Secret sanction

Chapter 24

Clapper called at two that night. I began to suspect something insidious in these late-night calls. Maybe this was part of the conspiracy: to try to make me so groggy and miserable that I’d be willing to buy any line of baloney just to get this over with and get some rest. Very devious, those guys.

Clapper said, “Where are you? Are you getting it wrapped up?”

“Dotting a few i’s and crossing a few t’s,” I answered, trying to sound confident.

“I had a call from General Foster over at NSA. He’s furious. He said you’re making trouble for one of his employees, a Mr. Jones. What’s this one about?”

I should have expected this. I said, “I’m just trying to make him get reasonable. He’s the same guy who showed us the tapes and transcripts. Only he won’t let us have any copies. Too sensitive, he says. I told him I could live with that as long as I had his name and section so I can refer to him in my report.”

Clapper said, “You should be able to get by perfectly fine without them. This Jones character is apparently in a very sensitive job. General Foster offered to let us use his own name.”

“Boss, it’s a chain of evidence thing. Only in this case, I’m not allowed to even touch the evidence. You know the rules. You’ve got to establish the chain of evidence.”

This was an entirely specious line of legal reasoning, but it sounded proximate enough to the real rules of evidence that it might be true.

At any rate, Clapper blew right through it. “If you’re going to recommend against court-martial, it’s irrelevant. It won’t be tested in court. Damn it, Sean, just use Foster’s name.”

I said, “Sir, I’m the investigating officer. I don’t care if it won’t be tested in court. I don’t do shoddy work. You can advise me on this, but you can’t order me.”

There was the sound of a set of lungs being emptied on the other line. Clapper was ordinarily a very even-tempered fellow, but major generals don’t generally take it kindly when junior officers remind them of their limits.

“You’re already facing an inquiry into your professional conduct. Let’s not make this any worse.”

“Sorry, General, but I have to do what I think is right.”

“Have it your way,” he said before he hung up, sounding very pissed off.

I hung up the phone myself, then pushed the stop button on the tape recorder I had turned on the moment he identified himself. Recording a phone conversation without the willful consent of the other party is a moderately serious violation of the federal statutes. I really didn’t care, though. I didn’t plan on using the tape in court, where it would be inadmissible anyway. But I knew the boys in the editorial office of the Washington Herald would love listening to it, if things came to that. Besides, they-whoever they were-weren’t playing fair with me. So why should I?

On that note, I slept soundly until I felt a rough hand shaking my shoulder. I blinked a few times, until I was able to get my lids to stay up. Not up very far, but enough that I could squint and just make out vague shapes. Martie whatever was hunched over beside my cot and peering into my face. Behind him were two real big shadows that I guessed were military policemen.

“Please get dressed and come with me,” he said.

I struggled out of my sleeping bag and sat up. “Are you going to explain what this is about?” I asked, searching around for my battle dress and combat boots.

“When we get to my office.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“I’m taking you into custody.”

I felt very groggy, and decided not to speak again until I had a cup of coffee in my hand and the caffeine was doing its magic. I got dressed quickly, then stood up and staggered along behind Martie. A military policeman walked on each of my flanks. I noticed that Martie was dressed in the same cockeyed checkered outfit he’d worn the day before. He must’ve worked through the night.

The time was three in the morning, so the streets were still dark and empty as we headed to his office. I kept a wary eye on Martie and his escorts. For all I knew, they were working for Tretorne or Murphy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed like a perfect pretense to perform one of those nasty “sanction” things on me. They’d take me to some dark, secluded part of the compound, then pop me in the back of the head. On the other hand, they hadn’t handcuffed me, and I took that as an encouraging sign.

It wasn’t until we got to the MP station that I relaxed. I shouldn’t have though. What Martie had in store for me was better than taking me into the woods and shooting me.

“Sit down, please,” he ordered once we were gathered around a table in an interview room. He then read me my rights. This was something I’d done to suspects a number of times, but you get tight in funny places when the words are recited to you.

I heard him out until he asked, “Do you wish to retain counsel at this time?”

This is always the critical question. I had no idea what I was charged with. I had no idea if I was even going to be charged. I decided that a lawyer probably wasn’t going to do me any more good than I could do for myself. I mean, I’m a lawyer, right? Of course, it’s exactly that kind of solipsistic thinking that gets a lawyer in deep shit. When it’s you the police are questioning, you lose the ability to make the kind of cold, disinterested, dispassionate decisions a hired barrister provides.

Regardless, I said, “Not at this time.”

Martie looked at the two military policemen and nodded for them to leave. They closed the door behind them. He then spent a moment just staring at me, I guess to make me nervous. There was a big mirror on the wall, like there is in most interrogation rooms. I figured it was probably one of those two-way jobs with somebody on the other side. Maybe Murphy. Maybe Tretorne. Maybe both of them.

“You have a serious problem,” Martie finally said. “Your running shoe matches a print we took from the latrine where Jeremy Berkowitz was murdered.”

I said, “That’s impossible.” Of course, those were the first words out of the mouth of every suspect. So much for my brilliant legal acumen.

He shrugged, then leaned across the table. “Look, Major, if you were in the latrine that night, it would go better if you’d just admit it. Maybe you met him there?”

“I didn’t go near the latrine that night.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that somebody else borrowed your running shoes, murdered Berkowitz, then put them back under your bunk?”

“I don’t expect you to believe any damned thing. I didn’t go near that latrine, and unless my running shoes grew legs, neither did they.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that your shoe prints were there?”

This was a standard technique. God knows, I’d defended enough clients who’d fallen for it. Get me to start building excuses, then tear apart my alibis and try to chase me into a confession.

“I’m not here to explain any damned thing. I never went near that latrine.”

He leaned back and began playing with his pen. “There’s more,” he said.

If this was supposed to make me more nervous, I wasn’t biting. I sat patiently and coolly watched him.

He began tapping the pen against his chin. “Among the notes we found in Berkowitz’s room was one where you asked him to meet you in the latrine at one o’clock.”

My coolness suddenly dribbled away. I now knew I was in very serious trouble. The running-shoe prints could be challenged in a courtroom. There was always the possibility of the crime scene being contaminated by poor procedure or even of contamination at the lab back in Heidelberg. Poor police and lab procedures had bollixed more than one case. There was also the chance that someone with my exact same shoe size and taste in running gear did the crime. An outside chance, admittedly, but I’d built defenses on weaker arguments and prevailed. I mean, I knew I’d never gone near that latrine, so somebody, somewhere, had made a bad mistake. The note, though-that was a slam dunk.

I blurted out, “That’s impossible.” Oops! There I went again.

“We’ve had two experts examine the handwriting. It’s yours, Major. For Chrissakes, you’re an attorney. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

No, he didn’t have to spell it out for me. I was being framed. Actually, I was being framed for the second time, if you want to get perfectly technical about it. I didn’t know how, but there was no other explanation. I knew I’d never made an appointment with Berkowitz. And I knew I’d never been in the latrine.

I was surprised how tight my lips were when I said, “Martie, I’m done talking without counsel.”

He stared at me a few seconds, then stood up, walked over to the door, and knocked. The two MPs came back in, and he ordered them to book me and put me in a cell. They did. First, I was dumbly led to another room where I was fingerprinted, although for the life of me I didn’t know why. The military keeps copies of the fingerprints and dental X rays of all personnel in the event they’re needed to identify remains. Maybe they just wanted to humiliate me. It worked, too.

My belt and shoelaces were collected, then I was taken to a cell. I knew I’d need a clear head in the morning, so I collapsed onto the bunk and tried to will myself back to sleep. Of course, that never works when you need it to. For thirty minutes I sat there thinking how terrifically stupid I’d been. I’d been too overconfident. I’d overestimated my own cleverness. Worse, I’d once again underestimated who I was dealing with.

I just couldn’t figure out how they’d pulled this off. Even if Martie was working for Jones, aka Tretorne, how in the hell had they fabricated such condemning evidence?

I suddenly heard the sound of a lock being opened down the hall. Then footsteps. No lights were turned on, so the hallway and my cell remained pitch-dark. The footsteps stopped in front of the cell.

I could smell the cologne. A good one, too, like scented pines. Very expensive.

“Tretorne, you bastard,” I said.

“You look good in there, Drummond,” he said.

I said, “Yeah? Why don’t you come on in and join me? I’d love a chance to rip your guts out.”

He chuckled. “I knew it was you who burgled my room. You have no idea what that briefcase cost. And I really would like to get my passport and ID back. It’ll be a real pain in the ass if I have to get them replaced.”

Sounding more bitter than I wanted, I said, “Gee, Jack, I’m really sorry. I’d hate to think I’ve put you out.”

“Well, you have, Drummond. You’ve really pissed me off.”

“Then we’re even. Let me out of here.”

“I’m afraid it’s no longer that easy.”

“Sure it is, Jack. If I go to jail, I won’t take my secrets with me.”

“You don’t have any secrets. You only think you do.”

“Hah,” I said. “I know all about what you and Murphy are up to. You frame me, and I’ll get the word to every reporter I know. Believe me, I’ll find a way. Think about that.”

“I already have, Drummond. You think they’ll listen to you? No one listens when an accused murderer starts mumbling about conspiracies and frame-ups. Think about it, Drummond. You’ve got no evidence, and you’ve got no leverage.”

He was right, of course. And that only infuriated me all the more. He moved back and I saw him lean against the wall. His face was completely in the shadows, which only made him appear more sinister.

When he spoke again, his tone sounded suspiciously reasonable. “Regardless, I’m here to make a deal. This will be your only chance. Want to hear it?”

I said, “I’ve got nothing better to do for the moment.”

“Okay. You quit screwing around and do what you’re supposed to do on this investigation, and we’ll call this thing even. I’ll even convince Clapper to cancel that inquiry, and you can get on with your career.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” he said.

“And I’m supposed to just overlook this little thing you’ve got going with the Green Berets?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“What about Berkowitz? Am I supposed to forget you did that, too?”

“We didn’t do Berkowitz’s murder.”

Now it was my turn to chuckle. “Horsecrap.”

“It’s the truth. I don’t know who murdered him.”

“But you’re framing me for it.”

“Sure. You’ve put us in a difficult corner, Drummond. But if you’re the leading suspect in a murder investigation, well, you can hardly remain the chief of the investigating team. Nor can you leak to the press like you tried with Berkowitz. Very cute, that.”

So that confirmed it: My office was bugged. They’d listened to the whole conversation I had with Berkowitz. They’d listened to everything.

That confirmed something else, too. They had a compelling motive to murder Berkowitz.

I said, “Come on, Tretorne. What was it? Was Berkowitz getting too close? Did he have you figured out? Why’d you have him killed?”

“I’ll say it again. I don’t know who killed Berkowitz. We didn’t do it. I’m not crying any crocodile tears about it, though. He wasn’t much of a human being. However, his death gives me the opportunity to get you out of the way.”

“You’re a real prick.”

“I’m not proud of this, but I’m doing it for my country.”

I almost guffawed at that one. That line really was the last refuge of the worst kinds of scoundrels. I thought of telling him he sounded just like one of Hitler’s henchmen on the docket at Nuremberg, but I’d just be wasting my breath.

Instead, I said, “How’d you work the frame?”

“Easy, really. Everything today is electronic, even police lab work. You’d be surprised to know how easy it is to hack in and change the image of a shoeprint stored in a lab computer when you have the right technology. These NSA people can do miracles.”

“And the note they found in Berkowitz’s room?”

“A man with all the right credentials planted it in Berkowitz’s room yesterday. The right technology can also produce flawless forgeries.”

I didn’t say anything, so he added, “Look, Sean, don’t force us to do it this way. I admire you. I really do. I know all about your time in the outfit. You did some very courageous things, and you’ve been very dogged in this investigation. But I can’t let you damage your country. Don’t make this personal.”

Back when I was dancing with Sergeant Major Williams in the hard sell interrogation room, every time he hit me, something nasty took control of my brain. I kept mouthing off at Williams, and he kept hitting me harder and doing more and more serious damage to my frail body. I thought about that every night when the day’s session was over, and I knew I was facing another one the next day. The rational part of my brain warned me that passive resistance would spare me a lot of pain, but somehow every time they threw me back in that padded room with that sadistic monster, I couldn’t help myself. I climbed right back in the saddle, and he drew a little more blood and bounced me off the walls a little harder.

Now I was twelve years older, but was I twelve years wiser? All I had to do was give Tretorne what he wanted. I could get on with my life. Okay, I’d have to live with the fact that I’d participated in a whitewash. Everybody in life has a few blemishes on their record. That’s why Catholic priests do such a brisk confessional business. What made me any different? What made me so holy?

I said, “Okay, Tretorne, I’ll do it.”

He jerked himself off the wall and approached my cell. “You better mean that.”

I sounded angry, because I was. “I told you I’ll do it.”

Even in the dark, I could feel his mechanical eyes studying me.

“Give me your word as an officer,” he demanded. He was a West Pointer, so he’d been trained to believe that an officer’s word was an inescapably sacred bond. It was kind of funny, really. He looked right past the irony of forcing me to swear I’d lie on an official report.

“You have my word,” I said.

“Okay. In about two hours, General Murphy will come in here and swear you were with him the night Berkowitz was murdered. That’ll get you released. But you try to screw me, and I’ll have your ass right back in this cell. There won’t be any second chance, either.”

“Look, I gave you my word. Get me outta here, and I’ll do everything you want.”

“All right,” he said.

Then I heard his footsteps echoing down the hallway again. I was lying, of course. The second I got out of here, I was going to do every damned thing I could to screw Tretorne and Murphy and the whole United States Army. I had no idea what that was, but I sure as hell couldn’t get anything done sitting in this jail cell.

You are who you are, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. These guys framed me and blackmailed me, and I was mad enough to spit. Only I’d settle for a little revenge.