“All over the wall, the urinals, and the floor. Looked like someone sprayed it on with a hose,” Martie said.
“Yeah, cut arteries are messy things. If you’re lucky, the killer got some on himself, too.”
David added this to the list in his tiny notebook.
I said, “So, what do you figure? Was the killer waiting for him in the bathroom? Maybe hiding in a stall? Or did he just follow him in?”
They both scratched their heads.
I said, “Personally, I’d put my money on the killer following him in. I mean, maybe the killer guessed or maybe even knew that Berkowitz had a weak bladder. Berkowitz was a big boy, and it’s a fairly common side effect of obesity. But, if the killer waited around inside the latrine, he might get noticed. I’d bet he waited outside, then followed him in.”
“Think the killer knew him?” Martie asked.
“Hard to say,” I replied. “You might want to question everybody who came in or out of the press quarters, or the latrine, say between ten and midnight. See if they saw anybody standing around, waiting, or just watching the building.”
Another note was scribbled in David’s little book, then they both stood up.
“Listen, we gotta get runnin’, Major. Hope you don’t mind, but we got lotsa things to do. Mind if we call on you again?”
“On the contrary, I’d very much appreciate it. Maybe I can help.”
“Sure,” said Martie, obviously the leader of the two.
“And remember that offer for drinks,” I called as they walked out. I said it loud enough for the whole office staff to hear. I wanted them to know this visit was friendly.
I doubted, though, that my new, abysmally dressed friends were going to get very far with their investigation. I had this strong sense that the man who murdered Berkowitz was highly trained and had killed a number of times before. If we were in Topeka, Kansas, knowing that much would actually be a lucky breakthrough. It would allow the police to trim their list of suspects down to a nice, workable number. At Tuzla Air Base, with the entire Tenth Special Forces Group in residence, you could throw a rock in any direction and hit a suspect.
Chapter 16
General Chuck Murphy looked profoundly pissed off, and I guess I didn’t blame him. Nobody likes to start their day inspecting a purple-faced corpse in a blood-soaked latrine, and it must have dawned on Chuck Murphy that his sterling career had just moved one notch closer to the ledge of oblivion. The Army expects its commanders to maintain law and order on their compounds. Dead, internationally renowned journalists littering up your latrines falls just a wee bit outside those parameters.
“Good morning, General,” I said, falling into the seat across from his desk.
“Major,” he replied, which I considered a notable response only insofar as he failed to wish me a good morning back.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I’m sure you’re having a real busy day, but I have a few questions I really have to get answered.”
“My time is your time,” he said, glancing impatiently at his watch.
“Okay, here’s the thing. We’ve interviewed Sanchez and all his men. We’ve been through the operations logs. We’ve viewed the Serb corpses. I guess what I still don’t get is what Sanchez and his guys were doing inside Kosovo in the first place.”
“Haven’t we been through this already? It’s a classic military assistance action. We arm and train the Kosovars to fight their own battles.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Whose idea was what?” he asked in a very brittle tone.
“The whole operation. I mean, somebody somewhere had to say,‘Hey, I’ve got this great idea. We should use the Tenth Group to help the KLA.’ Every military operation has a godfather. Who was that guy?”
“I’ll be damned if I know, Drummond. These things usually just evolve. I’d guess this happened like that.”
“Who gave you the orders, General?”
“My orders were signed by General Partridge, the JSOC commander.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about these things. I would’ve thought you were working for the NATO commander in Brussels. I mean, isn’t he the guy in charge of Europe and this whole Kosovo thing?”
“He is, but Special Forces rarely work for theater commanders. We usually get our marching orders direct from Bragg. The word for it is ‘stovepipe.’ ”
“Really? Why?”
“Because of the special nature of our operations. Conventional force commanders aren’t expected to understand our unique capabilities, how to properly employ us. This isn’t unusual, Drummond. Check the record. They did it this same way in Mogadishu and Haiti.”
“So then where does General Partridge get his orders from?”
“From the Joint Chiefs.”
“Does he deal straight with the White House?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Just curiosity,” I lied. “I mean, I’m new to all this high-level stuff, so I’m trying to figure these things out.”
He gave me a hard, discerning look. “Has this got something to do with your investigation?”
“Well, yes, but only in sort of a roundabout way. See, Sanchez and his men are saying their ambush was an act of self-defense. You see the problem there? I mean, some folks might say that’s pretty convoluted logic. An ambush is a form of attack, right? I’m just trying to determine what constituted self-defense. To do that, I might have to interview the people who crafted this operation in the first place. You know, to find out their idea of what constitutes self-defense.”
“It wasn’t anybody at the White House, I can tell you that. General Partridge doesn’t work for anyone in the White House. No… let me rephrase that. He, of course, works for the Commander in Chief, who happens to be the President, but everything is channeled through the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”
“So maybe the idea for this operation originated with someone in the Pentagon, or maybe from General Partridge’s staff?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Do you have time for one more question?” I asked, since he kept staring at his watch to remind me how ridiculously busy he was.
“One more, Drummond. That’s it,” he said, shaking his head. “You might not believe this, but I’m actually a fairly busy man.”
“Oh no, I believe that, General. I’m just thankful every day that I’m not the guy in your shoes,” I said, and he looked at me with fire in his eyes, trying to figure what I meant by that. I continued: “So how often were Sanchez and his men required to give situation reports to your headquarters? I mean, you must have some kind of standard operating procedure that dictates that sort of thing.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Well, I just read the operations order for Sanchez’s operation. According to that, he was supposed to provide a situation report twice a day. Once at dawn and once at dusk.”
A quick snarl appeared on his lips, then disappeared almost as quickly. I’m sure he was thinking that if I already knew the answer, why was I wasting his time with the question? Old Chuck obviously didn’t like to play lawyer games. In a thoroughly irritated tone, he said, “Okay.”
“Well, according to the operations logs, Sanchez missed making his reports three times between the fourteenth and the eighteenth. What do you make of that?”
“Maybe he didn’t miss making his reports. Maybe the ops center forgot to log it in. I think we run a pretty
