A Matter of Honor

Chapter Twenty

Colonel Benton sat in his office on the fifth floor of the Pentagon Building, tapping his pencil on the report fanned out on his desk.

“How did General Stigmuller react?”

“He wasn’t at his best, sir. The Weir murder in Chicago seems to have hit him pretty hard, personal friends, you know. As you suggested, I delivered and analyzed the report for him in person,” Major Staub said. “He told me he’d relay our conclusions to General Weir. He’s been trying to reach him himself all morning.”

“Would this report have helped the lieutenant if it had reached him earlier?”

“No, not with the material we fed into the computer, sir. From official records and official Army papers, there is no connection between these four GIs. They served in different outfits, in different locations, and at different times. They all did leave West Germany on varying dates by way of the Frankfurt Main airport, but that’s routine, the country’s busiest point of egress, nothing to comment on there.”

“And yes, they were all black, all in uniform, and all ended their lives in Chicago,” the colonel said. “But we’ve got more than a third of a million troops in Germany and, as I reminded General Stigmuller, a lot of them are black, a lot of them are from Chicago. Coincidence perhaps, but not a pattern. I gave Stigmuller everything I could jam on those pages, right down to the demerits and good conduct ribbons — only one of those, incidentally — but there’s nothing there that ties the four men into the operation in which we’re interested.”

Major Staub was seated on a leather-cushioned window seat, a bright morning sun warming his back. “Colonel,” he said, “what do we know about Mark Weir’s death?”

“I’ve talked to Police Superintendent Clarence McDade in Chicago twice this morning. Weir was a service veteran, you know, but our interest in the matter is the welfare and sensitivities of his father, General Tarbert Weir, retired. McDade understood that, of course. There are no suspects as of this hour, but McDade’s people are exploring every angle. They’re taking a special look at recently paroled criminals, old arrest sheets, anything that Mark Weir might have worked on that would indicate a grudge killing...”

He paused and looked intently at Staub. “And to answer what is your real question, Merrill — no, we had nothing to do with it.”

He turned his attention to Captain Jetter. “And Froggie here has been keeping abreast of our other interests in Chicago. The picture is developing as we saw it. Sergeant Malleck has been his own efficient self. He made a few specific phone calls, we audited them. The new courier designate is now part of the operation, he is on schedule. We will continue to proceed as planned.”

Captain Jetter nodded and said with a slight smile, “And I’d like to add, sir, that sorry as I am for the young police officer and his family, I surmise the death of his son might just take General Weir off our backs.”

Benton turned to stare at the captain and all the manifestations of his hangover, the pulsing capillaries, the cold sweat, the sting of his reddened eyeballs, seemed to multiply.

“You surmise, Froggie, you’re telling me you surmise? You are ‘inferring on slight ground,’ you are ‘imagining without certain knowledge’? By definition, that’s what the word ‘surmise’ means. That word certainly doesn’t belong in any vocabulary used in this office, and sometimes I don’t think you do either.

“His son’s death, goddamn it, does not take General Weir off our backs. I surmise it might even jam him down our throats. He’s in Chicago now, according to McDade, at the Holiday Inn on Lake Shore Drive, and from this instant on, I want you to know where that man is every moment of the goddamn night and day until what we’re fostering is over and done with. Jesus, Froggie, grow up. Don’t ever surmise about Tarbert Weir, understand me?”

Sergeant Gordon ignored the uniformed doorman’s whistle and pulled his car into the no-parking zone under the canopy of the hotel. He pulled out his wallet and flipped to his badge.

“Gimme ten minutes,” he said to the doorman. “This is official business.”

He followed General Weir into the lobby, then down a hall to a bank of elevators.

“You’d probably have liked the Ambassador East or the Sheraton Blackstone,” the sergeant said, “but there’s a convention in town, fashion wholesalers, and they tied up all the good stuff.”

“This is fine,” Scotty Weir said. “I dropped my bag off in my room this morning and everything looked just fine.”

Electronic arrows above the elevators indicated a car was approaching lobby level. The doors slid open but Doobie Gordon put a hand on Weir’s arm and said, “I didn’t get an answer to my question, sir. Do you want me to pick you up in about an hour, or would you rather have Superintendent McDade meet you here?”

“Just tell the superintendent I appreciate his concern and I thank him,” Weir said.

“I couldn’t do that,” the sergeant said. “I’m under orders to arrange a meeting between you two. It’s much more than a public relations thing, sir. He’s almost as badly hurt as you are about Mark’s death. Being Army, you should understand. The lieutenant was one of our comrades. That’s what the superintendent wants to tell you, and he also wants to consult with you about funeral arrangements. It should be an impressive affair. The superintendent suggested some variations, but Mark filed his burial wishes with the department a couple of years ago.”

“Mark was thinking about dying?”

Gordon nodded. “Not morbid, just realistic. Every policeman thinks about dying.”

The elevator doors closed automatically and Weir watched the flickering indicator tracing upward to the penthouse floor. A man in a business suit and briefcase came out of the lobby and pushed a button. He stepped a few feet away and began to read a folded newspaper.

Gordon lowered his voice. “What I mean to say, sir, is that Mark asked for a regulation service funeral with the police chaplain to speak and burial in the police cemetery. Superintendent McDade wants your permission for an honorary motorcade, a graveside presentation of the Medal for Bravery. He’d like to invite the Cadet Glee Club to do background music, selections of your choice, or what you think Mark would like. And, of course, you should be there for the flag folding ceremony and the presentation of the honorary flag to next of kin.”

“I told you earlier, sergeant, I won’t be here for the funeral. Tell your superintendent to proceed as he sees fit and a John Grimes will be present to represent the family. He’ll understand about the flag.”

The elevator doors opened again and the man with the newspaper stepped inside. Tarbert Weir noticed to his surprise that the black sergeant’s eyes were moist, almost tearful.

“I’m sorry to have to press you at a time like this, General Weir, but I’m on orders. The superintendent asked to see you personally. He’s adamant about that. He needs your permission to televise Mark’s funeral services live. After what’s happened, he believes the city needs a show of unity, a catharsis for its emotions.”

“What?” Weir said.

“Expediency, sir. This is definitely a two-toned town. A white cop was murdered at Cabrini Green...”

“Look,” the general said, “I won’t have a circus, I won’t have a political sideshow made out of my boy’s...” He stopped and willed himself back into control. “Sergeant, I deeply appreciate everything you’ve done and told me this morning. Yes, I’ll reconsider what I just said. You can pick me up in about an hour and we might just drive downtown to see your Clarence McDade.”

“Thank you, sir. I don’t want to seem presumptuous or out of line, but we — the department, that is — think a little pomp and ceremony may make you feel better about your son. The idea is — we want to honor him, I mean.”

The general’s room on the sixth floor was a conventional cubicle with brown and white striped wallpaper, twin beds covered in a gold floral print, and a round table with two padded leather chairs. The general’s overnight bag lay on one of the beds, where he’d tossed it a few hours earlier.

A barrage of emotions was surging through his mind so that for the first time this day he felt the sting of tears in his eyes. It was Mark Weir they had been making plans for, folded flag, television, choral dirges. The dread, the unthinkable had happened and he hurt, the loss was beginning to be real.

The message button on the base of the phone was blinking but Weir went first to the hallway door and set it ajar, then dialed room service for a pot of green tea and rye toast with jam. He wanted to order a double brandy and soda, but he knew his day, and his strategy, had just begun.

The message desk reported five calls, one from Laura Devers, three from John Grimes and one from Superintendent Clarence McDade’s office. Weir wrote the names out in his square, neat hand.

In Springfield, Grimes must have been waiting near the phone because he picked it up on the first ring. His voice was emotional but subdued.

“The phone’s been ringing all morning, sir, but I put everyone else on the back burner. Mrs. Devers is pretty upset. She heard about Mark first thing. She sets her radio alarm clock to the seven o’clock news. Do you want her to drive up there? That’s what she wants. She says she’ll do anything...”

“Grimes,” he said, “tell Laura I’m all right, tell her to stay where she is. I don’t need her quite yet...”

“And General Stigmuller has a private number he wants you to call on. He’s phoned here three times and I told him I’d get through to you. Here’s the number, sir.”

When General Weir didn’t speak for several moments, Grimes asked, “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m trying, but they shot him in the back, John. I can’t forget that... but thanks, I’ve got the numbers.”

General Weir replaced the receiver, then gave the hotel operator the Washington number. He was connected directly with Buck Stigmuller.

“By God, Scotty, I’m so cut up about this I can’t think straight. Where the hell are you, man? Why couldn’t I reach you?”

“I’m in Chicago, Buck. I drove right up.”

“What are we going to do, Scotty? I mean, what the hell is this all about? Mark, of all people...”

“It happened, Buck,” the general said evenly. “I’ve seen him. It happened.”

“Benton’s been on the phone half the morning,” Stigmuller said. “He wants to alert the Arlington Committee. He thinks Mark should be honored that way.”

“He’s going to be buried in the police cemetery, with fellow officers. That’s what he wanted.”

“And Benton’s got his hackles up about how and where you are, Scotty. He thinks you shouldn’t be alone at this time. He wants to notify someone in Army to fly out there. Not a chaplain, for God’s sake. Just someone to help out with planning, get the names right on phone calls — there’s a lot of people don’t feel good about this, Scotty. The brass wants to know what you’re doing, how you’re taking it.”

Weir was silent until Stigmuller said, “We’re not cut off, are we?”

“No, I’m here,” Weir said. “I’m just a little surprised at Benton’s concerns. Except for my pension check, the Army hasn’t paid much attention to me in years.”

“That’s the way you wanted it, Scotty, remember that. Your decision, not ours.”

A waiter tapped on the half-open door and Weir signaled him to come in. The man set the tray on the table and brought over a check and a pen to sign the tab.

“Hold on, Buck,” Weir said into the phone and reached for the pen. A fragmented concern made him pause. “... there’s a lot of people don’t feel good about this, Scotty.”

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. “The change is for you. I don’t want charges on my bill.”

The man smiled his appreciation and when Weir heard the door close behind him, he said into the phone, “What about the matter I called you on last night, Buck?”

“Yes, yes. I wanted to tell you about that. Benton put his Major Staub on the job. Staub ran a check and made out a report — twelve pages — and brought it in himself this morning.

“I’ve gone over every detail and gave it my own evaluation, Scotty. There is no discernible pattern in the background, assignments, performance or psychotypes that links those four dead GIs in any way. They were in Germany, yes, but at varying times and in varying areas. And as Staub pointed out to me, we have about a third of a million men over there, a lot of them are black, likely to end up in trouble. I’m being as frank as I can, Scotty. I don’t think those four Chicago murders are connected with the Army in any way.”

“Five murders, Buck, Somebody got my boy last night.”

He heard Stigmuller’s sharp intake of breath. “Tarbert, listen to me. You’re upset and you have every reason to be. But I know you. I can tell from that goddamn steel in your voice that you’re not saying what you really want to say. I’m shocked, Scotty, shocked. Let me answer your question for you.”

“You know my question?”

“Yes, and here’s my answer. Get that damned idea out of your head and keep it out. The Army doesn’t kill that way and you should damned well know it.”

“Buck,” Weir said, “I’m going to be in touch with you again before the day is out. I’ll call you back when I can. And in the meantime, I want you to do something for me. I’m going to give you a name, a soldier to check out. I want all the information you can give me. And do this on your own. Don’t go through Benton’s office on this one, got that?”

“You have my word, Scotty.”

“All right. The name to check out is Durham Lasari.”

“I’ve got that,” General Stigmuller said. “I’ll have a record on him, if there is one, when you get back to me. Anything else, Scotty? You name it...”

Put those four stars to use, lean on your connections... Those were almost the last words Mark had said to him.

“In a day or two, Buck, I’m going to ask you for something, something very important. You make up your own mind, but as far as I’m concerned, it will be a direct order.”

“I stand alerted, sir,” General Stigmuller said.

“And here’s a hunch, Buck, just a hunch. When you’re checking on Durham Lasari, see if you can find me a readout on George Jackson. Got that? George Jackson, no middle initial that I know of.”

Weir hung up the phone and poured himself a cup of tea, then looked down at the slip of paper still in his hand. Laura Devers... John Grimes... Superintendent Clarence McDade...

The general tore the paper into bits and threw the scraps into a wastebasket. Then he checked his watch and gave himself five minutes for the tea and rye toast.

He went into the lobby with his overnight bag, told the desk clerk he wouldn’t be staying for the night after all, and presented a credit card. As he went toward the revolving doors, Sergeant DuBois Gordon raised himself from a leather chair and fell into step beside him.

“I knew you didn’t plan to see the superintendent, general,” he said, “so I waited to say goodbye.”

General Weir gave his license number to the doorman who jogged around to the hotel parking lot. The two men stood in silence until the doorman brought the Mercedes up under the canopy. Sergeant Gordon swung the single piece of luggage into the back seat, then went around to the driver’s side and tapped on the window.

When Scotty Weir rolled it down, the police sergeant leaned his elbows on the door and said, “If there was anything I could do that would bring Mark back, like cutting off my right arm, I’d do it. But I don’t want you driving off thinking you’re alone in this, general. We’re going to find who did it.”

A car behind the Mercedes honked and Gordon said to the doorman, “Explain to that gentleman that this is police business.”

When he turned to the general again, his dark eyes were moist with tears. “I’m mad, too, general. Different things get different people mad. My grandfather was pretty senile when they brought him up from Alabama to live with us. He got my bed, I got a cot in the corner. I soon learned what got him mad. There was a song down South in the old days called ‘What Makes a Nigger Prowl,’ a real catchy thing about watermelons and breaking into chicken coops. Little white kids got to sing it at school, sometimes they’d just shout the words at my granddaddy when he was walking down the road. That’s what got him mad. That’s what he’d rant and curse about at night when I was trying to sleep.

“Well, Doobie Gordon’s got something different on his mind. I’ve been black all my life, general. I don’t need ethnotherapy. I know who I am, what I see and what I hear. And that voice on Mark’s squad car tape last night, that wasn’t Martin Luther King — that was a honkie setting Mark up. And that’s what gets me mad, some bastard pretending to be kin to Mrs. Lewis, trying to dump the killing on my people. But I’m not helpless like my granddaddy. I don’t have to take it. I got a badge that says I can fight back. So you’re not alone in this, general, remember that.”