The Witch of Watergate (8 page)

Fiona could see the deal emerging. Barker was going to
downplay the notion that Downey killed himself because of Polly Dearborn's
story. And the Eggplant was not going to indulge in speculation that Downey
killed Polly Dearborn. Unless it was absolutely, positively proven beyond all
reasonable doubt.

What Barker was attempting was to minimize the impact of
the obvious, that media bashing could, one way or another, kill, that reporters
could be terrorized, that great newspapers could be intimidated. He wanted to
set the tone, steer the direction of the story, keep all the players in check.
He knew his power, knew his manipulative strength and he knew a thing or two
about intimidation.

He had cleverly shown them his human side. He seemed
genuinely shaken by Downey's response to Polly Dearborn's story, although he
felt absolved, to some extent, by his own self-righteous act of charity by
eliminating the homosexual incest reference. He was, Fiona decided, one clever
son of a bitch.

He was saying to the Eggplant, who wasn't at all dense,
that he wanted to be in the loop, that he did not wish the Eggplant to mouth
off theories, speculations or assumptions about these deaths to the media, a
major sacrifice. In a way, he was anointing the Eggplant with his favor,
downgrading the Mayor, who, by law, was the boss of the cops, and bestowing on the
Eggplant powers far beyond the mandate of Homicide.

"If Polly Dearborn was murdered," the Eggplant
said cautiously, "our mission is to bring the perpetrator to justice.
That..." the Eggplant paused and stared directly into the editor's eyes,
"...is our mandate."

"Indeed it is, Captain. Indeed it is."

"But unfortunately, Mr. Barker, we are operating under
a severe handicap."

"This sudden jump in gang-related murders,"
Barker said, shaking his head. "It's awful. Unbelievable."

"And it doesn't reflect well on us for this city to be
referred to as 'the murder capital of the world.' It also does not help us when
you roast the Mayor as if it were all his fault."

"Our Mayor is a little too mouthy. Lot of blab and not
enough jab. He's not doing the job. Everybody knows it."

"You certainly have made your point about him. Over
and over." The Eggplant's tone was calm, almost serene.

"Well, he can't blame it all on us. The media. We have
to meet that challenge. Besides, he's been indiscreet; some of his cronies are
corrupt and he can't keep his pants zipper up."

"He's done some good things, too," the Eggplant
said. He knew his politics and he wanted Fiona to witness his defense of the
man who had the power to appoint him Police Commissioner.

On the subject of the Police Commissioner, the paper had
been harsh. Unfortunately the Police Commissioner, while hard-working and
intelligent, was both inarticulate and a bad administrator. His days were
numbered and Captain Luther Greene was one of those favored to succeed him. The
Dearborn case and its growing ramifications, Fiona knew, had the visibility
that could make or break him. He would have to handle that part gingerly. In
that regard, Barker would be a powerful ally.

"We have a constituency, too, Captain," Barker
said calmly. "We owe it to our readers and our advertisers. A fucked-up
city isn't good for business. Mustn't forget that part of it either."

"And I'm not here to defend the Mayor. He's a big boy
and can take care of himself. I'm just a cop trying to do my best. We're
overworked and understaffed. The fact is that MPD homicide is one helluva
professional outfit." He looked toward Fiona. "Sergeant FitzGerald
here can testify that we have one of the best departments in the country, top
professionals with great skills."

"Have we ever questioned that?" Barker said
defensively.

"No, you haven't. But the implication is clear. I'm
not saying it's deliberate on the part of your reporters and editors. But it
only makes our job harder. More than anything, we want the killers off the
streets. We, too, have our institutional image to protect."

Rarely had Fiona seen him more eloquent. He was taking his
shot. He would probably never have a chance like this again. Harry Barker's
eyes narrowed. They were still locked with the Eggplant's. Granted, his display
of courage was grandstanding, hotdogging. But the Eggplant had calculated the
odds and taken this opportunity to burn his identity into the editor's mind,
show him his character, elicit his respect. From the looks of things he was doing
just that.

"I see your drift, Captain," Barker said. He did,
indeed, Fiona reasoned.

What the Eggplant saw, Fiona speculated, was his name in
blazing headlines, a huge picture on the front page of the Style section:
Captain Luther Greene, MPD'S Brilliant Homicide Chief, A Sure Bet for
Commissioner.

"You see then that what we have here is a two-way
street," the Eggplant said.

"Yes, I do," Barker said, nodding in emphasis.

"Worst thing that can happen is if we get surprises
when we pick up the paper. It makes our job that much harder."

The contract between them, Fiona observed, was getting
broader. They were forging a common front, merging agendas.

"You call us the murder capital of the United States
and you keep kicking the Mayor, you undermine confidence in our city
institutions." He was repeating the message, burning it in.

Barker studied him. His grin came on slowly, cracking the
wrinkles of his leathery face.

"We'll do our part, Captain," Barker said.

"And we, ours," the Eggplant added. He stood up and
extended his hand. Barker took it. They shook warmly. Male bonding achieved.
From a box on his desk, Barker took out a card and wrote on the back of it.

"My home number," he said. "Anytime you need
me."

The Eggplant took out his card and wrote his home number on
the back.

"Likewise," he said, handing Barker his card.

"Guess you don't need mine," Fiona piped. Barker
smiled and put out his hand. His flesh was warm, his grip strong.

"I'm glad you're on this case, FitzGerald," he
said. "The Chief's got my number."

"Yes, he has," Fiona said. Then to herself,
Yes,
he has
.

"WOULDN'T TRUST THAT bastard as far as I can throw
this desk," the Mayor said, hitting the desk with the heel of his hand.
The mere mention of the name Harry Barker had set him off, although he had
listened patiently through the Eggplant's explanation.

Fiona sat beside him as he spoke, aware of her role. Once
again she was to bear witness. She had been with him through the Barker
discussion. It was now necessary for her to witness the Mayor's reaction.

The Eggplant was, of course, playing politics, forcing the
circumstances to be seen his way, compelling both the Mayor and Barker, because
of Fiona's validating presence, to be aware that what was being said was no
old-boy back-door deal.

"Everybody has an axe to grind," the Eggplant
said, as part of his summation. "Barker doesn't want it to look as if his
people went too far on the one hand. And he doesn't want his people to be
frightened into pulling their punches on the other. He's one shrewd bastard,
I'll give him that."

"If he thinks he can control this investigation he's
got another guess coming," the Mayor said. He looked fatigued and drawn.
His shirt collar was too big for his neck, a measure of his weight loss, and
his hair had whitened in the past six months.

The man was beleaguered and looked it. The cocky playboy
attitude had given way to the worried, embattled politician fighting for his
political life. Some of his closest advisors had been caught with their hands
in the till. He was rumored to have numerous mistresses on the city payroll,
and although no one had accused him of financial corruption, he was a sitting
duck for such allegations, especially by a frenzied press encouraged in their
investigative zeal by the wave of murders, the emergence of gangs and the
growing drug trade.

"He's smart enough to know that he can't manipulate
the investigation," the Eggplant explained. "All he wants is to be in
the loop, to have input in the way the case is presented."

"And what's the trade-off for us to cooperate with
him?"

"I had the impression that he wasn't going to pile on
that murder-capital-of-the-United-States shit." He paused, exchanged a
glance with Fiona, then continued. "I also had the impression that he was
going to let up on you."

"Fat chance. He wants me to resign. That's what's
behind it all. The bastard is after me because I don't play ball with the
establishment."

This was only marginally true. In his youth, the Mayor had
been on the cutting edge of the civil rights movement, one of its more militant
figures. He had come a long way from that point. The fact was that he was very
much part of the establishment, which also had a mandate—to maintain the public
order and community standards of ethical conduct. Unfortunately, the Mayor, by
virtue of his office, could be faulted on both counts. Worse, he had fallen
into the trap of every politician on the defensive: blame everybody but
yourself, especially the media.

"They want to make it look as if a black Mayor can't
run a city," the Mayor muttered. Fiona understood that attitude,
sympathized with it, didn't agree, but had learned never to argue the issue.

"I think I made the point that the heat the paper was
generating was counterproductive. It was my impression he understood what I was
talking about and was willing to back off." He turned toward Fiona, who
was expected to validate this impression. She complied.

"Seems that way. Especially since he wants something
from us," Fiona said.

"Remains to be seen," the Mayor grumbled.
"I'll accept the responsibility for running this city. But I resent being
blamed for the gangs, the dope, the murders, the corruption around me. You
can't run a city as if you were the Gestapo. The whole country is in trouble.
Society is in trouble." He seemed to be starting to make a speech,
recognized it, then stopped himself.

"Pamela Dearborn was one miserable bitch," the
Mayor said. "When she got her hooks into you, you were dead meat. If you
think about it, I guess I'm lucky. She never got around to me." He chuckled.
"Nobody is going to shed too many tears over that lady."

"For us, that's not the issue, your Honor. If we rule
out suicide we've got us a killer to find."

The Mayor swiveled back in his chair and made a cathedral
out of his fingers.

"In that case, I hope it's connected to the work she
did in blowing up people's lives," the Mayor said. "Sure Harry Barker
doesn't want to see that. Make his rag look like a murder weapon. Piss people
off. I can see his point. Somebody sending him a message to lay off." He
paused and sat upright in the chair. "Got any ideas, Captain?"

"Some. Problem is we're so thin we can only spare two
detectives." He looked toward Fiona.

"It won't be easy," Fiona said, reinforcing the
pitch.

The Mayor seemed to be looking for something on his desk.
He dug into a pile of file folders, slipped one out of the pile and opened it.

"You know how many cops we had in 1972?" They
remained silent. They both knew the question was rhetorical. "Fifty-one
hundred officers. You know what we got now? Under four thousand. You know what
the police share of the budget was in 1972? Twelve percent. You know what it is
now? Half that."

The Eggplant shot her a glance that told her not to
respond. There was one statistic that neither of them wanted brought up. The
homicide solution rate of their department was once roughly 75 percent, three
out of four murders solved. It was now, this year alone, only 20 percent, only
one out of five.

Sure, Fiona knew, the low percentage could be rationalized
by pointing to the growing drug epidemic and gang wars. But the percentages
were still ghastly and reflected on their competence.

"We'll do the best we can with what we have, your
Honor," the Eggplant said. He looked toward her with an apologetic air.
Just being political, his eyes told her.

Brown-noser
, she answered.

DR. BENTON LOOKED tired and drawn. As Chief Medical
Examiner, his department was literally working round the clock to accommodate
the huge influx of bodies being produced in the murder capital of the United
States.

Fiona watched him standing in front of a zinc basin,
washing up, while yet another body was being transferred from a gurney to a
work station. The smell of disinfectant tingled her nostrils.

"Seems like months since we had one of our little
chats, Fiona," Dr. Benton sighed. He was her closest friend in the
department, wise and cultured and full of sage advice. Often, she had sat with
him in the scrupulously cared-for sitting room of his small house in Northeast
Washington where he had lived for more than twenty-five years with his late
beloved wife.

Amid the shrine of silver-framed photographs that
constituted a record of his memories of her, Dr. Benton could always be relied
upon to help Fiona through the crisis of the moment, giving her the insight and
perception to, as she often put it to herself, "blunder on."

"We are encountering a new phenomenon, Fiona,"
Dr. Benton said, tearing off a slice of absorbent paper from a roll on the wall
and wiping his hands clean. She knew better than to interrupt his train of
thought. "The automatic weapon is changing the parameters of a
pathologist's time."

The idea seemed both obscure and oblique, but she knew that
he would shortly reveal its logic. "Used to be that death by gunshot would
involve a single entry. One bullet. Maybe two. Sometimes three, but that was
rare. They come here now with an average of eight or nine. This morning I
counted one poor devil with a dozen. Takes only one to kill. Imagine the waste
in energy, metal and, above all, the pathologist's time. We must probe for each
bullet. Because of the speed of the weapon, the killer's time is not impinged.
Only us, the poor overworked pathologist. I estimate that it has increased the
average time of an autopsy by twenty-five percent." He offered a wry chuckle
and shook his head.

"On the other hand, the value of human life has
decreased by an even greater percent." He turned and studied Fiona with
his startling blue eyes, a legacy of his Louisiana forebears, the white parts
now laced with lightning streaks of red.

"Are there no limits to your scientific
objectivity?" Fiona chided, knowing better.

"It does keep one sane," Dr. Benton sighed. When
he was tired like this, he often took refuge in philosophical concepts,
avoiding the clichés of contemplating human waste and folly. He looked at the
naked corpse of a young black man lying on the table. "Rule one for a
department medical examiner. Never get involved in a corpse's emotional
history."

"In my side of the business, it's hard to avoid,"
Fiona said. Dr. Benton showed a wry smile.

"Case in point," he said. "Your Dearborn
lady. She seemed to have engendered a great deal of federal interest as
well."

"They were here during the autopsy?"

"No. But they want the report faxed over
immediately."

Dr. Benton started to pull white latex gloves over his
hands. "She was a forty-three-year-old female in excellent health. Mostly
what one would expect. Sparing you all the technical details, she did, indeed,
die by the noose." He had lowered his voice, illustrating his conspiratorial
alliance.

"Not before?" Fiona asked.

"Before what?"

His question took her by surprise.

"For us, the issue is murder or suicide." He knew
that, of course. Sometimes he teased her this way, especially when he had
concocted some theories of his own. "You're saying then that she died by
no other means than hanging."

"I didn't say that. I said she died by the
noose."

"That's exactly what I thought you said." She
paused and noted a mischievous air about him. "Is this a riddle?" she
asked.

"Yes, I suppose it does sound that way." He
smiled benignly and patted her cheek with his gloved hand. "I wish we had
more time to work it out together." He looked at the body on the table.
"But duty calls." He expelled a long breath, then turned back to look
at her. "Again sparing you the technical jargon. You'll see it in the
report. Actually, from what I can see, the moment of death came when she went
over the side. But she was dying when she got there."

Fiona was getting the picture now, creating a scenario in
her mind as Dr. Benton spoke.

"The physical evidence, faint abrasions on the back
and buttocks, the location of the abrasions on the neck, finding wisps of
carpet in her hair, her dressing gown and the backs of her heels. We've sent it
to the lab, but I've seen enough to be certain."

"That she was dragged across the carpet," Fiona
interjected.

"By the rope. With the noose around her neck,"
Dr. Benton said. "A theory, of course. But the evidence is strong. The
noose was slipped over her head from behind, as if she were sitting in a chair.
It was pulled taut. The woman fell backward. She was then dragged some
distance..."

"...And eased over the terrace wall to complete the
process, made to look like death by hanging."

"Exactly. There were also grains of soil on the back
of her heels."

"The turned-over evergreens. She was dragged along the
terrace as well."

He clapped his rubber-gloved hands together and bowed in
acknowledgement.

"So much for suicide," Dr. Benton said.

"A good try, though," Fiona said. The murderer
had probably worked things out to the letter. "Hadn't banked on the
intrepid Dr. Benton."

"Or believed all the media perception that the
Washington Police Department was incompetent or too overworked to figure things
out," Dr. Benton said.

"Makes the juices run," Fiona said. Nothing like
an outside attack to bond people together. She remembered yesterday's
"negotiation" in Harry Barker's office, where the Eggplant had risen
to heights not thought possible.

"Captain Greene should be ecstatic. He gets a high-profile
case to take the pressure off."

"I better tell him," Fiona said. "He was
kind of hoping it would be murder."

"And you, Fi?"

"It is our business, Dr. Benton. Only the knife cuts
both ways. Now we've got to get our man. There's a great deal riding on it, a
great deal."

"I would say so. I was an avid reader of Polly
Dearborn. Unfortunately, I've been too busy over the last few days to read
anything beyond medical evidence."

Something had begun to nag at her, something that Dr.
Benton had said. Her mind raced to find the source. Then it came to her.

"You said mostly, Dr. Benton. You said 'mostly what
one would expect.'"

Dr. Benton tapped the table with a gloved finger.

"Yes. Of course. I did say that. Keep me on my toes,
Fi. Not as young as I used to be." Fiona waited for his thought to
resurface. "Yes, I remember now. It was most unusual."

"What was?"

"The woman's hymen. It was still intact."