Murder at the Pentagon (11 page)

“Yes, Major Falk.”

“This is someone’s office,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“I assumed I would meet my client where he’s being detained.”

“We thought you and your client would appreciate more comfortable surroundings.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t make the decision, Major.”

Margit went to the window and looked out. Parked in front was a military police van surrounded by six armed soldiers. The rear doors opened, and a manacled prisoner was helped down. He wore green fatigues and black slippers. Following him out of the vehicle were two more armed soldiers. The prisoner looked up at the building; although Margit knew he couldn’t see her, she felt his eyes.

Captain Robert Cobol.

Her client.

The officer who’d brought her to the office pointed to a couch in the corner. A glass-topped coffee table in front of it was flanked by two lemon-yellow wing-back upholstered chairs. “We thought you and Captain Cobol might be most comfortable over there, Major Falk.”

Margit looked at the desk, then to other parts of the large room. “That will be fine,” she said.

A minute later there was a sharp rap on the door. “Come in,” the officer from Trial Defense said. The door opened, and military policemen stepped aside to allow Cobol to enter. He stood passively, his arms secured behind his back, and Margit took the opportunity to study him. She’d seen photographs of Cobol in his file, but here he looked different. In pictures, he was a handsome young man; his records indicated he was thirty-one; in person, he looked ten years older. He had the disheveled, unkempt look of someone who’d been in confinement, although Margit wondered why that should be. Military prisoners are expected to maintain a daily standard of discipline, including attention to their appearance. Why not Cobol?

His face was squarer and heavier than she had seen in the photos. Remnants of teenage acne pitted his cheeks. His features didn’t seem to go together. His nose was square and
somewhat flat, like a prizefighter’s, yet his mouth was thin and delicate. His posture was noncombative, not aggressive, docile—someone resigned to whatever would come next.

Margit crossed the short distance between them and extended her hand. “Major Margit Falk, United States Air Force. I’ve been assigned as your counsel.”

Cobol glanced down at her hand, which was the only one there. His were secured behind his back. A small smile came to his lips. Margit, too, looked at her solo hand and laughed, then said to one of the guards, “Please remove the handcuffs.” The guard glanced at the Trial Defense officer, who shook his head.

“Captain, if I am to confer with my client, I do not wish to do it with him in that uncomfortable position.”

The captain replied, “Major Falk, considering the nature of the crime Captain Cobol is charged with, I think …”

“I understand your concerns, Captain, but I insist upon this. You have enough military police around here to ensure that should Captain Cobol decide to do something foolish, he wouldn’t get very far.” She snapped her head in Cobol’s direction: “You wouldn’t do anything foolish, would you?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, surprised that he’d been asked.

“Please, Captain,” Margit said.

When Cobol’s handcuffs were removed, he slowly brought his hands to the front, stared at them, rubbed each wrist.

Margit said, “I’d like to get started.” Before there was a reply, she said to Cobol, “Please sit over there in one of those chairs.” To her escort: “Thank you for your courtesy.”

“The security detail will be right outside the door, Major Falk,” he said.

“Good.”

When they were alone, she sat on the couch, opened her briefcase, and placed two legal pads on the glass table, one with her questions, the other blank. She withdrew a pen from the case, uncapped it, looked at Cobol, and said, “You’re accused of having murdered Dr. Richard Joycelen.”

Cobol, who’d been staring down at his shoetops, slowly
raised his head. “If there’s one thing I know, Major Falk, it’s that.”

“Do you accept me as your defense counsel?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about me, about my legal background and experience?”

“No, ma’am, I do not.”

“I am relatively new to the legal profession. I have defended people who’ve been accused of breach of regulations, but I have never defended an accused murderer. How do you feel about that?”

“I … no offense, Major Falk, but I have a feeling it really doesn’t matter who defends me. I’m sure you’ll do the best you can, which is all I can ask.”

“You have a number of options, Captain. You can ask for other counsel, you can request a civilian attorney, or you can decide that you want a civilian co-counsel.”

“Do I have to decide this now?”

“No, but I suggest you make a decision as quickly as possible. Assuming I am your counsel, let’s proceed with this initial meeting.” She glanced down at her handwriting on the yellow page. “Did you kill Dr. Richard Joycelen?”

“No.”

“I want you to understand that if I question you as though I’m skeptical, it’s not because I doubt you. It’s important that you be totally honest with me, and that I satisfy myself that I fully understand the circumstances of this charge.”

“I understand. Ask whatever you wish.”

“You say you did not kill Dr. Joycelen, yet your weapon was found at the scene, and the bullet that killed Joycelen came from that weapon. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t.”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

“How can I? Should I make up a story? I used that weapon on the firing range three days before Joycelen was killed. I don’t routinely carry it. I put in my firing-range time, cleaned the weapon, and put it in a dresser drawer in my bedroom. I checked that drawer just before leaving for duty at the Pentagon
Friday night, and it was there. At least I thought it was. They say it wasn’t. They say mine was used to kill Joycelen, and that the one in the drawer didn’t belong to me. Someone swapped them is all I can figure out.”

“Who might have done it?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I wish I did.”

“Who had access to it?”

“Very few people. My roommate did, but I know he didn’t take it.”

“Your roommate? You live on the economy?”

“Yes.”

“Most single officers live on area military installations.”

“I like the military, Major Falk, but it’s nice to get away from it at night.”

Margit smiled to herself. He was right; she sometimes wished she’d opted to live in an apartment rather than at Bolling.

She wondered, of course, whether his decision not to live in military surroundings had anything to do with allegations that he was homosexual. She would get into that subject, of course, but decided to leave it until the end of their meeting. “Is your roommate in the military?” she asked.

“No.”

“You were on duty in the Pentagon at the time of Dr. Joycelen’s death?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Were you in the basement area where his body was found?”

“No. I was in the security office on the floor above.”

“Directly above where he was found?”

Cobol narrowed his eyes. “No, not directly above, but on that side of the building.”

“You saw or heard nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the surveillance monitors? There’s a camera right where the shooting took place.”

“That camera was down that weekend. At least that’s what they told me.”

“I see,” Margit said, referring again to her notes. “Did you know Dr. Joycelen?”

Cobol shook his head. “I’d been at a few briefings he gave at the Company. I was introduced to him once, along with the others at the briefing. We shook hands. That’s all.”

“That was the extent of your connection with him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Time to get into it. “Have you heard the rumors that you killed Dr. Joycelen because you’d been lovers?”

She expected an emotional response. Instead, she got his answer in tones that mirrored the flat expression on his face. “Yes, I’ve heard them.”

“Any truth to them?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you homosexual?”

“Yes.”

Margit wasn’t sure where to go next with her questions. Once she’d become aware that Cobol was rumored to be gay, she’d researched military law where homosexuality was the issue.

Until 1981, regulations governing the subject had been ambiguous. Unstated. Then, in 1981, DOD passed regulation 1332.14, which stated flat-out that “homosexuality is incompatible with military service.” Anyone in uniform discovered to be homosexual was to be given a dishonorable discharge, that prerogative upheld by the Supreme Court in 1990. The regulation could be bent, however. In wartime homosexuals facing a dishonorable could have it “deferred” if they were willing to fight for their country. Hostilities cease—dishonorable discharge goes through.

Army captain Robert Cobol had openly acknowledged that he was homosexual. She asked was this the first time he’d made such an admission to another officer?

“No, it isn’t,” he said.

“You’re aware of Reg 1332.”

He smiled. “Of course I am. Every gay in the service is aware of
that
reg.”

“Who have you shared this with before me?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘share’ is accurate. I know what you’re getting at. Naturally, I was more comfortable admitting it to others like me.” He raised his chin defiantly. “There are more of us in the military than you probably imagine.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t interest me. You’ve been in the army for nine years. I gather that you’ve lived a homosexual life for those years. It must have taken a great deal of discretion to keep it from your superiors.”

“I’ve been in my share of closets.”

“And no one—no superior—ever became aware of it?”

“Not true.”

“Then why …?”

He’d been sitting on the edge of the chair and leaning forward. Now, he sat back and appeared to relax. “I’m a good officer,” he said, “and there are others—maybe not many, but at least some, who are willing to ignore the regs in order to keep a good officer.”

“That happened to you?”

“Yes, about six months ago. It was when I met my roommate, the one I’ve been living with recently. Someone—and I have no idea who it was—became aware that I’d entered into this relationship and reported it to my superior at the CIA, Major Reich. Reich called me into his office and dressed me down, not so much because I was gay but because I’d not been discreet enough. He told me that because my record was outstanding, he was going to forget he ever heard about it. Of course, he also warned me that if my sexual life was reported again, he couldn’t continue to protect me.”

“An enlightened major,” Margit said.

Cobol smiled warmly. “Very.”

And pragmatic, thought Margit. Like Eisenhower when he was in command of our troops in post-World War II, according to a lesbian officer with whom Margit had been friendly during her tour at Lowry. The future president had a large WAC division working directly for him, performing primarily clerical and support duties. One day, he was told that the unit included a number of lesbians. He directed one of his closest aides, a woman, to investigate the rumor and
to prepare a list of them for him. His aide said that she would, but also told him that her name would be first on the list. She named others whose names would join hers, and pointed out that their military service had been outstanding, and that they played a critical role in helping him discharge his awesome responsibilities.

“Cancel that order,” Eisenhower is reported to have said. “Forget I ever mentioned it.”

Margit wrote Reich’s name on her pad, then asked Cobol to capsulize his military career for her.

He responded slowly, thoughtfully. When he was finished, Margit asked how he ended up assigned to the CIA.

“Beats me,” he replied. “I have to admit I was excited about it. Little Bobby Cobol working for the spooks, cloak-and-dagger, the spy who came in from the cold.” He shrugged.

“What about your family and friends?”

“My father is dead,” he said. “My mother is alive and lives in the house where I was brought up on Long Island.”

“Have you had any contact with her since you were arrested?”

“No. I understand she’s telephoned a number of times, but I haven’t been allowed to speak with her.”

“Would you like to speak with her?”

“Very much.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He gave her his mother’s phone number. “Is there anyone you can suggest I talk to who might be helpful in your defense?”

“You mean somebody who can provide an alibi? No. I was alone in the security office when he was murdered.”

“That aside, I’ll need character witnesses.”

“I can give you some. Characters. I mean, some of them are.”

“Captain Cobol, the evidence against you, as I understand it at this point, is circumstantial but substantial. The atmosphere, the environment, of this case doesn’t help. A leading member of the scientific and government community has
been murdered in cold blood. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know how successful I’ll be in defending you.”

“I understand that, Major Falk, and I’ll appreciate every effort you make. I guess the only thing I can say to you is that I did not kill Dr. Joycelen. I have never killed anyone in my life.”

Margit stood. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but knew she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. She said, “I don’t know whether I’ll speak with you again before the arraignment on Thursday, but I’ll be there. We’ll enter a plea at that time, which, I assume, is Not Guilty.”

He stood. “That’s right. Not guilty.”

“How did it go?” Max Lanning asked when they were on their way to Bolling.

“Fine, Max.” She knew he wanted to hear more but was not about to feed his penchant for gossip. He made small talk during the ride, to which she responded to the extent of not being considered impolite. When he pulled up in front of her BOQ, he said he would stand by.

“No need,” she said.

“Shall I pick you up in the morning?”

“Are you assigned to me for the duration?”