The Witch of Watergate

by Warren Adler

  “Basic stuff,” Charleen said. “She is apparently just learning.”

  There were more pictures of Sheila on the walls, particularly ones showing her in her mountain-climbing gear. Fiona discovered a number of books on mountain climbing on the bookshelves. She took one out, opened it. It looked highly technical, not at all rudimentary. This was not just a hobby with Sheila Burns. It was a passion. There were also a number of books on journalism.

  Fiona watched as Charleen sat down at the computer and fired it up.

  “Good. She hasn’t set it up like Polly’s. No key needed.”

  While Charleen pounded the keyboard, Fiona looked about the apartment. She looked in closets and the medicine chest. Sheila obviously lived alone. Fiona sensed an atmosphere not unlike that encountered in Polly Dearborn’s apartment. On a dresser in the bedroom stood another picture of Sheila Burns. She was actually climbing the face of a mountain swaddled in rope.

  Rope!

  Bells went off in Fiona’s mind. She returned to the living room and studied the mountain climbing books on the shelves. Taking some out, she thumbed through them. Rope was an essential ingredient of mountain climbing. There were many illustrations on the use of rope, on knots.

  It was, of course, a frustrating discovery. More circumstantial evidence. Aside from the other ramifications, Barker would ridicule her assumptions.

  “Got it!” Charleen cried as she sat back in the chair and folded her arms.

  “Got what?”

  Charleen motioned with her hand for Fiona to come closer to the screen. She pointed with her finger to a line on the screen.

  “This,” Charleen said.

  Fiona looked to where Charleen was pointing.

  “Absolutely brilliant,” Fiona said.

  “I wasn’t dead certain,” Charleen said. “I am now. Sheila Burns is our killer.”

  Charleen proceeded to connect a cable from her machine to Sheila’s machine and copy the information.

  “It won’t solve it, though,” Fiona said as the clacking and purring noises indicated that the transfer was in progress. “Considering the way it was obtained.” Then Fiona explained about the rope.

  “Sly little bitch,” Charleen said.

  “Body probably ripples with muscles,” Fiona said.

  “No sweat strangling the lady, moving her body, getting it over the side of the terrace.”

  “We’ve done our job,” Charleen said. For the first time since Fiona had met her, her face lit up in a broad smile. “We got us a killer.”

  “That was the easy part,” Fiona said. “How the hell do we put her away?”

  On the way back to headquarters, Fiona pondered the problem. The rain had quickened, pounding the windshield, making it difficult to drive. The realities of the case quickly dispelled her elation. Charleen, however, continued to be upbeat. She had, after all, solved the case, fingered the killer. That was no small accomplishment considering her earlier failures.

  But the major problem remained. Then there was the fact that Polly Dearborn’s original material had been destroyed, making it impossible to prove that the material on Sheila Burns’ computer was an actual copy of Dearborn’s material.

  The Eggplant’s credibility could be easily destroyed by Barker’s contention that the accusation against one of his reporters was an act of vengeance for the Post’s campaign against the Mayor. A can of worms, Fiona sighed.

  Unless!

  There was only one possible course of action. Fiona quickly contemplated the downside, then pushed the ominous thought from her mind.

  They had reached Connecticut and K Streets. The Post was around the corner. Fiona made a sharp left and brought the car to a halt in front of the Post building.

  “Your turn to make a choice, Charleen,” Fiona said. She explained what she had in mind.

  Charleen’s eyes narrowed in thought. She was silent for a long moment. Then she shrugged.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  27

  HARRY BARKER WAS throwing a tantrum.

  “You people,” he said with contempt.

  They had barreled past his secretary, brought in the portable computer and placed it on his desk. Charleen went calmly about the business of putting the plug into an outlet, opening up the computer and firing it up.

  Fiona could see the bustle of the city room. It was getting near deadline time. Barker watched the process of setting up the computer with distaste.

  “Better be good, beyond good.” he said. He had not questioned why their superior was absent, although the answer was a simple one. They had not told the Eggplant what they were up to.

  Fiona had not sat down. She loomed over the desk, looking at the seated recalcitrant editor watching her with, despite his negativity, curious anticipation. Fiona looked toward Charleen, who was seated in front of the computer. She hit the keyboard.

  “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Barker,” Fiona began. She felt calm and focussed, unafraid. Being right, she had learned, had a way of boosting one’s courage. “Your fear that Polly Dearborn was killed by one of her . . .” She wanted to say victims, but demurred. Why antagonize the bastard? “. . . Her subjects. She wasn’t killed by any of them.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Barker said with manufactured bravado. Oh yes you did, Fiona told herself silently. “And it’s about time you came up with something.”

  “It’s a scoop for you, Mr. Barker.”

  “Maybe so. But it won’t get your Mayor off the hook.” He smiled maliciously, holding up a galley proof. “Running tomorrow, kiddies. The whole shebang. And a sorry bucket of shit it is.”

  “One of your own did the deed, Mr. Barker. A cynical grab for power is all it was.”

  His eyes opened wide.

  “This had better knock my socks off,” he snapped.

  “The killer of your star reporter, Mr. Barker, is none other than your new protege, Sheila Burns.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She watched his face, the deepening frown, the pull at the edges of his mouth, the sudden vague expression in his eyes. From his point of view it had to be a far worse catastrophe than Dearborn’s killer being one of her “targets.” This accusation struck at the heart of the vaunted morality of his reporters. Worse, Fiona had left the implication that Sheila Burns’ motive was blind ambition, which merely underlined the idea, promoted by Barker himself, that Post reporters were encouraged to compete without mercy.

  “You had better have absolute proof,” he said angrily. A nerve had begun to palpitate in his jaw.

  “You be the judge. Bring her into this office,” Fiona said, adding, “If you have the guts.”

  He seemed on the verge of one of his tantrums, and she watched him repress it. His face flushed. He pointed a finger at her.

  “I’ll bury your Mayor and the police with it, if this is a ploy—”

  “We’ve had quite enough threats from you, Mr. Barker,” Fiona said, very aware of her position and its dangers. “We’re homicide detectives doing our job and I’d suggest that you not try to interfere with it.”

  “You’re in trouble,” Barker said, pointing his finger again. He picked up the phone. “Barker here, Sheila. Will you please come into my office?”

  They sat in silence for five minutes. Barker had instructed his secretary to take no calls. He spent the time glaring at both of them. Neither Fiona nor Charleen faltered, forcing him to turn his eyes away. Show no weakness, Fiona urged herself. We need his penchant for intimidation.

  Sheila Burns came into Barker’s office. Although she was small with delicate features, Fiona saw her in a new light. Under those clothes was an athlete’s body, the strength to climb mountains and move deadweight. She maintained the pose of arrogance that they had seen earlier. Barker motioned Sheila to take a chair.

  “These people have not let up. They’ve made some very serious charges against you, Sheila. I want you to know I don’t believe them. I never have. I think they’ve trumped
something up to keep us from running our Mayor’s story.” Sheila’s color left her face, but her expression remained arrogant. “Frankly, I am reluctant to put you through this.”

  “It’s all right,” Sheila said, clearing her throat.

  “If they had anything, they would read you your rights and arrest you,” Barker said. “The fact is I want them to hang themselves. Could add some bite to your Mayor’s series. It’s crazy, I know, to allow this. But bear with me.”

  “Of course,” Sheila said.

  Fiona debated how to approach her, head-on or obliquely. She decided on the former.

  “We have reason to believe that you are responsible for the murder of Polly Dearborn.”

  The pupils seemed to dance in Sheila’s eyes. Not a muscle moved in her face, although her complexion grew more ashen. Fiona waited for a reaction. Sheila’s arms shot out, wrists together.

  “Well, then, arrest me,” she said, looking toward Harry Barker.

  “You are treading on extremely thin ice, Officer FitzGerald,” he said, barely opening his mouth.

  “An accusation is not an arrest,” Fiona said. “I have a right to interrogate her.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Barker,” Sheila said. She had recovered her arrogance. “I think we should get this behind us as quickly as possible.”

  “Might make good grist for our Mayor’s story,” Barker said threateningly. He pulled a tape recorder out of his desk drawer and pressed a button. “Fire away, Officer.”

  The tape recorder made Fiona uncomfortable, but she did not challenge its use. To mask her discomfort, she turned toward the window.

  “Changes the tune a bit, hey, lady?” Barker said.

  “The tune maybe,” Fiona said. “But not the facts.”

  “Which are?” Barker said.

  It was a dangerous game, Fiona knew, especially with the recorder going. No theory was ever airtight. She studied Sheila Burns’ face, calmer now, less ashen, her expression controlled. Charleen wore her most efficient neutral look. Harry Barker, she knew, would show no mercy, would use his media power ruthlessly. The Mayor, the Eggplant, Fiona, even Charleen, would be grist for the media mill, a quartet of scapegoats.

  “All right, then,” Fiona said, anger rising, committing herself fully, feeling the adrenaline surge. She turned to Barker, who sat watching and waiting and wearing a thin smile. Okay, Mr. Judge and Jury, here goes.

  “Sheila knew the layout and Polly’s routine. She knew that the security system had flaws, especially using the garage for access. She got in, went up the garage elevator to Polly’s apartment. She rang the buzzer. Polly looked through the peephole, recognized Sheila, opened the door. Sheila carried a briefcase in which she had stored the rope, a portable computer and connecting cable. She worked fast. As soon as Polly had turned her back, she was garroted and strangled. Sheila took the custom-made computer key that Polly wore around her neck, quickly unlocked Polly’s computer and copied the material onto the portable computer. Then she dragged Polly’s body to the terrace, anchored one end of the rope to the terrace and threw Polly over the side. Then she left, went out the garage and home.”

  Finishing, Fiona turned toward Sheila, who shook her head.

  “That is utter, complete nonsense,” Sheila said. Considering the accusation, she was surprisingly calm.

  “That’s a mighty heavy chore for such a small woman as this,” Barker said. He did not seem to be taking Fiona seriously. Sheila nodded, fluttering her eyes in approval.

  “Hardly your feminine, helpless-flower type,” Fiona said. “This little woman climbs mountains.” Fiona paused, turning to face Barker squarely. “Uses rope. Knows knots.”

  “That it?” Barker asked, but not before he had hesitated briefly, just enough to show the first evidence of concern. He turned toward Sheila, who also might have noticed his hesitation.

  “Typical of the accusations made to Polly,” she said, still controlled, although her tone was changing, revealing the beginnings of a hysterical edge. “They were always coming up with tactics like this. Polly and I used to laugh about it. The object was to scare off Polly from doing the story. Now they’re trying to do it with me.”

  Barker rubbed his chin. Then he looked toward Charleen and the portable computer opened before her and frowned.

  “And that?” he asked, pointing. “What the hell is that?” Charleen looked at him and said nothing. Then she turned to Fiona.

  “That is what we found in Sheila Burns’ computer,” Fiona said. She was, of course, completely aware of the risk. She nodded and Charleen turned on the computer.

  “And what does that prove?” Barker asked.

  “It proves that Sheila Burns copied the information on Polly Dearborn’s computer to her own,” Fiona said, anticipating what was to follow.

  “That is not my computer,” Sheila said, hysteria rising.

  “No, it’s not,” Fiona countered. “We copied it from the one in your apartment.”

  “You broke into my apartment?” Sheila shouted.

  “With a search warrant, I presume,” Barker asked.

  “Yes,” Fiona said firmly, remembering the running tape recorder.

  “Show him the screen, Charleen,” Fiona said.

  Charleen turned the computer so that the screen was visible to Barker. Fiona ducked behind the desk and pointed.

  “You see that?” she asked.

  Barker, despite his continued smugness, put on his glasses and looked at the screen.

  “There,” Fiona said, pointing with her finger.

  “So what,” Barker said.

  “That is the exact time and date that Sheila took the information off Polly’s computer.”

  Barker read the date and time, then looked at his calendar.

  “May sixth, two A.M.” he read.

  “Exactly in the time frame of Polly Dearborn’s murder.”

  “She doesn’t really know that much about computers,” Charleen said, now that they were getting into her territory. “She made a subdirectory first, then dumped Polly’s stuff into it. It automatically stamps date and time.”

  “Don’t listen to them, Mr. Barker. They’re trying to frame me. It’s wrong. A lie.”

  “Then explain it,” Fiona said.

  She was trying her best to hold herself together. Barker looked toward her, taking off his glasses.

  “It was not Polly’s material,” Sheila said. “It was my own. I developed it.” She paused, then smiled. “How can you say that that material was on Polly’s computer? The material on that has been destroyed.”

  Barker turned toward Fiona.

  “She’s right there,” Barker said with considerably less heat, but still showing an attitude of skepticism.

  “You break into my apartment, steal my computer material, then accuse me of murder. It is beyond the pale.” She turned toward Barker. “I demand that the police be called and these people be charged.”

  “With what?” Fiona asked.

  “Interfering with my first Amendment rights,” Sheila Burns said.

  But Barker seemed to be engaged, calmer, curious.

  “To convince me,” Barker said, “you’d have to prove that”—he pointed to the computer screen—“that that material had come out of Polly Dearborn’s computer.”

  Without a word, Charleen stood up and walked to Barker’s side of the desk. Bending over, she worked the keyboard. Again Barker put on his glasses and watched the screen. The material on the Mayor flashed onto the screen. Charleen scrolled it slowly so that it could be read.

  “All right, that’s material about the Mayor. But it still doesn’t prove that it came from Polly’s computer.”

  “Which has been destroyed,” Sheila said calmly. “Meaning that this may have serious repercussions for both of you and your superiors. Believe me, I do not intend to let it pass.” She looked toward Barker, who averted his eyes, again took off his glasses and turned in his chair to look out of the window. Judge and jury, Fiona
thought again. He was weighing their fate. Finally he swiveled in his chair and looked directly at Fiona.

  “The fact is that you haven’t got any evidence,” Barker said. “All this, as the lawyers say, is circumstantial and . . .” He paused and shook his head. “It won’t stand up in court.”

  “This woman is a murderer,” Fiona said.

  “Then arrest me,” Sheila taunted. “Show me your evidence.”

  Suddenly Charleen opened her bag and threw a number of soft computer disks on the desk.

  “But we have evidence,” she said with conviction. Fiona’s heart jumped into her throat. What evidence? “Direct from Polly Dearborn’s computer, transferred the morning we found the body. I also have a portable computer, Sheila. And I qualify as an expert. I came back to Polly’s apartment with my own portable, dumped the material into it, then made copies on those disks. I deliberately made a subdirectory. You’ll note the date and time stamped to indicate my subdirectory. It is undoubtedly a mirror image of the material on your computer, Sheila.”

  “They’re lying,” Sheila cried. Hearing the word seemed like an explosion in Fiona’s ears.

  “Sit down, Sheila,” Barker commanded.

  She stared at him for a moment. Her lips began to tremble, her nostrils quivered. She started to back away, then held on to the back of one chair, angled herself around and flopped heavily into it.

  “They make a convincing argument, Sheila,” Barker said firmly.

  “They’re lying to protect that damned Mayor. Polly had him dead to rights—”

  “Polly?” Barker snapped “I thought you said you developed the material yourself.”

  “We worked on it together,” Sheila mumbled, but without conviction.

  “That, I know, is not true, Sheila,” Barker said. “That was Polly’s material, wasn’t it, Sheila?”

  “No, Mr. Barker. I . . . she had assigned it to me. I told her I wanted to write it. So she gave me the material, promised me a by-line . . .”

  “Polly Dearborn, the Witch of Watergate,” Barker said. “She would kill rather than share.”

  “She promised . . .” Sheila said. Clearly, she was beginning to unravel.