Blind Justice (4 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Phillips family had put their impressive art collection on display starting in 1921 in Washington
’
s Dupont Circle neighborhood. The museum contained paintings by artists such as Renoir, Bonnard, O’Keeffe, van Gogh, and Diebenkorn. But prior to losing his sight, Deacon Munroe had always enjoyed the museum
’
s Rothko room. The Russian-American painter
’
s work was simplistic—mainly consisting of only colors without a defined form—and could easily be overlooked when comparing it to the more grandiose and intricate paintings hanging within the collection. Rothko had wanted his paintings to be very intimate and human, and Munroe found them to carry a certain spirit. He could remember the power emanating from the subtle shades during his previous viewings. Although he couldn
’
t gaze upon them now, he could still feel a strange energy from them, as if the artist had placed a piece of his soul in each painting.

Munroe recognized the sound of Gerald
’
s shoes before his friend announced himself. Gerald had placed padded inserts into his dress shoes, and it added a slight creaking to his steps.

“When we were boys, did you ever think that we
’
d end up like this?” Munroe said.

He felt Gerald
’
s weight fall onto the bench beside him. “
Well, let
’
s see. You getting into trouble, and me bailing you out and watching your back. Hell, Deac, nothing
’
s changed.”

“Everything changes, yet everything stays the same. It doesn
’
t matter our age or what time period we live in or our individual circumstances, when you break it down, we all just keep making the same mistakes over and over.”

“What
’
s eating you?”

“
I don’
t know. Easton
’
s death, I suppose. He lived through multiple wars and conflicts, and then he dies bloody in his own home. I don
’
t understand the world anymore. I keep thinking about his kids, his grandkids. Ripples, you know. All the people we effect in our lives. I wonder who will be there crying at my funeral, other than my girls of course. And you and Annabelle.” Annabelle also worked for Munroe handling all of the back-office labor including converting documents into formats that Munroe could consume as well as assisting with investigations. Gerald had followed Munroe into law enforcement when they were still teenagers, and so when Munroe had been given the leeway to form his own team, he had wanted to fill it with people whom he could trust. There was no one in the world who he trusted more than Gerald and his sister.

“I heard Annabelle was over for dinner at your house,” Gerald said.

The sudden shift in the conversation jolted Munroe. “Yes, I had some paper work that I needed her help with. What brought that up?”

“I was just thinking that since you
’
re in such a deep contemplative mood, maybe you should ask yourself why you
’
ve never asked her out.”

“Excuse me? Our relationship is completely professional.”

Gerald laughed.
“You
’
ve had a crush on her since our junior year.”

“That
’
s not true. And even if it was, she works for me. It would be completely inappropriate.”

“Life
’
s short, Deac.” Gerald hesitated. “And Beth would understand. It
’
s been a long time.”

Munroe didn
’
t respond. He pressed a button on his watch, and a mechanical voice announced the time. In a whisper, he said, “Let
’
s see if Joey
’
s made any progress.”

~~*~~

Joey Helgeson, a master of all things technical, was under a permanent retainer with the DCIS. Although he had been part of Munroe
’
s team for some time, he refused to officially become an employee of the government and work within an office in the Pentagon or DCIS headquarters, which had forced Munroe to call in favors to obtain and maintain Joey
’
s security clearance. Instead, the tech guru
’
s
command center
, as he called it, was a short walk from the Phillips Collection inside a historic home overlooking DuPont Circle. Munroe remembered the James G. Blaine mansion from before he had lost his sight. It was a beautiful four-story Queen Anne style building with dark red brick, a large porte-coch
è
re, and a rooftop filled with intricate weathervanes. Munroe thought it a bit of a waste that Joey likely had his portion of the elegant and historic space filled with superhero memorabilia. He could always tell a lot about a person by observing the space in which they lived and worked. Even though he had been blind for over ten years now, it still bothered him that he couldn
’
t gather such information without help.

“Where did you get this thing?” Joey asked, referring to the small flash drive that Gerald had retrieved from the battery compartment of General Easton
’
s clock.

“Why? What did you find?”

“I couldn
’
t access it. That
’
s the problem.” Joey
’
s voice had a slight North Jersey accent with a nasal quality that Munroe suspected to have come from an improperly healed broken nose. His office smelled of burnt coffee, dirty dishes, and Febreze air freshener with the smallest underlying hint of marijuana residue. “This is the first example I
’
ve seen of a new system that the National Reconnaissance Office is developing called Widowmaker,” Joey continued. “It
’
s protected by a sixteen character password with a single-error shredding failsafe. So, if you enter the wrong password even one time, the entire contents of the drive get wiped beyond recovery.”

“Can you crack it?”

Joey gave a throaty laugh that ended in a snort. “That
’
s funny. There
’
s no way to crack it. At least not with the resources I have.”

“
So it
’
s worthless.”

“Not entirely. There is something strange about the way the encryption is implemented. Normally when using a system like this, you
’
d encrypt the whole drive or just certain files that are sensitive. But on this baby, someone left the directory structure intact and encrypted all the files within into a single archive. So the entire top-level structure is readable.”

Munroe rubbed his temples. “Joey, what you just said makes about as much sense to me as a driver
’
s seat on a wheelbarrow.”

“Huh?”

“What does that mean? And why would it be that way?”

“
I don’
t know why anyone would structure it that way. But what it means is that we at least have some clue as to what info the drive contains.” Munroe heard the clicking of Joey
’
s keyboard. “The directory names are Compound 119, John Corrigan, Money Transfers, Site B, Trial Results, and Wyatt Randall.”

Now things were starting to make sense to Munroe. Easton wouldn
’
t have hidden a drive for him if he couldn
’
t learn anything from it. But the General was also likely worried about someone else finding the drive and accessing the sensitive information that it contained. The directory structure was left as a list of leads for Munroe to follow.

“That
’
s good, Joey. I need you to find out anything and everything you can about Wyatt Randall, Compound 119, and Site B.”

“What about John Corrigan?”

“I already have an idea about that one. I need you to book Gerald and I on the next flight to Leavenworth, Kansas. We
’
re going to pay John Corrigan a visit.”

Gerald said, “You know the guy?”

“I
’
ve heard of him. He
’
s currently on death row, and I believe his execution is scheduled for sometime within the next week. So the clock is ticking.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Deacon Munroe had visited the United States Disciplinary Barracks many times, although his visual memories of the place were from the original facility. The stone wall and brick castle had been replaced by a new building that he had been told was indistinguishable at first glance from the campus of a high school. But the USDB that he remembered and still held in his mind was a hard place with a medieval ambiance, well-worn stone, and brick walls. The original castle used prisoners for its construction during an age when hard labor meant exactly that.

They had called ahead and arranged a meeting with Sergeant John Corrigan, a former Recon Marine team leader awaiting execution for the murders of his wife and two children. Munroe and Gerald arrived in the visitor
’
s area before Corrigan. Munroe could guess at his surroundings based upon the echoes of the room and the things he could feel. A cheap plastic laminate formed the meeting table and chairs. Tiled floors. Drywall. He could tell by the way sounds carried within the space. Two vending machines hummed in one corner. The modern institutional feel of a cafeteria, nothing like the old castle that kept appearing in his mind.

He heard the rattle of wrist and ankle chains as a guard ushered Corrigan into the room and forced the prisoner into a seat across the table from them. “Hello, Sergeant Corrigan. My name is Deacon Munroe. I
’
m a special investigator with the DCIS. The gentleman with me is my partner, Agent Dixon.”

“It
’
s Inmate Corrigan now. I haven
’
t been a Marine or a sergeant for some time.” Corrigan
’
s voice was strong and calm. He spoke the words as facts without a trace of bitterness.

“Once a Marine always a Marine, or so I
’
ve heard. I
’
ve also heard that General Easton visited you recently. I
’
d like to know what you and the commandant discussed.”

“I was very sorry to hear what happened to him. He was a good man.”

“He was my friend. And I think that you may have information relating to who killed him.”

Corrigan adjusted his chains and shifted in his seat. “I heard that he killed his wife and then himself. What could that possibly have to do with me?”

“The facts on the case are a bit blurry. Knowing the nature of your relationship to the commandant may help bring some of that into focus. So, please, what was it that you and he discussed?”

“It was a private matter.”

“Regarding?”

“Things that are private.”

Munroe had always excelled in questioning witnesses and suspects, but there was much to the job that relied on watching for nonverbal and subconscious cues of the person in the hot seat. He could no longer tell whether or not Corrigan was making eye contact. Whether or not he looked away when asked about a certain subject, and in what direction he looked. There was so much to be learned from a subject
’
s facial expressions, postures, and head motions. Munroe couldn
’
t use those things against Corrigan, but the sergeant
’
s nervous shifting in his seat and the twisting of his chains were things that Munroe could hear. And they told him that this whole conversation was making Corrigan very uncomfortable.

“It just seems very strange to me, Sergeant Corrigan,” Munroe said, purposely using Corrigan
’
s old title to subconsciously invoke the former soldier
’
s sense of duty. “Why would the highest ranking Marine in the country fly all the way out here to have a pow-wow with you? I
’
ve already spoken with your lawyer. He said that you
’
ve waved your rights to appeals and want the execution to move forward. He didn
’
t know anything about these
private matters
that you were discussing with the General.”

Corrigan
’
s leg shook at a steady rhythm beneath the table. “Like I said, it was between me and the Commandant.”

“Did the visits relate to Wyatt Randall?”

Corrigan
’
s leg stopped shaking. “
I don’
t know who that is.”

“Of course you don
’
t. My associate has some photos that we
’
d like you to look at.” Munroe had discussed this part of the questioning with Gerald, and following his instructions, he heard Gerald slap the photos of Easton
’
s crime scene in front of Corrigan one after the other, only allowing a brief second
’
s view of each. He heard Corrigan
’
s breathing change with each grisly image.

Then came the moment that Munroe was anticipating. The sound of Corrigan
’
s chains jumped, and he slammed the table, prompting the guard waiting by the door to intervene.

Gerald stopped the guard from restraining Corrigan. “It
’
s okay. We
’
re fine,
” the big black man said in his deep bass.

“What the hell kind of game are you playing?” Corrigan said with venom in his voice.

Munroe had purposely mixed in a photo of Corrigan
’
s family that Annabelle had acquired for them, one displaying four smiling faces, the kind sent out as a Christmas card. Gerald pulled the pictures away and said, “Sorry. That must have gotten mixed in.”

“Why would you have that picture?”

Munroe answered, “It must have come from your file. We
’
ve been looking over it. I think that these cases are related somehow. I think General Easton may have been killed because he received some information about your case. I need you to fill in the gaps and help me stop whoever did this.”

“
You can
’
t make me say anything. If you have any other questions, they can go through my lawyer.”

“You have nothing to lose, Sergeant. Easton has kids and grandkids out there right now that are preparing to put him in the ground. It
’
s your duty as a soldier and a man to help ensure that no one else gets hurt.”

“That
’
s right. I don
’
t want anyone else to get hurt. I
’
ve got enough blood on my hands.” Munroe heard the rattling of Corrigan
’
s chains and the sliding of his chair on the tile floor as the man stood. “Guard. I
’
m ready to go back to my cell.”