that I know for a fact.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Sergeant Blackstone and I followed standard procedures. He and his partner arrived at the scene right on the tails of the South Korean police. They took the name of every police officer who entered the apartment. A control log was maintained, IDs were checked, and every visitor who entered was escorted.”
“Funny, I saw no mention of that in either of your statements.”
“You wouldn’t, though, would you? We never list all the procedural things we do at crime scenes.”
If I didn’t know better, I might almost have suspected at this point that Bales had been playing with me, leading me on, then maliciously slamming the door on my nose. Maybe he was sending me a warning not to get too cocky or abrasive in the courtroom or he’d find some sly way to make me pay for it. If that was his game, it worked.
Anyway, I tried to appear unruffled as I said, “In your statement, you mentioned that when you arrived at the scene, you encountered Sergeant Blackstone arguing with Inspector Choi. Could you explain what that argument was about?”
“Sure. Just some standard jurisdictional issues. No big thing.”
“Like what?”
“Like who was responsible for gathering and tagging the evidence. Like who should interview the witnesses.”
“And these issues were resolved?”
“Certainly. Inspector Choi’s a very professional and reasonable man. He’s also an old hand. This wasn’t the first time he’d had GIs commit crimes inside his beat.”
“So what was the resolution?” I asked.
“His guys would bag and tag, and handle the autopsy. Our guys would handle the interrogations. Choi didn’t have any problem with it, either. I think Sergeant Blackstone got a little overbearing and it rubbed him a little wrong. We got it straightened out.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So it was more a personality thing than a substantive thing?”
“That’s how I’d describe it, yes.”
“Were you comfortable having the Koreans handle the evidence?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, you and I both know there are very distinct differences between Korean and American rules of evidence. Nor are Korean police taught to handle evidence the same way ours are.”
He rubbed his jaw like this was the first time he’d ever heard such a thing and he needed a moment to think about it. He was very convincing. If I didn’t know better, I would almost have believed it.
Finally, he said, “Well, to be frank, there probably are a few tiny procedural differences, but I can’t think of any that would have a germane impact on this case. Can you?”
This was another very crafty move on his part, because I was obviously on a fishing expedition and he wasn’t about to help me put the worm on the hook.
But to show him that two could play this game, all I said was, “I might have a few ideas, but I’ll save them for later.”
He blinked once or twice, but that was all.
I said, “Did you get a look at the lock on the front door?”
“I did.”
“The crime summary states that the lock had not been jimmied or tampered with. Who made that judgment? And how can you be so sure?”
Bales said, “Look, Major, the Koreans are sparing no resources on this case. They brought in an inspector named Roh, a burglary guy they flew up from Taegu, because he’s considered their foremost national expert on locks. I was there when he checked it. And I learned more about picking locks in that thirty minutes than I learned in ten hours at CID school. He disassembled it and carried it back to the lab so he could inspect every little piece under a microscope, then ran it all through radioactive testing, checking for dents or abrasions, or a scarred tumbler, any telltale signs somebody had tampered with it. There weren’t any. By the way, we also learned it was a brand-new lock, installed by the management company the day Captain Whitehall moved in. You can try to challenge Inspector Roh’s judgment if you want, but he sure as hell convinced me.”
I paused to perform a swift mental inventory. I knew from reading Bales’s written statements that he’d performed all the proper rituals when he’d interrogated Whitehall, Moran, and Jackson. He’d read them their rights, never coerced or threatened them, and performed what appeared to be a model interrogation. I now knew there had been proper police controls at Whitehall’s apartment. I now knew the Korean doctor who performed the autopsy was an exceptionally competent pathologist. And I’d just learned that a national expert had checked the lock.
These were not hopeful signs. Where before I thought I had detected a few cracks, I now saw a blank white wall. There was only one more venue left.
“Chief, how did you get Moran and Jackson to testify against Whitehall?”
A look of impatience crossed his face. “Don’t you all talk with each other?”
“Don’t who all talk with each other?”
“You and that lady, Miss Carlson.”
“What do you mean?”
“She asked almost exactly the same questions. Her and some guy in a nice suit named Keith something. A week ago. So I’ll give you the same answer I gave them. I don’t know why Moran and Jackson confessed. They lied and misled me in the initial interrogation, then after they were charged they experienced a change of heart.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, trying to recover from the discovery that Katherine and Keith had already interviewed Bales. This was news to me. She’d never mentioned a word.
Anyway, I continued. “So what did you initially charge Moran and Jackson with?”
“Moran we charged with murder, rape, sodomy, committing homosexual acts, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct justice, lying under oath, failure to obey orders, fraternization, violation of his general orders-”
“Stop! That’s enough,” I barked. “And Jackson?”
“All of the above. Well, except rape or sodomy. In his case, there was no inkling of evidence to support those two charges.”
I should’ve expected this. An old lawyer’s dictum has it that most divorces are unruffled and amicable until the attorneys get on the scene: So it goes with conspiracies as well.
What CID and the command had done was an old and reliable favorite – the junkyard dog strategy where you pile every imaginable charge on the shoulders of the co-conspirators, knowing damn well that if enough mud is thrown against the wall, something is bound to stick. Then, when Whitehall, Moran, and Jackson went fearfully to seek the advice of counsel, their lawyers probably took one worried glance at the nearly infinite list of charges and recognized that inevitably their client was going to be found guilty of
In other words, Thomas Whitehall never stood a chance.
I said, “Who cut the deal with the lawyers?”
“I did. With the permission of the commanding general, of course.”
“Of course,” I dryly observed. “And who might have handled this affair for the commanding general?”
“His legal adviser, a gentleman named Colonel Janson.”
For some odd reason that came as no surprise either.
“And can you tell me, Chief, what have the charges against Moran and Jackson been reduced to?”
“You could easily check it yourself, so I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Committing homosexual acts.”
“That’s it?”
