“Those cabinets over there,” she said, pointing at three large gray military-issue file cabinets.
“Requisition a safe immediately. You, or one of your assistants, sleep next to those cabinets till it gets here.”
Her eyebrows went up a notch or two, but she was a smart lady. She didn’t ask.
I went back into my office and called my big new buddy Wolky. I very nicely told him I was hereby requisitioning the services of two of his strapping military policemen to stand guard outside my building’s doorway every night.
A moment later, Imelda came in to inform me it had been raining torrentially in Washington the past twenty- four hours. Reagan National Airport was closed. Dulles International was closed to everything but emergency flights. The rain, however, had miraculously missed Andrews Air Force Base, so my car was safe. She frowned deeply when she reported this. In Imelda’s world, any idiot stupid enough to leave his car windows open deserved ruined electronics and mildewed seats.
The truth was, though, my car wasn’t really parked at Andrews. I was just wondering how Mr. Jones got here so promptly. That smug, deceitful little liar. He didn’t walk down the street; he took off from Andrews.
But why did he fly all this way? And why was he so secretive about his name? And why that spurious lie about being stationed here? People who make their living gathering and peddling secrets eventually become secretive by nature, but Mr. Jones was stretching things a little.
I pondered this until there was a knock on the door, and I looked up to see my two CID buddies, Martie and David, anxiously waiting to be invited in.
“Please,” I said, standing up and walking over to shake hands.
Martie said, “Hi, Major. Hope we’re not bothering you.”
“No, no bother at all.”
“Good. David and I thought we’d stop by and maybe discuss a few more things with you.”
“Sure.”
They threw themselves into a pair of seats and spent a moment getting organized. Martie’s face was kind of cold and detached, while David looked like he had a couple of big hemorrhoids that were bothering him terribly. These are what professional crimebusters call clues. Their moods had changed since this morning.
Martie said, “Have you seen copies of the two articles published on the front page of this morning’s Herald?”
I admitted I hadn’t, so he handed me a couple of pages that had obviously been faxed to him. The first was a headline banner about Jeremy Berkowitz and his murder. It was a nice piece, exalting him as one of the nation’s foremost military experts, a courageous, dedicated journalist, and an all-around saint of a guy. It was the kind of puffy eulogy journalists always write about one another, ending with a long, tear-jerking paragraph about everything Jeremy did for the world, and how much that world was now going to miss him. That kind of stuff. Somehow, I managed not to break into sniffles.
The second piece was the final story Berkowitz filed, the one about my investigation. Only it wasn’t even remotely the story he told me he was going to write. This was a very shallow, vague thing about how the investigation was still ongoing, how the investigators were working tirelessly to complete their job, how the facts were slowly unfolding. I tried not to show my surprise.
Martie was now angled back in his chair with this real ambiguous expression. “That the same piece he told you he was going to write?” he inquired, and not in a friendly way, either.
This is one of the problems with CID guys. They have real short memories. This morning I was his best buddy, and by evening I’m being treated like the Boston Strangler.
I calmly said, “He never told me what he was going to write.”
“But you said-”
“I said he seemed very excited. I said he alluded that he had an inside source. How the hell would I know what he was going to write?”
“Your office staff says Berkowitz spent over ten minutes in your office. This morning you gave us the impression that he barely stopped by, only briefly, to confirm a few details.”
“And I stand by that. We also engaged in a little harmless chitchat about things in Washington.”
“Like what?”
“Like how the investigation is being perceived. I believe he mentioned that the White House is very interested.”
“And that was all you talked about?”
“That was all.”
“That took ten minutes, huh?” he said very skeptically, then rearranged himself in the chair, bending forward. “Well, we’ve had the chance to go through his notebook more thoroughly. Your name was mentioned a lot.”
“Mentioned how?”
“Let’s just say a few of the notations are very curious.”
I said, “Curious is an interesting word. Was it curious like ‘I think Major Drummond is going to strangle me with a garrote tonight’? Or was it more like ‘Drummond is in charge of the investigation and he seems like a real swell guy, and I must make it a point to learn more about him’?”
Martie’s face was unreadable. He said, “Somewhere between those two.”
Now Martie had never disclosed his rank to me, but I guessed he and David were probably warrant officers. That’s the rank of nearly all CID field investigators, most of whom are former military policemen who have gone on to better things, sort of like street cops who become detectives.
The moment seemed ripe for me to try to bully him with one of my tantrums, but I somehow thought that would be a very bad idea. Martie, aside from dressing oddly, was no dummy, and he’d chosen the right way to interrogate me: by dropping one disclosure after another so that I could entrap myself. At that POW camp run by the outfit, this was the favored technique of what they called the soft sell. Truthfully, it is a far more successful method than turning a guy’s face into hamburger, because tough guys like I thought I was aren’t necessarily smart guys, and the soft sell is a contest of wits.
Of course, Martie had no way of knowing I had earned a master’s degree in interrogation, so that left him at a bit of a disadvantage. We were at the point now where I was supposed to be getting very jittery. The textbook responses of a guilty man are to deny everything, but also to become desperately curious about how much the interrogator knows. A fencing engagement results; a bit of cross-probing. This is exactly what the interrogator wants. You unwittingly participate in your own destruction.
I got up and walked to the door. I got it open and was already halfway out when Martie said, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going to find an attorney. I’m sure there are one or two around here somewhere.”
This was not what the textbook told him to expect. “Wait a minute,” he said, trying to put some iron in his voice.
I said, “Sorry, pal, you got your free minute, and you abused it.”
“Hold on, Major,” he asked, this time with a slight quaver in his voice. “You may have perfectly logical explanations for everything.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure I do,” I told him. “In fact, I’m positive I do. But you and I are done speaking.”
He gave me this look of wearied impatience, then said, “I’d advise you to sit down and hash this out.”
And I said, “Fat chance. We both know what’s happening here. Your nuts are in a vise until you come up with a suspect. I’m sorry for your nuts-I truly am-but I don’t want to be your suspect.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Bullshit, Martie. This has everything to do with it.”
Martie turned and looked at David, who now looked like those imaginary hemorrhoids of his were positively killing him.
I said, “What will it be? Will you two leave, or should I go find an attorney?”
Martie pondered that a moment, then he and David got up to leave. Martie shouldn’t have done that. Very amateurish. If he truly believed he had something that implicated me, he would’ve told me to go find myself a whole herd of fast-talking attorneys, and let’s have a showdown. Obviously, whatever Berkowitz had written about me in his little book was either too nebulous or too untainted for Martie to make even a half-assed case. He was grabbing at straws. He was trying to harass everyone in sight to see what turns up. Shaking the trees, they call that. A good
