“I’m not sure Marilyn Monroe was dumb. Did Dr. Joycelen abuse her? I mean, physically?”
“Not that I know of, but Christa wouldn’t tell me if he had. It was more verbal abuse. She couldn’t say anything without him making some rotten remark. We’d be at dinner and she’d say something and he’d laugh at her, or tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about.”
Margit asked, “Why would she put up with that? Why would any woman put up with that?” As she said it, Christa, who’d been standing in the doorway, came to the center of the room. Her eyes were dry. “You want to know why I put up with Dick Joycelen’s abuse? I didn’t consider it abuse. Sure, I knew he didn’t have a hell of a lot of respect for me. As they say, I’m no rocket scientist. He was—and more. But I didn’t consider it abuse. That was the way he was, a genius, a famous man who chose me to be on his arm when he went to fancy receptions. How long have you been in this city, Major? Washington is a tough place for a woman. There are too many of us. What did I read? Seven women to every man.”
Christa said to Peg, “If you were really honest, sweetie, you’d admit how jealous you were. You mean well, but I’ve seen some of the losers you’ve ended up with, the cheap dates, lousy restaurants, dull people. Dick Joycelen was a son of a bitch, but he sure wasn’t dull, and he made sure I wasn’t bored. God, how bored a woman can get in this city when she doesn’t have someone.”
Margit felt pity for Christa. At the same time, she didn’t quite believe everything she was saying. She couldn’t pinpoint why she felt that way. She just did. Maybe it was the cold and calculating reasons for which Christa put up with an abusive man like Joycelen. Then again, had he been as abusive as Peg Johnson claimed?
“Had you made definite wedding plans?” Margit asked. Christa had sat in a chair and was taking a long, slow pull on her drink.
“No. He was busy and under a lot of pressure. We were going to go away together on a real vacation, maybe for a week, to some pretty island to discuss our future. We never got to that. This is our future.”
“But he had proposed to you,” Margit said.
Christa looked at her defiantly. “Are you doubting that he wanted to marry me?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to gain an understanding of Dr. Joycelen and his life leading up to the time he was killed.”
“Because you’re trying to defend the man who killed him.”
“Yes, of course. I was up-front about that with you when I first called.”
“You won’t get him off,” she said.
“That remains to be seen. I certainly intend to try. Frankly, I don’t believe he killed Dr. Joycelen.”
Christa gave a half-laugh. “That’s trash, and you know it, just like the claim that this Captain Cobol you’re defending and Dick had some kind of homosexual relationship. I hate those rumors.”
“I don’t believe those rumors, either,” Margit said. “Look, Ms. Wren, I don’t want to cause any more grief than you’re already experiencing. I have a job to do, and I take my job seriously. Whether or not Captain Cobol killed Dr. Joycelen will be determined by a court-martial.”
“If he didn’t kill him, who did?” Peg Johnson asked.
“That’s something I have to think about, too,” said Margit.
Christa laughed nervously. “If you get your guy off, maybe they’ll say I did it.”
“If I get ‘my guy’ off,” Margit replied, “there’s a legion of people who could come into the picture. When you and I chatted at the picnic the morning of the murder, you said he was inside the Pentagon. Do you know why he was in there?”
“No. Dick didn’t discuss his work with me.”
“Had you been inside with him?” Margit asked.
“Inside with him? I don’t have clearance to go into the Pentagon.”
“Yes, I understand that, but Dr. Joycelen could have taken you in on a visitor’s pass.”
Christa twisted in her chair and looked toward a large picture window. She said without looking back, “Yes, I was inside for a while.”
“With Dr. Joycelen, of course.”
She turned. “How else would I be in there?”
“How long before you and I talked had you been inside?”
“How would I know that? I don’t even remember talking to you at the picnic. I just remember waiting for Dick and then having those men come out and announce that something had happened inside. Never occurred to me that the problem had to do with Dick.”
“But you left the picnic immediately after it broke up. I was surprised at that because … well, if I were in your shoes, I would have waited to see what the problem was. It was like you left because you knew he wouldn’t be coming out.”
Christa jumped to her feet. “What the hell are you doing, accusing me of knowing he’d been killed? That maybe I did it when I was inside with him?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking a question.”
“I’m asking you to leave.”
“Fine,” Margit said.
“Is this the way you’re going to defend that faggot captain, point a finger at somebody else?”
“No. But if in the process of defending him, I run across someone who might have had motive and opportunity to kill Joycelen, I will certainly pursue it. Thank you for allowing me to visit with you.” Margit extended her hand to Peg Johnson, who reached up and took it. Margit said, “Please don’t bother seeing me to the door. I am sorry for your loss.”
When Margit returned to her office, she called the Med Center at McNair and asked for the doctor whose name she’d been given by Jenko. She was told he was on emergency leave and would not return until the following Wednesday.
“What was the emergency?” Margit asked without attempting to disguise her skepticism.
“Personal.”
She wondered how Flo Cobol’s latest visit with her son had gone. She wished Flo had called her. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for them to be alone. If Cobol had been as upset as Silbert claimed, and had needed medical attention for whatever reason, I should have gone to see him, she thought. Her next appointment was on Monday, when she and Mac Smith were scheduled to visit. She couldn’t wait that long. She didn’t have time to go to McNair at the moment, but would go the next day, Saturday.
Jeff Foxboro called to confirm their plans for dinner and for her to spend the night at his apartment. She was torn, actually felt guilt at devoting all those hours to something purely personal and pleasurable. But she wasn’t about to interfere with the new momentum their relationship had recently taken. They decided to avoid fancy restaurants and to go to a neighborhood Chinese place around the corner from Jeff’s building. That suited Margit fine. All she wanted to do was to curl up with him, watch moronic television programs, and forget everything and anything having to do with murder or court-martials. But come to think of it, television was all lawyers and trials and murder these days. Maybe there’d be a Bugs Bunny festival, or a Groucho retrospective.
Before leaving for her meeting with Brian Maitland, Cobol’s roommate, she changed into a skirt and sweater she kept in the office. Walking into a busy saloon in full uniform would not, she decided, be calculated to put anyone at ease.
Sign of the Whale was bustling when Margit arrived. She asked a bartender for Maitland; he pointed to a booth at the back where a young man sat alone. Margit snaked her way through the crowd. “Brian Maitland?” she asked.
“Yes. You must be Major Falk.”
“Thanks for seeing me. May I sit down?”
He stood awkwardly and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”
Margit took him in. He was slender, fair, and had straight hair the color of honey that he wore slicked back in a popular style of the day. His eyes were intensely blue. “How’s Bob?” he asked.
“As good as can be expected under the circumstances. You haven’t visited him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I just thought it probably
wasn’t the smartest thing to do … under the circumstances.”
Margit silently agreed.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Club soda with lime.”
Maitland waved to a waitress and gave her Margit’s order, asked for a Lite beer for him.
After they’d been served, Margit said, “Tell me about Bob Cobol.”
Maitland shifted nervously. “What do you want to know about him?”
“Let’s start with when the two of you first met. He told me that becoming involved with you caused problems for him with his superior at the CIA.”
Maitland was obviously uncomfortable discussing the intimate aspects of his relationship with Cobol, but Margit saw no reason to tiptoe. “Look,” she said, “Bob has been open with me. I know that you two are lovers. That means nothing to me. The only thing I care about is helping him, and I’m going to need lots of help myself to do it right.”
“I understand that,” said Maitland, glancing up at people parading past the booth. “It isn’t so much that I care about myself,” he said, redirecting his attention to her. “The fact that Bob is a military officer complicates things, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course I know what you mean. It’s against regulations to be a homosexual. He told me that when his superior found out that you and he had entered into a relationship, he expected to be severely disciplined, probably kicked out of the service. But his superior told him he didn’t want to lose a good officer and would overlook the indiscretion. Did Bob discuss this with you?”
Maitland nodded. “He couldn’t believe it. He talked for days about what a wonderful person this Major Reich was to have turned his head to what happened. I agreed with him. If there was ever a time to go back into the closet, this was it. His whole career was on the line.”
“It certainly was. I’ve been trying to locate Major Reich, but he isn’t—locatable, I suppose is the word. What else did Bob say about Reich?”
“Nothing, aside from the fact that he was a good guy. Bob took his duties seriously. I mean, after all, he was assigned to the CIA. He never mentioned anything about what went on there, or at the Pentagon, where he spent most of his time.”
“What about his revolver?”
“I read that it was used to kill Dr. Joycelen. I don’t know how that could have happened.”
“Bob told me he kept the weapon in the apartment he shared with you. Did you ever remove it from there?”
“Hell, no. I hated the fact that it was even there, but I knew it had to be. No, I know nothing about the gun.”
“Did Bob ever mention Joycelen to you?”
“Never.”
“You knew who he was?”
“Maybe. I guess I read his name in the papers a few times. I sure know now who he was.”
“And Bob never mentioned his name, never indicated that he knew him.”
Maitland shook his head.
It had become noisier in the bar, and Margit leaned across the table to be heard without raising her voice. “Did he discuss anything with you about his duties the morning Joycelen was killed?”
“He pulled weekend duty a lot.”
“Yes, but what about this particular weekend? That Saturday morning? Were you with him the day before? Friday?”
Maitland rolled his eyes up as though to help recall. “Yes, I guess I was. He—let’s see, he came home just as I was about to leave for here.”
“That would be around what, four, five?”
“Yeah, about four-thirty maybe.”
“That was early for him to come home, wasn’t it?”
“No. He usually got off duty at four and came directly home. He might have been a little earlier that day because …”
Margit leaned closer. “Because why?”
“I don’t really remember. I think he came home early because he’d been assigned Saturday morning duty.”
“It was a last-minute assignment?”
“Yes. He was angry about it. That’s right, he was mad because he’d made plans for Saturday and had to cancel.”
“What plans?”
“It had to do with his car. He’d wanted to buy some things for his car, and I think he planned to do it Saturday morning.” Maitland sat up straight, and his face became animated. “Yes, that’s right. He wanted to buy some things for his car, and he was going to shop for clothes.”
“But he couldn’t because somebody threw him a curve and assigned him to duty the next morning.”
“Right.”
“Any idea who made that assignment?”
A shrug from Maitland. “No idea.”
They talked for another ten minutes. “I know you have to start your shift,” Margit said. She finished her soda and shook his hand. “I really appreciate this. Anything you want me to tell Bob?”
Maitland’s fair complexion turned crimson. Margit averted her eyes. “Just tell him I’m thinking of him,” Maitland mumbled as he slid out of the booth. “No,” he said, “tell him that I love him.” He was lost in the milling crowd.
Jeff was at the restaurant when Margit walked in. They kissed, decided on dishes more substantive than dim sum, and made small talk over steamed dumplings with sesame sauce and scallion pancakes. They shared an order of General Tsao’s chicken and shrimp fried rice, washed it down with endless minicups of tea and a complimentary glass of plum wine, and went directly to his place.
They did that evening exactly what she’d hoped they would, snuggled together on the couch watching a couple of silly sitcoms. They took a half-hour break to affirm their feelings for each other, then returned to the couch and watched a documentary on the origins of blues music. They didn’t bother leaving the couch for their second affirmation of love, and were asleep in bed by eleven-thirty.
The phone rang at midnight. Jeff answered, confirmed that Major Falk was there, and handed the phone to her. It was the base locator at Bolling. “Sorry to disturb you, Major,” the officer said, “but you have a message from Fort McNair.”
“A message?”
“Somebody from the detention center says that your client, Captain Robert Cobol, wishes to speak with you.”
“Now? He wants to speak with me now?”
“That’s what the caller said.”
“Who is the caller? What’s his name?”
“Sergeant Davis.”
“Did he say that something is wrong there?”
“No. All he said was that Captain Cobol wanted to speak with you.”
“Thank you very much,” Margit said.
She sat up in bed. So did Jeff. She told him what the call was about.
“You aren’t going, are you?” he said.
“I don’t know. I’ve been concerned about Cobol.” She told him of Silbert’s comments, and that a medical corpsman had visited him. “I planned to go over there tomorrow.” She glanced at a digital clock-radio. “Which is today.”
“Then that’s what you should do. Let’s go back to sleep. I’m sure there’s nothing so important that you have to race there tonight.”
She knew he was right, and her feelings were in conflict with her more sober thought. She was drowsy, which made the decision for her. She kissed him. “I love you,” she said.
“And I love you,” he said. “Come on, back to sleep. World War Three can wait.”
18
Margit was up at six. She left Jeff sleeping, went to the kitchen and made coffee, and carried a cup of it onto the terrace. The sky was heavy, the clouds gray bordering on black. It had not been a good sleep. She’d awakened many times. Once—it might have been three, maybe four, o’clock—she’d considered getting up and driving to McNair. Silly, she’d told herself. Cobol would be asleep, and the guards at the detention center would not be amenable to a visitor showing up at that hour.
She showered, put on a change of clothing she’d brought to the apartment, and went to the bedroom, where, gently, she shook Jeff awake. He opened his eyes and said in a
cross voice, “What?”
“Sweetheart, I’m going to run home, and then go to see Cobol.”
“Ah, come on back to bed,” he said, attempting to pull her down next to him. She resisted. “No, I really have to go. Will you be here most of the day?”
“I guess so.”
“I’ll call when I get back.”
She changed into a blue jumpsuit at her BOQ and headed for McNair. It wasn’t until she was about to turn into the small parking lot across from the detention center that she realized something unusual was happening.
She stopped halfway into the lot and peered out her window. Military police vehicles with roof lights flashing flanked an air-force ambulance. “Wait a minute,” she muttered, parking her car in the first available space, leaping from it, and running toward the commotion. The front entrance had been cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, the warnings to stay clear in air-force blue. Military police blocked her progress.
“I’m Major Margit Falk, defense counsel for Captain Cobol. He’s inside there.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” one of the guards said. “You’ll have to talk to him.” He pointed to an army major who stood next to the ambulance. Margit went to him and introduced herself.
“Yes, Major Falk,” the major said. “I’m Major Jenko.”
He looked as unpleasant as he’d sounded on the phone.
“I’m here to see Captain Cobol. What’s happened?”
“There’s been an accident,” Jenko said coldly, looking beyond her.
“To Captain Cobol?”
“He’s dead.”
His words had the same impact as if he’d struck her.
“He hanged himself early this morning,” Jenko said. “It’s under investigation.”
“Where is he? The body?”
Murder at the Pentagon Page 16
