Plum Island (6 page)

Max, incidentally, had spiffed himself up for the Feds and/or the press by putting on a tie, a silly one decorated with nautical
flags. Elizabeth was still wearing her tan suit, but had removed her jacket, revealing one holstered .38 and two holstered
36 Ds.

A small black and white TV sat on the counter, tuned to one of the networks, the volume low. The lead story was about a presidential
visit to some strange place where everyone was short.

Max said to the two guys, “This is Detective John Corey, homicide,” and let it go at that without mentioning that my jurisdiction
began and ended about a hundred miles west of here. Max indicated the dark suit and said, “John, this is George Foster, FBI
…” He looked at Mr. Bluejeans and said, “… and this is Ted Nash, Department of Agriculture.”

We shook hands all around. I informed Penrose, “Giants scored in the first minute of the third quarter.”

She didn’t reply.

Max motioned toward the box of cups and asked, “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

Ms. Penrose, who was closest to the TV, heard something on the news and raised the volume. We all focused on the screen.

A female reporter was standing in front of the Gordon house. We missed her lead-in and caught, “The victims of the double
murder have been identified as scientists who worked at the top-secret government animal disease laboratory on Plum Island,
a few miles from here.”

An aerial shot now showed Plum Island from about two thousand feet. It was bright daylight, so it must have been stock footage.
From the air, the island looked almost exactly like a pork chop, and I guess if you wanted to stretch an irony about swine
fever…. Anyway, Plum is about three miles at its longest, and about a mile at its widest. The reporter, in voice-over, was
saying, “This is Plum Island as it appeared last summer when this station did a report about persistent rumors that the island
is home to biological warfare research.”

Aside from the hackneyed phrases, the lady was right about the rumors. I recalled a cartoon I’d once seen in
The Wall Street Journal
where a school guidance counselor says to two parents, “Your son is vicious, mean-spirited, dishonest, and likes to spread
rumors. I suggest a career in journalism.” Right. And rumors could lead to panic. It occurred to me that this case had to
be wrapped up quickly.

The reporter was now back in front of the Gordons’ house, and she informed us, “No one is saying if the Gordons’ murders were
related to their work on Plum Island, but police are investigating.”

Back to the studio.

Ms. Penrose turned off the volume and asked Mr. Foster, “Does the FBI want to be publicly connected with this case?”

“Not at this time.” Mr. Foster added, “It makes people think there’s a real problem.”

Mr. Nash said, “The Department of Agriculture has no official interest in this case since there is
no
connection between the Gordons’ work and their deaths. The department will issue no public statements, except an expression
of sorrow over the murders of two well-liked and dedicated employees.”

Amen. I mentioned to Mr. Nash, “By the way, you forgot to sign in.”

He looked at me, a little surprised and a lot annoyed, and replied, “I’ll … thank you for reminding me.”

“Anytime. Every time.”

After a minute of public relations chitchat, Max said to Messrs. Foster and Nash, “Detective Corey knew the deceased.”

Mr. FBI immediately got interested and asked me, “How did you know them?”

It’s not a good idea to start answering questions—it gives people the idea that you’re a cooperative fellow, which I’m not.
I didn’t reply.

Max answered for me, “Detective Corey knew the Gordons socially, only about three months. I’ve known John on and off about
ten years.”

Foster nodded. Clearly he had more questions and while he was hesitating about asking, Detective Penrose said, “Detective
Corey is writing a full report on what he knew of the Gordons which I will share with all concerned agencies.”

That was news to me.

Mr. Nash was leaning against a kitchen counter looking at me. We stared at each other, the two dominant males in the room,
if you will, and we decided without a word that we didn’t like each other, and that one of us had to go. I mean, the air was
so thick with testosterone that the wallpaper was getting soggy.

I turned my attention to Max and Penrose and asked, “Have we determined that this is more than a homicide? Is that why the
federal government is here?”

No one replied.

I continued, “Or are we just
assuming
that it is more? Did I miss a meeting or something?”

Mr. Ted Nash finally replied coolly, “We are being cautious, Detective. We have no concrete evidence that this homicide is
connected to matters of … well, to be blunt, matters of national security.”

I remarked, “I never realized the Department of Agriculture was involved in national security. Do you have, like, undercover
cows?”

Mr. Nash gave me a nice fuck-you smile and said, “We have wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

“Touche.” Prick.

Mr. Foster butted in before it got nasty and said, “We’re here as a precautionary measure, Detective. We’d be very remiss
if we didn’t check it out. We all hope it was just a murder with no Plum Island connection.”

I regarded George Foster a moment. He was thirtyish, typical clean-cut, bright-eyed FBI type, wearing the FBI dark suit, white
shirt, muted tie, black sturdy shoes, and halo.

I shifted my attention to Ted Nash wearing the aforementioned denims; he was closer to my age, tanned, curly salt-and-pepper
hair, blue-gray eyes, impressive build, and all in all what the ladies would call a hunk, which is one of the reasons I didn’t
like him, I guess. I mean, how many hunks do you need in one room?

I might have been more pleasant to him except that he was throwing glances at Elizabeth Penrose, who was catching them and
pitching them back. I don’t mean they were leering and drooling; just real quick eye-to-eye flashes and neutral expressions,
but you’d have to be blind not to figure out what was going through their dirty minds. Jeez, the whole friggin’ planet was
about to get anthrax and die or something, and these two are like dogs in heat, eye-fucking each other when we had important
business at hand. Really disgusting.

Max interrupted my thoughts and said to me, “John, we have still not recovered the two bullets fired through their heads,
but we can assume they went into the bay, and we’ll be dredging and diving early tomorrow.” He added, “There were no shell
casings found.”

I nodded. An automatic pistol would spit out shell casings whereas a revolver would not. If the weapon was an automatic, then
the murderer was cool enough to bend down and gather the two shell casings.

So far, we had basically nothing. Two head shots, no bullets, no casings, no noise heard next door.

I regarded Mr. Nash again. He looked like a worried man, and I was happy to see that between thoughts of popping Ms. Penrose,
he was thinking about saving the planet. In fact, everyone in the kitchen seemed to be thinking about things, probably germs,
and they were probably wondering if they were going to wake up with red blotches or something.

Ted Nash reached into the cardboard box and asked Detective Penrose, “Another coffee, Beth?”

Beth?
What the hell …?

She smiled, “No, thank you.”

My stomach had settled down so I went to the refrigerator for a beer. The shelves were nearly empty and I asked, “Max, did
you take things out of here?”

“The lab took everything that was not factory sealed.”

“Do you want a beer?” No one answered, so I took a Coors Light, popped the top, and took a swig.

I noticed eight eyes on me, like they were waiting for something to happen. People get weird when they think they’re in an
infected environment. I had a crazy urge to clutch my throat, fall on the floor, and go into convulsions. But I wasn’t with
my buds in Manhattan North, chicks and dicks who would get a kick out of sick humor, so I passed on the opportunity to add
some comic relief to the grimness. I said to Max, “Please continue.”

He said, “We’ve searched the entire house and turned up nothing unusual or significant, except that half the drawers were
intact, some closets didn’t even look like they’d been searched, the books on the bookshelves weren’t pulled out. A very amateur
job of pretending it was a burglary.”

I said, “It still could have been a junkie, strung out and not real focused.” I added, “Or maybe the perp was interrupted,
or the perp was looking for one thing and found it.”

“Maybe,” Max agreed.

Everyone looked pensive, which is good cover-up for clueless.

The striking thing about this double homicide, I thought, was still the outdoor shooting, the bang, bang, right on the deck
without much preamble. There was nothing the killer needed or wanted from the Gordons, except that they be dead. So, yes,
the killer either had what he wanted from inside the house, and/or the Gordons were carrying what the killer wanted, in plain
view, i.e., the ice chest. It came back to the missing ice chest.

And the killer knew the Gordons and they knew him. I was convinced of that.
Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Bang, bang.
They fall, the ice chest falls … no, it’s got vials of deadly virus in it.
Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Put that chest down. Bang, bang.
They fall. The bullets sail through their skulls into the bay.

Also, he
had
to have a silencer. No pro would pop off two big boomers outdoors. And it was probably an automatic, because revolvers don’t
adapt well to a silencer.

I asked Max, “Do the Murphys own a dog?”

“Nope.”

“Okay…. Did you find any money, wallets, or anything on the victims?”

“Yes. They each had matching sports wallets; each had their Plum Island ID, driver’s license, credit cards, and such. Tom
had thirty-seven dollars in cash, Judy had fourteen.” He added, “Each had a photo of the other.”

It’s little things, sometimes, that bring it all home, that make it personal. Then you have to remember Rule One: don’t get
emotionally involved—it doesn’t matter, Corey, if it’s a little kid who got greased, or a nice old lady, or pretty Judy who
winked at you once, and Tom who wanted you to love the wines he loved and who cooked your steak just so. For the homicide
dick, it does not matter who the victim is, it only matters who the killer is.

Max said, “I guess you figured out that we never found that ice chest. You’re sure about the chest?”

I nodded.

Mr. Foster gave me his considered opinion. “We think the Gordons were carrying the chest, and the killer or killers wanted
what was inside, and what was inside was you-know-what.” He added, “I think the Gordons were selling the stuff and the deal
went bad.”

I looked around at the meeting of the kitchen cabinet. It’s hard to read the faces of people whose job it is to read other
people’s faces. Still, I had the feeling that George Foster’s statement represented the consensus.

So, if these people were right, that would presuppose two things—one, the Gordons were really stupid, never considering that
anyone who would want enough virus and bacteria to kill a zillion people might not hesitate to kill them, and two, it presupposed
the Gordons were totally indifferent to the consequences of their selling death for gold. What I knew for sure about Tom and
Judy was that they were neither stupid, nor heartless.

I would also assume that the killer was not stupid, and I wondered if he knew or could tell if what was in the chest was the
real thing. How could he possibly know?
Hi Tom, Hi Judy. Got the virus? Good. Bang, bang.

Yes? No? I tried different scenarios with and without the ice chest, with and without the person or persons whom the Gordons
must have known, and so forth. Also, how did this person or these people get to the Gordons’ house? Boat? Car? I asked Max,
“Strange vehicles?”

Max replied, “There were no strange vehicles seen by anyone we’ve questioned. The Gordons’ two cars are both in their garage.”
He added, “Forensics will take them to the lab tomorrow along with the boat.”

Ms. Penrose spoke to me directly for the first time and said, “It’s possible the killer or killers arrived by boat. That’s
my theory.”

I said to her, “It’s also possible, Elizabeth, that the killer or killers arrived in one of the Gordons’ cars which the killer
may have borrowed. I really think they
knew
each other.”

She stared at me, then said a bit curtly, “I think it was a
boat
, Detective Corey.”

“Maybe the killer walked here, or bicycled, or motorcycled.” I continued, “Maybe he swam here, or was dropped off. Maybe he
windsurfed in or paraglided. Maybe the killers are Edgar Murphy and his wife.”

She stared hard at me, and I could tell she was pissed. I know that look. I was married.

Max interrupted our discussion and said, “And here’s something interesting, John—according to the security people on Plum,
the Gordons signed out at noon, got into their boat, and headed out.”

You could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the silence.

Mr. Foster said to us, “One possibility that comes to mind is that the Gordons had secreted whatever it was they were selling
somewhere in a cove or inlet on Plum, and they took their boat there and recovered the stuff. Or maybe they just walked out
of the lab with that ice chest, put it aboard, and took off. In either case, they then met their customers out in the bay
and transferred the chestful of vials at sea, so when they returned here, they didn’t have the chest, but they had the money.
They ran into their killer here, and after he shot them, he took the money back.”

We all considered that scenario. Of course you have to wonder, if the transfer had taken place at sea, why wasn’t the murder
also done at sea? When homicide guys talk about the perfect murder, they talk about murder on the high seas—little or no forensic
evidence, usually no noise, no witnesses, and most times no body. And if it’s done right, it looks like an accident.