Secret Sanction (19 page)

Someone inside my organization was leaking things to somebody who worked for the President of the United States, who, for some inexplicable reason, spent his early mornings listening to someone talking about me. One, or maybe both, of my co-investigators was spilling their guts about how incompetent I am to the chief of the Army’s JAG Corps. A ruthlessly ambitious reporter knew something very dangerous about my background, and to top everything off, the very same general who got me this assignment had suddenly developed a severe case of character deficiency.

That’s a fairly long list of crappy things to discover in only one day. The problem was, like most paranoids, I wanted someone to lash out at. But who?

There were Delbert and Morrow, neither of whom I knew anything about. That is, aside from what I’d read in their legal and personnel files. Of course, those files came from Clapper’s office, and I suddenly found myself wondering if they were authentic. As Mssr. Berkowitz had discovered, not all Army files are what they purport to be. Then there was Imelda’s chorus of four legal assistants, any of whom could be passing information along.

I kind of wanted the mole to be Delbert, since I didn’t like him all that much. He struck me as an uptight pretty boy who would put a shiv in his own mother to get ahead. I was praying it wasn’t Morrow. She was gorgeous and had those sympathetic eyes, and I really wanted to see if the body underneath those running pants matched the fervid extremes of my imagination. I’d already built myself this nice little scenario where I cracked the case, got the pretty girl, and rode off into the sunset. I love Imelda, but she was a little too old and gnarly to be climbing up on the back of my horse. It had to be Morrow or nobody. The problem was that Morrow was every bit as scheming and ambitious as Delbert, and as I’d already discovered, she could run circles around him in the sly and devious categories. Sly and devious just happened to be the traits of whoever was ratting me out.

Then just as I’m about to nod off, a new hallucination slowly interrupted my progress. If these guys in Washington were going to all this trouble, they must know something. Something really awful. Like maybe this was one of those White House conspiracies they always make such great movies about, the ones where all these guys in Brooks Brothers power suits get together and start manipulating the organs of government in sinister ways to...

This was when I decided that I was going way too far. The problem with paranoia is that it sneaks up on you. You start by wondering why the guy next door didn’t invite you to his barbecue. Then you’re convinced the whole neighborhood’s in on the conspiracy. Then you’re passing out literature about the Trilateral Commission. Then before you know it there’s a high-powered rifle in your hands, and you’re on a rooftop, and there’s a bunch of angry cops scurrying around who really are trying to get you.

Maybe Clapper just guessed that I was getting bogged down in details. Maybe he really was concerned about my unique background and how that might make me inquisitive about all sorts of innocuous little things that really have nothing to do with guilt or innocence. And now that I thought about it, he never actually came out and asked me to give Sanchez and his crew a clean slate. He just hinted how convenient that would be. What the hell? That was nothing more than a harmless restatement of the obvious. And how did Jeremy Berkowitz know what the President did every morning? Hell, the President’s own wife didn’t know all the things he was doing in that round office.

I awoke the next morning feeling game and fresh. I actually sang while I showered, until the guy two stalls down hurled a bar of soap at me. By the time I reached our little office building, I was actually thinking about being nice to Delbert for a change, which only goes to show you how awfully guilty I felt about all those dark thoughts I’d had the night before.

I noticed when I walked in that everybody was sitting quietly and somberly at their desks. Somberly, like something was terribly wrong. Somberly, like something very distressing was going down. Quietly, like nobody was talking because nobody knew what to say.

I also noticed two big, burly military policemen sipping coffee and lounging by the entrance to my office.

“Excuse me, Major Drummond?” the bigger of the two asked, shoving himself off the wall. He wore captain’s bars, and his nametag read Wolkowitz.

I said, “How can I help you, Captain?”

“We need to talk to you.” He glanced around the office and his face acquired a very portentous cloud. “Alone, if you don’t mind.”

We walked into my office and I politely offered him and his sergeant seats, which they both too brusquely declined. The sergeant pulled a small notebook out of his pocket, poised his pencil, and stared at me like I was the Boston Strangler. I knew this routine.

I sat behind my desk and tried to look relaxed.

Captain Wolkowitz said, “Could you tell us where you were between 2400 and 0500 hours this morning?”

“No, I cannot tell you where I was. I mean, I could, but you haven’t given me any reason.”

He gave me one of those “Oh brother, what have I done to deserve another smart-assed lawyer” kind of looks. All cops, even military cops, learn to master that look fairly early in their careers.

“Do you know a man named Jeremy Berkowitz?” he asked. “Again, Captain, why are you asking?”

“I’m asking because Berkowitz was murdered last night.”

I stared at him, and he stared at me.

Then he said, “Now, I’ll ask you again. Did you know Mr. Berkowitz?”

“I met him here yesterday.”

“And where were you last night?”

“I was on my cot, in my tent, trying to fall asleep.”

“You share that tent with anyone?”

“No.”

“Then there are no witnesses to corroborate your story?” “Captain . . . uh, Wolkowitz,” I said, pronouncing his name with exaggerated care as though I were committing it to memory, “do you have some reason to suspect me of murdering Mr. Berkowitz?”

He paused, and that was his first serious mistake.

I stood up and pounded a fist on my desk. “I asked you a question, Captain! You’ve got two seconds to answer or I’ll press charges against you for refusing a lawful order.”

He backed up a bit. “Sir, I—”

“What’s your unit?” I barked.

“502nd Military Police Battalion. But, sir, I—”

“Are you gonna answer my damned question or do I need to pick up the phone and call your commanding officer?”

By this time he had backed up all the way to the wall. He obviously was not used to having his suspects, or whatever I was, explode in his face. “Sir, I—”

“You nothing, Captain! Obviously, you’ve already questioned my office staff?”

Like most people do when they get flustered, his eyes quickly darted toward the floor. Mistake number two.

I pounded the desk again and went down about three octaves and up about twenty decibels. “I can’t believe this! See what’s on my collar,Wolkowitz? You know why I’m here at Tuzla? The Secretary of the Army personally appointed me as an Article 32 investigating officer. And you come in here, without my permission, and interview my people?”

I was working up a nice head of steam, and it suddenly struck Captain Wolkowitz that I am a lawyer, and that means I’m genetically long-winded, and I could probably go on like this for hours. He made the wise decision.

“No, sir, you’re not a suspect,” he said, surrendering very nicely. “At least, not yet,” he added, trying to recover at least a bit of ground.

“Then why are you asking me these questions?”

“We found your name in Mr. Berkowitz’s notebook.” “Berkowitz was a reporter who covers the military. Probably half the names on active duty were written in that book. How many other names were in there?”

“A lot . . . but only a few of them are assigned here.”

The golden rule of military tactics is that once you’ve taken the offensive, never hesitate or you’ll find yourself in full-scale retreat.

“How did he die?” I demanded.

“He...uh...”

“How did he die, Captain?!!”

“Sir, he was strangled.”

“How was he strangled?”

“With a garrote. His arteries were cut, but the actual cause of death was asphyxiation.”

“And where did this happen?”

“He was staying at the press quarters inside the information officer’s compound. He apparently got up in the middle of the night to go to the latrine. He was murdered right at the urinal.”

“With a garrote, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“Homemade or professional quality?”

“It looked store-bought.A metal wire attached to two wooden handles.”

“Who found him?”

“An AP reporter named Wolf. He had to catch a 5
A.M
. flight.

When he went into the latrine to clean up, he walked right into it.”

I studied the two of them for a moment.Then I said,“Sergeant, please step out of my office.”

He looked at his captain, who nodded for him to do as he was told. Then I stood up. I walked around the desk and leaned against it. The time had come to eliminate the barriers and restore relations with Captain Wolkowitz.

“You’ve already called the
Washington Herald
?” I asked in a much calmer, much friendlier tone.

“Yes, sir. They’re real unhappy. This isn’t going down well.” I chuckled at that. “Their star military reporter murdered while standing at a pisser at an American military installation. I don’t blame them. That’s a pretty hard headline to write.”

Since poor Captain Wolkowitz was charged with the responsibility of maintaining law and order on this compound, he was having a bit of trouble seeing the humor in that.

I said, “Are you aware what Berkowitz was doing here?” “The information officer told us he was working on a story about the bombing operation.”

“That’s only half of it. The other half was that he was working on a story about my investigation.”

Wolkowitz scratched his head, then said, “The
Herald
told us he filed a dispatch at about 2330 hours last night. That’s how we narrowed down the time of death. They didn’t say what it was about, though.”

This was where it was going to get tricky. As a lawyer, I’ve been trained to know it’s never a good idea to lie to or mislead the police. Lord knows, I’d counseled enough clients to always tell the truth, because the mere act of lying is a crime. At least it is under military law, which is a bit stingier than civilian law. The trick was that I had to appear forthcoming without actually being all that forthcoming.

I said, “He came here yesterday to interview me. I had the impression he had an inside source and was ready to break something big.”

“What gave you that impression, sir?”

“He alluded to the story a few times. He was obviously excited, like he was on to something. Hell, he as much as admitted he had an inside source.”

“And what did he want from you?”

“I think it was just routine journalistic courtesy. He wanted to give me the chance to confirm some details.”

“He gave you no hints or clues who his source was?”

I looked disgusted. “His exact words were that he’s never had a source uncovered. He seemed very proud of that.”

“Was this your only interaction with him?”

“No. He called me from Washington the other day.”

“And what was that about?”

“I don’t know. I hung up on him before he could get into it.” “Why did you hang up on him?”

“Because I think he wanted me to leak, and frankly, I found the idea repugnant.”

So far, I’d managed to be completely truthful without being the least bit truthful. My law school professors would be abundantly proud of me. But if this conversation continued, then this big captain was liable to ask me a question or two I couldn’t contort into a wholly wrong context. And I’d be breaking at least one or two laws.

I quickly said, “So ...hey, what’s your first name, anyway?” “Paul. My friends call me Wolky, though.”

I smiled warmly, like I was one of those friends.“Okay,Wolky. First, I apologize for my blowup. I’m sorry. It’s just that ...well, I’ve been under a lot of pressure. Coming in here as the investigating officer ...you know, folks haven’t been real friendly.”

“Hey, I understand,” Wolky said, and I was sure he did. Remember how I mentioned that lawyers aren’t real popular in the Army? Well, military policemen are about ten notches down from that. The only reason Green Berets even allow MPs inside their bars is so they can have somebody to pound the crap out of when they get bored with the booze.

“No hard feelings?” I asked, still with that silly smile.

“Nah, ’course not.”

“Good. Now I imagine you’re bringing the Criminal Investigation Division into this?”

“A team’s flying in from Heidelberg right now. They’ve asked me to begin collecting evidence and statements.”

“Right. That’s good. Never let the trail of evidence get cold. Now it’s not that I have any reason to suspect that there’s any connection between Berkowitz’s murder and my investigation, but I’d like to play it safe. When CID gets here, I want them to stop by. I want to know everything you learn about this murder.”

“You think there might be a connection?”

“Wolky, there are a million plausible reasons Berkowitz was murdered. This guy made his living writing derogatory stories about the military. He’s hated by about everyone who’s ever worn a military uniform. Hell, he could’ve bought some dope from a pusher in uniform and was running delinquent in his payments. Maybe he was gay and got caught peeking over the urinal at the wrong guy’s peepee. Wouldn’t be the first time. At least three or four gays have been offed in military latrines over the past few years.”

Wolkowitz was listening intently to my silly theories, as though what I was suggesting was perfectly lucid. A nice guy, but he sure as hell wasn’t the brightest bulb in the hardware store. Of course Berkowitz’s murder was connected with my investigation. I was sure of it. He’d wired back his story, gone to his room to get some sleep, was awakened by that tiny bladder, and somebody was either waiting for him or followed him into that latrine.