would’ve drowned.”
“Not if he drank the Scotch when he got here,” the cop answered. “And there’s something else.”
He called out some instructions to a member of the forensics team canvassing the area. The man brought over something and handed it to the cop, who held it up. “We found this.” It was a plastic evidence baggie with another plastic baggie inside it.
Alex and Simpson studied it. Alex got the answer first. “He used this to put his gun in so his ammo wouldn’t get wet while he was swimming here.”
“You win the prize. It was a .22 revolver with jacketed rounds.”
“I understand there was a suicide note,” Alex said.
The cop pulled out his memo book. “I wrote it down verbatim.” He read it to the two Secret Service agents, and Simpson copied it down in her notebook.
“Do you have the original note?” Alex asked.
“And you are?” a strident voice asked.
Alex turned and was confronted by a short, compact man in a two-piece Brooks Brothers, muted tie and shiny banker wing tips.
Alex flashed his creds and introduced himself and his partner.
The man barely glanced at the creds before announcing, “I’m FBI Special Agent Lloyd. We already have agents from NIC here to represent the Service’s interests.”
Alex assumed his beleaguered federal lawman pose. “Just following orders, Agent Lloyd. And quite honestly, the Service likes to rep its own interests. I’m sure the Bureau can understand that losing someone from N-TAC is a sensitive area, what with us being part of Homeland Security instead of Treasury now.” Alex knew that Homeland Security carried a lot more beef than Treasury ever had in law enforcement circles. And if nothing else, the eight- hundred-pound gorilla Bureau tended to respect the nine-hundred-pound gorilla that Homeland Security had become.
Lloyd looked like he was going to shoot back some ripping comment but then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. “Fine. Go play Sherlock Holmes. The body’s right over there. Just don’t contaminate the crime scene.”
“I really appreciate it, Agent Lloyd. I was asking about the note that was found.”
Lloyd motioned to one of the other FBI suits, and the note was brought over.
Lloyd said, “They’re going to fume the clothes and other stuff for latent prints, but I’m not confident they’ll find much. It’s a suicide.”
Simpson spoke up. “Cloth isn’t great for capturing latents, but that jacket he’s wearing isn’t a bad surface, particularly since it was damp and the weather last night was good for holding prints. Your tech guys have a Superfume stick in the truck? You can’t beat cyano for popping latents on surfaces like that.”
“I don’t know if they do or not,” Lloyd said.
“It might actually be better if you take the clothes to the lab. You can fume them in a heat-accelerated chamber or a megafume. I know the FBI lab has those.” She pointed to the suicide note. “Pop that in a heat chamber with ninhydrin or DFOSPRAY, and it’ll pull whatever’s there right out.”
“Thanks for the pointer,” Lloyd said tersely, although it was obvious he was impressed with her knowledge of fingerprint lift techniques.
Alex looked at Simpson with new respect, and then his gaze returned to Lloyd, who was staring darkly at her.
“You’ll need to confirm it’s his handwriting on the note,” Alex added.
“I’m aware of that,” Lloyd said.
“I can get the Service’s lab to run it. And whatever fingerprints that might be there.”
“The FBI lab has no peer,” Lloyd shot back.
“But our lab has less of a backlog. We
This comment seemed to strike some cooperative nerve buried deeply within the stubborn FBI man. After a few moments his manner totally changed. “I appreciate that, Agent Ford.”
“Make it Alex, she’s Jackie,” Alex said, inclining his head at Simpson.
“Good enough, I’m Don. We’ll actually take you up on that offer. The FBI lab
Alex did so and then examined the paper closely through the plastic before giving it to Simpson to hold. “So we have any motive for the suicide? I heard he was getting married.”
“That’ll sure drive some men to kill themselves,” the cop said.
That comment drew a laugh from everyone except Simpson, who looked for a moment like she might pull her gun and produce some dead men of her own.
Lloyd said, “Too early to tell. We’ll investigate, but it certainly looks like Patrick Johnson killed himself.”
“No signs of anyone else having been here?” Simpson asked.
The cop answered, “There might have been, but then fifty schoolkids came marching through. It was still foggy here this morning. They almost tripped over the body. Scared the crap out of them. The stone pavers here won’t be of much help for footprints or other trace.”
“What path did he use to get here?” Alex asked.
“Probably that one.” The cop pointed to his left. “If he swam across Little Channel, that path would’ve been the one he’d use after he walked through the trees and crap.”
Lloyd added, “We’re making a search along the shore for his car. He lived in Bethesda, Maryland. He had to drive down here reasonably close and then swim for the island. If we find his car, we can better pinpoint where he entered the water.”
Alex glanced toward the Virginia side. “Guys, if he swam across Little Channel, the only place to leave his car would be in the parking lot.”
The cop shrugged. “But he didn’t. Unless someone drove him to his suicide spot and then left. That doesn’t make much sense.”
“The police boat usually runs through here,” Simpson noted.
Lloyd nodded. “They did in fact come by here last night. But the fog was so thick they didn’t see anything, certainly no swimmer in the water.”
“How long has he been dead?” Alex asked.
“M.E. thinks about twelve hours give or take.”
“Any thoughts on why he picked Roosevelt Island?”
“It’s private, quiet, but still close to everything. And maybe he was a Roosevelt groupie,” Lloyd added. The FBI agent glanced over at the men from NIC, frowned and then turned back to Alex. “We’ll be heading over to NIC to ask some questions, see if we can find out why Johnson would want to kill himself. What we learn might get those guys” — he motioned to the NIC folks — “a little more paranoid than they already are.”
“Meaning Johnson might have been doing something at NIC he shouldn’t have?” Alex said.
“Hard for me to say, since I’m not really sure what it is they do over at NIC,” Lloyd commented before walking off.
“Join the club,” Alex muttered. He motioned Simpson to follow him over to the body. “Your stomach gonna be okay with this?” he asked her.
“I was a homicide detective in Alabama. I’ve seen plenty of gunshot wounds and dead bodies.”
“I didn’t know Bama was such a killing field.”
“Are you kidding? Alabama has more guns than the entire United States military.”
Alex squatted down and looked at Johnson’s body. He felt one of the stiffened arms. The sleeve was soaked through, and the body was still in full rigor.
There was dried blood coming from the ears, nose and around the mouth.
“Basilar fracture,” Simpson deduced. “The blood seeps down from the base of the fractured skull. The M.E. will probably find the slug near the top or the back of the head. Since it was only a .22 caliber, he would’ve had to really shove it up there to get a clean trajectory.”
“There’s some blood spatter on the sleeve but only one small blood drop on the right hand,” Alex added.
