Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  She cracked, “I wish they’d done the same for me.”

  We both smiled.

  She said, “I’ll request soil samples. They can decontaminate them if they get hung up on the ‘Never Leave’ policy.” She added, “You tend to take the direct approach, I see, such as filching the financial printouts, then stealing government soil, and who knows what else you’ve done. You should learn to follow protocols and procedures, Detective Corey. Especially since this is not your jurisdiction or your case. You’re going to get into trouble, and I’m not going to stick my neck out for you.”

  “Sure you are. And by the way, I’m usually pretty good with the rules of evidence, suspects’ rights, command structure, and all that crap when it’s just regular homicides. This could have been—could still be—the plague-to-end-all-plagues. So I took a few shortcuts. Time is of the essence, the doctrine of hot pursuit, and all that. If I save the planet, I’m a hero.”

  “You’ll play by the rules, and you’ll follow procedures. Do not do anything to compromise an indictment or conviction in this case.”

  “Hey, we don’t even have half a suspect and you’re already in court.”

  “That’s how I work a case.”

  I said, “I think I’ve done as much as I can here. I’m resigning my position as town homicide consultant.”

  “Stop sulking.” She hesitated, then said, “I’d like you to stay. I may actually be able to learn something from you.”

  Clearly we liked each other, despite some run-ins and misunderstandings, some differences of opinion, dissimilar temperaments, differences of age and background, and probably blood type, and tastes in music, and God knew what else. Actually, if I thought about it, we had not one thing in common except the job, and we couldn’t even agree on that. And yet, I was in love. Well, okay, lust. But significant lust. I was deeply committed to this lust.

  We looked at each other again, and again we smiled. This was silly. I mean, really dopey. I felt like an idiot. She was so exquisitely beautiful … I liked her voice, her smile, her coppery hair in the sunlight, her movements, her hands … and she smelled soapy again, from the shower. I love that smell. I associate soap with sex. That’s a long story.

  Finally, she asked, “What useless land?”

  “Huh … ? Oh, right. The Gordons.” I explained about the checkbook entry and my conversation with Margaret Wiley. I concluded, “I’m not a country boy, but I don’t think people without bucks spend twenty-five Gs just to have their own trees to hug.”

  “It’s odd,” she agreed. “But land is an emotional thing.” She added, “My father was one of the last farmers in western Suffolk County, surrounded by subdivisions of split-levels. He loved his land, but the countryside had changed— the woods and streams and the other farms were gone, so he sold. But he was not the same man afterward, even with a million dollars in the bank.”

  She stayed silent a moment, then said, “I suppose we should go speak to Margaret Wiley, take a look at that land, even though I don’t think it’s significant to this case.”

  “I think the fact that the Gordons never told me they owned a piece of land is significant. Same with the archaeological digs. Things that don’t make sense need explaining.”

  “Thank you, Detective Corey.”

  I replied, “I don’t mean to lecture, but I give a class at John Jay, and sometimes a line or two slips out like that.”

  She regarded me a moment, then said, “I never know if you’re pulling my leg or not.”

  Actually, I wanted to pull her leg—both legs, but I let that thought go and said, “I really do teach at John Jay.” This is John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, one of the best such schools in the country, and I suppose she had a credibility problem with John Corey as professor.

  She asked, “What do you teach?”

  “Well, certainly not rules of evidence, suspects’ rights, or any of that.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I teach practical homicide investigation. Scene of the crime, and that kind of thing. Friday nights. It’s the ultimate murder mystery evening. You’re welcome to sit in if I ever get back into it. Maybe January.”

  “I might do that.”

  “Come early. The class is always overflowing. I’m very entertaining.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  And I was sure Ms. Beth Penrose was finally considering it. It.

  The ferry was slowing as it approached the dock. I asked Beth, “Have you spoken to the Murphys yet?”

  “No. Max did. They’re on my list for today.”

  “Good. I’ll join you.”

  “I thought you were quitting.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She took her notebook out of her bag and began perusing the pages. She said, “I need from you the computer printouts that you borrowed.”

  “They’re at my place.”

  “Okay ….” She scanned a page and continued, “I’ll call fingerprints and forensic. Plus I’ve asked the DA for a subpoena for the Gordons’ phone records for the last two years.”

  “Right. Also, get a list of licensed pistol holders in Southold Township.”

  She asked, “Do you think the murder weapon might be a locally registered weapon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Hunch. Meanwhile, keep dredging and diving for the bullets.”

  “We are, but that’s a real long shot. Pardon the pun.”

  “I have a lot of tolerance for bad puns.”

  “Let me guess why.”

  “Right. Also, if you round up the hardware on Plum Island, make sure the county does the ballistics tests, not the FBI.”

  “I know.”

  She detailed a bunch of other odds and ends that needed doing, and I could see she had a neat and orderly mind. She was, also, intuitive and inquisitive. She only lacked experience, I thought, to make a really good detective. To make a great detective she had to learn to loosen up, to get people to talk freely and too much. She came on a little grim and strong, and most witnesses, not to mention colleagues, would get their defenses up. “Loosen up.”

  She looked up from her notebook. “Excuse me?”

  “Loosen up.”

  She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “I’m a little anxious about this case.”

  “Everyone is. Loosen up.”

  “I’ll try.” She smiled. “I can do impersonations. I can do you. Want to see?”

  “No.”

  She got all slouchy and wiggley, shoved one hand in her pocket, and scratched her chest with the other, then spoke in a bass voice with a New York City accent, “Hey, like, what the hell’s goin’ on with this case? Ya know? What’s with this bozo, Nash? Huh? The guy don’t know a cow pie from a pizza pie. Guy’s got the IQ of a box of rocks. Ya know? The guy’s—”

  “Thank you,” I said coolly.

  She actually laughed, then said to me, “Loosen up.”

  “I do not speak with such a pronounced New York City accent.”

  “Well, it sounds like it out here.”

  I was a little annoyed, but a little amused, too. I guess.

  Neither of us spoke for a few minutes, then I commented, “I’m thinking that this case doesn’t have such a high profile anymore, and that’s good.”

  She nodded.

  I continued, “Fewer people to deal with—no Feds, no pols, no media, and for you, they won’t be assigning more help than you need.” I added, “When you solve this, you’ll be a hero.”

  She looked at me a long second, then asked, “You think we’ll solve it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “No skin off my nose. You, on the other hand, will have a career problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  The ferry hit the rubber bumpers, and the crewmen threw down two lines.

  Beth, sort of thinking out loud, said, “So … in addition to the possibility of bad bugs and bad
drugs, now we have the possibility of good drugs, and don’t forget that Max told the media it was a double homicide of two homeowners who came on the scene of an ordinary burglary. And you know what? It could still be that.”

  I looked at her and said, “Here’s another one for you— and for you only. Consider that Tom and Judy Gordon knew something they weren’t supposed to know or saw something on Plum Island that they weren’t supposed to see. Consider that someone like Mr. Stevens or your friend Mr. Nash whacked them. Consider that.”

  She stayed silent a long time, then said, “Sounds like a bad movie-of-the-week.” She added, “But I’ll think about it.”

  Max called from the lower deck, “All ashore.”

  Beth moved toward the stairway, then asked me, “What’s your cell phone number?”

  I gave it to her, and she said, “We’ll split up in the parking lot, and I’ll call you in about twenty minutes.”

  We joined Max, Nash, and Foster on the stern deck, and we all walked off together with the six Plum Island employees. There were only three people on the dock for the return to Plum, and I was struck again by how isolated the island was.

  In the parking field, Chief Sylvester Maxwell of the Southold PD said to everyone, “I’m satisfied that the most troubling part of this case has been cleared up. I have other duties, so I’m leaving Detective Penrose to work the homicide angle.”

  Mr. Ted Nash of the Central Intelligence Agency said, “I’m satisfied, too, and since there doesn’t seem to be a national security breach or an international aspect to this situation, I’m going to recommend that my agency and I be relieved of this case.”

  Mr. George Foster of the Federal Bureau of Investigation said, “It appears that government property has been stolen, so the FBI will remain involved with the case. I’m heading back to Washington today to report. The local FBI office will take charge of this case, and someone will be contacting you, Chief.” He looked at Beth. “Or you or your superior.”

  Detective Elizabeth Penrose of the Suffolk County PD replied, “Well, it looks like I’m it. I thank you all for your help.”

  We were ready to part, but Ted and I had to get in a few last friendly licks. He went first, and said to me, “I truly hope we meet again, Detective Corey.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we will, Ted. Next time try to impersonate a woman. That should be easier for you than an agriculture guy.”

  He stared at me and said, “By the way, I forgot to mention that I know your boss, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe.”

  “Small world. He’s an asshole, too. But put in a good word for me, will you, pal?”

  “I’ll be sure to report that you send him your regards and that you’re looking very fit to return to duty.”

  Foster interrupted as usual and said, “It’s been an interesting and intense twenty-four hours. I think this task force can be proud of its accomplishments, and I have no doubt the local police will bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  I said, “In summation, long day, good job, good luck.”

  Everyone was shaking hands now, even me, though I didn’t know if I was out of a job, or if I ever had a job to be out of. Anyway, brief goodbyes were said, and no one got smarmy or promised to write or meet again, and no one kissed and hugged or anything. Within a minute, Max, Beth, Nash, and Foster were in their own cars and were gone, and I was standing alone in the parking field with my finger up my nose. Weird. Last night everyone thought the Apocalypse had arrived, the Pale Horseman had begun his terrible ride. And now, no one gave a rat’s ass about two dead vaccine thieves in the morgue. Right?

  I began walking to my car. Who was in on the cover-up? Obviously, Ted Nash and his people, and George Foster, since he’d also been on the earlier ferry with Nash and the four guys in suits who’d disappeared in the black Caprice. Probably Paul Stevens was in on it, too, and so was Dr. Zollner.

  I was sure that certain agencies of the federal government had put together a cover, and it was good enough for the media, the nation, and the world. But it wasn’t good enough for Detectives John Corey and Elizabeth Penrose. No sir, it was not. I wondered if Max was buying it. People generally want to believe good news, and Max was so paranoid about germs that he’d really love to believe Plum Island was spewing antibiotics and vaccine into the air. I should talk to Max later. Maybe.

  The other question was this—if they were covering up, what were they covering up? It occurred to me that maybe they didn’t know what they were covering up. They needed to change this case from high-profile horror to common thievery, and they had to do it quickly to get the heat off. Now they could start trying to figure out what the hell this was all about. Maybe Nash and Foster were as clueless as I was about why the Gordons were murdered.

  Theory Two—they knew why and who murdered the Gordons, and maybe it was Nash and Foster themselves. I really had no idea who these clowns were.

  With all this conspiracy stuff in mind, I remembered what Beth said regarding Nash … I wouldn’t cross a man like that.

  I stopped about twenty yards from my Jeep and looked around.

  There were about a hundred Plum Island employee vehicles in the ferry parking field now, but there weren’t any people around, so I positioned myself behind a van and held out my keypad. Another feature that I got for my forty thousand bucks was a remote ignition. I pressed the ignition button in a sequence, two longs and one short, and waited for the explosion. There was no explosion. The vehicle started. I let it run for a minute, then walked toward it, and got inside.

  I wondered if I was being a little overly cautious. I guess if my vehicle had exploded, the answer is no. Better safe than sorry, I say. Until I knew who the killer or killers were, paranoia was my middle name.

  CHAPTER 14

  I drove west on Main Road, my engine humming, my radio tuned to easy listening, rural scenes sliding by, blue skies, gulls, the whole nine yards, the best that the third planet from the sun has to offer.

  The car phone rang, and I answered, “Dial-a-stud. May I help you?”

  “Meet me at the Murphy residence,” said Detective Penrose.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  “Why not?”

  “I think I’m fired. If not, I quit.”

  “You were hired by the week. You have to finish out the week.”

  “Says who?”

  “Murphy house.” She hung up.

  I hate bossy women. Nevertheless, I drove the twenty minutes to the Murphy house and spotted Detective Penrose parked out front, sitting in her unmarked black Ford LTD.

  I parked my Jeep a few houses away, killed the engine, and got out. To the right of the Murphys’ house, the crime scene was still taped off, and there was one Southold PD out front. The county mobile headquarters van was still on the lawn.

  Beth was on the cell phone as I approached, and she hung up and got out. She said, “I just finished a long verbal to my boss. Everyone seems happy with the Ebola vaccine angle.”

  I asked, “Did you indicate to your boss that you think it’s a crock of crap?”

  “No … let’s leave that thought alone. Let’s solve a double murder.”

  We went to the Murphys’ front door and rang the bell. The house was a 1960s ranch, original condition, as they say, pretty ugly, but decently maintained.

  A woman of about seventy answered the door, and we introduced ourselves. She stared at my shorts, probably remarking to herself about how freshly laundered they looked and smelled. She smiled at Beth and showed us inside. She disappeared toward the back of the house and called out, “Ed! Police again!”

  She came back into the living room and indicated a love seat. I found myself cheek to cheek with Beth.

  Mrs. Agnes Murphy asked us, “Would you like some Kool-Aid?”

  I replied, “No, thank you, ma’am. I’m on duty.”

  Beth, too, declined.

  Mrs. Murphy sat in a rocker facing us.

  I looked around. The decorating styl
e was what I call classical old fart: dark, musty, overstuffed furniture, six hundred ugly knickknacks, incredibly tacky souvenirs, photos of grandchildren, and so on. The walls were chalky green, like an after-dinner mint, and the carpet was … well, who cares?

  Mrs. Murphy was dressed in a pink pants suit made of a synthetic material that would last three thousand years.

  I asked Mrs. Murphy, “Did you like the Gordons?”

  The question threw her, as it was supposed to. She got her thoughts together and replied, “We didn’t know them very well, but they were mostly quiet.”

  “Why do you think they were murdered?”

  “Well … how would I know?” We looked at one another awhile, then she said, “Maybe it had something to do with their work.”

  Edgar Murphy entered, wiping his hands on a rag. He had been in the garage, he explained, working on his power mower. He looked closer to eighty, and if I were Beth Penrose preparing a future trial in my mind, I wouldn’t give odds that Edgar would make it to the stand.

  He wore green overalls and work shoes and looked as pale as his wife. Anyway, I stood and shook hands with Mr. Murphy. I sat again, and Edgar sat in a recliner which he actually reclined so he was looking up at the ceiling. I tried to make eye contact with him, but it was hard to do given our relative positions. Now I remember why I don’t visit my parents.

  Edgar Murphy said, “I already spoke to Chief Maxwell.”

  Beth replied, “Yes, sir. I’m with homicide.”

  “Who’s he with?”

  I replied, “I’m with Chief Maxwell.”

  “No, you ain’t. I know every cop on the force.”

  This was about to become a triple homicide. I looked up at the ceiling to about where his eyes were focused, and spoke, sort of like beaming up to a satellite and bouncing the signal down to the receiver. I said, “I’m a consultant. Look, Mr. Murphy—”

  Mrs. Murphy interrupted, “Ed, can’t you sit up? That’s very rude to sit like that.”

  “The hell it is. It’s my house. He can hear me okay. You can hear me okay, can’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Beth did some prelim, but related some of the details and times wrong, on purpose, and Mr. Murphy corrected her, demonstrating that he had good short-term memory. Mrs. Murphy also did some fine-tuning of the events of the prior day. They seemed like reliable witnesses, and I was ashamed of myself for showing impatience with the elderly—I felt awful about wanting to squash Edgar in his recliner.