A Long Day for Dying Page 5

  “That’sthe guy?” Timmons said, turning to look at Simon.

  Simon leaned over and whispered a suggestion. It was worth a shot. “Colonel Timmons,” I called out. “A final question—”

  6

  Simon, Amanda, and I stepped back with Colonel Timmons about ten paces, so we’d be out of earshot of Major Vega and Sergeant Rickers, waiting by the car. Colonel Jessup was already camped in the backseat with the door open, still talking on his cell phone. I glanced at Simon, figuring he wanted to handle this. He continued to stand quietly.

  So I faced Timmons and asked, “Mind telling us who told General Morley to give us a hard time, Colonel?”

  Timmons blinked, taken aback. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It will be just between you and us, Colonel. It won’t go anywhere.”

  “I said I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “General Morley was acting on his own, sir?”

  Timmons hesitated, his voice turning cautious. “The general was only doing what he thought was right.”

  “Meaning—”

  “You know. That this—your investigation—is a waste of time and resources. For chrissakes, the man died in an accident.”

  “You’re a doctor?” I said mildly.

  Timmons’s face hardened. “You know what I mean. Listen, if General Morley had orders to harass you, he sure didn’t tell me about it.”

  “So you have no knowledge—”

  “None.”

  I smiled. “Fine, Colonel. We’ll just need you to sign a statement to that effect.”

  Timmons squinted. “Statement? What statement?”

  “Amanda,” I said, “could you take out your notepad?”

  “Sure.” She dug out it out.

  “Write this down,” I said. “‘To my knowledge, General Morley was acting on his own authority when he harassed an investigation team led by Agent Martin Collins, of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.’ It will be for Colonel Timmons’s signature.”

  Timmons was incredulous.“I’m not signing that thing.”

  I shook my head. “Colonel…Colonel…”

  “What?”

  “Senator Garber and the secretary of defense will be arriving in the next hour. I intend to tell them we were treated rudely by General Morley. I’ll inform them we think General Morley is concerned that we will uncover something unfavorable. Possibly criminal. I’ll tell them that General Morley’s actions were contrary to his orders to cooperate fully with—”

  “Shit,” Timmons said. “Fuck.”

  I looked at him.

  Timmons ran a hand over his face. “Don’t do this. General Morley’s a good man—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “—a helluva good officer. He was only acting under…guidance.” He forced out the last word.

  “So hewas following orders, Colonel?”

  Timmons paused, looking back over his shoulder at Colonel Jessup, who was still on the phone. Major Vega and Sergeant Ricker were watching us from the front seats of the car.

  Returning to me, Timmons said, “You swear it won’t go anywhere. If it gets out I said anything—”

  “You have my word.”

  “It was General Markel. He said this was going to be a witch hunt because of Senator Garber’s pressure. We were encouraged to be less than cooperative.”

  “Have a good day, Colonel,” I said.

  As the staff car with the four men drove away, Simon and Amanda were eyeing me with approval. He said, “Well done, Martin.”

  I shrugged off the compliment. After twenty years, I’d learned how to jerk the chains of senior officers.

  “You know much about General Markel?” Amanda asked me.

  I shook my head; he’d become the vice chairman long after I retired.

  “My friend Katie,” she said, “often accompanied General Markel up to the hill when he had to testify before Congress. She says he’s so gung-ho about the military, it’s scary. He compares serving one’s country to joining a religious order. The word around the Pentagon is Markel is, well, nuts. Everyone is kinda afraid of him, including the other chiefs. Markel spent a couple tours in Vietnam as one of those lone snipers. He used to go off in the jungle by himself and come back after a few weeks with a necklace of ears. Katie figured this was just a wild rumor until she actually saw a photo in Markel’s office, which showed him wearing a necklace.”

  Simon and I stared at her. We didn’t know quite what to say.

  “Anyway,” she went on. “I’m telling you this because Markel’s protective as hell about anything that might hurt the military. He drives Congress crazy because he won’t give them a straight answer. It could be Markel told General Morley not to cooperate because he really believes we’re on a witch hunt.”

  “That’s certainly one possibility,” Simon said.

  None of us voiced the second: Had General Markel given the order because he was afraid of something we might uncover?

  We walked toward the twin hangars to find out.

  The red-coned security perimeter spanned the front of the hangar entrance in a giant semicircle. We headed for the apex, where the two Humvees were parked facing us, about twenty yards apart. The entry control point was located between them, monitored by a frizzy-haired female security cop in a green battle-dress utility uniform. Under the watchful eye of her counterparts manning the machine guns mounted on the Humvees, the female cop checked off our names against those on her clipboard, then had us sign in. Afterward, I perused the access list. Most of the OSI members I recognized; the few I didn’t were new. Dr. Billy Bowman had been the last to arrive, logging in only minutes earlier.

  The female cop pointed us to the rightmost of the two hangars. Since its giant doors were closed, we swung around to the small entry door around the side. A stream of maintenance troops strolled along the ramp outside the barrier, eyeing us curiously. In an adjacent alleyway, we could see about a dozen civilian cars and the two blue air force vans used by the OSI.

  I stepped ahead and opened the side door. We could hear the mumble of conversation and the humming of the giant circulation fans.

  Then: “Here! The SECDEF and Senator Garber are coming here! That’s a load of crap, Major. I didn’t sign up for this! Where thefuck are Collins and Gardner?”

  Simon looked at me with a pained expression.

  “Andy Hobbs,” I said. “If it helps, his bark is worse than his bite.”

  He appeared less than reassured as he continued inside.

  Amanda followed, muttering to me, “Man’s got some mouth. You know he’s a West Pointer?”

  “Class of ’69. Won a Silver Star in Vietnam for bravery, too.”

  She stopped in the doorway so suddenly that I bumped into her.“Andy?”

  I nodded.

  She slowly shook her head. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? A guy like him, a hero.”

  “Andy,” I said, “always makes you wonder.”

  An officerand a gentleman.

  That’s how the military service academy brochures described their graduates. Of course, there were always exceptions.

  Thirty-five years ago, Cadet First Class Andrew Hobbsgraduated from West Point as the Goat, the bottomranked cadet in his class. That performance foreshadowed his military career and personal life. Andy was the perennial underachiever, the guy who had the brains and talent to succeed but lacked the will to do so. Gregarious and obnoxious, Andy could be counted on to talk a good line and then promptly disappear when it was time for the work to get done. In the army, he tried an assortment of military specialties, settling on the CID because it provided an escape from the rigors of the more traditional fighting occupations. After a twenty-year career, he’d retired as a major and applied for one of the coveted full-time civil service CID billets. No one figured he had a chance of landing the job, since Andy’s reputation for mediocrity h
ad long been established, and there were a number of more qualified applicants.

  But when the selections were announced, Andy’s name was at the top of the list. Everyone who’d ever worked with him was stunned. The rumor mill kicked into overdrive, and the prevailing opinion was that a high-ranking sponsor must have pushed for him. When asked, Andy always denied this possibility, insisting retired majors didn’t have sponsors.

  He was right; they didn’t. So how’d he get the job?

  A screwup by the selection board? A mix-up in the personnel records? Or was Andy simply one lucky son of a bitch who’d slipped through a bureaucratic crack?

  It was another mystery that surrounded Andy, right up there with his West Point appointment and why he refused to talk about the Silver Star he won in combat.

  Yeah, Andy made you wonder.

  7

  Iclosed the side door. We could still hear Andy swearing. Two more security cops were standing a few paces away. They checked our yellow badges and motioned us past.

  Built to house Air Force One, the hangar was cavernous and immaculate, with a gleaming gray painted floor that looked clean enough to eat off. The C-32 was parked in the center facing us, a set of portable airstairs rolled up against the forward passenger door. A Humvee sat parked at the base of the stairs, and two white-suited medical technicians were removing a wheeled gurney from its back. An inflated air hose to supply air conditioning was plugged into the plane’s belly. I found this curious; it was downright chilly in the hangar.

  Past the nose of the plane, we could see a gathering of OSI personnel in civilian clothes, standing in front of the big double doors leading to the maintenance offices. Pacing before them was a fat man with slicked-back gray hair, wearing a wrinkled suit, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

  As we walked toward Andy Hobbs, he said, “I heard you, Major. I’m calm. Isaid I’m calm. How the fuck should I know who’s going to escort? Get one of your people. Just don’t bring in a brass band. This operation’s supposed to be classified, remember? Like I give a damn.”

  Andy Hobbs clicked off and grunted “Dipshit” to a blond man in a dark suit. A CID warrant officer whom I vaguely recognized. Carter or Carson.

  By now the OSI team had spotted us, and many looked relieved. Master Sergeant Bobby Baker, the photographer, threw up an arm in acknowledgment. Others joined him. Martha Jones, the senior trace evidence specialist and team chief, said, “Thank God you’re here, Marty.”

  Andy Hobbs spun around and squinted at us—me—accusingly. “About fucking time. Thought maybe you’d decided to take a powder, dump this thing on me.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Andy,” I said dryly.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He hitched his pants over his belly and came over, the blond man nipping at his heels. The collar of Andy’s shirt was stained with sweat, and his florid face was redder than normal. As usual, he reeked of stale cigarette smoke. He said, “That was Major Vega on the phone. He’s freaking out because he found out about Secretary Churchfield and Senator Garber flying out. Wants to know, who’s going to escort?”

  Before I could reply, Simon said, “Martin and I will attend to them.”

  Andy appraised Simon. “You’re Simon Santos, huh? The pro from Dover they called in. Word I got is you’re running this thing.”

  “Actually, I am,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Andy said. “As long as it ain’t me. I’ve never kissed up to the brass, and I’m damned sure too old to start now.” He nodded our attention to the blond man. “Say hi to Paul Carter. Tommy Gentry’s in the plane with Doc Bowman. You know Tommy? No. Good troop. Amanda, long time no see, partner. You losing weight? You’re looking kinda thin.”

  Amanda smiled wanly. I pointed to the air hose and asked Andy whose idea it was to hook that up.

  “General Markel. It’s a fucking refrigerator in the plane. And yeah, I argued with him about that. Told him that with the temp being that cold, it would screw up the doc’s ability to place the time of death. But Markel didn’t know how long the dick-dance between the SECDEF and Senator Garber would last. He didn’t want the body to start decaying and stink up the place. The man’s got four stars. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

  Markel again. I looked to Simon. His face was blank. Since Amanda had once worked aircraft maintenance, I told her to shut off the air.

  As she did, Simon said, “We’d like to see the general’s body now, Agent Hobbs.”

  “Shit, it’s Andy. We’re all friends here, Simon. Nice suit, by the way. Must set you back a few bucks. Me, I’m an off-the-rack man myself. Okay to call you Simon?” Without waiting for a reply, he lumbered toward the portable stairs, Paul Carter hurrying after him.

  As the rest of us started to follow, I asked Amanda to escort the OSI techs into the maintenance break room located inside the double doors and brief them up on the particulars of the investigation. I told her to hit the investigation’s security classification hard; no one on the team was even to hint where they were working and what they were doing. I wasn’t about to earn the wrath of the SECDEF or the president because someone blabbed to their wife or significant other.

  I caught up to Carter, Andy, and Simon at the foot of the stairs, where they’d stopped to don latex gloves. I dug mine out of a pocket and did the same. The two medical assistants had placed the gurney a few feet away and were now watching us from the front seats of the Humvee, a petite blond girl with braces and a chubby black guy who barely looked old enough to shave. Putting an edge in my voice, I reminded them they weren’t to repeat what they were doing here to anyone. The girl gave me a frightened, saucer-eyed look and nodded. The guy barked, “Yes, sir.”

  Andy looked at me like I was a jerk. I ignored him.

  Paul Carter led the way up the stairs, followed by Andy, Simon, and me. Andy began rattling on like a tour guide, saying, “It was one hell of a wake-up call, I can tell you. People were shitting bricks when we found the general. First thing I thought was, maybe someone decided to knock him off. I mean, it’s no secret that Garber wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity. So I took me a good look. As far as I’m concerned, this thing is cut and dried. A freak accident. Hell, the guy smells like a friggin’ brewery. I got to tell you it’s a crying shame, us going through this bullshit just to keep some goddamn senator happy. If it was up to me, I’d have told Papa Garber to kiss my—Yo, Tom! Look alive in there! You and the doc got company.” Looking back at us, he said, “Since we landed, either Paul or Tom or myself have been watching the compartment. Word I got was, anybody contaminated the scene, Uncle Andy better be looking for another job.”

  “Who told you that?” Simon asked.

  Andy had reached the small landing at the top of the stairs. He paused, giving Simon a disgusted look. “The hell you think? The general’s daddy himself. Once we got over the shock of finding the body, one of the constellations—General Sessler, I think it was—tells Garber’s aide Colonel Weller that she’d better call the senator, break the news to him about his kid. Weller was too shook up, so I did it. I’m nice and polite, I can promise you that. I give the senator the news real gentle-like. And he’s calm at first. Asks me how it happened, and I tell him. You know, that the general just sorta…fell.

  “That’s when the senator loses it. The next thing I know, he’s screaming at me. Goes on about how my job was to protect his son. Swears his kid wouldn’t just fall down. Reams me a new one, says anyone touches anything in the cabin, he’ll have my ass. I tell him I know my job and that I’ve already secured the cabin. He says I’d better, and hangs up on me. Prick.”

  “Give the senator a break, Andy,” I said. “You just told him his son died.”

  “Remind me to send flowers. Fuck, I could use a smoke.”

  He went through the door.

  Simon watched him go, shaking his head.

  I said, “Andy’s an acquired taste. You’ll get used to him.”

  Simon gave me a look.

  We continued into the pl
ane, entering a cramped entryway between two bulkheads. I immediately noticed the chill in the air. It couldn’t be more than sixty degrees. Through an opening to the left, a galley was visible, and beyond, the rows of business class seats located in the section aft of the cockpit door. Andy’s bulk was disappearing down the passageway at the end of the right bulkhead. As we made the turn, we saw Carter and a tall, sandy-haired man in a brown suit, whom I took to be Tom Gentry, standing in the short passageway. Carter pointed to an open doorway to our right. The lock was busted, and the door was pushed inward and slightly askew. From inside, we heard Andy growl, “So, Doc, whaddaya got?”

  We went inside to hear Dr. Billy Bowman’s answer.

  Considering the compartment was on an aircraft, it was exceptionally large, almost twenty feet across and eight feet deep, with modular white walls and gray carpeting. To our front was a small faux-wood desk, two plush leather captain’s chairs on either side of it, a blue terry-cloth robe draped over the back of the chair closest to us. Except for two phones—an intercom and a top-secret-secured STU III for making encrypted calls anywhere in the world—the desktop was clean, without so much as a piece of paper or a pencil visible. A passageway funneled past the desk, leading to a lav at the back. Along the left wall sat a leather couch that probably doubled as a bed, a wood-veneer-topped coffee table to its front.

  And that’s the area where Simon and I were focused now. Specifically on Andy and Dr. Billy Bowman, who were crouched over the body of General Michael Garber.

  Garber wasn’t immediately recognizable as a general. Instead of a uniform, he wore white silk pajamas and was lying prone on his stomach, his head twisted toward us. A normally handsome man with chiseled features and close-cropped graying hair, his facial muscles had relaxed in death, giving him a bloated look. Even though we were standing almost two feet away, we could smell the odor of alcohol and the hint of something flowery. Dr. Bowman was scrutinizing the back of Garber’s scalp with a penlight. He turned the head and ran a gloved finger inside the dead man’s mouth. As he did so, I tried to view the throat area, but Bowman was blocking my view. He peered into the dead man’s nose and ears, then moved back and began studying the hands, which were lying palm-downward and close to the side, as if the general had collapsed while doing push-ups.