Dog Tags

by David Rosenfelt

  “I’m told tomorrow.”

  “Where will it be taken?” Landon asked.

  “I don’t have that information yet. But I will. Our people will be there, waiting to follow whoever takes him.”

  “Make sure that you are personally involved in that process. But don’t take any action yet. Just keep track of his whereabouts.”

  “Will do,” M said.

  “Is that all?”

  “No, and the other news is not as good.”

  Landon hated statements like that. He didn’t need anyone to characterize news in advance; he could certainly figure out for himself whether it was good or not. Those were wasted words, which amounted to wasted time. “Speak.”

  “The operation in the prison was not successful. And one of our three people was killed.”

  “The other two?”

  “Don’t worry, they can’t implicate anyone. They don’t know where the orders or money came from.”

  “I trust you’ll take other steps to rectify their failure?” Landon asked, though it was more a statement than a question.

  “I will, but it’ll be much harder now.”

  “That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” Landon said before cutting off the call and heading back to his seat on the dais. He got there just in time to catch the last five minutes of the speech, and to lead the applause.

  Like everyone else in the room, he was applauding the fact that it was over.

  I HAVE NO IDEA IF BILLY’S OPINION OF THE LATE JACK ERSKINE IS FAIR OR ACCURATE. But I do know that his opinion can prove extremely damaging to Billy’s chances of ever getting out of prison.

  Major Erskine was stationed in Baghdad, and was in charge of security in that city. It was a uniquely important position, especially as the war slowly wound down and police, rather than strictly military, action became dominant.

  Many commanders earn and inspire respect from their rank and file. It doesn’t mean that they are soft on discipline, or that they act like one of the guys. All it means is that they have paid their dues, and are tough but fair.

  Jack Erskine had earned no such respect, at least not according to Billy. While Erskine had little contact with anyone other than his direct reports, he had been widely disliked by virtually every soldier under his command. They had watched his willingness to throw subordinates under the bus and behave in a manner designed to curry personal favor with his bosses and Washington.

  There were also the rumors that Erskine was corrupt, that he and a small coterie of his men used their power within the country to enrich themselves. Billy had no reason to believe it or doubt it, but with what he had seen in Iraq, nothing would have surprised him.

  Not that Erskine really affected Billy’s life one way or the other. Billy enlisted to protect and serve; that was why he became a cop, and why he became a soldier. His father had done the same, as had his two uncles. But it didn’t take long for him to regret his decision, and he had resigned himself to putting in his time and going home. Erskine had no role in that decision one way or the other.

  Then came that summer day and an event that was unusual for a number of reasons. The United States, eager to demonstrate what it called a return to normalcy of the country, had invited a number of major players in American private business and finance to meet with Iraqi leaders, in and out of the government.

  Nothing of enormous consequence was to be discussed; those things generally got decided in far more private settings. This was for show, and was held outside the safety and security of the Green Zone as a symbolic way of telling the world that Iraq was ready to take its place in the world community.

  A brief part of the event was to be held outdoors. That brevity was dictated by the oppressive heat, as well as the obvious fact that security was more difficult to maintain outdoors. But the authorities wanted the citizenry to be there and be a part of it, and more important, they wanted television to beam pictures of those participating Iraqi citizens around the world.

  Security was jointly planned and executed by the American military and Iraqi police, with Erskine in charge of the American end of things. It was understood but unspoken that he would therefore be in the lead position for the entire operation.

  Billy, like just about every other soldier or MP stationed there, was assigned a role in the operation. He was not at one of the checkpoints through which citizens were admitted into the area; his task was a more general one of being on patrol inside and looking for anything suspicious.

  “I saw this girl,” he says. “She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, although I’m usually not that good a judge of age. There was something about her that caught my attention.”

  “What was it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe something about the eyes. They were afraid, but fear is something you saw a lot of over there. Anyway, I wasn’t too worried, because if she had a weapon, she would have been stopped at the checkpoint.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I watched her for a while. That was really the only job I had that day, to watch for something suspicious, and I thought that she qualified. She walked pretty close to the stand that was set up, where the dignitaries were. But that wasn’t unusual, because that’s what everybody was there to see.”

  He’s talking slowly, carefully and with emotion, and I wonder if this is the first time he’s told the story out loud.

  “I watched her for about five minutes, and she was just standing there. She didn’t seem to have any interest in what was going on, and it wasn’t like she was there with any friends. After a while I stopped watching, because if she was going to do anything, by that point she would have done it already.

  “Anyway, I walked away from her, which is the only reason I’m alive today. A few minutes later I looked back in her direction, but I couldn’t see her. All I saw was a wall of flame shooting up, and these bleachers that had been constructed were coming down on me. They pinned me down and landed on what used to be my leg, but I don’t remember much of it.”

  “How many people were killed?” I ask.

  “Eighteen, with another seventy-one badly wounded. The Iraqi oil minister was killed, a guy by the name of Yasir al-Hakim. He was most likely the target. Two of the dead were American businessmen.”

  “Where does Erskine fit in?”

  He shrugs. “You want to know what I know? Or what I think?”

  “Start with what you know,” I say.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then let’s try what you think.”

  “The Iraqi that was killed… the oil minister, al-Hakim… he was new to that job, and the word was that he was going to clean up the corruption. And believe me, there was plenty of corruption to clean up. And I think Erskine was in position to have a piece of it.”

  “So you think Erskine was in on having this guy killed?”

  He nods. “I do. There’s no way that girl should have been able to get in there with a bomb that size strapped to her. It had to be a setup, and Erskine was one of the people in a perfect position to make that happen.”

  “Was there an investigation?”

  He laughs. “Sure. Went nowhere.”

  “Could it have been an Iraqi that let the girl in?”

  “No way. There were American MPs and soldiers everywhere. It just doesn’t ring true. Anyway, Erskine didn’t get off scot-free. The incident at least put him out of favor, and he left the army.” He shakes his head. “The son of a bitch. He lost his command, eighteen people lost their lives, and I lost my leg.”

  “So you’ve been watching him since he got back?” I ask.

  He nods. “On and off.”

  “And you were at the club that night because he was there.”

  “Right. And I don’t know what was in that envelope, but the way he was acting, it had to be something important. Something that everyone will want.”

  “And you think the prosecutor will trade your freedom for the chance to get it back?”
/>   “I think he’ll be instructed to.”

  “Have you told other people your feelings about Erskine?” I ask.

  “You mean that I hated his guts? I would say a number of people know that.”

  “That will be used against you,” I say.

  “Only if I go to trial.”

  There’s a lot more for me to learn, but I don’t need to ask those questions now. He’s given me enough to bargain on his behalf, or at least to discover if we have a bargaining position at all.

  It’s time to find that out.

  ELI SEEMS FAR LESS WILLING TO MEET WITH ME THIS TIME, BUT HE FINALLY AGREES.

  “Let me guess” is how he greets me when I arrive at his office. “You’re representing a goldfish in a paternity suit.”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. You’re handling a probate matter for a ferret.”

  “You’re a bitter loser,” I say.

  His mood suddenly seems to change and he laughs. “Not this time. This time I actually thought it was pretty funny. Did you get the dog?”

  “No, I filed the paper with the court, but it hasn’t been approved yet. Should hear anytime.”

  “So what do you want now?”

  “I’m representing Billy Zimmerman for the purpose of plea bargaining.”

  “Then this will be a short meeting. Which plea bargain are you talking about?’

  “The one we’re about to have.”

  He frowns. “Okay, I’ll start. He cops to first degree, forty years minimum.”

  “You must be bitter,” I say. “Because that’s ridiculous.”

  “Andy, he robbed and killed a former high-ranking army officer, just returned from a tour of duty in Iraq. We have eyewitnesses, patrons from the bar. We also have the gun with his prints all over it, and gunpowder residue on his hands. This is not exactly a whodunit; why would we possibly take less?”

  This is not going well. “Eli, during the trial there were references made to federal agents involved with the dog. Have you checked into that?”

  “You think I’m going to share that with you?”

  “I have reason to believe that they might have a point of view on my client’s situation.”

  “Andy, I’ve talked to them, and as far as I can tell they don’t give a shit what happens to your client. And to tell you the truth, neither do I.”

  This represents proof that Billy has completely misjudged his situation, which does not surprise me. If Eli was under any pressure, federal or otherwise, to make a deal, he wouldn’t be rejecting my overtures so definitively. And Billy’s idea that he can trade for his freedom is clearly not on any table I can find.

  What continues to surprise me is the hands-off attitude the feds are taking. They were so anxious to hang on to Milo that they installed an armed guard on his cage, but they didn’t try to prevent my getting him at the hearing. Now they seem to show no interest in Billy at all.

  I decide to change the subject, since this particular subject is going nowhere. “Did you find out why they were guarding Milo?” I ask.

  “Andy, I must have missed that day in law school when they taught how before a case the prosecutor is supposed to tell the defense everything he knows.”

  “Where did you go to law school, the University of Mars? It’s called discovery.”

  “Discovery relates to evidence. Any conversations that I may or may not have had with federal authorities are not evidence. Which reminds me, are you Zimmerman’s attorney? Because there is a lot of actual discoverable material to turn over when and if he gets himself a lawyer.”

  This is the moment of truth, at least for me. “Yeah. Send it over.”

  He nods. “Will do. And unless he’s willing to accept the forty years, I’ll see you in court, counselor.”

  As soon as I leave Eli’s office, I get a call from Rita Gordon telling me that Judge Catchings has approved the release of Milo to me.

  Within the space of five minutes, I’ve added a klepto German shepherd and a client to my life.

  Oh, happy day.

  WILLIE, FRED, AND I COME UP WITH AN INGENIOUS PLAN TO SPRING MILO FROM THE SHELTER.

  Actually, “ingenious” may be too strong a word. We’re not talking Mission: Impossible here, but for us it qualifies as high-level tactical maneuvering. And because the media have jumped on the case, we want to make sure that it goes off without a hitch. Since a dog getting out of prison is a surefire ratings and circulation booster, members of the press will certainly be there in full force. We want to get Milo out safely while keeping his future whereabouts a secret, so in this case the media must be seen as the enemy.

  The plan is for Willie to arrive at the shelter at least twenty minutes before me. The assembled reporters will pay little attention to him, but will wait and mob me when I arrive.

  Fred will keep them out of the shelter and give me a different German shepherd, one who was found stray two weeks ago, for me to take out through the front door. This other dog and I will go out, I’ll talk to the press for a couple of minutes, and then we’ll make our way to my car and drive off. I’m certain the reporters will then either follow me home or disperse to cover another earth-shattering news event.

  This will allow Willie to slip out the back with Milo, and once he’s safely gone, he’ll call me. I’ll then return my German shepherd to the shelter, so that the media will know Milo is not at my house. We’ll then re-rescue the stand-in shepherd in a couple of days, and find him a good home through our Tara Foundation.

  It’s a win–win for everybody.

  Unfortunately, the plan works better on paper than it does in real life. When I arrive at the shelter, Willie is nowhere to be found, and I ask Fred what happened to him.

  “He called and said he was going to be twenty minutes late,” Fred says. “I was supposed to call you and tell you, but I didn’t have your cell number.”

  “Is Milo okay?”

  Fred nods. “He’s fine. They pulled the guard off this morning, but nothing seems to be happening.”

  We wait for Willie to arrive, and finally I see his car pull up in the back. “What happened to you?” I ask.

  “I stopped to get Milo some biscuits and a few really cool chew toys. Didn’t Fred tell you?”

  I don’t want to keep talking about this; I just want to get Milo safely out of here. Fred gets me the other German shepherd, named Snickers, and I gear myself up to take him through the crowd. “Is Snickers okay?” I ask. “I mean, he’s not going to bite any reporters, is he?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Fred asks. “He’s only been here two weeks, and he’s been stuck in a cage. As far as I know, this is going to be his first press conference.”

  I once again tell Willie that he is to wait ten minutes after I leave, make sure the press has followed me, and then sneak out the back with Milo. “No problem, Andy. I’m cool with the whole plan.”

  I leave with Snickers, who seems perfectly happy to get out of his cage and play a role in this production. Just before we go outside, I tell him, “If anybody asks, your name is Milo, your lawyer is brilliant, and you have full confidence in the justice system. Beyond that, you have no comment.”

  When we get outside, I stop to briefly answer some questions. In my experience, down deep everyone likes to talk to the press, for various reasons, but nobody will admit it.

  People can watch their forty-five closest relatives killed by lightning, and the next morning they’re on the Today show gabbing about it. Of course, if you ask them why, they don’t admit that they think it’s really cool to be on television. Instead they’ll say that they just want to make sure a tragedy like this doesn’t happen to anyone else, and please, everyone, stay indoors if it rains.

  My reason for talking to the press is that I want to accomplish something: I want to get a specific message out. But of course I don’t want to reveal my purpose, so I act guarded and let them draw it out of me.

  “Andy, where is Milo going to live?” is the fir
st question I’m asked, and the only one I really want to answer.

  “That’s something I can’t share with you,” I say. “If the police saw fit to station an armed guard outside his cage, then we’ll assume there’s reason to worry about his safety. So I won’t be disclosing his location. But if you want to send him biscuits or toys, send them to me and I’ll make sure he gets them.”

  This gets some laughs, which is what the press is hoping for. They view this as a feel-good story, while I see it as part of a very serious murder investigation.

  “Will you have him guarded as well?”

  I shake my head. “I really can’t go too deeply into this, but I can tell you that Milo will live in a secluded place very far away from here,” I lie as I pet the fake Milo’s head.

  “Out of state?” a reporter asks.

  I grimace, as if the questions are torturing me, but finally I sigh, nod, and lie again. “Out of state. But that’s all I’m saying about it.”

  I answer a few more frivolous questions about Milo, but when the reporters turn their attention to the murder and Billy’s defense, I deflect them and leave with Snickers, who has played his part to perfection.

  Fifteen minutes later Willie calls me on my cell. “Okay, man. Milo and I are on the road.”

  “The press were all out of there?”

  “Yup. Five minutes after you took off, the place was empty.”

  “And you’re sure you’re okay with keeping him?”

  “Absolutely. Sondra and Cash are cool with it.” Sondra is Willie’s wife, and Cash is his dog, a Lab mix whom Willie and I found on the street.

  “Okay. Keep in touch if anything unusual happens.”

  “Anything happens, I’ll deal with it.” Willie grew up in the toughest of Paterson neighborhoods, and he can take very good care of himself. He’s a black belt in karate, though that won’t help against someone armed, unless the bullet happens to hit him in the belt.

  Getting Milo out was enjoyable and satisfying. Now comes the tough part. I have to tell Billy he’s not quite so lucky.