Secret Sanction (20 page)

The garrote is no weapon for amateurs. It’s a wonderful weapon to kill with, except it’s so damned hard to use.You have to sneak up behind someone, then fling that little wire just right so it forms a perfect lasso around the neck. At the same instant, you have to whip the two handles in opposing directions with lightning speed and enough force to completely cut off the victim’s airways. A killer who is untrained, or out of practice, gets the wires caught on the victim’s nose or chin, or the victim’s hand shoots up and gets in the way. It’s even harder when the victims are erect, as Berkowitz apparently was. Then you have to get a knee firmly positioned in the small of their back, otherwise they are liable to kick out, or spin about and mess up the whole thing.

It’s not the kind of weapon some homophobic warrior carries around in his pocket, just on the off chance that someone gets attracted to his willie in the potty. Nor is it the kind of weapon an angry drug pusher would use to punish a delinquent client. The garrote is an assassin’s weapon. It’s used for cold-blooded murder.

Regular Army troops wouldn’t know a garrote from a carrot. However, garrotes are a highly favored weapon among Special Forces, who sometimes have need to kill silently. Whoever murdered Jeremy Berkowitz chose his weapon deliberately. He meant to leave a signature.

I said to my new buddy, “Wolky, listen, I got a few meetings I’ve got to attend. No offense, but I’ve got thirty-five possible murders on my hands, and the whole world breathing down my throat.”

He gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder.“Hey, no problem, Major. I’ll make sure the CID guys hook up with you when they get here.”

Chapter 15

I
asked Delbert and Morrow to join me in my office at noon. Imelda’s minions were still abuzz about the morning’s happenings. Only yesterday, they had all seen this big guy lounging around the office, and today he was snack food for worms. Actually, to do Berkowitz credit, he was more on the order of an eight-course meal.

Delbert came in first, then Morrow, who gave me a full dose of those sympathetic eyes. “Are you in any trouble?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nope, no trouble,” I assured her. “The MPs heard I was the smartest guy on the compound, and they just wanted to stop by and see what I thought about that dead journalist.” I looked down at my watch. “In fact, I’m expecting a call from CID any minute. It’s really hell when everybody knows you’re smart.”

Delbert had this perplexed look on his face, like if the MPs and CID wanted to talk to me, then why the hell hadn’t they dropped in to have a chat with him, too? He was the one who went to Yale. He was the one who had maybe the best prosecutorial record in the Army. Morrow, on the other hand, gave me the look all mothers award to their naughty three-year-olds.

“I’ve got some terribly good news,” I quickly said to get the subject changed. “Because of the outstanding progress we’ve made, the Army has decided to shorten the time line of the investigation.”

“To when?” Morrow asked.

“Four days, starting this morning.”

“Wow, that
is
short,” Delbert said, restating the obvious, which was yet another trait in his legion of bad habits.

I said, “If we had to vote today, where would we be?” They stared at each other for a moment. Morrow scratched her chin, while Delbert pulled on an ear. Morrow scratched her chin some more, and Delbert nearly pulled the lobe off his ear.

“Hey,” I said, very chummy-like, “this isn’t that hard. You’re not committing to anything. If you had to vote today, how would you vote?”

They both, at the same time, said, “No grounds for prosecution.”

“Okay. So is that no grounds because you think they’re innocent? Or is that no grounds because you think there’s insufficient evidence to prosecute?”

“The former,” Delbert said.

“The former,” Morrow echoed. Then she added,“What about you?”

I said, “If I had to vote today, I would abstain.”

“You can’t abstain,” Morrow said. “Our orders say we can only make two choices.”

“Okay,I’d write a long letter and say I vote no, because there’s insufficient evidence, but I don’t feel this team had time to make a proper recommendation. Do the rules allow me to do that?”

We all knew that the rules did not mention anything about that. We also knew that if I did such a thing, it would invalidate the entire investigation. You can’t really have the head of an Article 32 investigating committee expressing no confidence in the outcome and expect the report to carry even an iota of credibility. Not that either of them should really give a damn. I mean, it would be an embarrassment for the Army, which would then have to appoint a whole new investigating team and go through this whole routine again. But that should mean nothing to Delbert and Morrow, who would’ve done their jobs ably and to the best of their abilities. The thing was, they were both organizational creatures right down to their Army-issued green underwear, and the Army had appointed them part of a committee, and they just naturally felt it was their duty to bring home a unanimous verdict. They couldn’t help it. They just were that way.

Morrow said,“Then we have four days to either change your mind or change our own.”

“That’s the way I see it,” I admitted.

“What would it take for you to change your mind?” she asked, which told you exactly where she was coming from.

“I’d have to see some positive confirmation that Sanchez and his men aren’t lying.”

“There is no confirmation,” Morrow said, quite painfully. “We’ve already been all through that. These nine men are the only living witnesses.”

A strange expression suddenly came over Delbert’s face. “Maybe there’s an alternative to a living witness,” he said, bouncing in his seat like an overexcited schoolboy who thinks he knows the answer to the teacher’s question.

“What?” I asked.

“The NSA or somebody must have satellites orbiting over Kosovo. I’ve never personally seen a satellite photo, but from what I hear, they can read the print on a dime.”

“Delbert, you little genius, you,” I declared.“You’re absolutely right.”

I can’t begin to tell you how painful that was for me to say. Not only because I had these vague ill feelings toward Delbert, but also because I wanted to give myself a good, hard kick in the ass. If anybody should have thought of this, it was the guy who spent five years living in the world of supersecret operations where we used up satellite photos like toilet paper.

I checked my watch. If I called right now, I could catch Clapper just as he arrives at the office. I dialed the number and waited.It took three rings before Clapper’s secretary,Nora,picked up.

“Hello, Nora, Drummond here. What happened?”

“What?”

“You didn’t pick up till the third ring. You’re slipping.” “What?” she said again in her dry, humorless voice. “Forget it,” I said. I mean, why should I waste any more of my golden wit on this block of ice? “Is the general in?” I asked.

“The general’s in a meeting and I should not interrupt him.” “This is brutally important.”

“So is the general’s other meeting.”

“I’ll bet mine’s as important,” I said.

“Major Drummond, I know who you are, and I know what you’re working on, and I assure you this meeting is more urgent.”

“Anything to do with a certain reporter who got strangled in a bathroom?” I asked, which really was more in the nature of a simple deduction than a blank question.

“I’ll put you right through,” she said.

A moment later, Clapper said, “Hello, Sean.”

“Hi, General, having a nice day?”

“I haven’t had a nice day since I took this job. You know, Sean, this town is full of big, glitzy law firms that pay a million dollars a year to their partners. One more thing goes wrong, and I’m gonna be banging on their doors.”

“Geez, you really do sound depressed. Don’t you think that’s a little drastic?”

He did not chuckle, which I took as a bad sign. Either I was not as witty as I thought or his mood was really sour. Had to be the sour mood thing, of course.

“You’ve heard about this dead reporter?” he asked.

“You mean the guy who called me the other day?”

“Right. Did you actually meet with him?”

“He stopped by yesterday. We had some words. He went on his way.”

“The editor in chief of the
Herald
called the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He’s promising to raise hell until we catch whoever did this.”

“I don’t blame him. Poor guy’s standing at a urinal and the next thing he’s pissing and bleeding all over the wall while someone chokes him to death. What a world, huh? Listen, the reason I called is we might have a breakthrough. Actually, Delbert thought of it. We’d like to see if NSA or any of those other supersecret agencies might have any surveillance tapes or pictures of Zone Three that were collected between the fourteenth and the eighteenth.”

“It’s a good idea,” was all he said.

“Can you run the request, sir? You know those spook guys. A request from a major isn’t even going to make them peek inside their vault.”

“I’ll make the calls as soon as this meeting is over.” “Thanks, General,” I said, then we both hung up.

I suppose I could’ve shared my suspicions of the Berkowitz murder with General Clapper, just like I should’ve shared them with Wolky. But the truth was, the moment Wolky said that Berkowitz was dead, I instantly lost trust in everyone I knew. I was sure Berkowitz’s murder was somehow connected with me. All that dark paranoia I’d managed to bury the night before came rushing back like a tidal wave.

Also, I was having a lot of difficulty working up any compassion or grief for the so recently departed Jeremy Berkowitz. The sum of my relationship with him was a smear job on the front page of his newspaper and a very blatant attempt to blackmail me into becoming his stooge. I had no idea who killed him, but I wasn’t having any trouble at all seeing why somebody would want him dead.

There were all these disparate dots out there; I had no idea how they all connected together, but some rotten sense told me they did. Besides, I figured that if NSA had overhead photos or tapes of what happened in Zone Three, then we were on the verge of a huge breakthrough. Personally, I was looking forward to getting copies of those pictures. Then I’d go back to visit Sanchez and crew. I was dying to see the looks on their faces.

There was a hard knock on the door, and I looked up to see Imelda enter with a piece of paper in her hand. She held it as though it were the holy grail.

“Hi,” I said.

“Here’s the damned bill to fix that damned hole you punched in the damned wall yesterday,” she announced, flapping the paper in front of my face.

“Oh that,” I said.“Clumsy me. That damn phone just flew out of my hands. I tried to grab it, but it was slippery as hell, and it just got away.”

“Don’t you smart-ass me, Major. You do the crime, you pay the fine,” she said, throwing the paper down on my blotter and handing me a pen. This was one of her favorite sayings, I might add.

“Two hundred dollars!” I bellowed.

She actually smiled.“That’s for the wall and to fix that damn phone.”

I scrawled my name on the bottom of the charge sheet that Imelda would give the local supply sergeant, who would have my pay docked two hundred dollars to handle the damage. Imelda stood there, her face all scrunched up in triumph. She shared the old noncom’s belief that Army property was sacred property. Those who defiled, damaged, lost, or misappropriated said sacred relics deserved to be stiffly punished. There was no use arguing or pleading.

I handed her back the charge sheet with a mutinous look on my face.

“By the way, there’s two men in civvies waiting to see you,” she said.

“CID?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded.

“Could you two please wait outside the office?” I asked Morrow and Delbert.

They left with Imelda, and were immediately replaced by two young, crew-cutted investigators, who, like most military men, wore cheap civilian suits and wore them badly. Their ties were something out of the
Twilight Zone
, and their shirts were polyester blend, no-iron specials; no doubt bought on sale at Kmart.

A pair of badges were flashed, and they quickly muttered their names. David something and Martie whatever.

“Sir, we were told by Captain Wolkowitz that you wanted to meet with us,” said Martie whatever.

“That’s right. Did he explain what I’m doing here?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he must have mentioned that Berkowitz was writing about my investigation?”

“He did,” said Martie.

“And as trained criminologists, I’m sure you recognize that’s what we call a point of coincidence.”

Martie, who sported a green paisley tie with a red-striped shirt, nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Speaking of points of coincidence, we understand Berkowitz did an article about you on the front page of his paper three or four days back.”

“Yes, he did,” I admitted. “And that’s why I killed him.” Their heads snapped up in surprise.

“Just kidding,” I said. “I mean, he misspelled my name, but otherwise the article wasn’t objectionable. He expressed the view that the Army should have picked a more senior officer to head my investigation.”

“Did that make you angry?”

“You’re kidding, right? I wished I wrote it. Gentlemen, how would you like to be the one who has to decide what to do with those nine men at Aviano Air Base?”

“That bad, huh?” David asked. He was the nerdy one wearing spit-shined black Army dress shoes with a brown suit, bright red tie, and blue shirt. Positively hair-raising.

I looked at him like the good big brother he’d always wished he had.“David, I’ll be honest, I’m not having much fun. It’s a nowin situation.”

“Pretty rough, huh?”

I shook my head in pure misery. “I found rotten cabbage in my sleeping bag last night. Rotten cabbage,” I moaned. “Every night, it’s something.”

“Lousy bastards,” he mumbled, referring to the Special Forces guys who were running all over Tuzla. Remember how I mentioned that lawyers aren’t loved and MPs are despised? Well, CID investigators are legions below every other living creature on earth. They’re known for planting informers and tattletales inside units, and for skulking around and doing the undercover dirty work. They are the closest thing to a Gestapo a democratic army is allowed to have. I’d known troops to actually paint CID badges on the chests of targets at rifle ranges.