Murder at the Pentagon (17 page)

“Is that true?” Woosky asked.

“I don’t think so. Captain Cobol denies it. Joycelen was married twice, and was engaged to be married a third time.”

Sergeant Silbert sat back and shook his head, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“You never know. I’ve investigated a couple of cases where it turned out someone who’d been married started chasing boys.”

“Was that the purpose of those investigations, to ascertain sexual preference?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And …?”

“And, they both got bounced out under 1332.”

“I see,” Margit said. “I appreciate your experience, but I don’t believe there was a relationship between the two men.”

“What about Cobol?” Silbert asked. “Is he gay?”

Margit didn’t want to answer. Under ordinary circumstances
she would have considered Cobol’s sex life to be his own business. Of course, had she been confronted with his homosexual acts as his commander, she would have been placed in the same predicament that the mysterious Major Reich had been—whether to allow Cobol his indiscretion and keep a good officer, or to go strictly by the book. She looked Silbert in the eye. “Captain Cobol has acknowledged to me that he is homosexual.”

“How did he manage to stay in so long?” Silbert asked.

“Discretion, I suppose,” Margit said. She mentioned Reich and his decision not to report Cobol.

“First name?” Silbert asked, writing “Reich” on a pad.

“I don’t know. I have to ask Captain Cobol about that. Reich was Cobol’s superior at the CIA, but he’s no longer there. I’d like to track him down and ask some questions.”

“Want me to do that?” Silbert asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Woosky, who’d said virtually nothing, now offered, “If this Major Reich didn’t report Cobol as a homosexual, he violated regs.”

“I know, and I’m not looking to cause him any trouble. On the other hand, I have an accused murderer to defend.”

“What could this Reich contribute to the defense?” Woosky asked.

“Background on Cobol. We don’t have much at this point to counter the prosecution. Any bit of information or insight might be helpful.”

Silbert asked, “Anybody you’d like me to talk to besides Reich?”

Many names flashed through Margit’s mind. There were Christa Wren and Joycelen’s two former wives. Cobol’s roommate; she’d forgotten to get his name. Anyone on the duty roster that Saturday morning who might have come in contact with Cobol, and who could establish that he’d remained on the floor above where the murder took place for a significant period of time. There were others. A cast of thousands. Everyone at the picnic. Joycelen’s coworkers who might have held a professional grudge.

As Margit formulated this list over the past week, it became increasingly evident to her that the best chance of saving Robert Cobol—assuming he was innocent—was to find the person who had, in fact, killed Richard Joycelen. That approach always worked for Perry Mason and Matlock during the final five minutes of their television trials. But this was real life. Forget it, Margit, she’d told herself. You’re a military chopper pilot and lawyer, not a Raymond Chandler gumshoe. There’s no romance in this. Down and dirty. Save Cobol’s life and consider that a major victory. At the same time, do a credible enough job to keep your own career in gear. Had she really thought that? Bellis wasn’t all wrong in asking her whether that was a consideration.

“Okay if I make a suggestion, Major?” Silbert said.

“Of course.”

“I think I should speak with Captain Cobol. I can find out more from him about Major Reich, and maybe identify others to talk to.”

“Go to it,” Margit said. “Cobol has lived on the economy with a roommate, another homosexual. I didn’t get his name, but he should be interviewed. I’ll arrange for you to meet with Cobol. Want me with you?”

“No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary.”

Margit scribbled a note to call Fort McNair as soon as the meeting was over.

“How would you like me to get started, Major Falk?” Woosky asked.

“First, find out everything you can about Dr. Richard Joycelen. There’s been a lot written about him since the murder, and I know stories have appeared over the years about his scientific work. I’d like to have as complete a picture as possible of this man.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What about Joycelen’s friends and family?” Silbert asked. “Should I start a rundown on them?”

Margit almost told him to go ahead, but hesitated. “No, not yet. We’ll talk to them later. Any questions?”

They shook their heads.

“I hope the office assigned to you will work out. Sorry you each can’t have your own, but space is tight.” An occupant of another office in the small suite had been moved out over the weekend, and furnishings had been moved in for Woosky and Silbert.

Silbert stood and hit a reflexive brace, like a pianist’s fingers automatically curling over a keyboard. “I think the office is fine,” he said. “I don’t figure to spend much time in it anyway.”

After they’d left, Margit sat back and sighed in relief. She’d been in command of other people before, including in wartime conditions. But those situations were clear-cut in the military sense. The job of military men and women was to fight, and to be prepared to fight. Chain of command. Rank. So easy to give orders, and to take them when doing what you’d joined up for in the first place. “Fuel that chopper.” “Assemble at zero-five-hundred.” “All leaves canceled.”

But she was in a different milieu now, and she knew it. She was seated behind a desk like any civilian attorney, conferring with staff about a case. Sure, it was still the military; she could order Woosky and Silbert to do things. But in this setting—in this nonprimary military role—things were different—
had
to be different. They
felt
different … they were—off center.

The meeting had gone well, she decided. Woosky and Silbert had been just names until this morning. Now, they took on distinct personalities. They were real people, for better or for worse.

The differences between the two men were marked. Woosky, from Margit’s perspective, was a career military man content to be in uniform but to stay out of harm’s way, to sit in a small office and help other servicemen and women deal with mundane pressures of everyday life—writing a will, settling a bad debt with a car dealer or department store, maybe giving dry advice on how to amicably end a marriage. He wouldn’t initiate much action, but would do as he was told.

In contrast, Silbert appeared to truly enjoy what he did as
a noncommissioned officer. He was energetic, impatient, and probably needed constant patting and praise. She’d give him that; issuing orders would not be enough to coax optimum performance from him.

She called Flo Cobol in New York and told her about her two military assistants, and that Mackensie Smith had agreed to the role of informal adviser.

“It’s nice that they would help Robert,” Flo said.

“Who?” Margit asked.

“The army. I thought they might abandon him because of what they say he did, but I guess they won’t. That’s one of the things Robert always liked about being in the army. People pull together and help each other, he always said.”

Margit agreed, although she wasn’t sure assigning Woosky and Silbert to heron temporary duty reflected quite that level of altruism. Still, she had to acknowledge a certain truth in what Flo said. Military service did imbue you with a sense of camaraderie and common purpose, especially in the field and on the line in war, where lives depended upon it. Wait a minute. In courtrooms, too. The court-martial of Captain Robert Cobol was a war, words and a gavel the weapons, the potential victim in the trenches of confinement and with a rifle aimed at his head.

While talking with Flo, Margit glanced down at notes she’d taken during her Sunday meeting with Smith. One word had been underlined several times, and a string of question marks followed it.
“Insanity????”
She asked Cobol’s mother whether Robert had ever demonstrated signs of mental instability.

Flo hesitated. “No. Robert is a stable young man.”

Maybe, maybe not, Margit thought. She asked, “Has he ever been treated by a psychiatrist or psychologist?”

“Treated?” The mother’s laugh was nervous, forced. “Of course not. He did visit one in New York but …”

Margit sat up and poised a pencil over a blank sheet of paper. “Why?” she asked.

“Why did he see this psychiatrist?” Flo said.

“Yes.”

“Robert told me it was routine. Something to do with his assignment to the CIA.” Another unnatural laugh. “I suppose every officer assigned to that organization has to be checked in some way to make sure they’re stable enough to keep all the secrets. Robert must have been, because he got the assignment.”

“He went to see this psychiatrist before he was assigned to the CIA?”

“Yes. Well, maybe not before, but not long after he’d started working there.”

Margit had read Cobol’s file a number of times. There was no mention of a psychiatrist’s evaluation of Cobol’s suitability to serve at the CIA. She asked, “Do you have any idea what the psychiatrist’s name was?”

“I don’t recall it. He was in New York City. Hold on a second, please.” She returned a few minutes later. “His name is Dr. Half. Dr. Marcus Half.”

“Robert wrote it down?”

“Yes. Major Falk, does this really have to be discussed? I mean, does it have anything to do with defending Robert?”

Margit was not about to raise the issue of an insanity plea with Cobol’s mother. She said, “At this point, Mrs. Cobol, I don’t know what’s necessary and what isn’t. Now that I have my two assistants, this phase involves gathering information from everyone and anyone who might be able to help us understand what happened. Did Robert tell you what he discussed with Dr. Half?”

“Of course not. That would be confidential. I remember he laughed about it, though, talked about the ‘crazy shrink’ in New York. I laughed, too—the patient calling the doctor crazy. He only went three or four times. I’m not sure. He acted strange after he came back each time.”

“Strange?”

“Quiet. Not strange. Quiet.”

The call completed, Margit busied herself making lists of things she wanted to accomplish. She had lunch at her desk. By three, a wave of fatigue washed over her. She closed her eyes and thought of Jeff, who was with his boss, Senator
Wishengrad, at the first day of public hearings into the tumultuous Middle East.

Jeff had called her yesterday. In the brief conversation he apologized for fouling up the weekend’s plans, and suggested they try to resurrect them as soon as possible. Then he said he had to run and would call again.

Her phone rang. Yes, it was Jeff. “I was just thinking about you,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “I was thinking about you, too, which should be evident by this call. Look, Margit, I’ve been acting like an absolute bastard. It’s not because I want to, but because I’m so busy I’ve forgotten how to be nice, especially to a special person in my life.”

She hadn’t heard any terms of endearment from him for too long, and they were welcome.

“We just finished today’s session. Remember when you were assigned to defend Cobol and you had to see me, had to spend time with me?”

“Sure.”

“The shoe is on the other foot. Can we have a drink, dinner, just talk?”

The only commitment Margit had made that evening was to a quick dinner and a read-through of military regs that might be applicable to the Cobol case. They could wait. “Let’s do it,” she said cheerily.

“Great.” He named a romantic restaurant in Virginia. “Let’s get out of this crazy town for an evening. Game?”

“Absolutely. Pick me up here at the Pentagon?”

“How about meeting up at my apartment?”

They set a time, and she hung up feeling happier than she had in a while. She might have been filled with internal resolve that day, but a hand caressing her cheek in a candlelight setting, and a husky voice saying nice things, couldn’t hurt.

They sat on a small terrace outside Jeff’s bedroom, fingers laced and bare toes touching, watching the sun rise through a mashed-potato sky over the nation’s capital. Jeff had thrown on a pair of gray sweats. Margit wore his bathrobe. Empty coffee cups were on a white plastic-mesh table.

“Happy?” he asked.

Her eyes were closed, and she smiled. “Yes, very. We shouldn’t let so much time pass again.”

“No happier than I am—couldn’t be,” he said. “Feel like some breakfast?”

She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Don’t have time. I have to get home and change.”

After she’d dressed in yesterday’s clothing, he asked, “What’s on today’s agenda?”

“Well, let’s see. I start off meeting with Colonel Bellis. We’re supposed to meet twice a day, first thing in the morning and again in the afternoon. He canceled yesterday’s morning meeting, but we’re on for today. Then I want to check on the progress of Mr. Woosky and Sergeant Silbert.
Silbert saw Cobol yesterday afternoon. I’m anxious to see how it went. And I have to set up a meeting between Cobol and Mac Smith, call Christa Wren and arrange to see her, and …”

“Smith really has agreed to get involved?”

“Yes. Isn’t that great?”

“So are you.”

During dinner at Chardon d’Or in Alexandria, Jeff had started by giving her a play-by-play of the day’s Senate hearing. He imitated witnesses and committee members with a series of sarcastic asides, and had her laughing throughout the early stages of their meal. Then, he’d said, “Enough about me and my day. Fill me in, Margit, on yours. Every bit of it.”

“I don’t do impressions,” she’d said.

“No need.”

And so she gave him a rundown of everything that was happening in her life, which, of course, meant the Cobol case, and told him of Smith’s decision to be an adviser. She’d sensed an initial flash of disapproval from Jeff, but it was fleeting. Instead of second-guessing her—which she’d expected—he’d told her he thought it was a good decision, and asked many questions about what had transpired during her Sunday meeting with their former professor and current friend.