by Brian Haig
“Pardon me for asking again. I just want to be clear on this point. You don’t know how many Korean police officers were at the apartment building?”
He looked at me very steadily. Crime scenes are supposed to be tightly controlled, almost hermetically sealed. From reading his and Sergeant Wilson Blackstone’s earlier statements, I already had some fairly strong suspicions that things had gotten out of hand. Now I had the feeling I was getting that big break – the stuff we defense attorneys dream about.
He said, “No.”
“Then you have no idea who passed in and out of that crime scene? Is that right?”
Without blinking, he said, “I didn’t say that.”
“No? Well, that’s what I asked you.”
“No, you asked me how many Korean police officers were at the apartment building – and that, I don’t know. There were two guarding the front entrance of the building when I arrived, but they might’ve put more there after I went upstairs – I don’t know. There may have been some guarding the rear entrance – I don’t know. Then there were three or four in the hallway leading into Captain Whitehall’s apartment. There might’ve been more – I don’t know.”
He paused and examined my face. “But if you want to know how many entered Captain Whitehall’s apartment, that I know for a fact.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Sergeant Blackstone and I followed standard procedures. He and his partner arrived at the scene right on the tails of the South Korean police. They took the name of every police officer who entered the apartment. A control log was maintained, IDs were checked, and every visitor who entered was escorted.”
“Funny, I saw no mention of that in either of your statements.”
“You wouldn’t, though, would you? We never list all the procedural things we do at crime scenes.”
If I didn’t know better, I might almost have suspected at this point that Bales had been playing with me, leading me on, then maliciously slamming the door on my nose. Maybe he was sending me a warning not to get too cocky or abrasive in the courtroom or he’d find some sly way to make me pay for it. If that was his game, it worked.
Anyway, I tried to appear unruffled as I said, “In your statement, you mentioned that when you arrived at the scene, you encountered Sergeant Blackstone arguing with Inspector Choi. Could you explain what that argument was about?”
“Sure. Just some standard jurisdictional issues. No big thing.”
“Like what?”
“Like who was responsible for gathering and tagging the evidence. Like who should interview the witnesses.”
“And these issues were resolved?”
“Certainly. Inspector Choi’s a very professional and reasonable man. He’s also an old hand. This wasn’t the first time he’d had GIs commit crimes inside his beat.”
“So what was the resolution?” I asked.
“His guys would bag and tag, and handle the autopsy. Our guys would handle the interrogations. Choi didn’t have any problem with it, either. I think Sergeant Blackstone got a little overbearing and it rubbed him a little wrong. We got it straightened out.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So it was more a personality thing than a substantive thing?”
“That’s how I’d describe it, yes.”
“Were you comfortable having the Koreans handle the evidence?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, you and I both know there are very distinct differences between Korean and American rules of evidence. Nor are Korean police taught to handle evidence the same way ours are.”
He rubbed his jaw like this was the first time he’d ever heard such a thing and he needed a moment to think about it. He was very convincing. If I didn’t know better, I would almost have believed it.
Finally, he said, “Well, to be frank, there probably are a few tiny procedural differences, but I can’t think of any that would have a germane impact on this case. Can you?”
This was another very crafty move on his part, because I was obviously on a fishing expedition and he wasn’t about to help me put the worm on the hook.
But to show him that two could play this game, all I said was, “I might have a few ideas, but I’ll save them for later.”
He blinked once or twice, but that was all.
I said, “Did you get a look at the lock on the front door?”
“I did.”
“The crime summary states that the lock had not been jimmied or tampered with. Who made that judgment? And how can you be so sure?”
Bales said, “Look, Major, the Koreans are sparing no resources on this case. They brought in an inspector named Roh, a burglary guy they flew up from Taegu, because he’s considered their foremost national expert on locks. I was there when he checked it. And I learned more about picking locks in that thirty minutes than I learned in ten hours at CID school. He disassembled it and carried it back to the lab so he could inspect every little piece under a microscope, then ran it all through radioactive testing, checking for dents or abrasions, or a scarred tumbler, any telltale signs somebody had tampered with it. There weren’t any. By the way, we also learned it was a brand-new lock, installed by the management company the day Captain Whitehall moved in. You can try to challenge Inspector Roh’s judgment if you want, but he sure as hell convinced me.”
I paused to perform a swift mental inventory. I knew from reading Bales’s written statements that he’d performed all the proper rituals when he’d interrogated Whitehall, Moran, and Jackson. He’d read them their rights, never coerced or threatened them, and performed what appeared to be a model interrogation. I now knew there had been proper police controls at Whitehall’s apartment. I now knew the Korean doctor who performed the autopsy was an exceptionally competent pathologist. And I’d just learned that a national expert had checked the lock.
These were not hopeful signs. Where before I thought I had detected a few cracks, I now saw a blank white wall. There was only one more venue left.
“Chief, how did you get Moran and Jackson to testify against Whitehall?”
A look of impatience crossed his face. “Don’t you all talk with each other?”
“Don’t who all talk with each other?”
“You and that lady, Miss Carlson.”
“What do you mean?”
“She asked almost exactly the same questions. Her and some guy in a nice suit named Keith something. A week ago. So I’ll give you the same answer I gave them. I don’t know why Moran and Jackson confessed. They lied and misled me in the initial interrogation, then after they were charged they experienced a change of heart.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, trying to recover from the discovery that Katherine and Keith had already interviewed Bales. This was news to me. She’d never mentioned a word.
Anyway, I continued. “So what did you initially charge Moran and Jackson with?”
“Moran we charged with murder, rape, sodomy, committing homosexual acts, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to obstruct justice, lying under oath, failure to obey orders, fraternization, violation of his general orders-”
“Stop! That’s enough,” I barked. “And Jackson?”
“All of the above. Well, except rape or sodomy. In his case, there was no inkling of evidence to support those two charges.”
I should’ve expected this. An old lawyer’s dictum has it that most divorces are unruffled and amicable until the attorneys get on the scene: So it goes with conspiracies as well.
What CID and the command had done was an old and reliable favorite – the junkyard dog strategy where you pile every imaginable charge on the shoulders of the co-conspirators, knowing damn well that if enough mud is thrown against the wall, something is bound to stick. Then, when Whitehall, Moran, and Jackson went fearfully to seek the advice of counsel, their lawyers probably took one worried glance at the nearly infinite list of charges and recognized that inevitably their client was going to be found guilty of something. And since lawyers instinctivel
y advise their clients to act in the most selfish manner possible, they would immediately advocate a deal with the prosecutor. The odd man out in these things is always the man who has the most to lose, which in this case means the man who has the most incriminating evidence against him on the most serious charge – which in this case pertains to the charge of committing murder.
In other words, Thomas Whitehall never stood a chance.
I said, “Who cut the deal with the lawyers?”
“I did. With the permission of the commanding general, of course.”
“Of course,” I dryly observed. “And who might have handled this affair for the commanding general?”
“His legal adviser, a gentleman named Colonel Janson.”
For some odd reason that came as no surprise either.
“And can you tell me, Chief, what have the charges against Moran and Jackson been reduced to?”
“You could easily check it yourself, so I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Committing homosexual acts.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he sheepishly replied.
I politely thanked him for his time, then stood up and got ready to leave. He sat calmly, and I’ll give him credit for this – he didn’t appear the least bit smug or elated. He had every right to be, but he didn’t show it. It’s a damned good feeling to be sitting on top of an airtight case.
It’s awfully damned depressing when you’re on the other side.
CHAPTER 16
The red message light was blinking incessantly when I returned to my room. I punched in the code and Edwin Gilderstone’s voice angrily shrieked to call him right away.
It was after midnight in New York, but Gilderstone sounded way too alert and poised to have been sleeping. I said, “Hi, Ed, it’s Drummond.”
He instantly screamed, “You lying bastard!”
“That’s me,” I admitted, though I was sure my parents would’ve sternly objected to my conceding that second point.
“You promised this was just between us.”
“And so it is, Ed. I haven’t said a word to anyone, not even my co-counsels. What’s the problem?”
“The problem? What’s the damned problem? I’m being followed.”
“Followed by who?”
“I don’t know. When people are trailing you, they don’t walk up and say,‘Hi, I’m John Smith from CID and I’ll be following you the next few days,’ do they?”
“So you think it’s CID?” I asked.
“I just told you I don’t know who they are. Aren’t you listening?”
“I’m listening, Ed. I’m just trying to sort through this. What makes you think you’re being followed?”
There was a brief pause and I could hear him draw in a deep breath, like he was trying to compose himself. “This morning, I went to the Post Exchange to buy toiletries, and as I left the academic hall a gray sedan pulled in behind me. It followed me the whole way to the PX. Later, when I went out for lunch, the same gray sedan followed me again.”
“Ed, I don’t mean to be argumentative, but couldn’t it just be a coincidence? West Point’s not New York City. It’s a small community, right? It really wouldn’t be odd to have the same car going to the same place you’re going to twice in the same day.”
“Drummond,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I warned you before, don’t condescend to me. Of course I considered that. Except the same gray sedan is parked halfway down the block right now. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I see two heads silhouetted every time another car passes.”
I supposed he had a point. “So you’re being followed. What makes you think I’ve got something to do with it?”
“Come on, Drummond. Yesterday you called to talk about Whitehall.”
“Look, I told you I wouldn’t say anything. I haven’t. I have no idea why you’re being followed. Maybe you brought it on yourself. Maybe it’s some guy you had an affair with and he’s still pining for you.”
That brought on a nasty chuckle. “Fuck off, Drummond.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “But I haven’t uttered a peep to anybody.”
We chatted a moment longer, him still accusing, and me maintaining my innocence. We finally hung up on each other.
Of course I had something to do with his being followed. My mind turned to that snarling son of a bitch with the colonel’s leaves named Menkle, from the registrar’s office. He knew I’d spoken with Gilderstone. Maybe he sicced somebody on him.
But what was the point of trailing Gilderstone? And if the followers were pros, they would never have been sloppy enough to get spotted, especially by a rank amateur. Unless they were either bungling amateurs themselves, or they were pros who meant to be seen. Assuming they were pros, why would they do that? To harass him, of course. But why harass some old gay who was on the verge of retirement anyway? Spite? Or were they trying to muzzle him?
I rolled that one around the noggin for a while and had a sudden impulse. I pulled my pocketknife from my pocket and pried open the ear and mouthpiece on my telephone. It was the only other possibility I could think of.
I was in such a hurry, I trashed the hotel’s phone so badly I was going to have to add it to my room bill.
I wasn’t worried about that, though. What I was really worried about was the little tiny black thing, hardly bigger than a ladybug, that was stuck inside the earpiece.
During my time with the outfit, I’d had instruction on electronic listening and tracking devices. I wasn’t an expert by any means, and the technology had changed radically the past seven or eight years, what with miniaturization and digitization and whatnot, but I still recognized a listening device when I saw one.
I sat and fingered it and felt angry and befuddled. That son of a bitch Mercer and his whiz-girl Carol Kim.
I went to the window and peeked out at the parking lot. It was filled with cars, but I knew which one to look for, and sure as hell, there was a gray Aries four-door sedan parked near the back of the lot.
I guess I looked pretty pissed off, because the guy wearing sunglasses in the passenger’s seat next to Carol Kim spotted me coming, tapped her hurriedly on the shoulder, and she quickly started the engine. She backed out so hard she rammed into the bumper of the car behind her. There was a hard crunch and red and yellow glass cascaded onto the tarmac, but she didn’t pause or hesitate. She spun the wheel hard to the right and peeled away. All I had a chance to do was kick the side of the car as it sped by.
It was a pretty dumb thing to do. Not only was it infantile, but it hurt like hell and sent me flying back on my ass. I scraped up my hands pretty good, not to mention my butt, and thank God I wore Army jump boots or I probably would’ve broken at least a few toes. I limped and cursed the whole way back to the hotel, back up in the elevator, and into my room.
I went through everything. I took the pictures off the walls, unscrewed the lightbulbs, checked under the bed, searched my clothes in the closet. I found two more bugs, but there could’ve been dozens more.
When had they done it? Had they known from my reservation which room I’d get and planted them before I arrived? Or had they broken in afterward? Maybe one of the maids did the dirty work.
So how much damage was done? Had I said or listened to anything that would harm my client? Nothing overly alarming popped out, but if you put everything together, you could draw some fairly strong conclusions about where I was trying to go with the defense. But then that was different from where Katherine and her crew were trying to go, so maybe it wasn’t all that damaging.
On the other hand, maybe I wasn’t the only member of the defense team being bugged. And if I were the prosecutor and could get inside the head of the defense team, I’d have a field day. A guy with Eddie Golden’s murderous dexterity would do even better.
I wanted to call Katherine and warn her, but the damn phone was trashed on the side table. I raced up to the HOMOS building, walked briskly through the main of
fice, and stuck my head inside Katherine’s office.
For once she wasn’t chatting on the phone, because there were three civilians hunched over her desk. They were studying a big map. They all looked perfectly normal, but the mood in the room seemed conspirational, so I assumed they were from the big contingent of protesters pouring into Seoul.
I politely said, “Excuse me, Katherine, we need to have a word. In private, if you please.”
She shot me an exasperated look that quickly changed to a resigned look, then said to her friends, “Could you all please excuse us a moment?”
To which I replied, “We need to have this talk outside.”
No doubt she anticipated I wanted to either apologize for my earlier transgressions or launch another blistering attack on her. She followed me into the parking lot and over to the big oak tree where she’d so recently given that splendid interview that had done so much to advance my career.
“We’ve got a new problem,” I told her.
She hrummphed once or twice, like she was clearing her throat, although the fact that she was simultaneously rolling her eyes gave it a wholly different implication. “What’s our new problem, Drummond?”
“I found bugs in my telephone and around my room. They’re fairly sophisticated, because they’re real tiny.”
It took her a moment to fully swallow this news. She stared at me. Then she began taking her characteristically small, measured paces.
“Who put them there?”
This was where it was going to get tricky, because I wasn’t supposed to tell her about my secret liaisons with Buzz Mercer and his spooky gang. Were it anybody but her, with her penchant for flying into indignant fits and chatting up every reporter in sight, I might’ve ignored the rules. But this was Miss Blabbermouth.
“I haven’t a clue,” I somewhat lied. “But I’d guess it’s either the South Koreans or our own government.”
“What if we have these electronic devices analyzed? Will that tell us?”
“Probably not. Anyone sophisticated enough to use them makes sure they’re untraceable.”
