Memorial Bridge (40 page)

Behind Crocker stood Lloyd Nevin, deputy chief counsel of the air force, the civilian attorney whose office supervised all air force–related testimony on the Hill. Nevin, a taciturn man, was exceptionally tall, and Dillon sensed that he had remained standing behind the secretary as if this were a courtroom, as if the intimidation of his height would be useful.

Crocker removed his pipe to say, "Hello, Sean." The others barely acknowledged his arrival, but still Dillon sensed how they had been waiting for him.

Dillon nodded toward each man in turn. At Crocker's gesture he took the ebony chair, the twin of Eason's, that was equidistant between Macauley's couch and Crocker's desk.

Crocker said, "You know that General Macauley was testifying before the House Armed Services Committee?"

"Yes, sir, I know that."

"About the B-36."

"Yes, sir."

Dillon glanced quickly at Macauley, who stared sullenly at a spot in the air. Eason was lacing and unlacing his fingers, but otherwise seemed to be in the same trance with Macauley.

"Well," Crocker said, "we have a problem." He leaned to his desk and pushed a set of papers toward Dillon.

Dillon went to the desk to pick the papers up, four pages of closely typed material. He returned to his chair to read it.

The pages were plain, headingless typing paper; at the top of the first was the brisk salutation "To Whom It May Concern." The typescript was broken into a series of short paragraphs, each separated from the other by a double space.

As Dillon read through the pages he was aware of Macauley's refusal to watch him. What is his problem? Even while reading, half of Dillon's brain stuck to that question.

The document was an enumerative description of the technical shortcomings of the B-36. Most of the first three pages seemed to assert variations of one theme, that because the huge bomber was originally designed as a propeller-driven aircraft, its modification with the addition of a pair of two-engine jet pods made it "an aeronautical engineering mustard cluster." Design flaws were listed in language—"four-blade pitch," "synchronous thrust," "hydraulic constant speed," "radial air-cooled," "in-line liquid-cooled"—that meant nothing to Dillon. Was he supposed to offer an opinion of these assertions?

But on the last page, the tone of the document shifted from the technical to the polemical, and he suddenly understood why he'd been called in here, and why Macauley and Eason seemed paralyzed.

"The question remains," he read, "why such a patently inferior aircraft should have been chosen for development by the air force. And the answer is simple. Senior air force officials have, for more than two years now, been recipients of secret cash bribes from Consolidated Air, the manufacturer of the B-36."

Dillon looked up sharply at Crocker. "What is this document?"

Crocker swiveled toward Nevin, who answered, "Congressman Newfield of California produced it at the hearing today. He identified its source only as a constituent of his who is an employee of Consolidated
Air, an employee, the congressman said, whose conscience would not allow him to remain silent any longer."

"But the committee accepted this? An anonymous accusation?"

"Newfield made it a point of personal privilege. He said if he were to identify the man, the man would be destroyed."

"But the congressman claims to know him?"

"Yes. 'A senior engineer at Consolidated.' Newfield vouched for him absolutely. That's why the committee bought it."

"Was it a public hearing?"

"We had gone into executive session, thank God."

Dillon resumed reading. "The most egregious of many violations has been committed by General Mark Macauley, the commander in chief of the Strategic Air Command, on whose recommendation this year the air force request for the inferior B-36 airplane was increased by a factor of three. General Macauley's request for one hundred and twenty B-36s was made the same week, in April of 1948, that one thousand dollars was deposited in his wife's savings account at the First Nebraska Savings Bank on Ames Street in Omaha, where Offutt Air Force Base, SAC headquarters, is located. Over the next four months, three more deposits, each totaling exactly one thousand dollars, were made to that account. Bank records will show that all four of these deposits were made in cash money. During that same period, General Macauley took four vacation trips in the company of Albert T. Carver, the president of Consolidated Air. These trips were taken at Carver's expense, in Carver's private airplane, and on one of them General Macauley was accompanied by his wife and two daughters, whose expenses were also covered by Carver. Bank records will show that the deposits in question took place on the days subsequent to each of Macauley's returns to Omaha. In addition to moneys already received, General Macauley has been promised by Consolidated a further cash payment of ten thousand dollars, to be made on the day that the full appropriations for the B-36 have been formally approved by the U.S. Congress."

Dillon looked up at Macauley, who was now staring at the pages as if he expected them to burst into flame.

Then Dillon looked at Nevin. "What do you make of it?"

"A disgruntled employee." Nevin shrugged. "Somebody senior. Obviously somebody who has been in on the design process."

"How would an engineer at Consolidated in California know what General Macauley did with the money in Omaha?"

Macauley broke in, "Wait a goddamn—"

"No,
you
wait, General!" Crocker aimed his pipe stem at Macauley, sighting along it.

Dillon was still looking at Nevin, as if they were the only two in the room. "How did you respond?"

But Macauley slammed his knees. "Respond, shit! I wanted to punch that son of a bitch in the—"

"That's enough!" Crocker ordered.

Macauley fell back against the couch.

Crocker turned to Dillon. "Nevin quite properly requested an immediate adjournment. Macauley has made no response on the record yet. The hearing reconvenes tomorrow morning."

"Can't you get it postponed?"

Crocker shook his head. "Vinson smells blood. We're lucky he didn't force a response on the spot. Committee members were livid, wanting to pounce, and those friendly to us—Patterson, Keogh and the others—were as stunned as General Macauley was. Patterson objected, but Vinson wouldn't hear him. He admitted it for the record, that, that—"

"That bullshit," Macauley said.

Dillon dropped his eyes once more to the pages in his lap. "How much of what's written here is bullshit, actually, General?" As he awaited the answer, and then as he listened to it, he continued to scan through the pages.

"Everything it says about the airplane is wrong. Those jet pods don't alter the aerodynamics of the thing one iota. The jets give it five thousand feet more altitude and increase speed over target by twenty percent. The original design foresaw those engines—"

"But are these criticisms within the realm of the technical debate? Do you believe the author, in other words, knows what he's talking about, even if he's wrong?"

"Is he an engineer, you mean?"

"Yes."

"If he's not, he had access to the Consolidated files. Some of those objections have been made. They've all been—"

"What about you, General? How much of what it says about you is true?"

Macauley's eyes went involuntarily to Crocker, then to Eason. Dillon realized that both had been grilling Macauley just before his own arrival.
Now Macauley, with his furtive, pathetic glancing, was asking if he had to explain himself yet again, and to this asshole.

Crocker said coldly, "Answer General Dillon's question, please."

"I took my wife and girls once to California on Carver's airplane. Otherwise, I've done nothing—"

"What about the money?"

"Las Vegas. I won that money in Las Vegas. It's just across the state line from Consolidated's desert testing strip. The deposits went into Ginger's account because I always give her the first round number of what I win."

"What does that mean?"

"If I win in the hundreds of dollars, she gets a hundred. If I win in the thousands, she gets a thousand. The money has nothing to do with Consolidated."

"Who else knows about this arrangement you have with your wife?"

"Nobody. You think I brag about it?"

"Somebody knows, General. Will the bank records bear this out, these deposits, each one a day after your return?"

"Probably. But I told you, that money had nothing to do with Consolidated."

"How would a disgruntled aeronautical engineer get hold of your wife's bank records, though?"

"Who the hell knows."

"And the vacation trips?"

"Vacation, hell! Those were serious meetings, every damn one of them! At the flight-test strip, which is where the last phase of developmental research goes on. I've been working on the goddamn prototype. The B-36 is
my
airplane. I'm the one they have to damn well satisfy.
Me!
That's why Carver flew me out there."

"And once your family."

"Yes. A mistake, I admit it. My Ginger and the girls went on with Mrs. Carver to L.A. to see the houses the fucking movie stars live in. I didn't see the harm in it."

"But you do now?"

"Yes."

"And while they went to L.A., you went to Vegas."

"I never went to Vegas until after I worked my butt off in—"

"Who went to Vegas with you?"

Macauley hesitated. "Sometimes Carver. Sometimes other people."

"Your people? Or Consolidated's?"

"Both. Just a bunch of birdmen, you know?"

"Any disgruntled engineers?"

"Not that I know of. The people I dealt with all love that fucking airplane."

"This person calls it a 'flying coffin.'"

"He's wrong."

Dillon studied the pages in his lap for a moment, then looked up sharply to ask, "Who covered your expenses in Las Vegas?"

"What, my hotel and—?"

"Your losses, General." Dillon shifted toward Crocker. "A casino is a perfect place to wash a bribe. We used to see it in Chicago all the time, with judges and police captains. Interested parties would take them down to the open counties in Indiana or Kentucky and bankroll them at the gaming tables. The judge would simply stand there shooting craps or spinning the roulette wheel until he won. The winnings belonged to the judge or the cop, but the losses always belonged to the fellow who needed the favor. They would play until the judge's loot reached a prearranged sum. Then he was on his own."

Macauley leapt to his feet. "That's not how it was! That's wrong! I covered my own fucking losses!"

"Even when Carver was with you at the table?"

"Yes! Carver never—"

"How much?" Dillon was as cold now as Crocker. "On those four trips, when you brought back a thousand dollars for your wife, what were your totals? You won every time?"

"
Those
four times, yes. But other times I lost, plenty of other times. Hell, I lost thousands, but that damn letter doesn't mention those times, or the shit I had to take from Ginger." Macauley's voice dropped; here was the admission, the shame. "If there's bribery anywhere, it's what I had to give her to get her off my ass."

"What casinos do you favor?"

"What?"

"In Vegas. Where do you like to play?"

"The whole damn place. The Sands. The Golden Kettle."

"And when you go up to the window on your way in, who pays for your chips, General?"

"My chips?"

"Your gambling chips. Your ponies, your pebbles. Who buys them for you at the teller's window?"

"I do." Macauley swallowed. "I mean, mostly I do. Once or twice somebody might have given me a few. I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Dillon exchanged a look with Crocker, who then closed his eyes.

"How often were you out there?"

"From last March, when the field tests started, through this past September, I was out there every two weeks at least. How many is that?"

"Fourteen times."

"All right, fourteen times. Fourteen at least. Every time they adjusted something I had to check it. It was my job to check it."

"And you usually came home with cash from Las Vegas?"

"I won more than I lost, but hell, I'm lucky." Macauley grinned at Eason, falsely, but Eason only stared at him glumly.

"General, you just told us that you lost thousands. Now you tell us that you're lucky. Which is it?"

"I won most of the time. But nobody was rigging it for me. Mostly it was in the hundreds. Mostly what I gave to Ginger was a C-spot."

Dillon said to Crocker, "Newfield's source would have seized on the four deposits because of the even thousand-dollar figure."

Macauley, still on his feet, stepped toward Dillon. "Well, do you believe me or not?"

"Believe what, General?"

"That I didn't do it!"

"General, that you didn't do what?"

"That I didn't recommend the B-36 because of bribes!" Macauley led with the wound in his voice. He reminded Dillon of a man who needed someone else to answer for him, as if he did not know
what
he had done.

Dillon had heard the sound of that same wound a hundred times before, and it always angered him. He wanted to say, We all have to answer for ourselves! But he put aside his urge to treat Macauley like a suspect, letting him dangle, prodding at his panic to see what was behind it. Whatever Macauley's violations added up to, Dillon knew instinctively—cop's knowledge—that of this massive, serious crime the general was not guilty. The head of SAC did not need bribes to make him want the B-36, any more than the air force itself did. "No, General, I don't think you recommend the airplane because of bribes."

"Unfortunately"—now it was Crocker speaking—"it can be made to appear that way because you accepted favors—"

"Hell, favors! Per diem is all it was."

"Your per diem comes from the United States government, General Macauley."

Macauley whipped around to face Eason. "Tell them, chief! Goddammit, tell them! I'm not taking this by myself!"

Eason looked sheepishly at Crocker. "Officers on TC—"