Dead End

Twenty-Nine

T he interview was geared for psychological pressure. There’d been a considerable input from the FBI’s profiling division at their Quantico training facility in Virginia, from which both Howard Dingley and David Benton were graduates, and the pressure was imposed even before the encounter began, by inviting Harry Johnson to the Bureau’s Washington field office – not by their going out to McLean – and advising the security chief to be accompanied by counsel, an obvious implication that he’d need legal protection.

Johnson arrived – in a sharply pressed suit, not his Dubette security uniform – with two lawyers, the company attorney, Peter Baldwin, and William Clarkson, whom the agents recognized from Dubette’s huddled legal group at the press conference. Clarkson, a quick-talking, fidgeting man, immediately challenged Dingley’s request to record the questioning, which Dingley countered by insisting it was as much to protect his client as it was to establish a verbatim record. A duplicate tape, as well as a transcript, would obviously be made available.

‘I don’t mind,’ intervened Johnson. ‘Let’s get it all down, hear what we’ve got to say to each other. Why not?’

‘Thank you,’ said David Benton, activating the machine.

‘It’s good of you to come. We appreciate it,’ added Dingley, at once seizing Johnson’s overconfident belief that he could handle whatever he was about to face, even on alien Bureau territory.

‘Anything to help,’ said Johnson.

‘You’ve probably got more experience of this sort of thing than us,’ flattered Benton.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Johnson, too quickly.

‘You were with Metro DC police before joining Dubette, weren’t you?’ said Benton.

Johnson’s face tightened, almost imperceptibly. ‘Uniform, never detective. Certainly not murder or terrorism.’

‘Don’t remember your telling us that you were with Metro DC police department when we first spoke,’ remarked Dingley. ‘We didn’t know that until we went through Dubette’s employment files.’

‘Don’t remember your asking,’ came back Johnson, truculently.

‘Maybe we didn’t,’ Benton appeared to accept. ‘Our oversight.’

‘What’s the importance of my client having been with Metro DC police?’ demanded Clarkson, sharply.

Benton’s frown was almost overemphasized. ‘The two arresting officers were from Metro DC…’ He looked at the security man. ‘I guess you already knew them, didn’t you, Mr Johnson?’

‘I’m not sure,’ doubted Johnson, quickly. ‘I left…’

‘… in ’96,’ finished Benton, more quickly. ‘Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery were at that time both serving in the Metro DC police department.’

‘Were they?’ said Johnson and stopped. There was a wariness now, the overconfidence wavering.

‘Yes,’ said Dingley and stopped.

The windows were double-glazed, preventing any outside traffic noise. There was none from any inner corridors, either, just the faintest sigh from the air-conditioning.

Clarkson broke the impasse. ‘Is this meeting over?’

‘No,’ said Benton. ‘We weren’t sure your client had completed his answer.’

Johnson was looking at the flickering light of the recording machine. ‘I had.’

‘I’m surprised, Mr Johnson, that you didn’t know Officers Bellamy and Montgomery,’ pressed Benton.

‘I was in administration in ’95 and ’96.’

‘Where were they?’ asked Dingley.

‘Outside uniform…’ started Johnson, stopping at appearing to know. ‘They must have been,’ resumed the man, again. ‘They’d have had to be, wouldn’t they, for me not to be able to remember if I knew them or not?’

‘We don’t ask questions to answer them ourselves,’ said Benton. ‘Is Metro DC police division that big? There’s shared communal facilities, surely? Canteen, recreational areas, stuff like that…?’

‘I’ve told you, I didn’t know every single person in Metro DC. Officers Bellamy and Montgomery I didn’t call to mind when they came to Dubette. After they came to Dubette, I remembered seeing them around, in the department.’

‘What’s the purpose of this questioning?’ asked Clarkson. ‘Are you regarding my client as being criminally connected with what you are investigating? In which case…’

‘We are not at this stage regarding or treating Mr Johnson as anything other than an essential witness in an ongoing murder and terrorist-linked investigation,’ broke in Dingley, formerly and with the same interruption preventing whatever closedown threat the lawyer might have intended.

‘It would be unfortunate if we strayed away from the reason for this meeting,’ warned Benton. ‘Things appear to be becoming confused, and that’s what we’re trying to avoid, things that are already confused becoming more confused.’

‘I think that’s an excellent precaution,’ said Johnson’s lawyer. ‘I’m also approaching the time when I am going seriously to query the point of a lot of this questioning, if it continues in the way it has so far done.’ During the exchanges, Johnson smiled and straightened in his seat, his confidence visibly returning.

‘I’m very sorry it went off course,’ apologized Dingley. ‘Our mistake. So, we’ve established, Mr Johnson, that although you worked for the same police department over an overlapping period, you never knew Officers Bellamy or Montgomery?’

‘Not as people I hung out with. Nineteen sixty-nine is a long time ago. We certainly weren’t friends.’

‘You left – retired from – Metro DC prematurely, didn’t you, Mr Johnson?’ asked Benton.

‘Again, what’s the relevance of that question?’ said Clarkson.

‘Establishing the reliability and credibility of witnesses in a forthcoming criminal prosecution,’ said Benton. ‘Our prosecutors don’t like courtroom challenges that could have been anticipated…’ He nodded towards the recording apparatus. ‘Now there it is, unequivocally on tape.’

‘Are you impugning my client’s integrity?’

‘Absolutely not!’ insisted Dingley, enunciating each syllable to enforce the denial. ‘At the moment – as we probably haven’t sufficiently made clear or established – we look to Mr Johnson as an essential witness.’

‘To what?’ Clarkson continued to challenge. ‘My client was briefly present at an arrest, an arrest now the subject of a quite separate civil case in no way involving or concerning the FBI. How can that brief involvement make him an essential, material witness?’

‘At this stage of our enquiries, Mr Johnson is one of the only witnesses to anything!’ said Benton. ‘We’re anxious we don’t leave unasked any question that might give us an opening.’

‘I am glad, after all, that this interview is being recorded,’ said Clarkson.

‘So are we,’ said Benton, immediately. ‘That’s why we asked for it to be done.’ He switched quickly to Johnson. ‘You did leave Metro DC police department prematurely, didn’t you, Mr Johnson?’

‘I’d reached my first available retirement opportunity. I chose to take it.’

‘Why was that?’ asked Benton, mildly.

‘A position came up at Dubette, in their security division.’

‘As head of their security division?’

Johnson’s wariness was back. ‘Yes.’

‘That was quite a jump, going straight in as head of a unit,’ commented Dingley.

‘I had the qualifications and experience. I was headhunted, if you like.’ He smiled at his own pun.

‘As I’m sure you most certainly liked,’ Dingley smiled back. ‘How’d that happen, Mr Johnson? How did Dubette come to think of you – find you – out of every likely candidate – out of Metro DC, where there were so many officers that you didn’t even get to remember Peter Bellamy and Helen Montgomery, who were your contemporaries?’

Johnson’s smile remained. ‘Their previous security chief, Joe Blanchard. He’d earlier worked for Metro DC police. Put me forward with a personal recommendation.’

‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,’ Benton said. ‘Isn’t that what they always say?’

‘That’s what they always say,’ agreed Johnson.

‘So you left Metro DC in, what was it, November 1996?’

‘Something like that,’ said Johnson.

‘ Exactly like that, November ten, 1996,’ said Dingley. ‘We got it from Metro DC records. Not a good time around then for Metro DC police. Lot of internal enquiries. Lot of people leaving the force. You remember that, Mr Johnson?’

‘This has got to stop!’ protested Clarkson.

‘Sir!’ came back Dingley. ‘This is a murder and potential terrorism investigation. Two Metro DC officers arrested a man in questionable circumstances…’ He raised his hand, against the lawyer’s further interruption. ‘All right! That’s being challenged elsewhere, in a court with which we have no involvement or jurisdiction. But we do have a very real interest in their reliability as witnesses in our ongoing investigation. We’d hoped your client could simply give us a steer on that reliability.’

‘My client has already told you he did not know Officers Bellamy or Montgomery well enough to be able to attest to that,’ persisted Clarkson.

‘Indeed he has,’ said Benton. ‘But the question wasn’t about the two officers, was it? It was about an unfortunate, embarrassing time within Metro DC police department.’

‘An embarrassing time in which my client was in no way involved,’ said Clarkson. ‘And which has no relevance whatsoever to the investigation in which you’re currently engaged.’

‘That wasn’t the question, or the inference, either,’ persisted Dingley. ‘I asked if Mr Johnson remembered it.’

‘Of course I remember it,’ said Johnson. ‘The enquiries were internal but they were widely covered in the press.’

‘Evidence-tampering… bribery… stuff like that,’ recalled Benton. ‘Which brings us up to date with our current investigation. There’s indications here of tampering with or planting forensic evidence. You think Officers Bellamy and Montgomery would be capable of doing anything like that, Mr Johnson?’

‘How many more times do I have to tell you that I don’t know them well enough?’ protested the security chief. ‘How can I judge what they’re capable of?’

‘What about that day?’ persisted Benton. ‘You’re a professional. You were with them, saw how they operated. They look to you to be good, honest cops?’

‘As far as I was aware – what I saw – they behaved perfectly properly and professionally,’ said Johnson.

‘This is getting ridiculous!’ re-entered the lawyer.

For the first time, the agents ignored the interruption. Focusing solely upon Johnson, Dingley said: ‘You – and the security officers you control – carry weapons, don’t you? Smith and Wesson thirty-eights? Police Specials?’

‘For which we are licensed,’ said Johnson.

‘We know. We’ve already checked,’ assured Dingley. ‘Anything else? Mace? Pepper spray? Batons?’

‘My staff and I protect a pharmaceutical research facility, a very obvious target in the drug culture in which we live,’ said Johnson.

‘So, what else is it you carry?’ persisted Dingley.

‘The night staff – sometimes the day staff, too – carry Mace. And batons.’

‘Ever had to use it? Or discharge your weapon?’ asked Dingley.

‘No,’ said Johnson.

‘Let’s hope you never do,’ said Benton.

‘There’s an inconsistency we’d like you to help us with,’ said Dingley, in a sudden change of direction. ‘Our recollection – and Dave and I have checked our notes on this – was that you told us you didn’t know what car Richard Parnell drove. Or what its registration was. Is that right, Mr Johnson? Is it right you didn’t know the make of the car or its registration number, until Richard Parnell took you to it on the morning of his arrest?’

The blink was of a country road animal on a dark night, transfixed in the lights of an oncoming vehicle. Johnson said: ‘I don’t remember

… what I did or didn’t tell you, I mean… don’t remember your asking …’

‘So, let’s ask you again, Mr Johnson,’ said Benton. ‘Until the day of Richard Parnell’s arrest, did you know the make or registration of his vehicle?’

‘I told you I don’t remember!’

‘No!’ refused Dingley. ‘What you didn’t remember was what you told us when we first talked. The question now is whether, before Mr Parnell’s arrest, you knew his car details.’

‘Dubette have a research and administration staff at McLean close to two thousand people,’ said the man.

‘One thousand, eight hundred and forty-two,’ supplied Benton. ‘Out of that one thousand eight hundred and forty-two, did you know the details of Mr Parnell’s car?’

‘No!’ blurted Johnson.

‘You absolutely sure about that?’ said Benton. ‘On the evening Mr Parnell found his car damaged… damaged sufficiently to remove paint later found around – but not adhering to – Ms Lang’s car, you logged on Dubette’s personnel file access system as having examined Mr Parnell’s personal records. And in those documents is listed the make and registration of Mr Parnell’s car. Do you remember going through Mr Parnell’s file?’

The approaching headlights were blindingly in Johnson’s eyes. He shook his head, blinked a lot, and looked sideways for help to his lawyer. Clarkson said: ‘This interview ceases, now! I need further time… instruction… with my client…’

‘We can fully understand that,’ accepted Dingley. ‘As we made very clear from the outset, by having this interview recorded, we are extending every legally required courtesy to your client, Mr Harry Johnson. Which is why I think this is the moment formally to read him his Miranda rights…’

On cue, as Dingley stopped talking, Benton recited Johnson’s legal protection against self-incrimination.

Continuing the double act, Dingley picked up the moment his partner finished, speaking more towards the recording apparatus than to the security chief. ‘I am now showing Mr Johnson and his attorney the search warrant issued earlier today by a judge in private hearing …’

‘I should have been informed of this before this interview began!’ protested Clarkson.

‘That warrant authorizes the FBI to search Mr Johnson’s home as well as his office and locker at Dubette Inc. at McLean, North Virginia,’ continued Dingley. ‘It effectively seals every article in every stated place under court jurisdiction until Bureau searches have been completed.’

The email had been waiting when Parnell arrived that morning, addressed to him, not Lapidus, despite the request for further avian-flu specimens coming from the Greek geneticist. More cultures were being despatched. So were preliminary papers from Shanghai University updating research on a SARS vaccine incorporating DNA from the infecting virus. Part of the paper indicated that the Chinese were also experimenting upon a similar method of immunization against the current lethal bird flu.

‘It’s an idea,’ suggested Parnell, when Lapidus’s team assembled.

‘It goes along with your D, C, B, A approach,’ said Sato.

‘And there’s the linking respiratory factor in both conditions,’ Beverley pointed out.

‘The gamble comes, as it always does, in finding an acceptably safe level,’ said Lapidus. ‘Remember, we can’t try culture growth in eggs.’

‘What about the mice we already tested?’ asked Parnell. ‘Did we isolate a specific host gene?’

‘I tried, obviously,’ said Sato, at once. ‘The damned strain is so mephitic it’s like a pump gun – everything gets shot away.’

‘Maybe Ted’s just shown us a path,’ said Parnell. ‘We minimize the strength of the virus, under controlled conditions, to the point of destruction. Every level’s logged. Against each level we administer until we lose the pump-gun effect. And then go for tolerance, working through the logged levels. At an acceptable tolerance, we might locate our most likely friendly host. We get the mouse host, we look for a human match.’

‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ gently mocked Lapidus.

‘How long’s a few thousand comparisons going to take?’ Parnell mocked back.

Seriously, Lapidus said: ‘How many other companies do you think might, as our people have, pick up on Shanghai?’

‘I don’t even want to make a guess. I know this is a race but I don’t want any of us running so fast we trip over ourselves,’ cautioned Parnell. ‘Dubette came far too close to that – to doing that – all too recently. We follow this research line, if it turns out to be feasible, like the scientists we are, and always will do as long as I am the director of this unit. And that’s scientifically. If someone comes out ahead of us, so be it. They did better than us and they deserved to get there first…’ Parnell came to a halt, suddenly embarrassed, at the same time as being aware of how often he seemed to need to stop talking, to draw breath. ‘That didn’t start as the lecture it turned out to be,’ he apologized.

‘I didn’t think it was a lecture,’ said Beverley. ‘I thought it was a professional commitment.’

A three-man forensic unit led the entry into the fetid apartment, on the Anacostia side of Capitol Hill, with the investigators, Johnson and the two lawyers behind. Which was where they remained, virtually unspeaking, as the protectively suited three methodically worked through Johnson’s home, room by room. Johnson insisted he had a licence for a second. 38 Smith and Wesson discovered in the dishevelled bedroom, and which Benton bagged, but remained silent at the gradual accumulation of name-stamped Dubette property, which ranged from pens and notepaper to crockery, linen and towels. A switchblade, one half of the handle broken, was found in a kitchen drawer, among an assortment of tools. Benton put that into an evidence envelope, too. In the living room there were several photographs of Johnson in Metro DC police uniform, none of them featuring either Peter Bellamy or Helen Montgomery. There was also a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings of reported cases in which Johnson had featured. There were also six newspaper stories of the 1996 corruption investigation into the Metro DC force. After a momentary hesitation, Johnson felt beneath an adjoining drawer for the taped-in-place hidden key to the one locked part of a bureau, in which was found Johnson’s bank deposit book, with a credit balance of $260,402.

As Dingley said they were seizing the book, Johnson started: ‘I want to say…’ before Clarkson said: ‘No, you don’t!’ stopping the man.

‘Do you carry a notebook, a message pad?’ asked Dingley. ‘Maybe there’s one in your office… around somewhere?’

Johnson reached into the drawer in which the deposit book had been locked and groped a plastic-bound pocketbook from its rear.

‘Why do you want that?’ intruded Clarkson.

‘The warrant gives us legal right to seize whatever we decide to be necessary,’ said Benton.

‘Necessary for what?’ demanded the lawyer.

‘There has to be later disclosure, but not at this stage,’ reminded Dingley.

There was no conversation whatsoever during the journey out to McLean, Johnson and Clarkson in the rear of the FBI car, Peter Baldwin following in his own vehicle, ahead of the forensic scientists. The flick knife Parnell had described Johnson carrying in his trouser pocket was found in a locker drawer, as well as a set of brass knuckledusters. The forensic examiners extracted the entire drawer and sealed it for further laboratory tests upon what appeared to be small specks of grey paint among debris and dust at its corners and bottom. The holstered. 38 Smith and Wesson was in another drawer, along with two spare clips of ammunition. In a top drawer of the desk in Johnson’s office, the search uncovered complete photocopies of both Richard Parnell and Rebecca Lang’s personnel files.

Dingley said: ‘That’s fortunate. Personnel told us Ms Lang’s records had been destroyed before we asked for them…’

The field office bar was on 14th Street and it was tradition to celebrate the first potential break in any case. Benton touched glasses with Dingley and said: ‘You know what I think we’ve got enough evidence for? Stealing a bunch of towels and serviettes from his employers.’

‘Don’t forget the salt and pepper shakers.’

‘And a set of salt and pepper shakers,’ added Benton.

‘How’s a bum like Johnson get over a quarter of a million bucks in the bank?’ asked Dingley.

‘You think he’s going to tell us?’ asked Benton, cynically.

Dingley looked unnecessarily at his watch. ‘Ed Pullinger is making the wire-tap application about now. Maybe that’s how we’ll find out.’

‘Let’s not forget why we’re involved,’ reminded Benton. ‘It’s not so much the murder. It’s suspected terrorism.’

‘Terrorism’s well funded,’ said Dingley. ‘It’s a point Pullinger is arguing to support the tap. And he’s trying for an order to get at Metro DC police records, too.’

‘Towels, serviettes and salt and pepper shakers,’ insisted Benton, gesturing for the bartender’s attention.

‘Don’t you forget the paint in the locker drawer.’