The Chessman

by Jeffrey B. Burton

  “No further problems at the lake house?”

  “None, but I don’t think the Schaeffer boy ever stayed there again after that weekend. Bad memories. His father got remarried last year and I saw the kid at the reception.”

  “You were invited?”

  “Don’t go there, Cady. It was a huge event in Hillsdale and the old man sent me a courtesy invite to the reception. I’d much rather stay home and watch the ball game, but I am an elected official, and knowing the folks in Schaeffer’s circle, I knew it wouldn’t be too bright of me not to attend.”

  “What’s the Schaeffer boy doing now?”

  “A bit of a recluse. He’s a financial wizard and manages the family’s portfolio from some cabin out in the sticks near Chester. The boy’s hair is gray now. Completely gray.”

  “That night changed a lot of lives.”

  “It certainly did.”

  “Your team used sonar to find Kelch?”

  “Yup. Got a dive team in with the side scan sonar. They don’t even have to get wet until they find the body. We didn’t want a floater showing up on Snow Goose. You ever see a floater, Agent Cady?”

  “Yes,” Cady said, and did his best to shove the image from his mind. After drowning, a body eventually floated to the surface, after it became bloated and full of noxious gas. The remains of a drowning victim were not a pretty sight. Fish often fed on any exposed flesh, accelerating the decomposition process.

  “Well, then you know,” Littman replied. “The divers found her the next evening. Sunday night. Not as bad as a floater, but not good.”

  “I see in the pathologist’s report that there were a couple of nicks and scratches.”

  “Very minor lesions. No bruising about the face or choking marks around the neck. No tissue under the fingernails. Nothing to indicate that a struggle or rape had occurred prior to death.”

  “Unless there’s a witness or the victim is badly bruised,” Cady said, thinking aloud, “proving a drowning as murder is all but impossible.”

  “The ME felt that Kelch was your standard drowning victim. Water in the lungs indicated that she was still alive at the point of submersion. The evidence backed up the Ingram boy’s statement. And it wasn’t as though Ingram himself came across as Prince Charming.”

  “Did you get Ingram’s statement at the scene?”

  “The kid was a slobbering, sobbing heap. He had to have been blottoed six hours earlier. No way would he have been in any shape to sexually assault Ms. Kelch. Nope, it was most likely some old-fashioned drunken screwing, not exactly what they advertise in the Princeton brochures, but there you have it. Consensual sex.”

  “I see in the report that there was semen in her vagina. Was that ever tested against Bret Ingram?”

  “Again, there was no indication of foul play. No sign of a struggle, the inquiry substantiated the boy’s story. He admitted to having sexual intercourse with Marly Kelch on two occasions prior to the skinny dip. Quite frankly, Cady, at one of the Schaeffer boy’s parties, there’s probably more mixed semen in more places than at Hef’s mansion. Hell, even Kelch’s clothes were folded neatly in the boat house.”

  Cady remember the dirty laundry folded neatly in the hampers at the Zalentines’ condominiums. “Folded neatly before some old-fashioned drunken screwing?”

  “You’re pissing me off again, Cady,” Sheriff Littman said. “So Kelch was a tidy person, took good care of her stuff. So what?”

  “Just following a train of thought. When did Ingram give his formal statement?”

  “That afternoon. Tossed him in detox until two to get him sobered up.”

  “Did he have counsel?”

  “Of course. I think a couple of his friends got the mouthpiece, as Ingram was in no condition to make phone calls.”

  “Do you remember his lawyer?”

  “Local defense attorney named Leon Grotsworth. Good enough fellow—well, except for his chosen profession. But Ingram answered every question, repeatedly, and nothing had changed from his drunken babblings of that morning. Simple story, really—got tanked, had sex, went swimming, passed out, got up to piss and puke, couldn’t find honey-bunny but her clothes were still there, stumbled about looking for her, then went into panic mode and woke everyone up trying to find her.”

  “Did Schaeffer set him up with Grotsworth?”

  “Like I said, Schaeffer immediately tore off in his boat searching for Kelch right after we interviewed him. Don’t think Bret Ingram was even in his vocabulary at that point in time. These were all a bunch of spoiled rich kids, so someone got him lined up.”

  “Ingram wasn’t rich. He got into Princeton on grades and grants. Worked full time plus in the school library to make ends meet.”

  “Look, Agent Cady, I’ve been a good boy and bounced your ball. I’ve got a meeting with my executive staff in less than five minutes. Can we wrap this up?”

  “You’ve been more than helpful, Sheriff. Just one last question. You mentioned Ingram had a couple of his friends that likely set him up with Grotsworth. Do you remember any of them?”

  “There were a few people milling around trying to comfort the kid. Couple of brothers were…” the sheriff stopped mid-sentence. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Sheriff?”

  “Son of a bitch!” the sheriff repeated. “You’re working the Zalentine case, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “I sent you the summary and the pathology report, but I’ve got the entire Kelch folder right here. We interviewed everyone at Schaeffer’s party. Let me find the list.” Cady heard more paper rustling. “Son of a bitch! That was them!”

  “I already knew the Zalentines were at Schaeffer’s party that night, Sheriff.”

  “I remember these goddamned twins sitting on the dock with Ingram, rubbing his shoulder, fetching him coffee, consoling him. But what those fuckers were really doing was getting the story straight. A hundred bucks says they’re the ones who got Ingram lawyered up.”

  Cady said nothing. A dead silence ensued.

  “I am so sorry, Agent Cady. It seemed like such a tragedy at the time. It never occurred to me to hit Ingram with some hard curves,” Sheriff Littman said quietly. “Turns out I didn’t dot every i.”

  “No one knew about the Zalentines back then, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Agent Cady. I’m going to get Bret Ingram in here pronto. No beanbag this time. I’ll find out exactly what happened at Snow Goose.”

  “It’s too late, Sheriff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ingram’s dead.”

  Chapter 10

  After receiving the findings summary from Bergen County, Cady had sicced Agent Preston on discovering all she could about Bret Michael Ingram, where he was from, any other run-ins with the law, what he was currently doing, etcetera, etcetera. Cady also instructed Preston to do the same for Marly Kelch’s surviving family members—to find out if there might be any father or brother acting as an avenging angel.

  Less than half an hour later Agent Preston had stood in Cady’s door.

  “He’s dead.”

  “You’re kidding me.” The statement was more rhetorical. Cady very rarely joked, but next to Liz Preston he was Henny Youngman.

  Her upper lip curled. “Not unless there are two Bret Michael Ingrams with the same SS number and date of birth who attended Princeton during that timeframe.”

  “Murdered?”

  “No. He died in a fire in Northern Minnesota, almost a year ago.”

  “Minnesota?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get me everything.”

  It turned out Ingram limped along at Princeton for another month after the “accident,” sort of attending classes, before packing it in and pulling the plug on higher education. Cady could easily understand how the incident at Snow Goose could cause a young man to re-examine his life, but where Ingram wound up next took Cady aback.

  “After dropping out of Princeton, he s
pent three months at the Copacabana Palace Hotel in Rio de Janeiro, right on the beach.”

  “Geez, Liz, and here I thought most dropouts moved back home with Mommy and Daddy and worked at Blockbuster.”

  Preston shrugged. “Then, after Rio, Ingram resurfaces to close on a lakefront real estate deal in Cohasset, Minnesota, of all places. Actually, he purchased a resort. A place called Sundown Point.”

  Cady thought for a second. “We know now why they called Sanfield the Magician.”

  Cady’s phone rang. He caught it on the first ring. The pathologist had just completed the autopsies on the five female victims pulled from the bottom of Chesapeake Bay.

  Cady pulled up behind the D.C. MPD squad car.

  He’d been played. The congressman and senator were frightened. Frightened enough, that is, to give the FBI a minor shove in the right direction. Frightened enough to beef up security for Patrick Farris. But not frightened enough to be truthful.

  Senator Farris was at a fundraiser in Dover, Delaware, a black-tie event to help fill the campaign coffers. Having the elder Farris two hours away worked to Cady’s advantage. His instinct told him that Patrick Farris would never stray off the established template if his senator-father was in the room running interference. With that in mind, Cady called the congressman on the drive over to his house, apologized for the lateness of the hour, and downplayed how he had some questions about other students the Zalentines had known back in their Princeton days. Cady also lied about how it would only take a minute or two of the congressman’s valuable time.

  Surprisingly, Patrick Farris had been pleasantly agreeable.

  Cady walked over to the driver’s side of the squad car and ID’d himself.

  “We’ve been instructed to swing by every hour,” the officer behind the wheel said. “Do you know what this is all about?”

  Cady shrugged. “Preventative measures.”

  “I hear the Service carts him to and from Rayburn,” the officer in the passenger seat said. “It’s the Chessman, isn’t it?”

  Cady cursed silently. Too many cooks involved in an ever-widening investigation made it all but impossible to keep the lid on anything. “The congressman knew both Sanfield and the Zalentines. Keep that to yourself, though. Like I said, preventative measures.”

  “He expecting you this late?”

  Cady looked at his wristwatch. Almost eleven.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter 11

  Patrick Farris answered the door to his three-story row house, a brownstone in Woodley Park—a couple of rock-throws off Connecticut Avenue. Farris looked drained.

  “Agent Cady,” the house rep said, standing aside to let the federal agent come in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  “I apologize, Congressman, for keeping you and Mrs. Farris up so late.”

  “No worries. My wife is in Florida and I’m a night owl.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “Long day.” Farris led Cady up a short set of stairs to a living room the size of a basketball court with a cappuccino leather sectional curving across the hardwood floor at mid-arena. Two matching ottomans sat atop a sheep pile throw rug in front of the elongated sofa. A couple of Italian leather armchairs sat on opposite ends of the sectional, tilting inward. Seating accommodations had been arranged to allow guests a perfect viewing of something that immediately captured Cady’s eye as he ascended the final steps. The Farrises had an aquarium the size one normally finds in a doctor’s waiting room. If the three-story had a room for entertaining, this was certainly it.

  “Alternative fuels are indeed the wave of the future,” Farris continued, “but you can only read so many House bills on biofuel, wind power, and electric cars before all life is sucked from your marrow and you crave to toss yourself into the Potomac.”

  “So you’re on that House Select Committee?”

  “Idiot me thought I’d hit a grand slam when I first got assigned to it.”

  Cady walked along the front of the tank, looking at Farris’s assortment of exotic fish. The aquarium sat on an oak base and had to be six feet long by four high. Various decorations lay on the light blue gravel at the bottom of the tank: a sunken pirate ship snapped in two, a half-buried treasure chest, and a yellow submarine with pictures of the Fab Four staring back at Cady from each of the submarine’s four portholes. A couple starfish sat motionless, a variety of multicolored aquatic plants stretched upward, and rocks, coral, shale step ledges, and driftwood were also strewn about the colored gravel.

  “Fortunately, we’ve got a service that checks the filter system and temperature,” Farris said. “The fish were my wife’s idea. The Fab Four and the topless mermaid on the swing set were my two cents.”

  “I bet.” Cady peeked at the mermaid, and then began checking out the fish. “What’s this one with the red tail?”

  “That critter’s a Tinfoil Barb. It’s still got a bit to grow. Many in there are rainbow fish and a variety of Gouramies. There’s also a Blue Dempsey and a Bala shark, and an eel lurking near the pirate ship.”

  “Interesting.” Cady turned and looked across the room. Open doors on the back wall led out to a second-story terrace.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Mind if I finish my Glenfiddich?” Farris picked up his glass and raised it to Cady.

  Cady shook his head.

  “Never thought I’d become a Glenfiddich man like my father.” Farris finished his drink in one swallow. “Hell, Scotch might even work as a biofuel.”

  “I found out today that the friend of Marly Kelch—the girl who drowned at Schaeffer’s party—a guy named Ingram, died in a fire last year.”

  Farris walked over to a cart in the corner stacked with bottles, picked up the open bottle of Glenfiddich 15 and refilled his glass. “I guess they’re all dead now.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Bret, Agent Cady.”

  “You said you didn’t know him.”

  “What?”

  “In your father’s office, you said you didn’t know Marly’s boyfriend, but you just said you were sorry to hear about Bret. I never mentioned Ingram’s first name.”

  Farris looked out the open doors of his terrace. “I became curious and Googled old articles after we spoke.”

  “Bret Ingram was never charged with any crime, Congressman. I read through all the news accounts as well. The articles, brief as they were, focused on Marly Kelch’s accidental drowning on Snow Goose Lake. It was treated as a tragedy. They didn’t itemize the minutiae of who was partying with whom, perhaps out of respect for the Kelch family. Or fear of the Schaeffers.”

  Farris walked out to the edge of his terrace, drink in one hand.

  Cady followed.

  “What happened that night at the lake, Congressman?”

  Farris took another long sip from his glass and stared across the alleyway. “The Robillards are home early.”

  Cady glanced across the way, a dim light from a back hallway clicked off in the neighboring condo.

  “They’ve got a timeshare in Venice.” Farris turned to look at Cady. “When they’re not in Italy, Gretchen and Phil often have me over for one of Gretch’s home-cooked meals. They’ve been married nearly sixty years, Agent Cady. You’ve heard of love at first sight? With the Robillards, it’s love at every sight. I’ve seen it up close. Whenever Gretchen enters the room, Phil’s eyes light up and the two are like kids again. Makes me feel like I should excuse myself and grant them some privacy.” Farris turned back toward his neighbors’ home. “That’s the way it should be, right?”

  Cady said nothing.

  “It’s going to break their hearts when they hear about me and Emma.”

  “Emma?”

  “My wife and I are separated. Long time coming. Emma’s a real trooper, though; she’ll be there for the next election…then a quiet divorce decree, and separate ways.” Farris took another mouth
ful of Scotch. “I see you’re wearing a ring, Agent Cady. Did you hit the lottery? Have you got what Phil and Gretchen possess?”

  Cady said nothing. Laura had been in her fifth month of pregnancy when she’d miscarried last December. Cady had been in Detroit tracking down rumors of Al-Qaeda connections at one of the Islamic centers—comments by a cleric had raised eyebrows but ultimately were editorial in nature. Cady flew home, took weeks off, but something had broken—had been years in the breaking, according to Laura—and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men were having a devil of a time putting it together again. Cady planned on taking an extended leave of absence once the Chessman case was resolved.

  “Your silence is most telling,” Farris said, toasting the agent with his drink glass. “I welcome you to the club.”

  “What happened at the lake, Congressman?”

  Farris began to giggle and Cady realized that the man was on more than his second Scotch. He was getting the distinct impression that the congressman’s imbibing might be a nightly occurrence.

  “What happens at Snow Goose stays at Snow Goose.”

  “I don’t see the humor.”

  “In that we are in perfect accord, Agent Cady.”

  He tried a new approach. “You knew Marly Kelch more than you let on, didn’t you? Marly was more to you than someone to nod at in the hallway.”

  “Forgive me for butchering Faulkner, my friend, but the past is not dead.” Farris polished off his glass and then chewed an ice cube. “In fact, it’s not even past.”

  “What am I to make of that?”

  It was Farris’s turn to say nothing.

  “What’s with all the security, then? Secret Service chauffeurs, MPD cruising the neighborhood?”

  Farris remained silent.

  “I don’t get it.” Cady walked back inside the row house, went to look at the rainbow fish. “I came here tonight to tell you about the pathologist results on the five Chesapeake Bay victims. The ones Alain and Adrien took out on their sailboat. All five of the women had been drowned, stabbed repeatedly after death, then wrapped in tarp, weighted down, and tossed in the bay.”