Man in the middle

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We walked out and headed straight to the coffee bar, where we discovered a pot, quarter filled with gooey black tar. It looked like it had been brewing for a week. "Can I pour you a cup?" I asked Bian.

"You can't be serious." She appeared horrified. "It looks poisonous."

My ass was really dragging, and if I didn't get a jolt of caffeine I would pass out. I filled a paper cup for myself, and when it didn't melt the paper, took a long sip. "Ummh… good."

"Why do men do such stupid things to prove their manhood?"

"Men don't-"

"Of course they do." She laughed. "You're really funny."

Actually, if it was possible, it tasted worse than it looked. But as Mom always reminded little Sean, waste not, want not. I set aside the cup for later.

Into the phone, Bian said, "I'm back, Barry," then went into listening mode for about two minutes. She made a few verbal nods and once or twice prodded Enders to elaborate on some point, but I had no idea what they were discussing. Eventually she said, "Okay… yes, I've got it…" Pause. "Yes… Colonel Drummond's also here." She looked at me and said to him, "Why don't you repeat this to him directly?"

She handed me the phone. Enders said, "I hope you two are working late, not screwing around."

"You have a filthy mind, Detective."

Bian was looking at me inquisitively.

Enders said, "Give me a break, Drummond. Tell me you're not thinking about it."

I looked at Bian. "My God, you're right. There's a female inside that uniform."

"Who you trying to bullshit? The lady can make cooked spaghetti stiff again."

Bian seemed to be seeking my attention by sort of waving her middle finger.

Well, enough male bonding. In fact, Bian's expression indicated it was beyond enough. "Where are you?" I asked him.

"The lab. The autopsy wrapped up an hour ago, and now I'm here."

"I wish my laundry worked that fast."

"Slow day." He added, "Where were- Oh yeah… the autopsy-" Then, as if reading off a page, "Stomach contents: steak, well done, and a baked potato, with a spinach salad. That was probably dinner. Serology results: high alcohol content, point one nine, so Daniels was legally stewed. That's not uncommon with suicides, incidentally. Cause of death: gunshot to the head, fired two to three inches from Daniels's skull. Death: immediate-sometime between midnight and one."

"Okay, that's how it looked."

"Was it? There were no open bottles or empty glasses in Daniels's apartment."

"So he went out and got smashed beforehand. Does it matter where he got drunk?"

"Probably not. Now guess what you saw but didn't see?"

"Let me see…" I knew this contradiction was coming and answered, matter-of-factly, "Cliff Daniels was right-handed and the entry wound is in his left temple."

A little miffed that I ruined his surprise, for a moment he said nothing. Then he found his inner voice, which was pissed off. "You bastard. You knew… and you never mentioned it."

"I recall you saying my views weren't welcome." Which was true, of course, and petty of me to bring up. I added, "Anyway, it's irrelevant. Also, probably misleading."

"The hell it is. This is highly suggestive that a right-handed killer fired the bullet. Then, to cover it up, the killer had to place the gun in the victim's left hand." As if I needed it spelled it out, he added, "In other words, it wasn't suicide-it was murder."

I allowed him a moment to cool off, then asked, "Are you armed?"

"Of course."

"Good. Work with me here." I instructed him, "Remove your pistol from the holster."

"Okay… it's out."

"You right- or left-handed?"

"Normal. Right-handed."

"As was Daniels. Switch the pistol to your left hand."

"Okay."

"Now raise the pistol… now aim the barrel at your temple… just above your left ear."

"There'd better be a point to this, Drummond. People are staring at-"

"Is the pistol there?"

"Yeah… okay, it's-"

"Quick-pull the trigger."

He said, after a long moment, "Very fucking funny."

"I didn't hear a bang. I knew you were smart."

"If you were standing here, you'd hear a bang, you son of a bitch."

"How hard would it have been?"

"I got your point. But it's not natural. Unnatural things are always cause for suspicion."

"Not always. Sometimes they merely require alternate explanations."

"I'm dying to hear this one."

"Think of what you observed inside Daniels's bedroom. The television was on, a porn flick in the video machine, the victim had an erection, and his right hand was gripped on his doolie." I added, "The term is multitasking."

He did not reply.

I said, "Cliff Daniels, not being ambidextrous, faced a choice. Which takes more strength? Greater deftness? Spanking your donkey or pulling the trigger?"

After a moment, he replied, "I wouldn't know, would I?"

In spite of himself, he laughed, and I, too, laughed. Actually, I liked this guy. No good cop ignores his gut instincts; his were telling him this was wrong, and he was going with it. Well, it was wrong; he just didn't know why. He lacked what Bian and I possessed, factual knowledge of Daniels's professional and extracurricular activities, or about the large and growing population who might want him dead, and why.

To tell the truth, I felt a little guilty; he was one of the good guys, diligent, honest, good cop. But his concern was law and order in his county; mine was peace and security throughout the entire United States. Bottom line-you can rationalize just about anything under the guise of "for the good of the country"; it's a slippery slope, and I might have been overstepping that line.

"Back to the autopsy," he said, after a moment. "Other than that, Daniels was missing his tonsils. Twice had his left knee cut on, and-"

"Was there blood splatter on his left hand?"

"Well… yeah-there was. Not a lot. Also there was some burnt powder. Blowback."

"And has this blood been tested? Was it his?"

"It's the right blood type, A pos. The DNA test will take longer, of course."

For some reason this did not surprise me. After a moment he added, "One other observation. His liver showed the beginning stages of cirrhosis. Daniels was a big-time boozer."

"It's the family hobby."

"No shit. The Mrs., too? Hey, how'd that go?"

"Different. His ex celebrated with a fresh bottle of gin."

"She want him dead?"

"Yeah… but no. She's going to miss him. Busting his balls was the one great joy in her life."

He thought about that a moment, then said, "Tim… the forensics guy you spoke with… he told you about the hair fibers?"

"Three types as of last count. Why? Were there more?"

"Isn't three enough? Personally, after looking at Daniels, I never would've pictured it. You know?"

I glanced at Bian. "My partner says it's all about size."

"That right?" he replied. "My wife's always telling me it's all about becoming more sensitive, about helping around the house more. Shit-you're saying all I had to do was grow a bigger dick."

I laughed.

"According to his former," I told him, "Clifford had a thing for the ladies. He screwed his way out of the marriage."

"Well… that can happen." He informed me, "Anyway, two of these hair specimens turned out to be organic. The redhead and brunette."

"Organic? What does-"

"Straight from the head. That's what it means. The follicles come off with the strands. That's how you tell."

"And the third sample… the blonde?"

"Yeah… the blonde. The hair was real enough, only the ends were cut at the end, and knotted. Know what that means?"

"A wig."

"Hey, I knew you CIA guys were sharp. Thing is, the cheap ones have synthetic hair-manufactured stuff. Better ones are made from authentic hair, contributed by real people, and knotted into a wig piece." He asked, "What do you think about that?"

"Hold on… I'm trying to picture Daniels in a blonde wig… Wait, it's coming to me-oh my God…"

"What?"

"I went out with her-him."

"Very funny."

"What am I supposed to think, Detective? Maybe he had a lover with premature baldness. Maybe he told the redhead or the brunette he was in a blonde mood, and one or both obliged. Maybe Daniels attended a costume party as Marilyn Monroe. Possibilities abound."

After a pause, he replied, "You left out a possibility."

"Did I?"

"You know you did." He then told me what I left out, saying, "Maybe he had a visitor who wore a disguise because this visitor didn't want to be recognized by the neighbors. And maybe this visitor didn't want to leave DNA traces. Add that up, and once again, maybe he didn't kill himself."

"I didn't want to insult your intelligence." I asked, "Fingerprints?"

"We collected four or five samples. We printed the maid's before we released her, and lifted Daniels's prints off his corpse. Disqualification and isolation will be finished tomorrow."

I was sure that would lead nowhere, but kept the thought to myself. I asked, "As of this moment, what's your thinking on this case?"

"You know what? I was leaning toward suicide. It sure looks like suicide. But some guy from the Defense Department called like six times today. Waterbury?"

"I know him."

"He every bit the tightass he sounds like on the phone?"

"Jam a quarter up his ass and you get a dime."

He laughed. "Who is this guy?"

"Bian's boss."

"I'll bet people are beating down the door to work there." Apparently we had exchanged enough slapstick and insults, because his tone turned serious. "Point is, I've got this corpse, and who shows up and starts nosing around? A CIA guy, an MP, and now I've got this Pentagon jerk looking over my shoulder." He asked, "See my problem here?"

Actually, I saw the problem the instant Bian notified me who was calling. The hour was late and detectives don't put in that much overtime unless they smell something, and what he smelled stank.

Also, supervisors have to authorize overtime-for both the detective and the lab-so Enders wasn't pursuing a private hunch.

Waterbury was an even bigger idiot than I gave him credit for, if that was possible. His idiotic snooping was stirring up the one thing he, and the people he worked for, least wanted or needed-public scrutiny about how Daniels died.

"You're reading too much into this," I insisted.

"I knew you'd say that."

"Okay…" I allowed a moment to pass. "You want the full truth?"

"Sure." He laughed. "That's why I called the CIA."

"Don't take my word for it-check the Post about two weeks back."

"Why?"

"It will confirm that Cliff Daniels was scheduled to testify before a House investigating subcommittee next week."

"So?"

"So… let's just say money was missing from an operational account. A lot of money. You didn't hear this from me, okay? Seriously, this is I'd-have-to-kill-you-if-you-knew stuff. I barely know the half of it-to be honest, the other half I don't want to know."

"All right. Tell me the half you know about."

As he knew I would, I ignored that line of inquiry. I said, "The point is… powerful people on the Hill are all over the Pentagon's rear over this." I added, "The White House is now involved. That's why this guy Waterbury is climbing up your back."

"Is that right?"

"What I'm saying is this. Ten tons of crap was about to land on Clifford Daniels's head. He did a bad thing. He was getting caught. He was, as you might imagine, agitated and depressed. We've spoken with his coworkers. They say he'd been acting strangely the past few days, and-"

"I'd like to interview those witnesses."

"Barry, I… how far did you say you are from retirement?"

He cleared his throat and said, "I don't appreciate threats."

"No one does, Barry. The federal government entrusts you and your department to handle this… with the professional discretion it deserves. Should that faith be lost, an army of truly tightassed people in blue suits will descend upon you and turn your world inside out. Are we clear on this?"

"Make it clearer."

"Suicide, Barry. The guy knew his fanny was swinging in the wind. He chose to spare himself and his family the shame and indignity of public exposure." I paused. "Don't complicate things."

"Maybe he-"

"Gotta go. The White House is on the other line."

I punched off, and Bian, who had obviously been listening closely, commented, "You were rough on him."

"Nonsense. I did him a favor."

"Then don't do me any favors."

"Here's something you should already know. In this case, ignorance is bliss."

She asked, "You think he bought it?"

"No. He's smart. But he'll at least make sure all the i's and t's are dotted and crossed before he raises the M-word."

"So you're just buying time."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Apparently not, because she said, "What about the wig?"

"Forget about the wig."

"You've got to be kidding. As evidence, it's extremely pertinent."

I looked at Bian. "We're not communicating."

"About what?"

"Think, Bian. Everything here points to a premeditated act, not something spontaneous, or even situational. Not only did the killer wear a wig to disguise her appearance and avoid DNA traces, she also splattered some of Cliff's blood and a little burnt powder on his shooting hand. What does this tell you?"

She considered my question for a moment and concluded, I thought accurately, "That… the killer was a professional."

I nodded at her and added, "She studied her target carefully, and I think it's now fair to conclude that the murder was planned down to the most minute detail."

"Explain that."

"She knew Daniels had a gun in his apartment. His ex told us how much that pistol meant to Cliff, and possibly he bragged about it to his killer. Maybe he showed it off as a talisman of his importance and machismo. Ergo, the killer had been inside his apartment before last night, which we already suspected. And by showing her his gun, maybe Cliff himself planted the idea of using his own gun to kill him. It had all the obvious advantages, after all, especially as a prop for a staged suicide. Further, we now know Daniels was a ladies' man-in his ex-wife's words, whatever couldn't outrun him, the man laid wood on it. Plus he was an alcoholic. His killer was familiar with his two obsessions, booze and broads; she, in effect, exploited them as vulnerabilities to arrange his murder. She made sure to get him drunk before they went to Cliff's apartment-thus, no saliva traces, nor were her fingerprints on his glassware." I asked, "After print elimination, we're left with two or three unidentified sets. Do you want to bet any of them will be hers?"

"Okay… I get it." She sounded irritable, and I realized I had come on a little forcefully, or worse, condescendingly. Commissioned officers in the Military Police Corps aren't savvy beat cops, nor are they detectives. What they are are leaders and supervisors of other cops. Though generally conversant with policing techniques, they don't think like sleuths, and a case like this would stretch the talents of even the best CID agent.

Also, I felt bad about busting Barry's balls and I may have been venting a little. This is when you know you've been around Agency people too long. I was starting to act like them.

"I'm sorry," I informed her, and I meant it. "This is a tough one."

"You're a tough one."

Back to the original topic, I said, "Okay. I think it's also fair to assume that our killer was firmly grounded in police work and forensics. She used this knowledge expertly. Does this sound right to you? Daniels's murder was completely cold-blooded, not an act of passion. A premeditated execution. An almost perfect crime."

"Almost? Oh… right. The perfect crime would have looked conclusively like a suicide. No doubts."

"Exactly." A fresh thought struck me, and I said, "But why kill him there… in his own bed? In that manner?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking. The effort to make it look like suicide was to throw us off the scent. Didn't we already cover this?"

"Let's cover it again."

"I'm confused."

"I think we were both confused." I asked her, "If I told you to kill a man, or if you had your own motives for murder, would you do it like that?"

"I don't think that way."

"Here's my point. Professional killers don't get close to their victims. They pump a bullet through the back of their head, or they murder from a distance. A sniper shot, for instance, or an arranged accident. Less risk of failure, and less possibility of leaving inculpatory evidence."

"Maybe the killer was overconfident."

"Maybe." I suggested, "Knowing what we now know, though, consider this possibility: Maybe this killing wasn't cold-blooded."

"That's not what you've been saying, nor do I think it comports with the evidence."

"The forest and the trees might be telling us contradictory things here, Bian. Consider the indignity… the pathetic circumstances of this man's death. I laughed. As did you. Imagine the jokes going around the Arlington police station at this moment."

She thought about this, and I added, "Maybe that was her intent. In fact, for the killer, maybe that was a primary goal. If this gets out to the press-as surely it will-Cliff Daniels will be a laughingstock, stigmatized for eternity."

"And you believe the killer planned that?"

"I don't know. But I'm starting to think that our killer, or whoever sent her, was deliberately arranging a… well-a mortal degradation. There are some societies-Ethiopians, for instance-when they took war captives, they castrated them and then sent them home. By turning them into eunuchs, they couldn't bear children bent on revenge. Ancient cultures thought about those things, right?"

"I've met men I'd like to castrate," she noted, staring at me.

"Also on a practical level, it made men think twice before fighting the Ethiopians. Better than nuclear deterrence, right? But on a more primal level, it was meant to shame and dishonor soldiers who surrendered, who violated an ancient code of warrior courage and conduct-no guts, no manhood. Emasculate them, then send them back to their wives and their girlfriends in shame." I looked at her. "Who do you think handled the castrations?"

"Let me guess… their women?"

"Not only that, this punishment was conceived by Ethiopian women. Forgive me if this sounds sexist, but females do tend to be more creatively vindictive."

"Good point. Remember that." She smiled for a moment, then said, "And you're saying this explains why a woman was sent to handle this? Or at least that it offers insights about how a woman chose to handle it?"

"I'm saying she took great risks and went to considerable lengths to choreograph his murder in a way that is certainly unique. We already concluded that she probably went out with him before last night, partly as a reconnaissance, to get to know her victim, to- forgive the pun-to size him up, and maybe to design his murder." I noted, "The manual calls it staging. In other words, maybe this was more personal, and more stylized, than we assumed."

"Okay… that could be. It might even be a lead." She thought about this a moment, then suggested, "We should check his charge-card records. See where he went over the last few weeks. Restaurants, movie theaters, that kind of thing. Maybe somebody will remember seeing them together."

"Yes, we definitely should."

"It sounds like there's a 'but' behind that."

I nodded. "But that would be a careless mistake on her part. Too obvious. I have the sense this lady was neat and tidy."

"As in, maybe she paid? Or they went someplace that didn't require an expenditure of money?"

"There's a novel concept. A woman who doesn't expect an expensive dinner before amore."

She pushed a finger into my arm. "Because she intended to kill him."

I smiled back. "I mentioned earlier that the method of a suicide often conveys a message. That can apply as well to murder. Serial killers, for instance, usually employ signature methods. Understand that method, and you have insight into the unique pathology of the individual."

"I've read the literature on it."

"Good. So what message was she sending? Re-create."

"I told you, I don't think like that."

"Perversion, cruelty, and lust are your weapons. Think like a pissed-off woman, Bian. This man did something personal, something so infuriating that, for you, or for the person who enlisted you, a simple death isn't satisfying enough. Something more is required. Eternal humiliation."

She looked at me a moment, then said, "Then she really hated him. A burning, passionate hatred."

"Go on."

"Okay. Here's what I think. I don't think she was sent by anyone, I think this was her own vendetta. From the beginning, obviously she was seducing him, not the other way around. The act of seduction was a phase, a necessary act of her revenge. As hateful and repulsive as she found him, she was in control of the situation, and the act of fornication, for her, was just that-compulsory, symbolic, gratifying. They were making love, in his mind; in hers, she was just fucking him."

"A form of betrayal, right?"

"That might be how she thought of it. What creature is it that… that mates and… you know?" She shrugged.

"The black widow."

"Yes, the black widow-it has sex then slays the male."

"Right. She exterminates her mate from the gene pool, ensuring the male will never cheat on her, will never produce competing offspring."

"But this is obviously different. That's sex as genetic survival. Sex can also be a contest for domination." She went silent for a moment, then suggested, "I would bet she made him beg for it, made him grovel."

"You think?"

"Why not? Some women do it to men they love."

"Why?"

"A primal exertion of power. Men are physically stronger, but women have a counterbalance-a vagina, and permission. The pleading, the degradation restores the balance. A sexual yin and yang. He's not in control. She is."

"Wow."

"You asked how a woman thinks. I'm telling you some women do think, and do act, that way. I'm not saying I approve of it-I don't-yet it's not uncommon. Is it abnormal or deviant? What is normal and healthy when it comes to sex?"

As tempting as it was, I let that one alone and asked, "But there's more, isn't there?"

"Well… give me a moment." She looked thoughtful for a while, then said, "Okay, let's deal with the final act. She got him excited… erect, actually, and then she killed him, and positioned him to appear like he was engaged in masturbation. Perhaps there's a message there."

"Another act of domination?"

"I… I don't think so. I think her need for domination was culminated when they first had sex. This was… well, I think she was, as you suggested, choreographing his humiliation. Perhaps she did make him beg a little, but if so, it was no longer for her own enjoyment, her own fantasy fulfillment. Now she was manipulating his lust as a sculptor shapes clay before the carving." She looked at me. "I don't know what he did to her, but in her mind, his final death scene may have equated with that act."

"His nakedness… his erection… death on a bed… the bullet through his head… what?"

"Without knowing what he did to deserve this, I have no idea." It was interesting that she used those words-"to deserve this"-yet that went to the heart of the motive, and that was what we needed to focus on. His killer, or whoever sent her, was enacting a retribution. Like the Ethiopian woman lopping off the Mr. Johnsons of their enemies, this was the killer performing her own idea of castration. Bian looked at me and added, "There's really no way of telling, is there?" She asked, "Where do you think she is now?"

It was a good question and I considered it a moment. "If I had to guess, probably she left the country the morning after Cliff's murder. Maybe from Dulles, or maybe she drove to Baltimore or Philly to widen the trail."

Bian concluded, "Then we'll never find her."

"They all make mistakes, Bian. You just have to find that mistake."

"You really believe that?"

"I know it."