PrivateSector

CHAPTER FIFTY

A driving winter rain was falling outside the classroom window, and my students were daydreaming, doodling, flirting, making fart jokes-anything but listening to me.

It had been three very long and considerably tense days since our meeting in the hotel.

In fact, we had departed the Madison right after that talk, and moved straight to the Pentagon, to Room 2E535, General Clapper’s office. Phyllis explained to my boss that I needed to be yanked out of the firm, toute suite, and immediately reassigned to other duties-duties that would leave me exposed and vulnerable, just not too exposed or vulnerable. I wasn’t at all sure what that meant, but Clapper promised to handle it, then very cordially asked Phyllis to wait in his outer office while he and I shared a few thoughts.

So our thought-sharing turned out to be one-way, and it began a bit stiffly, with a long talk about proper legal procedures, and the need for flawless professional conduct when operating in the private sector, not to mention other federal government agencies, that kind of thing. Clapper actually made some very good and valid points and I dutifully noted those areas where I badly needed improvement as I stood rigidly at attention in front of his desk.

Well, he got all that off his chest, then said, “Major Drummond, you may now be seated.”

So we adjourned to the same leather chairs over in the corner where all this started a few short weeks before. I sat across from him. He crossed his legs, smiled, and asked, “I believe there’s one other matter we have to settle.”

I replied, tongue in cheek, “I thought you covered everything fairly well.”

“The money.”

“Money?”

“Seventy million dollars.”

“Oh… that money.”

“Refresh my memory. How did it come into your possession?”

“The fruits of a legal settlement.”

“I think you’re confused, Major. It was the fruits of a criminal investigation.”

I said, “No, General, I was assaulted and pursued a very common legal remedy.”

He replied, “Perhaps we’re having a terminology issue. You extorted the money from a public company. This extortion was authorized for a criminal investigation. The vernacular term is ‘sting, ’ and the money therefore belongs not to the agent, but to the government that authorized the agent.” He gave me a guarded look and added, “I’ve already asked the JAG School for an opinion on this matter and they assured me the odds are one thousand to one in the government’s favor.”

But that was three days ago, and I’m not one to dwell on the past. He got a piece of my ass, but as things turned out, I got a piece of his, too. I had strained his long and amiable friendship with Cy, who, oddly enough, did not appreciate that his old buddy had sent Calamity Sean into his very fine firm. The firm did not appreciate that Cy had extended the offer to the Army, and around and around it goes. The day after I left the firm, the management committee invited Cy to change his status from active partner to “of counsel” status, which is a polite term for “you’re retired,” though in his case it meant “you’re fired.” Barry got the same treatment, except in his case, there was no “of counsel” about it. He was simply fired.

But never think Clapper lacks a sense of humor. In response to Phyllis’s request, he assigned me to temporary instructor duty at Fort Myer, teaching JAG officers, of all things, a seminar on corporate accounting. JAG officers are JAG officers precisely because they want nothing to do with corporate law. Right? And it always makes for a lively classroom experience when the instructor shares the sentiments of the students.

Like my proteges had been doing the past hour, I checked the clock on the wall-three more minutes till happy hour. I paused from my truly invigorating and riveting explanation about currency hedging, and thought we’d end on a high note. Of course, this means a good joke. So I yelled at them to shut up. And they did.

I said, “Okay, these three guys are being interviewed by the CIA for jobs. The CIA recruiter takes them into a room, one at a time. He says to the first guy, ‘Here’s a gun. Your wife’s inside that door. Go in and shoot her. ’The guy takes the gun, he gulps, he goes into the room, ten minutes pass, then he comes out and confesses he just can’t do it. The recruiter informs him he lacks the acceptable level of commitment, and sends him away. The next guy comes in, same routine, but he’s in there only three minutes before he emerges and is sent away. The third guy takes the gun, and enters the room. A moment later there’s the sound of three shots. Five more minutes pass before the guy finally emerges. He throws the gun at the recruiter and says, ‘You stupid son of a bitch, some idiot put blanks in that gun. I had to strangle the bitch to death. ’”

I was pelted with paper and laughter.

I said, “Class dismissed,” and they all fled.

So I began gathering my teaching materials and cramming them into my legal case. Happily, I was teaching this class in the Post Community Center, so I only had a short walk through the rain, across a parking lot and a grass field to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, more commonly called the BOQ, where I had a small, cramped room.

My stay in the BOQ was supposed to be temporary, until the killer was apprehended, and/or the repairs were completed on my apartment. But temporary was now looking to be a very long time. Do you believe the management company that owned my apartment building actually submitted a motion to the claims court to have me evicted? Personally, I thought their grounds were a little specious and shaky, but their lawyers appeared quite confident that an explosion and gunfight justified a forced relocation.

Still, all in all, I was happy to be back in the Army, happy to be back with people who dress and think like me, and really happy to be out of the firm. I would miss Elizabeth; I had a sort of Mrs. Robinson crush on her. The Jaguar truly was a devastating loss. But I at least had a nice wardrobe even Clapper couldn’t take away.

There was a knock on the door, and a soldier stuck his head inside. He asked, “You done here, Major?”

“Yeah. A few more minutes to pack up,” I informed him.

“Hey, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ve got cleanup detail. I’d like to get an early start. Got a hot date tonight.”

“Be my guest.”

I turned around and began removing the slides from the projector and putting them into my case. He began straightening the chairs and desks behind me.

I said, “How long you been in?”

“Too long. Enlistment ends in two months and I’m not reupping. No sir, I’ve had enough.”

“Yeah? Think twice, pal. I have to tell you the private sector’s not all it’s cut out to be, either.”

“No?”

“Nope. Let me tell you-”

I don’t know how long it was before my eyes popped open. But I found myself seated in a chair, dripping wet, and the back of my head ached terribly. So I reached up to massage it, and wouldn’t you know, it turned out my hands were inconveniently tied behind my back.

He was looking down at me, holding an empty jar in his hand. He smiled and said, “Surprise.”

What an asshole. This was not good. It was after five, Friday, the community center was about empty, and surely the door was locked. So I spent a moment studying him. He was dressed in an Army battle dress uniform, in fact, with the rank of buck sergeant on his collar. His nametag said Smith, and obviously that was phony.

Also, the guy was really huge, big-shouldered, thick arms, thick legs, and a linebacker’s neck. No wonder none of his victims managed to fight him off. He was quite good-looking, actually, strong jaw, straight-nosed, and startling blue eyes. He did not look at all like a murderer, which I’m sure helped him get close to his victims. His head was completely shaved, although that’s not uncommon on Army posts. Also, resting by his left foot was a green duffel bag, and I found myself wondering what was inside it.

I said, “Hey, you don’t want to kill me, pal.”

“No?”

“I’m a great lawyer, and you’re the kind of guy who’s going to need one.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Well, what can I say? You cheated. You took me from behind.”

“Oh, now, Drummond. I promised you I’d come.”

“I thought you left.”

“Left for where?”

“Whatever shithole you crawled out of.”

He laughed. “That will cost you one finger.”

“Fine. Middle finger, right hand.” I smiled.

“You’ve got a deal.” He smiled, too. We were really getting along well.

I asked, “Incidentally, who are you?”

“I go by many names. Bill, Tom, Jack, call me whatever you like.”

“Asshole?”

“Well… there goes another finger.”

“Right. Middle digit, left hand.”

“Hey, I admire that. It’s hard to keep a sense of humor in a tense situation like this.”

“Tell me about it.”

He bent closer and studied me. He said, “I promised you could hear my life story, but didn’t I also say I’d be slicing off body parts as we spoke?”

“Yeah. But maybe you should rethink that. I mean, I’ll try my best to be an attentive listener, but if you’re cutting and chatting, I might be a bit distracted.”

He dipped his head to acknowledge this obvious wisdom, but pointed out, “Yeah… but time is sort of an issue for me. Tell you what. You get five questions before I begin.”

“Just five?”

“Yup, just five.” He laughed. “Ooops… now four.”

“Shit.”

“Was that another question?”

“Uh… no.” He laughed again, and I really wanted to get my hands around his thick neck. I said, “Why?”

“Why what? Why do I kill? Why did I kill the women? Why can’t Oliver Stone make a halfway decent movie?” He frowned and added, “Specificity, Counselor. Don’t they teach you assholes that in law schools?”

“Fine. Why did you kill the women?”

“Money. It’s how I make my living. Like you, I used to be a soldier. I was trained to kill for ideology and idiotic political decisions. Well, shit… it got old. The empty wallet got old. So I shifted to the private sector, and set up my own shop. Travel, adventure, great kicks, and the money… you wouldn’t believe the money… it’s great. I offer good, speedy service, reliability, and a guarantee on my work. And you know what?”

“Wha- Uh, no. I don’t know what.”

He laughed. “Nice catch. Two points.”

This was almost comical. I mean, I’m stuck with a psychopathic idiot who thinks he’s Jay Leno. But I knew his type. He had to tell me how smart he was, how very fucking superior, how good he was at the game. Because, like any standard psychopath, for him this was a game. He needed to domineer, to win, at murder, and, I guess, at being a wiseass. I couldn’t touch him at the former, but I could bury his ass at the latter. Yet it struck me that I’d better start pulling my punches-as long as he stayed good-humored and chatty, he wasn’t cutting me into pieces. Right.

I said, “Okay. Why did you kill the women that way?”

“Aw, I knew you’d ask that next. Okay, the deal was Merriweather found those e-mails about Morrow sending them packages. So Lisa had to be first because if I killed Julia or Anne before her, she would’ve known. You see that, right?” He paused, then said, “Hey, smartass, you ever figure out how those three knew each other?”

“No. But I don’t want to waste a question on that.”

He smiled. “You’re learning. But here’s a freebie. They were all in some young women’s professional group. You know, where a bunch of stupid feminist bitches get together once a month to complain about glass ceilings, male-dominant environments, and how hard it is to get ahead without spreading your legs. If a bunch of white male assholes got together and did that, they’d call it discriminatory behavior. What a fucking country, huh?”

I wasn’t really interested in this idiot’s sociological opinions, so I said, “You’re getting away from my question.”

“No, I’ve saved the best for last.” He laughed. “Janet’s last. I figured, she’s not an accountant, or an SEC attorney, so even if she understood the spreadsheets, it would take her the longest to figure out what to do with it.”

I said, “Hey, I’ve got good news.”

“Yeah?”

“Her package was a birthday gift Lisa wanted her to give their father.”

“Yeah?”

“No kidding. A complete misunderstanding. So it ends with me.”

When he did not respond to that, I said, “She’s under tight security, you know. And now there’s no reason to kill her.”

He appeared to be swallowing this, so I added, “You don’t have to add the risk. Good deal for her, good deal for you.”

He shook his head. “Nah, she dies.” He studied my face and asked, “Hey, you got a thing for her?”

“Review the deal, jerk-off. I didn’t say I’d answer your questions.”

He chuckled. “Ah, now you’re pissed. Well, I’ll be sure to tell her you said hi in a few days.”

Shit. Then he said, “Hey, we forgot all about Fiorio, didn’t we? Aren’t you wondering about her?”

“No.”

Of course I was. But I knew he had to tell. And he did.

“Mind games, Drummond.” He began ticking down fingers. “Fiorio had nothing to do with this. But she was famous, the cops and FBI would flip over backward to solve her murder, and get more totally misled and lost.” He paused a moment, then confessed, “And, hey, I was a little starstruck. I was nuts for her show. I really wanted to meet her. But I regret it now. There’s a real hole in my life at six-thirty every evening.” He laughed. “Do you believe, I got her autograph before I killed her?”

He glanced down at his watch, and somewhat cavalierly said, “Hey, I hope you don’t mind if I start making preparations. I’m sure you understand.” He bent down and starting pulling items out of the duffel bag. He said, “Next question, please.”

I looked at what he was pulling out of the bag, and given the situation and all I probably should’ve asked him to read me War and Peace. But instead I asked, “Who hired you?”

“You don’t know already?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Merriweather, initially. He didn’t say who he was working for, and in this business, you don’t ask. But he offered big money. Ten million up front, five million bonus if the job was done to complete satisfaction. He explained his problem, I briefed him on my plan, and he loved it.”

“Hal was impressed by a cheese sandwich.”

He frowned at me. “You’re still pissed at me about Morrow, aren’t you? But see if you can look at this professionally. Four victims in a chain, and they had to be done quick. I thought about arranging four accidents, but arithmetically, you know, it’s a loser. The accident thing, you know the problem with that? It’s high risk, never a sure thing. When you have to do multiples, the copycat thing’s the only way. Someone else gets blamed, no suspicion about ulterior motives, and the cops end up chasing their own asses.”

I said, “Who hired you to do Merriweather and Morris?”

He laughed. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. It was all handled over the phone. Five million to do him and Morris.”

He had stood up and started stripping out of his uniform. Uh-oh. The game plan, obviously, was he’d get naked to do his slicing and dicing, and you could tell he’d really planned it out in advance, and remembered all the little things. A pile of tools lay on the floor, several sharp knives, a hacksaw, wirecutters, and so forth. Also three fluffy towels and four boxes of babies’ Handi Wipes he’d use to clean up, before he got back into the uniform, packed everything back inside the duffel, marched out of the building, and disappeared.

By this time he was totally naked, except for a pair of shower clogs he had slipped onto his feet. The guy made even my brother John look like a stud stallion. Why is it guys with tiny pudleys always feel like they have something to prove? It’s not the size that counts, it’s the technique-any woman will tell you that.

So what if they’re lying.

And I had a really juicy dig about that I wanted to get in, and this was really a nuisance, but I couldn’t, because the second I finished asking about Merriweather and Morris, Mr. Asshole had reached over and slapped a tape gag over my mouth. I think this meant our conversation was over and it was time for the real fun to begin.

As you might imagine, I found this both frustrating and very annoying.

He bent over, picked up a serrated knife, and studied me. He said, “I believe we agreed that I would start with the middle finger of your right hand.” I nodded. He said, “I don’t want to upset you, Drummond, but I lied. I’m doing your dick first.”

He reached forward and undid my zipper. He was bent over, and just about to pull Mr. Willie out, when a shotgun blast ripped into his ass. He stood up straight and dropped the knife. He looked quite surprised, actually.

Then came two more blasts in quick succession that nearly blew the guy in half, and splattered his blood and viscera all over me.

Then a voice said, “Military police. Please drop your weapon and place your hands over your head. Don’t make me shoot.”

By this time the big asshole was standing somewhat precariously on his stout legs, teetering and wobbling, and staring down at his abdomen, very surprised to see his entrails oozing out of some fairly large holes. His eyes shifted to my face. The tape over my mouth kept me from smiling. But I did put forth my very best effort to make my eyes look really, really happy.

His legs collapsed beneath him.

I looked over at the window where the shots had come from, and Danny Spinelli was peering in at me and smiling. The next moment, the door to the classroom crashed open and two MPs with a SWAT battering ram rushed in, followed by Feds in their wind-breakers and then more MPs.

Well, it took a few minutes before everybody got organized and settled, before I was untied and ungagged, and before a team of medics provided the official verdict on Mr. Asshole’s medical condition-definitely dead. But frankly, I was a little peeved; and in fact, they immediately regretted untying the ropes before they undid my gag, because within seconds, you could see they all wanted to slap that tape back over my mouth. I was howling at everybody in sight.

Finally, the pair I really wanted to talk to, Spinelli and Meany, showed up. Spinelli I was particularly annoyed at. I mean, the deal I’d made with Phyllis was that I’d be bait for this guy, but on one condition. The Army had to be involved, and Spinelli had to be in charge of the Army contingent. Not that I completely trusted Spinelli. I didn’t. I just definitely did not trust George Meany.

Never put your complete faith in a man with a score to settle. I didn’t think Meany would deliberately leave me hanging in the wind or anything like that, but these matters often come down to split-second timing, and a little voice in the back of his head might have said, Okay, George, wait one more second… look, he’s about to cut off Drummond’s dick… his dick, George… remember what he did to you and Janet, George… now, one more second, and before you know it, Sean doesn’t need zippers for his pants anymore.

So I looked at Spinelli and said, “That guy was two inches from altering my life, you asshole.”

He said, “Ah, Jesus, you’re such a friggin’ ingrate.”

“What took you so long?”

“How the fuck were we supposed to know the guy made it in here?”

How about because the guy wasn’t supposed to have made it in here in the first place? They had stakeouts set up around this building, and around the BOQ. Make sense? Sure did to me.

But an MP, who was studying the array of tools on the floor, looked up and said, “Chief, the guy wore a uniform. No wonder he got past us. It’s right here. He’s an Army guy, and his name’s Smith.”

Spinelli looked at me, and said, “You see what I got to work with here?” He shook his head and repeated sarcastically, “Says his name is Smith.” Then he asked, “Hey, think this will get me promoted to chief warrant five?”

I shook my head.

Meany, looking not at all apologetic, said, “When we saw your class depart, we decided to give you fifteen minutes. We thought you were packing your materials, maybe a student stayed after to talk, whatever.”

Right. And I’ll bet George was out there arguing to give me thirty minutes. But I left that one alone.

Well, it had been damned close, and my legs were still a little shaky and wobbly, but I stumbled to the window, where I stared up at the sky for a while. Everybody sensed I needed a moment of privacy and left me alone.

As I mentioned, I’m Catholic. Yet, I have to confess I harbor a few visceral doubts about that heaven and hell thing. If God had a criminal lawyer’s soul, it would make sense, Saint Peter at the gate with his ledger of sins, the whole pattern of eternal justice, the blessed and the damned, good people in one chamber, evil people cast into another.

It has a nice ring, but it’s a little too pat. But I most definitely do believe in a spirit that exists after death, and I hoped Lisa had seen this bastard get his due.