Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Buchanan wasn’t capable of responding.

  “I think you are involved with drugs. I think that you and the men you killed had an argument about drug money. I think . . .”

  The interrogator’s voice dimmed, echoing. Buchanan fainted.

  6

  He found himself sitting upright once more, still tied to the chair. It took several moments for his vision to focus, for his mind to become alert. Pain definitely helped him sharpen his consciousness. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been out. The room had no windows. The fat interrogator seemed to be wearing the same sweaty uniform. But Buchanan noticed that the blood-tinted urine had disappeared from the floor. Not even a damp spot. Considerable time must have passed, he concluded. Then he noticed something else—that his pants remained wet. Hell, all they did was move me to a different room. They’re trying to screw with my mind.

  “We have brought a friend to see you.”

  “Good.” Buchanan’s voice broke. He fought not to lose his strength. “My client can vouch for me. We can clear up this mistake.”

  “Client? Did I say anything about a client?” The interrogator opened the door.

  A man, an American, stood flanked by guards in a dim hallway. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and a bulky chest, his sandy hair in a brush cut. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a too-small green T-shirt, the same clothes he’d been wearing when he’d come into the restaurant at Club Internacional in Cancún. The clothes were rumpled, and the man looked exhausted, his face still red but less from sun and alcohol than from strain. He hadn’t shaved. Big Bob Bailey.

  Yeah, I bet you’re sorry now that you didn’t stay away from me at the restaurant, Buchanan thought.

  The interrogator gestured sharply, and the guards nudged Bailey into the room, guiding him with a firm hand on each of his elbows. He walked unsteadily.

  Sure, they’ve been questioning you since they caught you on the beach, Buchanan thought. They’ve been pumping you for every speck of information they can get, and the pressure they put on you encourages you to stick to your story. If they get what they want, they’ll apologize and treat you royally to make certain you don’t change your mind.

  The guards stopped Bailey directly in front of Buchanan.

  The interrogator used the tip of the rubber hose to raise Buchanan’s face. “Is this the man you saw in Cancún?”

  Bailey hesitated.

  “Answer,” the interrogator said.

  “I . . .” Bailey drew a shaky hand across his brush cut. “It could be the man.” He stank of cigarettes. His voice was gravelly.

  “Could be?” The interrogator scowled and showed him the police sketch. “When you helped the artist prepare this sketch, I am told that you were definite in your description.”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “But?”

  Bailey cleared his throat. “I’d been drinkin’. My judgment might have been clouded.”

  “And are you sober now?”

  “I wish I wasn’t, but yeah, I’m sober.”

  “Then your judgment should be improved. Is this the man you saw shoot the three other men on the beach behind the hotel?”

  “Wait a minute,” Bailey said. “I didn’t see anybody shoot nobody. What I told the police in Cancún was I saw a friend of mine with three Mexicans. I followed ’em from the restaurant to the beach. It was dark. There were shots. I dove for cover. I don’t know who shot who, but my friend survived and ran away.”

  “It is logical to assume that the man who survived the shooting is responsible for the deaths of the others.”

  “I don’t know.” Bailey pawed at the back of his neck. “An American court might not buy that logic.”

  “This is Mexico,” the interrogator said. “Is this the man you saw run away?”

  Bailey squinted toward Buchanan. “He’s wearin’ different clothes. His hair’s got blood in it. His face is dirty. His lips are scabbed. He hasn’t shaved, and he generally looks like shit. But yeah, he looks like my friend.”

  “Looks like?” The interrogator scowled. “Surely you can be more positive, Señor Bailey. After all, the sooner we get this settled, the sooner you can go back to your hotel room.”

  “Okay.” Bailey squinted harder. “Yeah, I think he’s my friend.”

  “He’s wrong,” Buchanan said. “I never saw this man in my life.”

  “He claims he knew you in Kuwait and Iraq,” the interrogator said. “During the Gulf War.”

  “Oh, sure. Yeah, right.” The pain in Buchanan’s abdomen worsened. He bit his lip, then struggled to continue. “And then he just happened to bump into me in Cancún. Hey, I was never in Kuwait or Iraq, and I can prove it. All you have to do is look at the stamps on my passport. I bet this guy doesn’t even know my name.”

  “Jim Crawford,” Bailey said with sudden anger. “Except you lied to me. You told me your name was Ed Potter.”

  “Jim Crawford?” Buchanan grimaced at the interrogator. “Ed Potter? Get real. Does this guy know my name’s Victor Grant? Show him my passport. From the sound of things—he admitted as much—he was so drunk, I’m surprised he doesn’t claim he saw Elvis Presley. I’m not whoever he thinks I am, and I don’t know anything about three men who were murdered.”

  “In Cancún,” the interrogator said, “my brothers on the police force are investigating Ed Potter. Assuming that you did not lie when you gave Señor Bailey that name, you will have left some evidence in the area. You had to stay somewhere. You had to store your clothes. You had to sleep. We will find that place. There will be people who saw you at that place. We will bring those people here, and they will identify you as Ed Potter, proving that Señor Bailey is right.” The interrogator shook the piece of rubber hose in front of Buchanan’s face. “And then you will explain not only why you shot those three men but why you carry a passport with a different name, why you use so many names.”

  “Yeah. Like Jim Crawford,” Bailey said. “In Kuwait.”

  The interrogator looked extremely satisfied now that Bailey was cooperating again.

  Throughout, Buchanan showed no reaction except pain-aggravated anger. But his thoughts, despite his excruciating headache, were urgent. He worked to calculate how protected he was. He’d used the mail to negotiate for and to pay the rent on his office. The only times he’d spoken to the landlord had been on the telephone. The same methods had been employed with regard to his apartment in downtown Cancún. Recommended trade craft. So far so good. It was also to Buchanan’s advantage that the police would take quite a while to contact every hotel manager and landlord in Cancún. Still, eventually they would, and although Buchanan’s landlords couldn’t describe him, they would tell the police that they recognized the name Ed Potter, and the police would question people who frequented the area where Ed Potter worked and lived. Eventually, someone would be brought here who would agree with Big Bob Bailey’s claim that the man who called himself Victor Grant looked very much like Ed Potter, and things would get very sticky after that.

  “Let them,” Buchanan said. “They can waste all the time they want investigating Ed Potter, whoever he is. I’m not worried. Because I’m not that man.” Pain gnawed at his abdomen. He had to relieve his bladder once more, and he feared that his urine would be an even darker red. “The trouble is, while they’re wasting their time, I’m getting the hell beat out of me.” He shuddered. “And it’s not going to stop—because I swear to God I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.” He glared at the beefy, nervous Texan. “What did this cop say your name is? Bailey? Is that what—?”

  Bailey looked exasperated. “Crawford, you know damned well my name’s—”

  “Stop calling me Crawford. Stop calling me Potter. You’ve made a terrible mistake, and if you don’t get your memory straight . . .”

  Buchanan couldn’t restrain his bladder any longer. Indeed, he didn’t want to. He’d suddenly decided on a new tactic. He released his abdominal muscles, urine dribbling onto t
he floor, and he didn’t need to look down to know that the liquid was bloody.

  Because Bailey turned pale, raised a hand to his mouth, and mumbled, “Holy . . . Look at . . . He’s . . . It’s . . .”

  “Yeah, Bailey, take a good look. They worked me over until they broke something inside me.” Buchanan was almost breathless. He had to fight to muster the strength for every word. “What happens if they kill me before they find out you made a mistake?”

  Bailey turned paler.

  “Kill you? That is ridiculous,” the interrogator interrupted. “Obviously, you have suffered other injuries besides those to your shoulder and your head. I did not know this. I realize now that you need further medical attention. As soon as Señor Bailey signs this document, identifying you as the man he saw run from the three victims, he can leave, and I can send for a doctor.”

  The interrogator thrust a pen and a typed statement toward Bailey.

  “Yeah, go ahead and sign it,” Buchanan murmured hoarsely. “And then pray to God that the police realize there’s been a mistake . . . before they beat me worse . . . before I hemorrhage so bad I . . .” Buchanan breathed. “Because if they kill me, you’re next.”

  “What?” Bailey frowned. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Don’t be dense, Bailey. Think about it. You’re the one who’ll be blamed. We’re talking about the death of an American citizen in a Mexican jail. Do you think this cop will admit to what happened? My corpse will disappear. There’ll be no record of my arrest. And the only person who can say different is you.”

  Bailey suddenly looked with suspicion toward the interrogator.

  The interrogator grasped Bailey’s arm. “The prisoner is obviously delirious. We must allow him to rest. While you sign this document in the outer office, I will see that he gets medical attention.”

  Hesitant, Bailey allowed the interrogator to turn him toward the door.

  “Sure,” Buchanan said. “Medical attention. What he means is another whack with that rubber hose because I made you realize how much trouble you’re in. Think, Bailey. You admitted you were drunk. Why won’t you admit that there’s every chance I’m not the man you saw in Cancún?”

  “I have had enough of this.” The interrogator jabbed Buchanan’s injured shoulder. “Any fool can see that you are guilty. How do you explain this bullet wound?”

  Writhing in pain against the pressure of the ropes that bound him to the chair, Buchanan spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s not a bullet wound.”

  “But the doctor said—”

  “How would he know what caused it? He didn’t do tests to look for gunpowder in the wound. All he did was restitch it.” Buchanan grimaced. “I got this injury and the one on my skull in a boating accident.” Light-headedness again overcame him. He feared he’d pass out before he could finish. “I fell off my client’s yacht as we left port. My skull hit the hull. . . . One of the propellers cut my shoulder. . . . Lucky I didn’t get killed.”

  “This is a fantasy,” the interrogator said.

  “Right.” Buchanan swallowed. “Prove it. Prove I’m lying. For God’s sake, do what I’ve been begging you to do. Bring my client here. Ask him if he knows me. Ask if he can explain how I hurt myself.”

  “Yeah, maybe that ain’t a bad idea,” Bailey said.

  “What?” The interrogator jerked toward the beefy Texan. “Are you telling me that the description you gave in Cancún, that the drawing on this police sketch—which you helped prepare—does not match the prisoner? Are you telling me that the identification you made five minutes ago . . . ?”

  “All I said was he looks like the man I saw.” Pensive, Bailey rubbed a callused large fist against his beard-stubbled chin. “Now I ain’t so sure. My memory’s fadin’. I need time to think. This is pretty serious business.”

  “Anybody can make a mistake,” Buchanan said. “Your word against mine. That’s all this is until we get my client to vouch for me.”

  Bailey narrowed his eyes toward the bloody urine on the floor. “I ain’t signin’ nothin’ till this man’s client proves I’m right or wrong.”

  Jubilant despite his pain, Buchanan managed to squeeze out a few more words. “Charles Maxwell. His yacht’s moored near the Columbus dock in Cancún.”

  With that, Buchanan gave in to the dizziness that insisted. He’d done everything possible. Drifting, he heard the interrogator and Big Bob Bailey exchanging angry words.

  7

  He was taken back to his cell. Staggering across it, trying not to bump into the other prisoners and cause an incident, he noticed that many of the faces scowling at him were different from those who had scowled at him when he’d first arrived, however long ago that was. His weary guess was that new drunks had replaced those who’d sobered but that the thieves and other predators had been left here until somebody got motivated enough to take the trouble to put them on trial. He knew that in his weakened condition it wouldn’t be long before the predators moved against him, so he found a space against a wall and sat, straining to remain awake, staring in response to their stares, hiding his pain, calculating how best to defend himself. He didn’t realize right away that two guards had unlocked the cell and were gesturing for him to come out.

  They didn’t take him toward the interrogation room, however. Instead they took him in the opposite direction, toward a section of the jail that he hadn’t seen.

  What now? Is this when I disappear?

  The guards opened a door, and Buchanan blinked in confusion. He’d expected the interrogator, but what he faced was a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall. He was told to strip, bathe, shave, and put on the white cotton shirt and pants that were stacked on a chair along with a pair of cheap rubber sandals. Confused, he obeyed, the lukewarm water not only making him feel welcomely clean but bolstering his meager energy. The guards stood watch. Later, as Buchanan finished dressing, another guard came in and set a tray upon the sink. Buchanan was astonished. The tray held a plate of refried beans and tortillas, the first food that he had received since he’d been brought here. Weakness and pain had stifled his appetite, but he didn’t need any encouragement to grab something else that was on the tray. A bottle of purified water. In a rush, he broke the seal, unscrewed the cap, and swallowed several large mouthfuls. Not too much. You’ll get sick.

  He studied the food, the aroma of which both attracted and repelled him. The food might be contaminated, he thought, the shower and the fresh clothes a trick to make him ignore his suspicion and eat. But I have to take the risk. Even if my stomach doesn’t want it, I’ve got to force myself to eat.

  Again he reminded himself, Not too much at once. It took him a long time to chew and swallow the first mouthful of beans. When his stomach didn’t revolt, he was encouraged to drink more water and bite off a piece of tortilla.

  He never was able to finish the meal. Holding his spoon in his right hand, he almost dropped it because his fingers began to twitch again, alarmingly. When he switched the spoon to his left hand but before he could raise more food, another guard arrived, and the four of them, looking somber, took him past his crowded cell, toward the interrogation rooms. Why? Buchanan thought. Why would they let me clean up and give me something to eat if they’re planning to give me another session with the rubber hose? That doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .

  The guards escorted him into a room that Buchanan had never seen, a dingy, cluttered office in which the interrogator sat stiffly behind his desk and faced a stern, pinch-lipped American who sat with equal stiffness across from him. When Buchanan appeared, each man directed a narrow gaze at him, and Buchanan’s hidden elation at the hope that he might be released turned into abrupt suspicion.

  The American was in his middle forties, of middle height and weight, with a pointed chin, a slender nose, and thick dark eyebrows that contrasted with his thinning sun-bleached hair. He was deeply tanned and wore an expensive tropical-blend blue suit with a red-striped silk tie and a gleaming white shirt that not on
ly accentuated his tan but seemed to reflect it. He wore a Harvard ring, a Piaget watch, and Cole-Haan shoes. Distinguished. Impressive. A man to have on your side.

  The trouble was that Buchanan had no idea who the man was. He didn’t dare assume that the interrogator had responded to his demand and contacted his alibi, Charles Maxwell. The emergency alibi had been established hastily. Normally, every detail of a plan was checked many times, but in this case, Buchanan didn’t know what on earth Maxwell looked like. It was reasonable to assume that Maxwell, having been contacted, would come here to support Buchanan’s claims. But what if the interrogator had found an American to impersonate Maxwell? What if the interrogator wanted to trick Buchanan into pretending to know the American and thus prove that Buchanan was lying about his alibi?

  The American stood expectantly.

  Buchanan had to react. He couldn’t just keep peering blankly. If this really was Maxwell, the interrogator would expect Buchanan to show grateful recognition. But what if this wasn’t Maxwell?

  The interrogator withdrew his chin into the numerous folds of his neck.

  Buchanan sighed, approached the American, placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder, and said, “I was getting worried. It’s so good to see . . .”

  To see whom? Buchanan let the sentence dangle. He might have been referring to his relief at seeing his friend and client, Charles “Chuck” Maxwell, or he might have been saying that he was delighted to see another American.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Buchanan added, another statement that could apply either to Maxwell or to a fellow American whom Buchanan didn’t know. He slumped on a chair beside the battered desk. Tension increased his pain.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” the American said.

  Although the statement implied a strong relationship between the American and Buchanan, it still wasn’t forthright enough for Buchanan to treat him as Charles Maxwell. Come on, give me a clue. Let me know who you are.

  The American continued, “And what I heard alarmed me. But I must say, Mr. Grant, you appear in better condition than I expected.”