by Ethan Cross
The world was an intricate tapestry of sounds, smells, and vibrations that most people never noticed. But in the years since losing his sight, Munroe had learned to weave the data from his remaining senses together. He intertwined each strand in his mind’s eye and could usually stitch together a picture of his surroundings. Still, there were so many details that were lost to him. If he couldn’t hear it or smell it or feel it, then it didn’t exist in his world.
He had always prided himself on his attention to detail, and it was this affinity for minutiae and problem solving that had led him to become a detective in the first place. Then, one day, half the details just disappeared, and the world had become a frightening place of darkness.
“What do we see, Gerald?” Munroe asked in his soothing Southern drawl, the words dripping from his mouth like honey. He adjusted the dark designer sunglasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. He was seldom in public without them. Although his eyes appeared normal, people found his vacant stare to be unsettling.
“Crime scene,” Gerald Dixon said. His voice was deep and smooth. “Lots of cops going into the Commandant’s House. I see some jackholes in windbreakers with white letters. Probably NCIS.”
“Jackholes?”
“Yeah, you know. More than a jackass, slightly less than an asshole.”
“I see,” Munroe said. People often found it humorous when he used verbs that referred to sighted actions, and conversations always grew awkward when someone accidentally used such a verb around him. But in reality, he used terms like that constantly in common speech, even though they were technically inaccurate. There was nothing offensive about it. In fact, he found it more offensive when people noticed the faux pas and apologized, as if he were some sensitive child that needed to be coddled.
“Check the crowd. Anyone suspicious? Anyone seem out of place or watching just a bit too closely?”
A moment passed, and Gerald said, “Nothing.”
“Okay, let’s make an entrance.”
Gerald guided Munroe’s hand to his forearm and led him up to the door. Agents and police stopped them a couple of times along the way, but a flashing of their credentials from the Defense Criminal Investigative Service or DCIS allowed them to pass.
Once inside, Munroe heard the voices of detectives and CSI crews echoing off the hardwood floors, but a loud nasal voice cut through the rest. “What are you doing here, Munroe? This is an NCIS investigation. We don’t need help from a special investigator on this one.”
“Hello, Agent Ashter. I’d try to insult you now, but I’m afraid that I may lack the proper vocabulary for it to be effective or even understood.”
“Screw you, Munroe. You’re a liability, and I don’t want you stumbling around my crime scene.”
He laughed. “Your crime scene? We both know Markham’s never going to let you take the training wheels off. Speaking of Markham, don’t you need to be picking up his dry cleaning, getting coffee, mowing his lawn?”
He felt Ashter push in close. The man smelled like breath mints and Old Spice. “You shouldn’t even be an active agent. You’re a cripple. I don’t know what you hold over the heads of the big boys at the Pentagon, but if you ask me, your retirement’s about ten years overdue.”
Munroe had descended from Southern Aristocracy, and like a true Southern gentleman, he took the other man’s comments with a calm, indifferent smirk. But on the inside, the remarks reverberated through his mind. He wanted to scream. He wanted to bash Ashter’s face in. He had become accustomed to people discounting him because of his disability, but few were as blatant and rude as this. Still, Munroe’s father had always said that to show anger to those beneath you was to put your weaknesses on display.
“I do so enjoy our little talks, but I have work to do. Where’s your boss?”
He could hear Ashter chewing on his bottom lip and suspected that the agent’s head was shaking as well. Munroe continued, “Come on. You know that I’ll just make a quick phone call, and all this ignorant posturing will be for nothing.”
Ashter hesitated but then said, “Stay here. I’ll send him down to you.”
A few moments later, Munroe heard NCIS Special Agent Dean Markham approaching. Markham had taken a round in the hip several years before, and it gave his gait a rhythm Munroe found distinctive. Munroe stuck out his hand and said, “You need to keep your dog on a shorter leash.”
Markham shook the proffered hand and replied in his Boston accent, “He’s a good agent.”
“If brains were dynamite, that boy wouldn’t be able to blow his nose.”
“Why are you here?” Markham said, all business.
“I was here to see General Easton. At his request. He called me and said that he had an urgent matter that he needed to discuss. I came as soon as I could.”
Munroe heard Markham flip open a notebook and click a pen before the agent asked, “What did he need to talk about?”
“He wouldn’t say over the phone. I really have no idea.”
“What’s your relationship to the Commandant?”
“We’re old friends. We get together now and then, drink some scotch, smoke cigars.”
“Did he often discuss personal issues with you? Marital problems, anything like that?”
“No, he wasn’t looking forward to his retirement, but his wife definitely was. You want to tell me what’s happened? Why are you asking about marital issues?”
Markham released a deep breath. “Because it looks like he brutally murdered his wife and then killed himself.”
Munroe was silent a moment. “That’s not right. The man I know would never have done something like that.”
“It’s too early to make any definite conclusions, but that’s the way it looks.”
“Things aren’t always the way they seem.”
Markham flipped the notebook closed. “They almost never are, but this is our investigation. I’ll let you in out of respect for your service to this country and your…sacrifice. But stay out of our way. If you see…I mean…pick up on anything, you come to me first.”
Munroe once again fought to maintain his calm demeanor. It seemed that these guys always fell into two camps: one that thought he should be collecting disability and one that gave him undue respect for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. None of them respected his skills as an investigator or treated him as an asset. He was just thankful that the DOD and the Joint Chiefs didn’t share the viewpoint of the NCIS and FBI.
Gerald led him up the stairs and down a familiar path, the rhythm of Markham’s footfalls sounding on the hardwood in front of them. He knew they were headed to General Easton’s office. He and George Easton had shared many glasses of fine scotch in that room. As he counted their steps to judge the distance they’d traveled for his mental tapestry, he knew that the eyes of the previous commandants were looking down on him from the portraits that lined the hall. He could feel the weight from the gazes of the great men, urging him to find justice for their fallen brother. History was thick in this place. The home of the commandants was said to be the oldest continuously occupied public building in DC and one of the few not burned by the British when they sacked the Capitol in 1814. Legend held that the British spared the home of the commandant from the torch out of a gesture of soldierly respect. It was fifteen thousand square feet, including thirty rooms not counting closets or baths. Unfortunately, he had never actually seen the interior of the great structure. Just one more detail and experience stolen from him.
The noise of the crime scene grew closer, and he heard and felt the change in sound as they entered Easton’s office. It was like a change in pressure as the voices and echoes were no longer constrained by walls. “What do we see, Gerald? I know the layout. Just give me the details of the crime.”
Gerald Dixon had been his best friend since they were children. The large black man’s family ha
d worked for Munroe’s father on the plantation for generations. Young Deacon Munroe hadn’t known that Gerald was below his station in life. And Older Deacon Munroe simply didn’t care about such things. One of the crops grown on the farm was tobacco, and he still vividly remembered the first time that he and Gerald had decided to try to smoke some directly from the field. The two boys were sick for what felt like a week.
Gerald took a deep breath. “The bodies are along the north side of the office. Easton’s on his back with his wife cradled in his lap. It looks like she was beaten to death. Her face is…” Gerald’s voice trailed off, painting Munroe an especially grim picture. “The entry wound on the General’s head is in the left temple with the exit on the right. I think I see powder burns consistent with direct contact of the barrel.”
“Did you say the entry wound is on the left temple? Gun in the left hand?”
“That’s correct.”
“Go on.”
“The General appears to have scratch marks all over him, consistent with a struggle. The room’s the same way. Lamp’s overturned. A chair. Some papers and books are scattered across the floor. Bloody footprints leading to the desk. Bloody handprints on top of the desk. Blood on the chair.”
“What about the murder weapon?”
“For the wife, it looks like she was beaten to death. I see a lot of blood and abrasions on the General’s fists. It doesn’t look good, Deac.”
“Continue.”
“The gun is a decorative Colt 1911. It looks like the one from his display case.”
“Check the case. Is it bloody?”
“No, it looks clean.”
“Good. Could you summon Agent Markham for me please, Gerald.”
A moment later, Markham’s clip-clop footfalls approached, accompanied by another set that Munroe guessed to be Ashter. Munroe said, “What do you think about the scene, Markham?”
Ashter’s nasal voice said, “Are you kidding? It’s clear that—”
“Adults are speaking,” Munroe interrupted.
“What is your problem, Munroe?” Ashter said, playing the victim in front of his superior.
Munroe turned sharply to the sound of the man’s voice. “I don’t like your face.” Turning back to where he assumed Markham to be standing, he continued, “Your thoughts, Special Agent Markham?”
When Markham spoke, his words were slow and measured, as if he were considering every syllable with care. “It’s too soon to make any definite conclusions. We haven’t gathered all the evidence yet. But from what I’ve seen to this point, it appears that General Easton and his wife had a physical altercation, and Easton, a highly trained soldier, killed her during the fight. He then sat down at his desk, considered what had happened. Realized what he’d done and decided to end his own life. He retrieved the gun, cradled his wife’s body, and shot himself in the head.”
Munroe nodded. “On first glance, that is what appears to have happened. However, there are a few inconsistencies. First of all, the Commandant is right-handed. Why would a right-handed person use his left hand to hold a gun and commit suicide?”
Ashter cut in. “Maybe he hurt it in the fight. That doesn’t—”
“Second, if things played out as you described. Why isn’t the display case covered in blood? Have you checked the weapon? Any traces of blood on the magazine or rounds that Easton would have loaded?”
Markham told them to hold on and went to check with his people. When he returned, he said, “The real test will be done at the lab, but they checked with UV light and found no traces of blood on the magazine, bullets, or display case. But before we go off half-cocked with wild conspiracy theories, none of that necessarily proves anything more is going on. There are scratch marks on Easton and skin under the wife’s nails and a whole lot of other evidence saying that the wife fought him for her life. It’s too soon to come to any conclusions.”
“Please, we both know that you came to a conclusion within thirty seconds of seeing this scene. I’m just saying not to let any preconceptions allow evidence to be missed or possibilities to be overlooked. Are your people checking for witnesses that may have seen anyone suspicious?”
“We know how to do our jobs, Munroe.” Markham walked off with Ashter following on his heels like a new puppy.
Munroe said, “Let’s take a walk down the hall, Gerald.”
The big man led him out of the room and away from the others with his guide arm, the one Munroe was holding, sliding behind his back. The small gesture told Munroe to transition into a single file line in order to maneuver through a tight space. “I don’t like your face, says the blind man?” Gerald commented.
“I thought you might like that. I bet our boy’s still chewing on that one.”
“You think that somebody faked the scene? Is that why he’s holding the gun with his left hand?”
“No, I think that it was a message. George was leaving us a clue. If a professional had faked the scene by forcing the gun to his head, they would have assumed that he was right-handed. And that’s if they hadn’t checked beforehand to be sure. But if they had threatened him in some way, forced him to do it, then he may have used his left hand in order to throw up a red flag. Do you remember the Sherlock Holmes short story, Silver Blaze? We read it in Ms. Petrie’s class when we were kids.”
“Yeah, it was the one where Holmes solves the case because the dog didn’t bark.”
Munroe nodded. “Good memory. There’s a dog not barking here too.”
“What are you saying?”
“George had an ornate clock in his office that ticked with every second. A present from his grandmother or some such, one of those new clocks that are designed to look like antiques. It always annoyed the piss out of me, but George found it relaxing. He kept saying that he was going to send me one for my office at home, that I needed to relax a bit more. But where’s that clock at now? There wasn’t any ticking in his office.”
“Okay, wait here. I’ll take a look. Maybe it was broken in the struggle.”
He listened to Gerald’s footsteps as he walked away. Waited. Thought. Listened to the same footsteps return a few minutes later. “I found it,” Gerald said.
Munroe shook his head. “Damn, I thought I had something there.”
“It wasn’t in his office. It was in the study a couple doors down.”
“Really. I don’t hear it.”
“It’s not working. Batteries must be dead.”
Munroe considered this. Why would the Commandant have moved his clock and let the batteries run down? He loved that damn clock. Especially when he knew that Munroe was coming. Unless it was another message. One directed specifically at him.
“Check the battery compartment. Don’t let anyone see you do it.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. They’re all focused on the office.”
A moment later, he heard Gerald return. His partner’s breathing pattern had noticeably changed. “You were right. I found something where the batteries should have been.”
