by Brian Haig
“So, nothing specific?”
“A few threatening letters.” He added, “Once you’re known for having money, the nuts and freaks line up. I’d be foolish to leave myself vulnerable.”
“Gee, it sucks being rich, doesn’t it?”
“No, Sean.” He winked. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Less than five minutes had elapsed since the guy with the lump under his armpit had deposited us in the backyard and we found ourselves ushered right back into the lush seats of the stretch limo. Figure—between the plane, the car, and the billable hours for four lawyers—our little three-minute chitchat had just cost Mr. Morris somewhere in the neighborhood of five times my annual salary. The rich do indeed have queer ways.
The moment the plane took off I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. This, of course, is a polite way to avoid conversation. I had nothing in common with my colleagues; Sally was a heartless, manipulative bitch; Barry was an idiot; and Cy, whom I actually liked, was preoccupied with spiked orange juices and with Miss Jenny.
Also I wanted to mull over Jason Morris and his problems. Actually, it was my problem with his problems. For starters, he was rich and famous and got to ball nearly every babe in Hollywood— an impressive list of haves I regrettably have not. Well, life isn’t fair and get over it, Drummond. Forbes magazine had recently pegged his worth at four billion big ones, and, looking deeply into my soul, anybody with that much self-made goulash has earned enough capitalist’s merit badges to indulge in a few baubles and palaces. And if it would benefit my employees, I too could scale the heights of self-sacrifice and stomach a weekend on an exotic island with Jolie What’s-her-name scampering around in a skimpy bikini. Noblesse oblige, right?
So ignore his wealth, and he seemed fairly down-to-earth and unpretentious, like he got the joke about his wealth, and if you wanted to take it too seriously—like Sally, who was squirming with restless ambition beside me—fine. But he didn’t take it that seriously. I find that appealing. A bumper sticker that’s very popular on Wall Street proclaims, “He who dies with the most toys wins.” Au contraire—in the immortal words of Napoleon Bonaparte, he who possesses the biggest battalions wins. Capitalist pigs are well-advised to remember that.
About Nash, it would surpass the bounds of corporate idiocy to employ a former Secretary of Defense to bag a Defense contract. Everybody expects you to. Right? Contrarian logic would argue that you use him for exactly that reason, since stupidity can be the best camouflage. However, people are rarely that devious.
Finally, I had to ponder the tricky ethical territory involved in this mess. The American Bar Association would spank me for confessing this, but I have this simpleminded need for moral clarity. It’s what I love about criminal law—the lawyers enter the fray after the crime has been committed, when we’re only arguing about who gets the final credit. With corporate law, if your client decides to slide over that line that separates the legal from the less than legal, you can end up along for the ride. The textbook calls this abetting and assisting a crime. Added to that, it’s all white-collar stuff, where the laws are vague and mushy, and it’s all about greedy bastards fighting other greedy bastards over a nickel.
So where was the moral clarity in Jason’s charge? Was there moral clarity? After several minutes of tossing the proverbial pros and cons into the ethereal air, I concluded that Morris Networks was offering a needed service at a fraction of what its competitors wanted to gouge. If that freed up an extra shekel or two to, say, buy more tanks and planes for our fighting boys and girls in the field, well, that’s good for the goose and the gander. Right?
That issue settled, my mind drifted to another muddled order of business. Janet had called that morning, and I had agreed to spend my evening with her going through Lisa’s apartment. I had no idea what she expected to find, even if there was anything worth finding. However, she had sounded unusually eager to look—quickly—which gave me an odd sense she had some specific knowledge I didn’t.
Ask that question and you invariably end up asking yourself: Where and how does Sean Drummond fit into her plans?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE LAST PERSON I EXPECTED, NEEDED, OR INDEED WANTED TO FIND IN MY new office was lounging on the plush leather couch, sipping an espresso, feet on the coffee table, watching Judge Judy on my office TV.
Chief Warrant Daniel Spinelli glanced up and asked, “Hey, how was Florida?”
“Warm, overpriced, and full of old farts. What are you doing here?”
He punched off the TV, and his eyes shifted around. “Nice place, ain’t it?”
“Actually, the place sucks. But it’s nicely furnished.”
“They’re spoilin’ the shit out of you.”
“Well, I’m the best. I deserve it.”
He chuckled. “You gonna be able to come back home when this is done?”
Spinelli’s idea of inconsequential chatter was wearing thin. I replied, “I’m sure I asked, why are you here?”
He shrugged and set down his espresso. “Ever hear of Julia Cuthburt?”
“Never.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stood and walked to the window. He said to me, “Nice view, ain’t it?”
“Great view. Incidentally, if I have to ask why you’re here again, we’ll do it with my foot up your ass.”
He continued to stare out the window. “The body of Miss Julia Cuthburt was found in her apartment this mornin’ by the Alexandria Police. Sexually molested, robbed, and dead.”
“I didn’t do it. I’ve got witnesses.”
He faced me. “The victim was twenty-eight, single, a CPA with Johnson and Smathers, some big accounting outfit in the city. She had a long, ugly hour before her neck was broke.”
“Her— What direction was her head twisted?”
“Same as Morrow’s.”
I asked, “And you’re here to ask me if there was a connection between her and Lisa?”
“Was there?”
“I have no idea.”
He thought about this a moment, then said, “Two women, roughly the same age, single professionals, attractive. Similar victim profiles . . . same manner of death . . .”
“But what about the sexual molestation?”
“Yeah. I thought about that. Try this scenario. He’s waitin’ for Morrow in the parkin’ lot, he tries to drag her into a car, she tries to fight him off, threatens to expose him, and he decides she’s too much trouble.”
I nodded, but said nothing. Spinelli was playing games, and he annoyed me. CID people are all sneaky little bastards anyway. For some, that’s part of the job, a suit they have to wear to work, and if you put enough beers in them, they’ll even admit they find it distasteful. Spinelli was the other type. Also, this news came as a bit of a surprise, and a shock, and emotionally I needed a moment to absorb it, and intellectually, to fit Lisa’s death into this fresh context and perspective. I had imagined any number of scenarios and likely motives—vengeance, theft, and jealousy leading the list, none of which involved a complete stranger. I had not considered that she was a number pulled out of a hat by a maniac.
The manner and style of her death, however, comported with the little I understood about serial killers who actually prey on complete strangers, and the whole concept of murder as something ritualized, personalized, and even illogical. Also Lisa had the kind of fetching looks that stand out from the crowd, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. She was a poster child for serial killers and their odd hungers—attractive single women who travel alone, live alone, shop alone, all of which left them available to be raped and die alone.
“All right, I see it,” I informed him. “But it needs refinement.”
“How’s that?”
“You didn’t know the victim. I did. Lisa was a champion runner. Also, she was very smart and alert, not the type to let down her guard. How did he get close enough? How did he keep her from boltin
g?”
He suggested, “She trusted him.”
We both considered this a moment. I suggested, “Maybe he wore a uniform.”
“Maybe.”
Well, I suppose neither of us wanted to stipulate the next ugly stride in that progression. The military uniform, particularly an officer’s uniform, inspires trust and respect. Fellow officers, like Lisa, regard it as an emblem of comradeship and brotherhood. Even civilians, like Julia Cuthburt, consider it a mark of virtue, integrity, and professionalism. But what is true for military uniforms holds water in varying degrees for other uniforms, including cops, FedEx employees, and garbagemen. A uniform signifies membership in an organization, which implies selectivity and screening, all of which confers trust, or, at least, familiarity and acceptance.
“Have you talked to her sister yet?” I asked him.
“I intend to,” he replied. “I was wonderin’ if you knew how to find her.”
I checked my watch. “I’m supposed to meet her in thirty minutes. Come along, if you wish.”
I offered only to be polite. But the rotten bastard took me up on it. We drove in silence because the only question I could think to ask was how he became such an asshole. If I asked, he might answer.
Janet was waiting in front of the hotel, a convenience I appreciated greatly as it saved me a six-dollar parking fee. And while I was working in a rich firm, driving rich, and even dressing rich, I was all wrapping without the flavor.
Surmise from this that I had decided to remain with the cut-throats of Culper, Hutch, and Westin a while longer. I wanted to pursue Lisa’s killer, and if I was ejected for misbehavior, Clapper would banish me to a job that sucked, in a place that sucked, two commodities the Army has no shortage of. Regarding the firm, handling a few protests couldn’t be that time-consuming, and anyway, Barry and Sally would shove shivs in each other’s backs to solve Jason’s crisis, and battle for credit, partnership, and a cut of the annual take. Sly little Sean would coast on their coattails right to the finish line.
Also, I was getting a lot of compliments on my new wardrobe.
Anyway, Janet peeked in the car, saw Spinelli, and climbed into the backseat. As though they were lifelong pals, she said, “Hi, Danny. How are you?”
He grinned. “Busy as shit. We got a new development on your sister.”
He then proceeded to detail the particulars and question her on the newest deceased—Janet replied that she had never heard of Miss Julia Cuthburt, but yes, the connection to her sister’s death appeared both plausible and taunting.
Then Spinelli turned his eyes back to me and asked, “Remember that asshole Martin you met in the parking lot?”
“An asshole in the parking lot?” I looked at him. “Oh . . . yeah. I’m sure his name wasn’t Martin, though.”
He mumbled something under his breath that wasn’t very clear. He then said, “He wants words with you. You know the way to the Alexandria station?”
I did. And the drive over was fairly pleasant, as Janet kept Spinelli occupied, chatting about his life as a CID agent, him boasting about how many bad guys he’d busted and bagged, her filling his ears with admiring things that fed the little prick’s ego.
Incidentally, I lied about the drive being pleasant.
However, it was both illuminating and edifying to watch a pro at work—her, I mean. It is not uncommon for runts, or, these days, altitudinally challenged males, to develop ego complexes, from insecurity to Napoleonic. Clearly Spinelli’s I-love-me wall intimated a man who landed somewhere along that spectrum. I had the sense that Miss Morrow had given him some thought after our first testy session, and settled on a strategy to win his heart and mind. I love scheming, manipulative women, incidentally. And, again, she had great legs.
Anyway, we finally arrived, and Spinelli seemed to know his way around the police station. We ended up inside a big room that looked just like a detective office, with about twenty wooden desks, half of which were manned by guys, some of whom were interviewing people, some of whom were talking on the phone, and some of whom were eating bag dinners.
I pointed out to Spinelli that there were no donuts anywhere in sight, and perhaps we’d come to the wrong place. He didn’t think that was funny. Perhaps it wasn’t.
We entered a glass-enclosed office in the rear of the room, and Lieutenant Martin shooed out two detectives. Spinelli and he eyed each other apprehensively a moment, as Martin pointedly said to me, “Major . . . good to see you again. And you must be Miss Morrow?”
“Janet, please.” She handed him her card, which he quickly read and then stuffed into a pocket.
He then asked if we knew why we were there. We indicated we did, so he said, “Okay, good. Please, everybody be seated.” He lifted a photograph off his desk and handed it to Spinelli, who handed it to me, who, after a quick peek, handed it to Janet. She handed it to nobody, but studied it intently for nearly half a minute. Her eyes narrowed, but to the best I could tell, she was emotionally detached. I hadn’t expected her to vomit or anything, but a slight groan or twitch of disgust would’ve been in order.
The photo—black-and-white, a naked corpse resting on her elbows and knees with her bare rump up in the air, hands and feet trussed together, head turned gruesomely back so that her face actually peered over her right shoulder. The floor beneath her was carpeted, and a side table with a stack of magazines was beside her body. This was obviously not the position in which Miss Cuthburt had been murdered, and it occurred to me again that her corpse had been posed in this obscene manner by her killer, an in-your-face message to the police, a vicarious way of shooting the moon. The victim herself—brunette, young, bruised in a number of places, and her facial expression was a study in terror.
“I don’t know her,” Janet informed Lieutenant Martin. She tossed the photo back on his desk.
I said, “Likewise.”
“Please take another look.” He handed us another picture, a color shot, enclosed in a brass frame, showing a young lady in a graduation gown, gripping a diploma, standing between a Mom and Pop bursting with pride and hope. Martin had filched it from Miss Cuthburt’s apartment, obviously. But who cared? She didn’t.
Not a knockout, but Julia Cuthburt had been pretty enough, slender, creamy-skinned, though a bit dreamy and gullible-looking in my view. She had that fresh-off-the-farm look pimps hunt for in young runaways at bus stations, and the next stop was a nightmare. Why is it a look of innocence is nearly always an invitation to evil?
“No, I don’t know her,” Janet informed Martin, and I nodded likewise.
Martin said, “Well, I apologize for dragging you in here. And for this.” He indicated the police photo, and added, “I had to be sure.”
“It’s not an inconvenience,” Janet replied. “I’m here to help in any way I can. When was she killed?”
“Approximately nine o’clock last night.” He stared down at Miss Cuthburt’s photograph. “She was having plumbing problems, and her landlord let himself into her apartment this morning.”
Janet suggested to him, “Implying the killer knew where she lived. Just as he knew Lisa’s car?”
“Don’t assume it’s the same killer.”
“But you obviously think it’s the same man?”
“Don’t stretch the similarities.” He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and insisted, “Any conclusions would be premature at this point.”
Which was copspeak for, Yes, same guy. Martin struck me as decent and honest, and his studied reticence, or, in civilian parlance, his bald-faced lie, was understandable. If the general public learned a murderous sex maniac was on the loose, his job would get a hundred times harder.
“Evidence in her apartment?” Janet asked.
“That’s the odd thing,” Martin commented. “He cleaned up after himself. He wiped down the tables and even vacuumed the floor. But the forensics people did find some clothing fibers, some rape debris—semen, to be specific—and leather in her fingernails. The lab’s doing a workup
. We’ll have his DNA type in a few days, then we’ll look for a match.”
Janet glanced in Spinelli’s direction and said, “So he wore gloves?”
Martin said, “Yes. Deerskin gloves.” Bingo—same guy.
I said, “And you’ll obviously forward the lab results to the FBI?”
“Standard procedure in cases of this nature.”
“The rape?” Janet asked. “Just vaginal?”
“We’re not sure. Swabs from her orifices are at the lab.” He pointed down at her photo and added, “There was semen on her back. Right there.”
Janet suggested, “Indicating that the rapist may have masturbated on her? Or perhaps had an involuntary ejaculation?”
“Or dripped, or missed. You could manufacture many possible explanations. We’ll know when the lab’s finished.”
I said, “In the meantime, you’ve got two murders in three nights. The attacks occurred at roughly the same time, and the broken necks and deerskin gloves suggest it’s our guy.”
Martin replied, “That’s circumstantial. It’s still too early to draw conclusions.”
“Indicating,” I persisted, “a pattern with ugly possibilities. Our killer could be on a spree. He might have a number of victims lined up in advance—”
“There’s no reason to—” Martin said.
“And,” I said over him, “if he’s a creature of habit, and 9:00 P.M. is his witching hour, in thirty minutes or so, a repeat performance could be in the offing.”
Spinelli, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, stated, “That stays in here.”
“Unless he decides otherwise,” I pointed out.
From the looks Spinelli and Martin exchanged, they’d already had this conversation. If another female was murdered, the public would have to be informed and the fun would begin—single women freaking out, politicians banging the drums, Feds rushing in, task forces forming, hourly press conferences, and a bunch of befuddled cops trying to look and sound confident, which is nearly always a mask for cluelessness.
