by Bob Graham
Where would this lead? Who would be the next victims? And for what purpose? Is Mamata safe?
SEPTEMBER 19
Washington, D.C.
Tony was transfixed by the television images from Mumbai. The central business and financial sections were flattened. It reminded him of the pictures of Nagasaki after the bomb that ended the war. Five hours after the explosion, the surrounding ring of the destroyed city was still in flames. Scenes of terrified people fleeing were intercut with those of the Indian army mobilizing for a run to the Pakistan border, and others of the new Pakistani president denouncing the accusation made against his government.
A thoroughly depressing day became more so as Tony met the Watson family at the arrival area of Reagan Airport’s concourse A. As this was the first time he had met them and Tony wasn’t confident he would be recognized, he held a handmade cardboard sign with the single word “Watson.”
Fred and Sarah Watson looked considerably older than their late fifties. Their clothes were worn and rumpled as if they had thrown them on with no attention to appearance. Their eyes were reddened and betrayed the shock of what they had first heard from the police the previous day. Exhaustion was reflected in their shuffling gaits as they pulled black wheeled bags.
Surprise was also evident as they turned into the main terminal and first saw Tony’s face. They addressed him with solemnity.
“Mr. Ramos, we appreciate your call. Carol was very fond of you and ... ” Mrs. Watson was interrupted by a muted sob.
“Carol was the most important person in my life. I loved her deeply. You have every right to be very proud of the daughter you raised. I just can’t believe that ... ” He couldn’t finish his sentence, but from their eyes, the Watsons seemed to understand.
Nor was there a verbal response from either of them. Tony led them to the parking garage where he had parked Mark Block’s Lexus sedan. Tony had calculated his Mustang was neither large enough nor the right style for the situation.
Between the airport and the Mallory Funeral Home, the conversation was sparse, centering on the few details known about Carol’s death.
“The police have calculated the time of death as between 6:30 and 7:30 yesterday morning,” Tony detailed. “They say it was instantaneous, so she didn’t suffer. As of this afternoon, they didn’t have a suspect but were saying they had several leads. I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”
At Mallory Funeral Home there were decisions to make, ones that overwhelm families, for which they are almost always unprepared. Carol’s body was mutilated beyond consideration of an open casket. The Watsons declined the invitation for a personal viewing. Although it was contrary to the tradition and their literal reading of the Bible, Fred and Sarah decided on cremation. Jonah Mallory told them the police and coroner had not completed their last examinations and it would probably be Monday at the earliest before the body could be seen to. Tony comforted the Watsons and shared their regret that the commencement of the healing process would be delayed over the weekend. When the arrangements were completed there would be a small, simple service for her D.C. friends and colleagues, with a fuller memorial service in Spring Hill later.
Shaken as he was, Tony had one professional task to perform. Back at his office after hours, he called Samuel Shorstein. This time he was able to reach the principal himself. Shorstein was aware of Carol’s murder.
“While I was with her she told me of her disclosures from the Cayman bank,” Tony said. “As Carol had done in Zurich, she took meticulous notes and copied pages of the bank’s records. I assume these were taken by the D.C. police in their examination of her apartment.”
“I asked the police to hold these for our officers’ review,” Shorstein said. “They’ll be forwarded to the secretary of the Treasury and the FBI investigators. They are potentially very important in our BAE inquiry. And, I would think, as additional evidence in Ms. Watson’s homicide. It sounds as if the police are building a very strong case.”
Tony concluded, “I hope so.”
It was half past six when Tony left the Truman Building and returned to his townhouse. Detective Randall Larsen was parked in front, waiting in his unmarked police car.
SEPTEMBER 19
Washington, D.C.
Seated in Tony’s cramped living room, Detective Larsen was brutally direct. “Mr. Ramos, we consider you to be a primary suspect in the rape and murder of Carol Watson.”
Tony had to drain his accumulated supply of restraint—what Ernest Hemingway had defined as courage, grace under pressure—to maintain a semblance of composure.
“Mr. Larsen,” Tony declared in a steady voice, “I loved Carol. I would have never done anything to harm her—”
“Before you go further,” Larsen interrupted, “I am obligated to inform you of your rights as a criminal suspect.” He removed his wallet and extracted a credit card–sized piece of plastic. Placing silver-rimmed glasses on his nose, the officer read:
“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand?” Tony nodded yes.
“Anything you say maybe used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?” Tony grimaced before nodding.
“You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?” Tony’s head moved vertically.
“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?” Tony twisted in his chair before assenting.
“If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?”
Tony spoke for the first time. “Yes.”
“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions?”
Tony leaned back against the cushions. His mind was grappling with the reality that this was happening to him. Finally he said, “I want to make a call.”
As he was exiting the living room he picked up the remote and clicked on his Samsung. CNN appeared. “Give me a couple of minutes to get my head straight.”
On the kitchen wall phone, Tony punched in Mark Block’s number. When the Flatbush Avenue accent penetrated his ear, Tony whispered, “Mark, I’m screwed.”
“What’s the problem, amigo?”
“The D.C. police detective, Randall Larsen, told me I’m a primary suspect in Carol’s murder ... murder and rape. He just read me my Miranda rights.”
Tony could sense the intensifying of emotions as Mark was taking it all in. It made him temporarily mute. “Have you told him anything?” he finally asked.
“Only that I didn’t kill Carol. I figured that was pretty safe.”
“Tony, the only thing you are to say to Larsen is that you will consult your attorney before making any further statement.”
“And what then?” Tony asked.
“I’m one hell of an attorney if you’re in trouble with the IRS, but this is at another level. One of my partners is a former D.C. prosecutor. I’m going to bring her in. Before the cops will talk with us, I’ll need you to sign an engagement agreement with our firm to be your lawyers.”
“Mark, this ain’t the only trouble I’m in. Next week I plan on leaving town for a very sensitive assignment Talbott has just handed me. How will this interfere?”
“Well, if you’re in jail—”
“That’s very reassuring,” Tony responded.
“I’ll contact my partner and try to set a meeting with Larsen tonight.”
“Mark, I’m scared.”
“Tony, you would be less than human if you didn’t feel exactly that way. Try to get some sleep. Tell Larsen you won’t talk with anyone until you have a lawyer.”
“OK,” was all Tony could muster.
Returning to the living room, Tony told Larsen of his decision.
Larsen
shrugged and began stuffing papers back in his briefcase. “Here is my card. You might want to share it with your lawyer. Tell him to contact me in the next eighteen hours. Until I’ve talked with him, stay close.” He looked up at Tony. “Mr. Ramos, we have sent the two .45s we picked up at your office to the police in Miami for matching. Haven’t heard anything back. Thanks again for being a good citizen.”
“Yeah, right,” Tony replied.
“And, on another matter,” Larsen offered, “I heard from that FBI special agent on the murder case in the Caymans. The police down there have sent the .45s to the bureau lab in Quantico. We’re coordinating with Miami and the FDLE to determine if there’s a match. Thanks for that one too.”
As the detective rose to leave, both men turned to the Samsung, where the breathless young woman on the 7:30 p.m. segment of CNN was reporting, “In the wake of the first hostile nuclear detonation since the end of World War II, the situation between India and Pakistan continues to grow more tense ...”
SEPTEMBER 19
Washington, D.C.
A call-waiting message from Mark Block was on Detective Larsen’s phone when he returned to his office at 8:50. After phoning his wife to alert her that this would be another late night, Larsen called.
“Mr. Block, this is Detective Larsen returning your call.”
“Thank you, Detective. Mr. Tony Ramos has retained me to represent him in the matter you discussed earlier this evening. I would like to meet with you tonight.”
“Mr. Block, could we put that off until in the morning? I have an asshigh in-box to unload before I can call it a day, and I’ll be better prepared to review the Watson file then than tonight.”
“I respect your commitments. But my client has an unusually demanding assignment from the State Department, and it is imperative we bring this assertion of his involvement in the death of Ms. Watson to a resolution as soon as possible. I don’t contemplate taking more than thirty minutes of your time.”
Glancing at the digital wall clock, Larsen relented. “If you can get here by ten o’clock you’ll have thirty.”
“I’m on the way.”
Mark was only five minutes late when he arrived at the D Street station, accompanied by Stephanie Toothaker. She was holding the document Tony had signed twenty minutes earlier.
Standing across the metal desk from Detective Larsen, Mark introduced Ms. Toothaker and handed him the agreement. Larsen scanned it and waved for the two attorneys to take seats in his pine office chairs.
Mark opened. “Thank you for meeting with us at this hour. It isn’t relevant to your investigation, but as I said earlier, Mr. Ramos is carrying a very heavy portfolio at the State Department. It is important to him and the department that we get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.”
“When rape and murder are the charges, it’s generally considered more than trivial,” the detective drily observed.
“What are the status of the investigation and my client’s alleged involvement?”
Larsen leaned back with his glasses held in place by the tip of his nose. He leafed through the thin file before answering. “Ms. Watson was shot five times in her apartment on September 18 at approximately 7:00 a.m. Her body was found on the floor next to her bed twelve hours later by Officer Neas, who had been dispatched to discuss two .45 caliber casings that had been left at her front door the previous night. The body was transferred to the medical examiner, where it is undergoing analysis.”
“Has she made any determination?”
“Beyond the time of the incident, she has made a tentative finding that Ms. Watson was raped before she was killed.”
“What was the basis for the rape determination?”
Larsen glanced at Stephanie before proceeding; she was professionally focused. He continued, “The nature of the homicide. Except for the head shot, all the shots were fired at her breasts or sexual organs, which might support the theory that this was the conclusion of sexual predation.”
Stephanie inquired, “Was there any physical evidence?”
“Although her sexual organs were compromised by the location of the wound, there was evidence of a forced entry of her vagina. There was blood and a large discharge of semen on the bedsheets, indications of multiple entries. We have sent the specimens to the lab for analysis. It is likely we will request a sample from your client.”
Mark glanced at Stephanie. “It is our client’s intention to be as cooperative as possible.”
“That’s appreciated,” Larsen continued. “Mr. Ramos is a suspect because he had a continuing relationship with Ms. Watson and appears to be the last person in the apartment prior to the murder. Ms. Watson was on a watch list for another matter, and the Secret Service officer on duty outside her apartment noted Mr. Ramos’s Mustang leaving the garage at 7:05. I hope to have further evidence when I interview him, other apartment owners at The Greenwich, and Mr. Ramos’s colleagues at the State Department.”
Mark pulled up his left sleeve and noted that the interview with Detective Larsen had gone ten minutes beyond the thirty minutes promised.
SEPTEMBER 22
Washington, D.C.
“No, Ms. Toothaker, we have not heard from the San Diego Police Department.”
Stephanie slid the telephone console across the desk, closer to Tony so he could better hear the conversation. “Detective Martinez, when did you send them the photos from the FBI lab?”
“Let me check.” There was an extended pause on the Miami side of the call. “They were sent west by the FDLE lab in Tallahassee on August 29. I was honestly surprised we could get that fast a turnaround from the Feds. I guess it helps to be a senator, even a dead one. I’d been in contact with the SDPD, telling them to expect the photos since we figured the gun shop where the box of .45 shells was sold would be the first place to go to determine if someone could put a name to the face.”
“That’s disappointing. I guess that means they haven’t had a chance to check with the gun shop about the box’s bar code?”
“No, actually an Officer Wyllie did that. The manager of the Lock & Load gun shop confirmed the box had been sold at his store in late June. He had a vague remembrance of the man who bought it; said he recalled he had a black beard and looked a little scary. That’s a strange thing for a gun shop manager to say about a customer. Maybe when he sees the photos it’ll jog his memory some more.”
“Detective Martinez, Mr. Ramos and I appreciate your efforts. Please let us know when you hear anything further. Thank you.”
Stephanie punched off her office phone and turned to Tony. “We’re making progress, but time is not on our side. Any ideas about how to jack up the San Diego police?”
“Maybe.” Tony scanned through the phone directory of his BlackBerry and rang up a number with a 619 area code.
“Could I speak to Ms. McKenzie, please?” Tony nervously twisted his Georgetown Class of 1996 ring.
Stephanie’s phone rang. She turned her back on Tony and leaned down to listen to her call.
“Terri, thank you for taking the call.” Almost thirty seconds elapsed before Tony said, “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you since I left. I know it’s inexcusable but I’ve been on the road.”
Another sixty seconds of Tony holding the phone, looking painfully at the back of Stephanie’s head. Then, “OK, I’m an asshole. We agree. Now, can I ask a favor?” Without waiting for a response Tony continued, “I need some help from the San Diego PD. I’ll explain later why; just believe me, it’s important. A Miami-Dade police detective, Luis Martinez, has sent to an Officer Wyllie of the SDPD some photographs of a man involved in the hit-and-run homicide of Senator Billington. It’s urgent that Wyllie take them to the Lock & Load gun shop to see if the manager there can make a positive identification. Could you call Wyllie and ask as a special favor if he would do so ASAP and report back to Detective Martinez?”
Tony leaned forward in his chair. For the first time in two days he smiled and said, “Ter
ri, I really appreciate this. I’ll figure out some reason to be back in San Diego soon and thank you personally. You’re the greatest.”
Tony and Stephanie completed their conversations simultaneously. Stephanie said, “I’ve got some bad news. That was Detective Larsen. He said the semen samples match with yours. He also gave me the quickie version of interviews he’s completed with two witnesses. Both described recent confrontations between you and Ms. Watson. Larsen wants you to come to the station.”
Tony’s body language was that of a man run over by a locomotive.
“Tony,” Stephanie said as she laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, “let me take care of this. I’ve got some work to do at the office. Meet me at the station at five.”
Stephanie and Tony arrived at D.C. police headquarters at 4:45. Detective Larsen was interviewing a witness concerning another case. They waited in the lobby, where a stream of the capital city’s population flowed by: a distraught mother looking for her missing daughter; an intoxicated or mentally challenged older man occasionally punctuating his mumblings to himself with the right and left hooks of a washed-up fighter; a young couple sitting beside each other holding hands. Tony knew that each one of these people had a story to tell; they probably thought he had one too.
Larsen waved them into his office.
“Mr. Ramos, the medical officer indicates it was your semen she removed from Ms. Watson’s vagina.”
Tony glanced at Stephanie. She nodded affirmatively.
“Ms. Watson and I have been living together since mid-August, sometimes at her place and on the weekends at mine on Capitol Hill. And, yes, we had intercourse Monday night.”
“Mr. Ramos, the exam showed tearing of the vulva, which would be consistent with a forced entry. Did Ms. Watson consent to intercourse?”
Stephanie interrupted, “Detective, I am going to ask my client not to answer that question until I have had an opportunity to review the report.”
