“And where did this happen?”
“He was staying at the press quarters inside the information officer’s compound. He apparently got up in the middle of the night to go to the latrine. He was murdered right at the urinal.”
“With a garrote, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Homemade or professional quality?”
“It looked store-bought. A metal wire attached to two wooden handles.”
“Who found him?”
“An AP reporter named Wolf. He had to catch a 5 A.M. flight. When he went into the latrine to clean up, he walked right into it.”
I studied the two of them for a moment. Then I said, “Sergeant, please step out of my office.”
He looked at his captain, who nodded for him to do as he was told. Then I stood up. I walked around the desk and leaned against it. The time had come to eliminate the barriers and restore relations with Captain Wolkowitz.
“You’ve already called the Washington Herald?” I asked in a much calmer, much friendlier tone.
“Yes, sir. They’re real unhappy. This isn’t going down well.”
I chuckled at that. “Their star military reporter murdered while standing at a pisser at an American military installation. I don’t blame them. That’s a pretty hard headline to write.”
Since poor Captain Wolkowitz was charged with the responsibility of maintaining law and order on this compound, he was having a bit of trouble seeing the humor in that.
I said, “Are you aware what Berkowitz was doing here?”
“The information officer told us he was working on a story about the bombing operation.”
“That’s only half of it. The other half was that he was working on a story about my investigation.”
Wolkowitz scratched his head, then said, “The Herald told us he filed a dispatch at about 2330 hours last night. That’s how we narrowed down the time of death. They didn’t say what it was about, though.”
This was where it was going to get tricky. As a lawyer, I’ve been trained to know it’s never a good idea to lie to or mislead the police. Lord knows, I’d counseled enough clients to always tell the truth, because the mere act of lying is a crime. At least it is under military law, which is a bit stingier than civilian law. The trick was that I had to appear forthcoming without actually being all that forthcoming.
I said, “He came here yesterday to interview me. I had the impression he had an inside source and was ready to break something big.”
“What gave you that impression, sir?”
“He alluded to the story a few times. He was obviously excited, like he was on to something. Hell, he as much as admitted he had an inside source.”
“And what did he want from you?”
“I think it was just routine journalistic courtesy. He wanted to give me the chance to confirm some details.”
“He gave you no hints or clues who his source was?”
I looked disgusted. “His exact words were that he’s never had a source uncovered. He seemed very proud of that.”
“Was this your only interaction with him?”
“No. He called me from Washington the other day.”
“And what was that about?”
“I don’t know. I hung up on him before he could get into it.”
“Why did you hang up on him?”
“Because I think he wanted me to leak, and frankly, I found the idea repugnant.”
So far, I’d managed to be completely truthful without being the least bit truthful. My law school professors would be abundantly proud of me. But if this conversation continued, then this big captain was liable to ask me a question or two I couldn’t contort into a wholly wrong context. And I’d be breaking at least one or two laws.
I quickly said, “So… hey, what’s your first name, anyway?”
“Paul. My friends call me Wolky, though.”
I smiled warmly, like I was one of those friends. “Okay, Wolky. First, I apologize for my blowup. I’m sorry. It’s just that… well, I’ve been under a lot of pressure. Coming in here as the investigating officer… you know, folks haven’t been real friendly.”
“Hey, I understand,” Wolky said, and I was sure he did. Remember how I mentioned that lawyers aren’t real popular in the Army? Well, military policemen are about ten notches down from that. The only reason Green Berets even allow MPs inside their bars is so they can have somebody to pound the crap out of when they get bored with the booze.
“No hard feelings?” I asked, still with that silly smile.
“Nah, ’course not.”
“Good. Now I imagine you’re bringing the Criminal Investigation Division into this?”
“A team’s flying in from Heidelberg right now. They’ve asked me to begin collecting evidence and statements.”
“Right. That’s good. Never let the trail of evidence get cold. Now it’s not that I have any reason to suspect that there’s any connection between Berkowitz’s murder and my investigation, but I’d like to play it safe. When CID gets here, I want them to stop by. I want to know everything you learn about this murder.”
“You think there might be a connection?”
“Wolky, there are a million plausible reasons Berkowitz was murdered. This guy made his living writing derogatory stories about the military. He’s hated by about everyone who’s ever worn a military uniform. Hell, he could’ve bought some dope from a pusher in uniform and was running delinquent in his payments. Maybe he was gay and got caught peeking over the urinal at the wrong guy’s peepee. Wouldn’t be the first time. At least three or four gays have been offed in military latrines over the past few years.”
Wolkowitz was listening intently to my silly theories, as though what I was suggesting was perfectly lucid. A nice guy, but he sure as hell wasn’t the brightest bulb in the hardware store. Of course Berkowitz’s murder was connected with my investigation. I was sure of it. He’d wired back his story, gone to his room to get some sleep, was awakened by that tiny bladder, and somebody was either waiting for him or followed him into that latrine.
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
