A Long Day for Dying Read online

  Andy said, “Uh, Doc, I got Marty Collins and Lieutenant Simon Santos here—”

  “Six minutes,” Bowman grunted.

  Not five or ten. That was Billy Bowman. Mr. Precision about everything.

  Andy stood and gave Simon and me a shrug. He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, looked at them longingly, put them back. Simon drifted toward the desk, contemplated it, then picked up the robe and held it up. Garber’s name and rank were scrawled across the chest in big air-force-blue letters that had to be three inches high. Nothing like a little ego. Simon patted the pockets, reached into one, paused, then withdrew his hand and tossed the robe onto the chair back.

  “Find something?” I asked.

  “A handkerchief.” He turned away and jammed his hands in his pockets, doing a slow pan around the room. He seemed to be searching for something. When he got to the couch, he said, “I assume it folds into a bed.”

  “Yeah,” Andy said. “Should be made up. The numberone flight attendant, Sergeant Blake, told me the general called her to make it up a couple hours into the flight.” Andy stepped over and pulled up a cushion. “Made up. Died before he could use it.” He tossed the cushion back down.

  I said, “You know who last saw the general alive?”

  A shrug. “Didn’t have much of chance to question the passengers. My guess is it was either his aide Colonel Weller or the flight attendant, Sergeant Blake. It sure as hell wasn’t one of the other generals. They couldn’t stand Garber. Avoided the guy like the plague.”

  My eyes sought out Simon, who moved over to the closet along the right wall. As he opened the doors, Andy said to him, “Nothing in there except his uniform and luggage. His wallet, dog tags, and security badges are on the shelf. Briefcase on the floor. Carter and Gentry already searched his bags. Nothing much. Got some classified crap in the briefcase.”

  I came up behind Simon and peered over his shoulder. Hanging from the rack were two bulky hang-up bags and a single neatly pressed uniform, the four stars glinting at us from a shoulder. Simon picked up the wallet from the shelf and began flipping through the inserts. I reached around him and grabbed the briefcase, which was sitting next to a couple of pillows and a folded blanket. I opened the briefcase and saw thick files. All except one had classified covers that were stamped “The Chairman’s Eyes.” I opened the exception and leafed through the dozen or so pages.

  It was a comprehensive itinerary that listed the generals’ schedules each day—the uniforms they were to wear for the various functions, who was to escort whom and to what, where they were to meet and what time. I was amazed at the detail. But the running joke in the military was that all a four-star had to do was remember to wipe his ass, since everything else was taken care of.

  “Might be of use,” Simon said, looking down at me.

  I nodded, removed the pages, folded them, and placed them in my jacket. After returning the briefcase, I asked Andy if anyone had checked to see if any of the classified material was missing.

  “I had Colonel Weller take a look,” he said. “She thought everything was there. When she leaves, she’s gonna take the case back to the Pentagon and make a detailed inventory.”

  “She’s still here on base?” I said, a little surprised.

  “In the DV passenger lounge with the other pax. I had her hang around because I figured you’d want to talk to her.” He patted his pockets and reached into one. “Before I forget, I got me a list of the passengers. Paul also jotted down the people still hanging around.”

  Andy, thinking again. “Thanks,” I said, as he handed me two folded pages.

  The first was actually a Xeroxed copy of the passenger manifest; the second was a neatly printed list of names with corresponding job specialities.

  A total of thirteen people, including Lieutenant Colonel Tina Weller and Lieutenant Colonel Marsha Gustin, General Markel’s aide. As I’d surmised, they were mostly lower-level worker bees: the enlisted and the more junior officers. Two baggage handlers, two maintenance crew chiefs, four security cops who had guarded the plane while it had been on the ground in England, a master sergeant who handled the chairman’s communications equipment, a major from JCS protocol, and a lieutenant colonel who was identified as an intelligence analyst.

  Glancing to the door where Carter was standing with Gentry, I said, “The intelligence analyst got a specialty?”

  “Terrorism, sir,” Carter said. “He briefed the generals before the conference.”

  I nodded, put the paper in the same pocket as the itinerary, and looked to Simon, who was staring at a picture he’d removed from the wallet. The general in uniform, standing with a striking brunette woman in her fifties, wearing a formal red dress. Neither was smiling.

  “His wife,” Andy said to him. “General Sessler said her name was Patricia.”

  Simon said, “I assume she’s been notified—”

  “General Sessler called her while I was talking to Senator Garber.”

  Simon nodded thoughtfully, returned the picture to the wallet, and placed it on the shelf. After shutting the doors, he confirmed that Doc Bowman was still inspecting the body, then made another slow three-sixty around the room. No doubt about it; he was looking for something. He said, “The general’s toiletry items, Andy…”

  Andy yawned, jerked a thumb in the direction of the john.

  Simon said, “And nothing has been removed since you discovered the body?”

  “Nope. Like I said, my boys and I have been outside the whole time.”

  “What about customs?” I asked. A customs officer would have met the plane, done a required walk-through.

  The smile Andy flashed was close to a leer. “Right. Margie Benson. Good-looking divorcee, but with an attitude. About five, six months ago I was flying one of these security trips and told her she smelled nice. Man, you thought I’d tried to cop a feel, the way she acted. She went off on me, threatened to turn me in for sexual harassment. Go figure, huh?”

  I said, “Andy—”

  “Hey, you asked, and I’m telling you. Where was I? Right. Anyway, this morning I hustled off the plane to give Margie the customs decs and to tell her she couldn’t come aboard. She asks why, and I say it’s because of national security. Right away she thinks I’m bullshitting her and gives me grief. So I called Admiral Wheeler over at the SECDEF’s office, explain the situation, then hand Margie the phone. She says a couple yes sirs, then hangs up. And I can see she’s plenty pissed, but hey, what’s she gonna do? So I give her a polite smile and ask if the plane’s cleared. She says it is, and when she walks off, you know what she does? She flips me off.” He grinned. “She’s got an attitude. Spunky. I kinda like it. I’m thinking maybe I’ll ask her out. Whaddaya think, Marty?”

  I said, “You don’t want to know.”

  Andy’s grin faded when he noticed Simon’s furrowed brow. “Problem?”

  “You’re certain no one cleaned up?” Simon asked. “Removed anything?”

  Andy squinted, wary now. Dr. Bowman was also looking at Simon with interest. “I’m certain,” Andy said. “Why?”

  “I’m curious about the absence of glasses or—”

  “Glasses? The general didn’t wear glasses. At least none that I saw.” Andy looked to Carter and Gentry and got two head shakes.

  “Contacts,” Bowman announced. “The general still has them on.”

  Simon started to reply, then abruptly turned for the bathroom. He appeared irritated, and I had my suspicions why. Hurrying after him, I said, “You weren’t talking about eyeglasses, were you?”

  “Of course not.”

  8

  The bathroom was tiny, travel-trailer size. It contained a commode, a sink with a mirror, and a dime-sized shower. I watched from the doorway as Simon picked up the leather toiletry case, which was lying next to a toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He unzipped the case and peered inside.

  I said, “You looking for anything in particular?”

  “Cologne.”<
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  The second smell I’d detected earlier. “Why?”

  “An inconsistency I’m trying to understand. Here it is.” He produced a small glass bottle.

  “Figures,” I grunted, reading the label. “For some reason, every air force pilot I know wears Aramis. Don’t ask me why.”

  He gave me a funny look as he zipped up the case and set it down. He gazed into the shower. “Soap in the dish is wet.” He reached to a towel hanging on a rack. “Towel, too.”

  I said, “And you’re suddenly interested in the general’s hygiene because…”

  But Simon had bent forward to inspect the toothbrush. He shifted his eyes to the rim of the sink, and I could see a faint green residue. A smear of toothpaste.

  He turned to me with a puzzled look. “Last night, General Garber showered, brushed his teeth, and put on his pajamas. Why?”

  I hesitated, knowing this was too easy. “He was going to bed.”

  He said, “And his use of cologne?”

  “What about it?”

  “If he was going to bed, why would he put on cologne?”

  He had me. “He probably wouldn’t.”

  “No.” He sighed unhappily. “This is a troubling development, Martin. The general’s reason for wearing cologne is—was—extremely reckless.”

  My eyebrows crept up. “You know why he put it on?”

  A nod. He lowered his voice. “I discovered something earlier. I’m hesitant to mention it because it might not be relevant. Until I know for certain, I think it’s better to wait—”

  “Hey, fellas,” Andy called out. “Doc says he’s almost done.”

  I didn’t move. I just stood there in the doorway, trying to understand how Simon could have found something without me noticing. That was impossible, unless…

  I remembered.

  “Shall we go, Martin?” Simon said.

  He was waiting for me to step away from the door. I stayed where I was and said, “Tell me what you found.”

  “It’s better if I wait.”

  “Simon, I’m running this investigation.”

  We argued briefly. He was determined not to tell me. I finally said, “It was in the robe, wasn’t it? You took something from it and put it in your pocket.”

  His eyes flickered in surprise. “Does Andy know?”

  “I don’t think he noticed. What was it?”

  He gave me a long look. “This remains between us for now, Martin. I don’t want to tarnish General Garber’s reputation unnecessarily.”

  “Was that something you promised his father?”

  “Yes, but not for the reasons you assume. My concern is to spare the military any needless embarrassment.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  He shrugged.

  I said, “Amanda will have to know.”

  Simon nodded; he knew Amanda could keep her mouth shut.

  “All right,” I said. “We got a deal. Now let’s hear it.”

  In response, Simon fished something out of his right trouser pocket. When he opened his hand, I saw a thin plastic packet nestled in his palm. It was no more than an inch square, and I recognized it immediately.

  A condom.

  I wished I could be surprised, but I wasn’t. Rumors about General Garber’s womanizing had swirled around him for years. Like Simon, I found it mind-boggling that someone in his position would contemplate something so reckless.

  I said, “We’ll have to find the woman.”

  Simon pocketed the condom. “If necessary.”

  If we had a murder on our hands, he meant.

  We returned to find Dr. Billy Bowman still crouched over the body. Andy was standing beside him, while Carter and Gentry continued to watch from the door.

  Bowman shook his head and rose. He was a small man with a mass of wiry red hair and an bony, intelligent face. Not yet forty, he was young for the full colonel’s eagles he wore, and acted accordingly. Supremely confident in his own abilities, Bowman was agreeable enough to work with unless you questioned his conclusions. Then he could become petty, vindictive, and a real pain in the ass.

  When he glanced our way, I went through the drill of introducing Simon. Bowman appraised him for a long moment. “So you’re the wealthy cop, right? The homicide lieutenant that’s in the papers?”

  Simon reddened, uncomfortable either with Bowman’s bluntness or his own celebrity, or a combination of both.

  “Look,” Bowman said quickly. “I know it’s not the time, but there’s a research project I’m trying to get funded. A new type of genetic marking. I was wondering if we could get together later and possibly discuss—”

  “For crying out loud, Doc,” Andy said. “You want to lip-lock the man, do it on your own time.”

  Bowman shot him an icy glare. “Andy, so help me—”

  Andy threw up a hand. “Take a number and get in line, Doc. Right now we got a job to do, and my ass is dragging. So, what’s the word?”

  Bowman turned away stiffly and indicated to the corpse. “He died from an acute laryngeal fracture associated with massive submucosal hemorrhage and consequential asphyxiation.”

  “In English, Billy,” I said.

  Bowman flashed a superior smile.

  Simon said, “A crushed windpipe asphyxiated him. If you don’t mind, Doctor…” He was already kneeling for a closer look, and I joined him.

  Simon removed a penlight from his jacket and raised the corpse’s head so we had a clear view of the throat. A purple welt the size of a baseball went from an inch below the Adam’s apple to the base of the neck.

  I whistled softly. “That was a lot of force.”

  “Yeah,” Bowman said. “When he tripped, he never had a chance to break his fall. His throat caught the edge of the table. Killed him.”

  There it was: game, set, and match. I stood and said, “So you believe it was an accident?”

  “What else, Marty? There are no marks on his hands to indicate a struggle. No wounds or contusions on his head or arms. Nothing. And there sure doesn’t look like there was an altercation in here. Add in the fact that the guy was drunk off his ass, and…” He shrugged.

  “Fucking knew it,” Andy muttered.

  “Time of death, Billy?” I said.

  “You serious? You feel the temperature in here? I got stiffs in the morgue that are warmer than this.”

  “Ballpark.”

  He sighed. “Rigor has come and gone, which makes it at least four hours. Body’s cooled too rapidly to get an accurate temperature reading. Judging by the lividity, I’d say at least five hours. Could be as long as eight. That would put it somewhere between midnight and threeA .M., local time. I’ll check with his flight attendant, Sergeant Blake, find out when he had his meal. Get you something definitive after the autopsy. Now, if there’s nothing else—”

  I shook my head and looked down at Simon, knowing he’d want to bring up the missing glasses. He continued studying the edge of the coffee table. Abruptly, he stood and went over to the two CID men in the door. They stepped out into the hallway, and we could hear Simon speaking quietly.

  Andy gave me a searching look. I shook my head.

  To me, Bowman said, “You can get the photographers in here, Marty. When they finish shooting the body, notify the med techs. I’ll be performing the autopsy at Malcolm Grow. Be quicker. The big thing is going to be keeping a lid on this thing. That’s why we’re using the Humvee for transport. Less conspicuous. I’ll head out now and get everything set up.”

  Malcolm Grow was the large air force hospital located on Andrews. Bowman and I exchanged cards; he’d notify me when he completed the autopsy. Andy went to the door, saying, “I gotta grab me a smoke. I’ll let the photographers know they got the green light. Unless maybe you want to hold off until show-and-tell is over, Marty?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s better if Senator Garber sees us working. Tell everyone to come on up in five minutes.”

  As Andy left, Bowman said, “Senator Garber?”


  After I explained that the senator and the SECDEF would be stopping by, Bowman grunted, “Better you than me.” He turned to go and almost bumped into Simon, who’d reappeared without Carter or Gentry.

  Simon smiled apologetically. “Before you leave, Doctor, I still have a few questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  Simon stepped over to the body. “I’m curious about why the general fell.”

  Bowman squinted. “I don’t follow you.”

  “You said he fell, implying he tripped. How? There’s nothing on the floor.”

  Bowman shrugged. “He was drunk, and it was a turbulent flight.”

  “So he simply tripped?”

  “Sure.”

  “And made no attempt to break his fall? Throw an arm out?”

  “Reflexes were slowed by the alcohol.”

  “How long would it have taken him to die?”

  “A couple of minutes to pass out, depending on heart rate. Another two or three to expire.”

  “So he lay here the entire time?”

  “It appears so. Yes.”

  “He would have been in pain and struggling to breath. Gasping. Unable to call out—”

  “That’s correct—”

  “—and yet he made no move to the door. Did not try and seek help.”

  Bowman’s face darkened at Simon’s insinuation. “Lieutenant,” he said, “the man was drunk.Extremely drunk. All I can tell you is he must have lost consciousness shortly after falling.”

  Simon said, “You said earlier he would have been conscious for two minutes—”

  “I could be wrong,” Bowman snapped.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Billy had to know how ridiculous his theory sounded. A troubling possibility occurred to me. From Simon’s grim expression, I knew he was considering the same thing.

  “Tell me, Doctor,” Simon said. “Did you detect any injuries to his head? Something that might have rendered him unconscious?”