other side. Maybe Murphy. Maybe Tretorne. Maybe both of them.
“You have a serious problem,” Martie finally said. “Your running shoe matches a print we took from the latrine where Jeremy Berkowitz was murdered.”
I said, “That’s impossible.” Of course, those were the first words out of the mouth of every suspect. So much for my brilliant legal acumen.
He shrugged, then leaned across the table. “Look, Major, if you were in the latrine that night, it would go better if you’d just admit it. Maybe you met him there?”
“I didn’t go near the latrine that night.”
“You don’t expect me to believe that somebody else borrowed your running shoes, murdered Berkowitz, then put them back under your bunk?”
“I don’t expect you to believe any damned thing. I didn’t go near that latrine, and unless my running shoes grew legs, neither did they.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that your shoe prints were there?”
This was a standard technique. God knows, I’d defended enough clients who’d fallen for it. Get me to start building excuses, then tear apart my alibis and try to chase me into a confession.
“I’m not here to explain any damned thing. I never went near that latrine.”
He leaned back and began playing with his pen. “There’s more,” he said.
If this was supposed to make me more nervous, I wasn’t biting. I sat patiently and coolly watched him.
He began tapping the pen against his chin. “Among the notes we found in Berkowitz’s room was one where you asked him to meet you in the latrine at one o’clock.”
My coolness suddenly dribbled away. I now knew I was in very serious trouble. The running-shoe prints could be challenged in a courtroom. There was always the possibility of the crime scene being contaminated by poor procedure or even of contamination at the lab back in Heidelberg. Poor police and lab procedures had bollixed more than one case. There was also the chance that someone with my exact same shoe size and taste in running gear did the crime. An outside chance, admittedly, but I’d built defenses on weaker arguments and prevailed. I mean, I knew I’d never gone near that latrine, so somebody, somewhere, had made a bad mistake. The note, though-that was a slam dunk.
I blurted out, “That’s impossible.” Oops! There I went again.
“We’ve had two experts examine the handwriting. It’s yours, Major. For Chrissakes, you’re an attorney. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
No, he didn’t have to spell it out for me. I was being framed. Actually, I was being framed for the second time, if you want to get perfectly technical about it. I didn’t know how, but there was no other explanation. I knew I’d never made an appointment with Berkowitz. And I knew I’d never been in the latrine.
I was surprised how tight my lips were when I said, “Martie, I’m done talking without counsel.”
He stared at me a few seconds, then stood up, walked over to the door, and knocked. The two MPs came back in, and he ordered them to book me and put me in a cell. They did. First, I was dumbly led to another room where I was fingerprinted, although for the life of me I didn’t know why. The military keeps copies of the fingerprints and dental X rays of all personnel in the event they’re needed to identify remains. Maybe they just wanted to humiliate me. It worked, too.
My belt and shoelaces were collected, then I was taken to a cell. I knew I’d need a clear head in the morning, so I collapsed onto the bunk and tried to will myself back to sleep. Of course, that never works when you need it to. For thirty minutes I sat there thinking how terrifically stupid I’d been. I’d been too overconfident. I’d overestimated my own cleverness. Worse, I’d once again underestimated who I was dealing with.
I just couldn’t figure out how they’d pulled this off. Even if Martie was working for Jones, aka Tretorne, how in the hell had they fabricated such condemning evidence?
I suddenly heard the sound of a lock being opened down the hall. Then footsteps. No lights were turned on, so the hallway and my cell remained pitch-dark. The footsteps stopped in front of the cell.
I could smell the cologne. A good one, too, like scented pines. Very expensive.
“Tretorne, you bastard,” I said.
“You look good in there, Drummond,” he said.
I said, “Yeah? Why don’t you come on in and join me? I’d love a chance to rip your guts out.”
He chuckled. “I knew it was you who burgled my room. You have no idea what that briefcase cost. And I really would like to get my passport and ID back. It’ll be a real pain in the ass if I have to get them replaced.”
Sounding more bitter than I wanted, I said, “Gee, Jack, I’m really sorry. I’d hate to think I’ve put you out.”
“Well, you have, Drummond. You’ve really pissed me off.”
“Then we’re even. Let me out of here.”
“I’m afraid it’s no longer that easy.”
“Sure it is, Jack. If I go to jail, I won’t take my secrets with me.”
“You don’t have any secrets. You only think you do.”
“Hah,” I said. “I know all about what you and Murphy are up to. You frame me, and I’ll get the word to every reporter I know. Believe me, I’ll find a way. Think about that.”
“I already have, Drummond. You think they’ll listen to you? No one listens when an accused murderer starts mumbling about conspiracies and frame-ups. Think about it, Drummond. You’ve got no evidence, and you’ve got no leverage.”
He was right, of course. And that only infuriated me all the more. He moved back and I saw him lean against the wall. His face was completely in the shadows, which only made him appear more sinister.
When he spoke again, his tone sounded suspiciously reasonable. “Regardless, I’m here to make a deal. This will be your only chance. Want to hear it?”
I said, “I’ve got nothing better to do for the moment.”
“Okay. You quit screwing around and do what you’re supposed to do on this investigation, and we’ll call this thing even. I’ll even convince Clapper to cancel that inquiry, and you can get on with your career.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” he said.
“And I’m supposed to just overlook this little thing you’ve got going with the Green Berets?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“What about Berkowitz? Am I supposed to forget you did that, too?”
“We didn’t do Berkowitz’s murder.”
Now it was my turn to chuckle. “Horsecrap.”
“It’s the truth. I don’t know who murdered him.”
“But you’re framing me for it.”
“Sure. You’ve put us in a difficult corner, Drummond. But if you’re the leading suspect in a murder investigation, well, you can hardly remain the chief of the investigating team. Nor can you leak to the press like you tried with Berkowitz. Very cute, that.”
So that confirmed it: My office was bugged. They’d listened to the whole conversation I had with Berkowitz. They’d listened to everything.
That confirmed something else, too. They had a compelling motive to murder Berkowitz.
I said, “Come on, Tretorne. What was it? Was Berkowitz getting too close? Did he have you figured out? Why’d you have him killed?”
“I’ll say it again. I don’t know who killed Berkowitz. We didn’t do it. I’m not crying any crocodile tears about it, though. He wasn’t much of a human being. However, his death gives me the opportunity to get you out of the way.”
“You’re a real prick.”
“I’m not proud of this, but I’m doing it for my country.”
I almost guffawed at that one. That line really was the last refuge of the worst kinds of scoundrels. I thought of telling him he sounded just like one of Hitler’s henchmen on the docket at Nuremberg, but I’d just be wasting my breath.
Instead, I said, “How’d you work the frame?”
“Easy, really. Everything today is electronic, even police lab work. You’d be surprised to know how easy it is
