by Bob Neir
“Admiral Burns. Is it true the Navy made another attempt last night?”
“Yes. But, our man failed.”
“Only one man against a well-armed, bunch of terrorists?”
“He was capable; we felt he had a high chance of success.”
Simons nodded, his mind clearing slightly. As he half reacted to Burn’s smooth talking voice, he let his features sag. Setting aside the helpless feeling of defeat, he lashed out, “Burns, you bastard. You ordered Scarese to kill Trent. You sent a man to his death under the guise of a military action. You are guilty of murder, and I’m going to prove it.” Unsteady, he felt a tinge of guilt as he blamed himself for triggering Burns’ drastic action. Although he miscalculated the outcome badly, he wearily shrugged it off. With a sidelong look, he flipped off the TV, grabbed, bottle in hand and sat in his own gloom.
There came a sharp knock on the door.
Detectives Frances and Gleese burst in without waiting. Simons flew at them, “What do you mean barging in?”
“Chief. We’ve tracked down Proust’s widow, Denton, Johnson, Loomis and Nicholsen,” Frances blurted out, excitedly.
“Ryder, too,” Gleese added.
“O.K. Spill it. So what did you find out?”
“Denton, first,” Frances said.
“I’m listening.” Simons set his jaw.
“Denton said from the findings, he had recommended that Captain Proust be brought up on charges for the disaster, not Trent. Kindler overruled him and then personally ordered him to defend Captain Proust. Denton said orders were orders. I tend to believe him. He couldn’t give me a clue as to Kindler’s reasons. Denton said Kindler cut him off when he edged too close.”
Simons made a wry face.
“Lt. Johnson said Denton ordered him to defend Trent. Denton gave him no choice and then took advantage of his inexperience. Trent could have objected to Johnson; but Johnson said Trent was too naive, too trusting of Navy justice. ‘Trent relied on me and I failed him,’ he said. As the trial wore on, Denton and the witnesses constantly put Trent down. The Military Judges had shut their minds. Doors kept closing and it left Trent frustrated, angry. He came to believe his conviction was predetermined.”
Officer Gleese spoke, “I tracked down Loomis, Vice-Admiral Farr’s yeoman and Nicholson, Denton’s yeoman. They handled the paperwork and drifted in and out of the meetings. No one paid any attention to them, they said. They both felt there was more than a military relationship between Farr, Proust and Kindler, but they had no idea what it might be. Denton bucked Kindler hard; Farr, too, but eventually Denton went along with Kindler. Farr begged off. They felt Trent was set up to be found guilty, but could offer no proof, or implicate anyone or why? I think we’re on the right track. I wish I had some idea where it led.”
“Patience,” Simons replied quietly.
“Oh, by the way,” Gleese said. “Newby Hatcher had asked Loomis and Nicholson the same questions. They gave him the same answers. These Yeomen stick together like fraternity brothers.”
Simons felt the stab of truth surfacing, his face came alive, no longer moribund. He looked at Gleese, “A dime will get you a doughnut Newby told Trent, maybe to cheer him up; instead, it might have set him off, but it’s still not enough.” He narrowed his features and said, “Trent said he had proof - I wonder what proof?”
“Lt. Johnson couldn’t help on that score,” said Frances.
“I visited Proust’s widow,” Gleese jumped in. “She let me go through his papers. I didn’t find much except a picture of Proust and Kindler on a fraternity parade float. They both attended a small school in Maryland before they were appointed to Annapolis. Kindler was two years Proust’s senior. That was the earliest link I could find between the two, they overlapped only one year, then Kindler entered the Naval Academy.”
“What about after that?” Simons inquired.
“Their trails tracked, almost parallel, like one pulled the other along. Kindler would move up, then Proust would show up and he would get promoted, too. In just one year together, they turned out to be bosom buddies.”
“Where was Farr in all this?”
“He and Proust were roommates at the Naval Academy, but their career paths separated at graduation. Farr’s latest assignment to Kindler’s command was accidental. Don’t get me wrong, Farr got along well with Kindler, but Farr was his own man.”
“Where does Burns fit in?” Simons asked. “When did he show up?”
Frances spoke up, “Burns was on the Missouri with Trent for two years. They didn’t get along, but it didn’t bother Trent, he ignored him. Burns was a standing joke. They say he had a hair-trigger temper and his men avoided him, he carried a chip, particularly, against senior officers. He believed they were all after him to ruin his career. Lt. Cmdr. Ryder, operations officer says Trent was ignorant of Burns’ back-biting and would have cared less had he known - Trent was that kind of officer, straight and true. Ryder says things blew up when Proust assumed command of the Missouri. He claims Proust chewed out Burns something fierce about his poor navigation in front of himself and Trent. Trent just laughed, but Burns was furious. Burns had hit a dead-end in the Navy and he knew it. They were surprised he even made Lt. Commander.”
“Yet, Trent claims Burns lied in Proust’s behalf at the court-martial. If Burns hated Proust, why would he do that?” Gleese asked. “Maybe, he had reason to hate Trent more. After all, he had two years with Trent versus two weeks with Proust.” Frances said. “But, after the collision, both Proust and Trent were in trouble. Why bother? Why choose one over the other?” Gleese insisted.
“Maybe Burns saw a chance.”
“A chance for what?”
“You got any idea?” Simons challenged.
“If Burns lied, he lied to favor Proust?”
“Could Kindler be behind it?”
“Behind what?”
“Why not Farr?”
“No chance!” Frances glared in mock anger at his superior. “Not if Farr expected Kindler to charge Proust, not Trent.”
“All right, then,” Simons chuckled. “It’s Kindler, or someone behind Kindler. Why did Kindler want to protect Proust? He offered up an innocent man, tampered with the witnesses, and possibly the conduct of the trial itself. Nasty stuff, if you ask me.”
Frances shivered, but ignored the chill in his body. “It seems we started all this dialog with a ‘Why?’ We still don’t have an answer to ‘Why?’ If it is Kindler, why did he go to all this trouble? For a man in his position, the risks were enormous.”
“Keep peeling off the layers and we’ll find something.”
“Every jawbreaker has a core.”
“Every gumball has a hollow center.”
“Jawbreakers and gumballs!!” Gleese said teasingly. “Good grief! Is that what we are down to? You two make me feel like a two year old.”
Simons offered, “Wingate tracked down Kindler. We know he lives out on Dungeness Spit; where’s Farr?”
“Retired. Lives down in San Diego.”
Simons mulled over the situation then said, “Jim, get back to that small college and turn over stones.” Frances nodded.
“Annette, get to Admiral Farr. Burns is mine. We’re still on short notice, not much time. We need a break, and fast, something to forestall Trent. He still intends to fire. Anything else?”
Silence drifted between them
“O.K. Now beat it.”
Simons relaxed, impressed by their work. They had bulldozed their way through a minefield of facts, small details, and the irrelevant in remarkable haste. Police work was boring, tiring, and lacked glamour. The exhilaration came when discovering a gold nugget lying in the gravel. Simons capped the bottle and put it back in his desk drawer.
Outside the sky was suddenly dark, but sparkles of light burst forth about the tall buildings and city streets. Simons scratched a match along a matchbook cover and touched it to a cigar. He set back and half asked himself, “Can I smell a dead fi
sh a mile away or can’t I? And, this dead fish has been laying around for at least seven years.” His logical mind kept circling like a faulty torpedo. Simply put, Burn’s had to be shielding someone. But, he lacked hard evidence to substantiate that conclusion. He needed reasons. The fact that a retired Admiral was involved, added a sinister twist. That other high-ranking Naval officers could be involved borders on the incredible. A giant conspiracy? Or, something gone badly wrong? And why would Burns want to kill Trent? Or, did Kindler, from behind the scenes, in retirement, issue the order?” Why was Burns so eager to get in deeper? Was he so desperate as to involve a troublemaker like Scarese? Why would anyone take the trouble to take out Wingate? His mind churned desperately trying to arrange the puzzle pieces; but there were too many pieces, so he got nowhere. Everything was exploding off in a thousand different directions. He was deadly tired, just to close his eyes for a moment, but the race against the clock was on and his mind, unrelenting, pounded on.
* * *
Charlie Wingate grumbled under his breath. His temporary habitat frustrated him in its closeness, distinctly a prison cell. He fretted as he lay on his back, his head constantly throbbing. The crack across the skull had not only kept him awake, but also worried him. It unnerved him that someone had thrashed his body. Who was after him? Was he getting too close to the truth? It was late Monday afternoon when the phone rang. Carefully, he pushed himself off the sofa and grabbed it.
“Conover here. We just got Scarese back in a plastic bag.”
Wingate asked, “Where are you?”
“Down at the dock.”
“How did he get out to the Missouri?”
“Wilson took him out. Admiral’s orders, he said.”
“Was Scarese alone?”
“Yep! A one man brigade.”
“He didn’t swim out?”
“How could he? He was too loaded with hardware.”
“Where did he get the stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Conover said. “I’ll follow up.”
“I’d like to hear Burns’ explanation.”
“No fear, it’ll be air-tight. Tronquet and Hartwell will back him up, you can lay money on that. And, with Scarese’s demise any story the bastard wants to tell is impregnable.”
“Where’s Burns?”
“He’s still in his office. By the way, Scarese’s body was peppered with grenade shrapnel.”
“What was Scarese supposed to accomplish?”
“Blow up the turret so the gun couldn’t be fired.”
“Did he succeed?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Hold on. I have another call.”
“Charlie, this is Noonan. Burns just called for his car.”
“Thanks.” Wingate pressed the button.
“I gotta go, Conover. Check back.” Charlie Wingate hung up, but he had already started to change into his black leather jacket and jeans, his headache all but forgotten. He zipped up and grabbed his headgear, dashed out and mounted an unmarked police motorcycle, a loaner from the Bremerton Police Department. He fired it up. “Toby, I’m on my way,” he said into the bike radio as he accelerated. “Has Burns come out yet?”
Toby replied, “No, not yet.”
“How about the State Avenue gate?”
“I can’t cover them both,” Detective Toby Wheeler replied.
“I’ll cover it.”
Wingate had just pulled up outside the State Avenue gate when a dark, blue sedan passed through, careened sharply and headed north. The Admiral was driving and he was alone. Wingate cinched his helmet tight and set off in distant pursuit. The blue sedan followed highway 3 north, then to 104 until it joined 101 three miles south of Discovery Bay. It lumbered on at a high speed, not slowing down until Sequim where it turned sharply north. Wingate knew Dungeness lay ahead, a tree-covered point of land that jutted into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The sedan’s taillights grew dimmer in the dusk. Turning off his headlights, Wingate closed the distance accepting the risk of an unfamiliar, winding, well-oiled road. The road soon turned into hard-packed sand and ran parallel to the water’s edge, overlooking the Strait. Closing up, as the road turned rugged, he sensed Burns’ destination had to be close by. The sedan abruptly turned down a side road. A single story, old weather-beaten house with chipping white paint sat by itself. He pulled up short and switched off the motor as a porch light came to life. A tall, spare man with white hair emerged and walked Burns inside. He turned off the porch light. The mailbox read H.T. Kindler.
Wingate steeled himself and moved slowly to minimize any slight noise he might make. Working his way along a wooden fence, he stayed low until he reached the front porch. No sign of a security system, nothing to warn of potential intruders. He ducked under the front porch rail and tread lightly along the wooden deck. The night was still: no dog barked. The front door was solid, but there was a window next to it. He put his ear to a door, warily listening for sounds, anything to indicate movement. Light at the window cast a rectangular pattern on the porch deck. He crept up to the window and peered over the sill. Burns and Kindler sat shoulder to shoulder before a large fireplace. His heart pounded with certainty, an explanation for their meeting. Burns extracted a piece of paper from his coat pocket and laid it before the Admiral. As Kindler pored over the paper, he argued animatedly. Wingate put his ear closer, but could not make out the argument. Kindler waved off a pen tendered by Burns who rose abruptly and shook his fist angrily. Burns picked up the paper, crumpled it and stuffed it into his pocket. He paced and followed the Admiral back and forth across the room. Kindler, disconsolate, angrily led his guest to the front door. Burns refused to leave, still arguing. As the porch light flicked on, Wingate scampered off the deck and into the nearby bushes. Burns stomped out in a huff and was gone. Wingate saw no need to follow. He waited then returned to the window. The Admiral sat before the fireplace, his head hung between his hands. Slowly, he rose and went to his desk and sat down. He opened the desk drawer and extracted a small handgun. He placed the gun to his temple. Wingate heard his own feet pounding on the wooden deck as he dashed at the front door. He hammered it with his shoulder until it flew open. He ran to the desk.
“Admiral,” he shouted. “Don’t! Damn it! Don’t!”
The Admiral fired.
Kindler’s body slumped over. Wingate pressed for a pulse, a sign of life. There was none. Kindler was dead. His body lay sprawled across his desk, an outstretched arm, palm up, as if begging for coin. The gun lay on the floor where it had fallen. Kindler’s head lay to one side, his eyes stared blankly, his mouth oddly twisted. A light red stain oozed from a small hole in the side of his head and ran down his cheek to puddle on a green desk blotter. Wingate drew away, his fingers sticky with blood. He wiped away the wetness and reached for the telephone; but withdrew his hand. His thoughts were angry: he had lost his man. He hesitated: should he clear out since he was out of his jurisdiction? or, should he call in the local police, but he didn’t have time to explain; or should he go after Burns? Nothing to be gained in that direction, he thought. He cleaned up the scene and departed. He would call Sam Simons.
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 28
Two days had passed since the Navy recovered Mate Scarese’s shredded body from the dank waters of Sinclair Inlet. A brief report of Admiral Harley T. Kindler’s suicide appeared in the Tuesday morning newspapers. Sam Simons sought an audience with Admiral Brian Burns and was ushered into his office that afternoon.
“Just you and me, Admiral.” Simons articulated. He kept his voice free of emotion. “We have lots to talk about.”
“Do we?” snapped Burns. He came out from behind his desk, but held back his hand. His eyes burned with hostility. “I could be sociable and offer you a drink,” Burns said, his face crinkled into a forced smile, “But this is not a social visit, is it, Chief.” “No, it is not,” Simons sat down without being offered a chair and withdrew a cigar from his inside vest pocket. He crossed his legs, “Mind i
f I smoke?”
“Not at all.” Burns gestured by inclining his head slightly.
“Mind if I imbibe?” Without waiting, the Admiral stepped behind his desk, pulled a glass and bottle from his bottom desk draw and poured himself a drink. “Are you sure you won’t join me?” he said, holding the bottle up in the air. “I don’t like to drink alone.” He did not wait for an answer but carefully poured something into the glass, a clear liquid.
“I’ll bear that in mind on my next visit.”
“Well, then.” Burns looked at him icily. “What can I do for you?”
“As I said, we have lots to talk about.”
“No doubt you have already been plied with rumor by Wingate and Conover.”
“Mate Scarese. What was his mission on the Missouri?”
Burns, who had his glass raised halfway to his lips, set it down abruptly. A faint smile crossed his lips. “He was to blow up the turret, of course. You convinced me, we had no proof of his claimed success. The City was still at risk. We know Scarese did get aboard once, so why not try again? He was willing. Grenades. Just grenades, one or two in through the turret hatch, and the damage would be enough. You see, I had to be certain the gun couldn’t be fired. I am grateful for your counsel. Yes. I ordered Scarese, er, he volunteered, I should correct myself. You need not take my word for it. Captain Tronquet and Major Hartwell heartily concurred in my decision. And, I am certain if Mayor Grille had been made aware of my intentions, he, too, would have concurred. Was he informed?”
Sam Simons studied his cigar, turning it over slowly in his fingers. The instant he formed his answer Burns began talking again. “What does it matter,” Burns snorted, as he brushed aside his own question. “The poor fellow is dead. He is a hero. And, we still do not know whether he succeeded. If Scarese succeeded, the City is spared. It was a gamble, true; but, one worth taking, don’t you agree?”
