw the uniform.” A tic in her left eye confirmed her nervousness.

Margit made small talk as they walked through the terminal: Had the flight been bumpy?; it seemed to be on time; was it full? Anything to avoid silence. When they were in the car, Margit said, “Mrs. Cobol, I know how difficult this is for you. I’m sorry you were not able to see Robert until now.”

“I didn’t understand why. I thought …”

“You were right in thinking you should have been able to. You’ll be free to see him on a regular basis now.”

“I don’t know how long I can stay.”

“Did you book a hotel?”

“No. I thought—I mean, I thought maybe I would just go home.”

“Let’s play that by ear. I would like to have time with you after you’ve seen Robert. Is that all right with you?”

Flo nodded, and Margit headed for Fort McNair.

This time they did not meet in a tastefully furnished office. Cobol was led into a bare-bones, bilge-green interview room that contained a table and four wooden chairs. A small window in the door allowed a military policeman to watch, but presumably not to hear.

Robert Cobol looked at his mother, slowly shook his head and gazed down at the floor. “I’ll leave you alone for a while,” Margit said. “A half hour?” She told the guard she would be in Trial Defense Service’s offices.

Forty minutes later she returned to the interview room where mother and son were seated close to each other. “Should I make myself scarce again?” Margit asked pleasantly.

“No, please, come and sit,” Robert said. He stood and came to attention, a positive sign to Margit. Perhaps he was returning to the more normal aspects of military routine.

“Anything you’d like to share with me?” Margit asked. Robert smiled at his mother, who said, “I believe Robert. He didn’t kill that Dr. Joycelen.” When Margit didn’t respond, Mrs. Cobol asked, “Do you believe him?”

Margit could have done without the question. The truth was, she didn’t know what she believed, only that if she was to mount a credible defense for him, she would have to, at least, not believe that he
did
murder Richard Joycelen. She looked into the soft, blinking, questioning eyes of Flo Cobol and said, “No, I do not believe Robert killed Dr. Joycelen, and I am committed to defending him with every resource available to me.”

“Thank you, Major Falk.”

Margit paused before saying what she’d been thinking for the past twenty-four hours. “I believe it would benefit you, Robert, to bring in civilian counsel to work with me.”

Mother and son stared at her.

“I consider myself a good attorney. My training was excellent, and I have a solid understanding of military law. But defending an accused murderer in any milieu, civilian or military, not only demands knowledge that is gained from years of experience, the ramifications are immense. Your life is at stake. I’m not suggesting I don’t want to defend you. I’ve made a commitment to do the best job I can. But I think you deserve more than that. Would you consider hiring a civilian attorney to work with me?”

During Margit’s previous visit with Cobol, he seemed not to care about the quality of his defense, was resigned to whatever happened. This day he demonstrated more of an interest in his fate. “I have faith in you, Major Falk, and I’ll go along with any suggestion you make. If you feel having a civilian attorney involved makes sense, let’s do it.”

“Will that cost a lot of money?” Flo Cobol asked.

“I don’t know how much. Good attorneys are expensive, but I have an idea. My professor at George Washington University was a gentleman named Mackensie Smith. Before becoming a professor, he was a brilliant and successful trial lawyer in Washington. I’m not suggesting that he would be an active co-counsel on a full-time basis, but I would enjoy being able to draw upon his wisdom and experience during the trial. Obviously, he would have to be paid for his time and expertise, but he is not a man consumed by money. I may have acted prematurely by broaching the subject with him at dinner last night. Whether he would agree to help us is conjecture, but I’d like your permission to pursue it.”

“I don’t have much money,” Flo Cobol said. “My husband didn’t believe in life insurance, and I don’t have much in my bank account. But I’ll do anything to help Robert. I could sell the house, or take another mortgage on it.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about selling houses, Mrs. Cobol. At least not yet.”

Margit convinced Flo Cobol to stay overnight. She booked a room for her at Bolling’s Officer Guest Quarters, and arranged
for her to visit her son again the next morning, Saturday of the Labor Day weekend.

They had dinner at the Officers’ Club, where, surprisingly, Flo relaxed. She could be funny, Margit found, her unsophisticated remarks humorous not because they lacked sophistication but because they were genuine—direct and honest and, therefore, often amusing.