Murder at the Library of Congress

by Margaret Truman

  MPD detectives Nastasi and Shorter had been meeting with him for the past half hour in his office adjacent to the twenty-four-hour command center.

  “… and so Mr. Vogler attacked Dr. Paul?” Nastasi said.

  “It appeared that way,” Lapin said. “Always hard to pin down who starts a fight, but I was pretty sure Vogler threw the first punch. Of course, you never know what prompts a guy to hit somebody. In Paul’s case …”

  The detectives cocked their heads and looked at the security chief.

  “In Michele Paul’s case, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d said something to nettle Vogler.”

  “What did Vogler say about it?” Shorter asked.

  Lapin consulted his file on the incident. “All he said was that Paul insulted him.” Lapin looked up from the folder and smiled. “Some insult. Lots of rumors about Paul messing with Vogler’s wife.”

  “That so?” said Nastasi. “Vogler was cuckolded?”

  “Can’t prove it by me, and that’s not the way it’s usually described, but that’s what I heard. Vogler and his wife divorced.”

  Shorter, who was writing his own notes, said, “Any other incidents like the one between Vogler and Paul?”

  “Physical assaults? No.”

  “Did you personally know the deceased?”

  Lapin nodded. “Not well, but we had a few conversations over the years. I didn’t seek him out. Frankly, I never liked the guy.”

  “You and the rest of the library,” Nastasi muttered.

  “True,” said Lapin. “Anything else I can do for you today?”

  “Yeah,” Nastasi said. “What’s new with the stalker?”

  Lapin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Still stalking according to the stalkee. Is there such a word?”

  Shorter laughed. “I don’t think so. We had another complaint filed with us yesterday.”

  “I’ve got a plainclothes officer working the main reading room. You can’t tell the stalkers without a program. We attract our share of kooks. The main reading room is open to all, even the District’s more … colorful types.”

  “Nice way to put it,” said Shorter.

  “At least we know it’s a man,” Lapin said. “That rules out the Bride of Christ.”

  “Say again?”

  “The Bride of Christ. She’s been coming here in her white wedding gown for more than a year looking for proof in one of the Bibles in the collection that Christ was her husband.”

  “That so?” Nastasi said. “How many Bibles do you have?”

  “Enough to keep her going another couple of decades. The main reading room librarians are wearing their badges upside down to make it harder to read their names. Have you met Ms. Gomara?”

  The detectives shook their heads.

  “If I was going to stalk somebody from the library,” Lapin said, “I’d pick her. A knockout. A little young for me but … Everybody seems a little young for me these days. What’s new in the murder investigation?”

  “Not much,” replied Nastasi. “No prints on the weapon. Tough to pick up prints off that burlap that covered the lead weight. Now it’s at the FBI lab. They’ve got new equipment that might do the trick. Some of your people are meeting this afternoon with ours at the deceased’s apartment to look at library materials. It’s been searched. Didn’t come up with much. He had a black book filled with names, lots of women. I take it that despite being hated around here, there were women who found him charming.”

  “Oh, yes. He had a reputation of being a ladies’ man. Much water fountain scuttlebutt. But Paul kept pretty much to himself. Didn’t have any real friends, no confidants at the library as far as I know.”

  “He lived pretty good,” Shorter said. “Nice big apartment. Nice car. Thirty-foot boat. A ton of credit card receipts from when he traveled, which seemed to be often. Didn’t skimp when he was on the road.”

  “By the way,” Nastasi said, “have you finished going through background security checks on people in the Hispanic division?”

  “No. Maybe by the end of the day.”

  “How extensive are those checks?” Shorter asked.

  “Depends on the employee and what they have access to. Anyone authorized to get close to the rare books, maps, and manuscripts goes through a fairly rigid check before starting work. In some cases, like the Kissinger papers we have, there’s material that bears on national security. Employees working in that section have to get a

  top-secret clearance. Same with anybody working in the congressional research

  division.”

  “Let us know when you’re done,” Nastasi said.

  “Shall do.”

  “You have any info on where Paul got the money to live the way he did?” Shorter asked Lapin.

  The security chief shook his head. “Rich uncle, maybe. Moonlighted as a male escort, maybe. Lucky at the lottery …”

  “Maybe,” Nastasi said.

  17

  Warren Munsch sat at a table outside the San Angel Inn on Diego Rivera, a few blocks from the Hotel Polanco, where he’d been staying since arriving in Mexico City. He’d left his room early that morning carrying his possessions in his overnight bag. Fortunately, the clerks at the desk hadn’t seen him leave. If they had, they might have asked whether he was checking out and presented him his bill. That would have been embarrassing. Munsch didn’t have any more money.

  He’d checked in for only one night, paying cash. The next day he informed them he’d be extending his stay a few days and would settle the bill when he left. Well, now he’d left, and they could go whistle for their money.

  He sipped from a mug of hot black coffee the consistency of motor oil and pondered his next move. This morning, as with most mornings of his adult life, he silently cursed what had been and reflected what his life would be if only he hadn’t …

  He flew into Mexico City feeling good despite the thought that he was probably now being sought on a murder charge instead of simple theft. That assumed, of course, that Garraga or Morrie had named him as part of the team. Chances were they had. They were a couple of losers who couldn’t be trusted.

  He’d left L.A. with plenty of money in his pocket to enjoy a pleasant night in a decent hotel and to book a flight to Cuba the next day. The Hotel Polanco was recommended to him by the cab driver who drove him into the city from the airport. When he checked in, he intended to have a few drinks in some neighborhood bar and get to bed. But as he sat nursing tequila on the rocks and watching a parade of pretty Mexican women, his libido got the better of him. He set off to buy some female companionship. After stopping in a few more bars, and with the tequila clouding what had always been flawed judgment anyway, he found his true love for the evening, a middle-aged lady dressed like a teenager who promised him a trip to paradise.

  “You come with me back to my place, huh?” he’d said after buying her a glass of “champagne” for twenty dollars, U.S.

  “No, no,” she insisted. She lived just down the street, she said, and had plenty of whiskey there for him and a big, comfortable bed.

  He never got to enjoy either. He followed her into an alley and to a door she said led to her apartment. When she didn’t make a move to open it, Munsch grabbed her

  and tried to kiss her. The next thing he knew he was attacked from behind by two men

  who threw him against the building. One of the men straddled him and held a knife to his throat while the second managed to reach into his rear pants pocket and extract the wallet into which he’d put all the cash he’d brought from California. The man with the knife smiled, exposing a mouth full of gold, called him something in Spanish that Munsch thought might have meant fat gringo pig, got off him, and the two men and Munsch’s heavenly lover ran from the alley.

  He considered going back to the bar in which he’d met her and looking for them, but summoned up his only wisdom of the evening and walked back to the hotel, muttering all the way.

  Now, with three dollars in his pocket that had
been left as a tip on an adjacent table, and sourness in his stomach, he drank coffee and tried to come up with a way to make a fast score, enough to get to Cuba. He was deep into his thoughts when two men dressed in suits, who’d taken a table shortly after Munsch arrived, got up and slowly approached. They stood on either side of him but said nothing.

  Munsch looked up. “Yeah? What’a you want?”

  The taller man, who looked American, said, “Warren Munsch?”

  Munsch looked at the other man, a Mexican.

  “Mind if we join you?” the American said, sitting.

  “Suit yourself,” Munsch said. “I was just leaving.” His heart pounded.

  As he started to stand, the Mexican placed his hand on his shoulder, holding him down. The American said, “Let’s have a little talk, Warren. Might be worth your while.”

  Munsch again looked up at the Mexican, who’d unbuttoned his suit jacket to reveal a revolver in the waistband of his trousers.

  Munsch said to the American, “So, go ahead. I’m listening. What are you, cops?”

  The American shook his head. “Private investigators. You can call me Smitty. My Mexican colleague is Jose.”

  “Smitty and Jose, huh? What are you, some kinda comedy team?” He sounded confident; inside he was Jell-O.

  “We’ve been looking for you, Warren,” said the American.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “Someone’s anxious to talk to you.”

  “Like who, an ex-wife?”

  “Like someone who wants to know what happened back in Miami when you forgot to pay for a certain painting you walked away with.”

  “Painting?” He guffawed. “Do I look like an art collector?”

  “No, you don’t, Warren. What you look like to me is a two-bit hustler. So, what say we go see the man, let him ask his questions, and you can go on your way. Okay, Warren?”

  “Hey, look, quit calling me Warren. I don’t know you, so don’t get familiar.”

  “Just wanted to be friendly—Warren. I get the feeling you don’t intend to cooperate with us.”

  “What’a you mean, ‘cooperate’? Cooperate with what?”

  “I’ll give you the choices, Warren. Either you come nice and easy with us, or we

  roll you up like an umbrella and carry you there.”

  “Get lost. What’a you gonna do, shoot me here in a public restaurant?”

  “Maybe. Depends on you. See those federales over there?” He pointed to three uniformed Mexican police with automatic rifles slung over their shoulders standing twenty feet away. “They know we’re here to make a citizen’s arrest. If you, the fugitive, don’t cooperate, they’ll help us shoot you right here in this restaurant.” He’d been speaking softly, but delivered this message in a growl.

  “Do I have your attention, Warren?”

  “I guess so. What’a you do, pay off those cops over there?”

  “You aren’t suggesting Mexico’s law enforcement officers are open to bribes, are you? If you are suggesting that, Warren, you’ll upset Jose.”

  A glance at Jose’s surly face. “I sure wouldn’t want to do that,” Munsch said, finishing his coffee and standing. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far.”

  “Are you gonna turn me over to the cops?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?” Munsch asked as they walked away, the two men flanking him.

  “On what our client wants to do with you.”

  Munsch’s waitress shouted after them in Spanish.

  “He didn’t pay,” Jose said.

  “You didn’t pay, Warren.”

  “Screw you, Smitty. You pay.”

  Smitty nodded at Jose, who returned to the table and handed the waitress money. As he did, Munsch asked Smitty, “What’s in this for me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I’m gonna talk to this so-called client of yours, I want to get paid.”

  Smitty grinned. “I like your style, Warren.”

  “How’d you find me?” Munsch asked as they walked to where the private detectives had parked their car.

  “Jose has contacts all over the city, Warren. Took about an hour to learn where a fat gringo named Munsch checked in. You are checked out?”

  “Yeah, I’m checked out. I’m paid in full.”

  “Good for you, Warren. Hate to see you stiff any of our friends south of the border.”

  18

  “Mr. Driscoll on the phone, Dr. Broadhurst.”

  The Librarian of Congress picked up his phone: “David, good to hear from you again.”

  “I assume with murders taking place at the library, you’ve been distracted.”

  “A fair statement.”

  “There’s been little written about the incident here in Los Angeles. Have they

  apprehended the killer yet?”

  “No, but they continue to investigate. Odd case. Upsetting. About your previous call, David, concerning the Las Casas diaries. We’ve been putting out discreet feelers on the Hill, and I’ve had preliminary conversations with private donors who’ve offered generous support in the past. Is there any news on your end? Have the diaries in fact been located, and are they for sale?”

  “There is a good chance that Las Casas’s diaries, in one form or other, might become available. I’m flying to Washington tonight. We can meet in the morning.”

  “I have a—yes, of course. I’ll wipe the slate clean. Anyone else you’d like at the meeting?”

  “No. Let’s keep this between us for now. The others you’ve contacted, are they likely to make this public in some way?”

  “I asked them not to.”

  “Do they know I’m the source?”

  “No, I didn’t mention you by name. I kept it on a hypothetical level, a what-if sort of thing.”

  “Please keep it that way, Cale.”

  “Of course. What time tomorrow?”

  “Eight?”

  “Here?”

  “My hotel. I’m staying at the Willard.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Broadhurst immediately called General Counsel Mary Beth Mullin.

  “Mary, you haven’t indicated to anyone you’ve spoken with that Dave Driscoll is the one who’s raised the Las Casas issue, have you?”

  “No. I referred only to a wealthy collector.”

  “Good. I’m meeting with David in the morning. He’s flying in tonight from California.”

  “Want me there?”

  “Driscoll asked that only he and I meet. I’ll fill you in after the meeting.”

  A minute after their conversation ended, Mullin called back. “Cale, sorry, but I realize I did mention Driscoll to Senator Hale.”

  “Is he likely to spread that in the Senate?”

  “I’ll call and ask him not to.”

  If it isn’t too late, Broadhurst thought.

  It was vitally important, he knew, that things be done exactly as Driscoll wanted them done. David Driscoll, a rich man by virtue of the brokerage firm that carried his name, was as prickly a personality as Broadhurst had ever encountered. It was said that Driscoll handled big things with aplomb but tripped over bobby pins and paper clips. A tall, imposing, patrician figure, he’d starred in his own commercials for Driscoll Securities, steely eyes peering into the camera, frosty-white shirt pulled tight around his tie beneath his Lincolnesque face, his voice passing through what sounded like restricted nasal passages: “Other brokerage firms handle your investments. At Driscoll Securities, we nurture them. You have my word on that.”

  He’d retired from active leadership of the brokerage house a dozen years ago and traveled the world with his wife, mostly to Latin America, Spain, and Portugal, where he added to what was a superb collection of Hispanic and Portuguese art and artifact.

  David Driscoll was a man to be reckoned with, which Cale Broadhurst was perfectly willing to do in order to sustain his generous interest in the Library of Congress. The LC depended upon two types of b
ooks: the millions of them in the collections, and the double-entry type that tracked the millions of dollars needed to keep the institution afloat.

  Annabel and Lucianne Huston returned to the library after lunch. Lucianne went to the public affairs office, and Annabel to her desk to do some more reading before her appointment at three to go to Michele Paul’s apartment.

  “Look,” Lucianne said to Joanne Graves the minute she was inside and had shut the door, “I need to interview some people from the library. Trying to keep this under wraps is stupid.”

  “We’re not trying to keep anything under wraps, Lucianne,” Graves said, her words wrapped in exasperation. “What I am trying to do is approach this in an orderly fashion. And that means no special treatment for individual journalists. You’ll just have to wait like the rest of your breed.”

  “Well, that’s just perfect,” Lucianne blew up. “I’m sent here on a wild-goose chase by that idiot boss of mine, and now some twerp of a librarian tries to keep me from my story.”

  “If you’re going to take that tone with me, I’ll have to ask you to leave my office. Or else I could have security—”

  “Fine! I’ll leave. But you’ll hear from me again,” Lucianne said, stomping out of the office. “And from your boss,” she added, echoing the slamming of the door. Frustrated, she decided to corner Cale Broadhurst; maybe he’d have something useful to say.