by Philip Chen
"Is Mildred okay?"
"She's a tough old bird. It seems some thirtyish female decided to add to her trophy collection. Luckily, all those silver bangles Mildred wears got tangled in the garrote and saved her life. Mildred was able to jab her knitting needle into the assailant and that's all it took. Gives new meaning to the phrase, 'keep to your own knitting,' doesn't it?" McHugh chuckled at his attempt at black humor.
Mike smiled appreciatively. "Does this mean that we have a leak? Someone sure does seem to know when and where our agents are showing up."
0530 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland
Awakened, Smith picked up the ringing telephone. It was Adams.
"I've got some bad news for you. It appears that your Richard Winslow kept some pretty rough company. He's dead."
"What happened?"
"The Minnesota State Police headquarters in Mankato, Minnesota, responded to our InfoNet missing person's bulletin on Winslow. It seems that there was a rather spectacular house fire at a farm south of Mankato last night. It required volunteer fire companies from several communities to put it out. When the fire was finally put out, the firemen found a grisly scene. In the kitchen, they found a corpse burned so badly that they couldn't even tell at first whether it was male or female.
"The firemen secured the area and called in the State Police to conduct arson and homicide investigations. The homicide investigator was able to find a portion of a Washington State driver's license that had a partial name '...inslow' that somehow survived the intense fire. The State Police homicide investigator checked the InfoNet missing persons list and thought that we should be notified."
"Where's the body?"
"Mankato still has a county coroner system. The body was taken to a funeral home in Mankato, Tuchman Brothers."
"Herb, what I'm now going to tell you is so sensitive that I can probably be sent to jail for the rest of my life -- do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Winslow was a special courier, carrying information of great national consequence. Can you secure the farmhouse until we can get up there? Also, I need to get access to Winslow's body. Can you arrange that?"
"I'll get right on it. Great national consequence, huh?"
"Thanks, sorry I can't say any more. What I've told you already could fry me -- no joke."
This time, Adams knew that Smith was not being disingenuous.
1930 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport
"Air Force C-130 Heavy, you are cleared for landing Runway 11 Left."
"Minneapolis Tower, Runway 11 Left, Roger."
The Lockheed C-130H-30 Hercules touched down and lumbered down Runway 11 Left coming to a stop about three fourths of the way down the runway.
"Air Force C-130 Heavy, this is Minneapolis Ground Control, you are cleared to taxi on Taxi way AA-5, turn right D5 to Minnesota Air Force Reserve terminal. Good day."
"Good day, Minneapolis Ground Control."
As the huge Lockheed Hercules rolled to a stop in the Minnesota Air Force Reserve terminal, connected to the Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, engines were started in the three Suburbans. Two of the three vehicles carried a complement of five. The middle vehicle had only a driver and a guard. The third seat in that vehicle had been removed and the second seat was folded down. A stainless steel casket and gurney lay on the floor of the Suburban. Joining the Marines this time were two others, Twoomey and Smith.
All of the occupants of the Suburbans were dressed in dark blue uniform shirts and trousers. None of the uniforms bore military insignia or indication of rank.
As soon as the ramp of the Lockheed Hercules hit the tarmac with a metallic clang, the first Suburban started down the ramp, stopping at the solitary figure standing on the tarmac. Smith jumped out of the Suburban, walked up to the man, and shook his hand.
About this time, the other two Suburbans drove down the ramp, stopping directly behind the first vehicle. From the third Suburban, Twoomey emerged. As Twoomey joined the two men on the tarmac, Smith said, "Herb, this is Albert Twoomey. Albert, Herb."
"How are you doing, Herb? It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Glad to meet you as well. Welcome to Minnesota."
Pleasantries having been dispensed with, Adams joined Smith in the lead vehicle, and Twoomey returned to the third Suburban. The three-vehicle caravan immediately started out for Mankato with Adams leading the way.
"I had the State Police put extra security around the farmhouse. The Mankato coroner is going to be a problem. He insists that since it's a local homicide investigation, he has sole jurisdiction in the matter."
"Do you have anyone working on that problem?"
"No, you said that this was dark. Only I'm aware of this in the office. As far as the office knows, I'm taking a few days off for personal business."
"Thanks, Herb. I owe you one."
"George, this is some operation. Can you tell me anything about it at all?"
"All I can say is that the matter deals with national security and that your assistance is deemed essential but that it's better that you don't know the organization or the mission. All of these men are specially trained to do what Twoomey and I tell them without question. As you can see, these Suburbans are specially equipped for any situation. Believe me, you don't want to know."
"Are there going to be any consequences from the Director's office?"
"Already cleared. The old man called Judge Alexander this morning himself."
"I guess I'm yours. One thing, who's the old man?"
"Rear Admiral Robert McHugh, Chief of Operations, CSAC."
"What's CSAC?"
"I'll tell you more later."
The caravan rolled out of the service road on to Route 62, turned right on to Route 5 and headed for I-494. After a short period of time it turned west onto Route 169 toward Mankato.
Adams sat watching the occasional farmhouse in the distant countryside slip past him, wondering what he had gotten himself into.
Smith silently hoped that Winslow's cylinder remained unharmed so that he would not have died in vain. His orders were explicit: Bring Winslow, or whatever remained of Winslow, home in the hermetically sealed, temperature-controlled, stainless steel casket. If the cylinder had survived the fire, it might still carry the encoded message.
"Did you or your investigators sweep the fire scene?"
"The site had been completely gone over by both Minnesota and county officials. I walked the site myself earlier this morning. There was nothing except for the fragment of Winslow's driver's license that the State Police investigator found. The farmhouse was pretty badly burned. Obviously arson, started with gasoline. The perpetrators didn't even try to hide that fact. The gas can, or what remained of it, was still laying in what was the kitchen -- that's where the volunteer fireman found the body. Young kid, pretty shook up by it all."
"Any clues?"
"In addition to the fragment of the driver's license, the laboratory guys found one spent .357 Magnum slug. It's probably the slug that caved in your guy's head, but it was fragmented and disfigured by the heat. Doubt we'll be able to get any useful information from it. If there were any more clues, the fire did a good job destroying them."
"What about the farmhouse? Did you check ownership?"
"Abandoned, for some time. It was supposed to be auctioned off soon in a tax sale."
"We probably don't need to go to the farmhouse, then. Keep a lid on the site though."
"Sure."
By now the caravan had reached the sleepy Minnesota town of Mankato. It didn't take very long for the three Suburbans to reach Tuchman Brothers Funeral Home located on Main Street, down from the courthouse and municipal center. At the funeral parlor, Adams and Smith got out of the lead Suburban and went to the locked front door of the building.
Ringing the bell, Adams commented that he wished it would cool down. Southern Minnesota was undergoing one of its sweltering hot, two-week bouts o
f summer. The humidity and heat persisted long after dusk. It was the kind of weather that often spawned thunderstorms and their deadly progeny, tornadoes. The two-plus hour ride from Minneapolis had been mercifully spent in the relative air conditioned comfort of the Suburbans.
It was shortly after nine in the evening when the caravan pulled up in front of the funeral parlor. Waiting for what seemed an eternity, especially with increasingly annoying mosquitoes buzzing loudly around the front door light, Adams and Smith became pretty irritated. After all, Adams had called the Mankato coroner to specially set up this visit. Just then, the door handle turned and the front door was cracked open. Peering out at the two men from inside was a stooped over, white-haired old man.
"Hello, I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI. Is Phillip Tuchman here?"
"I'm Tuchman. Here, let me let you in, Mr. Adams."
Phillip Tuchman, sole surviving brother of the Tuchman Brothers, was a seventy-year-old, slightly built man. The years had been difficult and he had a stooped over gait. He walked with the help of an oak cane. For years, Tuchman doubled as the Mankato coroner, which fit well with his family's funeral business.
As Adams and Smith entered the funeral home, several of the other passengers in the caravan got out of their vehicles. They quietly faded into the shadows of the deepening night. Two of the men strolled behind the funeral house and positioned themselves in the shadows of the backyard facing the house, cradling their weapons. Each of the men carried either a Colt AR-15 or a Striker 12, equipped with a laser sight. The driver and one passenger remained in each Suburban, the engines running.
2120 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Sheriff's Office, Mankato, Minnesota
Mankato County Sheriff Joe Johnson reached for the ringing telephone. Putting the telephone to his ear he growled, "Sheriff's Office."
"Sheriff, this is Annie Lewis. I don't know if you're aware, but there are a bunch of strange-looking men in front of Tuchman's Funeral Home. They're acting mighty weird."
"Thanks, Annie. I'll take a look," said Johnson as he got up from his chair and placed the telephone back on its hook.
Forty-eight and paunchy, his jowly face reddened by a spidery network of surface blood capillaries nurtured by a combination of sun and alcohol, Johnson looked more like a sugar beet farmer than the sheriff of Mankato County. Johnson strapped on his brown leather gun belt with the holstered .38 caliber Police Special and speed loaders, carefully tucked another plug of Red Man behind his lower lip, straightened his collar, hitched up his trousers, and reached for his Smokey Bear hat.
Walking out the door, he shouted to his night clerk that he was headed down to Tuchman's. He got into the tan Chevrolet Caprice with special suspension and a 5.7 liter V8 engine and started toward the funeral parlor. As Johnson approached Tuchman's, he noticed the three Suburbans parked in front of the funeral home without lights but definitely running.
He pulled in front of the first Suburban, radioed his night clerk that he was at Tuchman's and was going to question the driver of a gray late model Suburban with no markings. Walking up to the lead Suburban, Johnson knocked on the driver's window. The driver slowly turned his face in the direction of the knock and using his hands indicated that the window did not roll down.
Suddenly, Johnson felt the cold steel barrel of a Colt AR-15 pushing against the back of his neck and heard the distinctive metallic sound of a bolt seating itself.
A soft-spoken man said, "Don't move; we don't want to be provoked. Please do as I say."
"You can't do this to me," said Johnson. "I'm the sheriff in this here county. Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
At this point, Twoomey approached. "Put that weapon down, trooper. Sorry, Sheriff, my boys tend to take their jobs very seriously. I'm Albert Twoomey, Office of Security, Department of State."
"What in the blue blazes do you boys think you are doing? What the hell are all these vehicles parked here in front of Tuchman's?"
"The State Department got a message that one of its important staff members may have been murdered here and we were sent to investigate."
"You mean that boy that was killed in the farmhouse fire?"
"Precisely. Two of my colleagues are inside speaking to Mr. Tuchman right now."
2130 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Inside Tuchman's Funeral Home, Mankato, Minnesota
As the trio walked down the stairs toward the refrigerated basement that served as Tuchman's cold storage room prior to embalming and preparation for burial, Tuchman said, "Hope you two aren't too squeamish, the remains ain't very pretty." Neither Smith nor Adams responded as they continued their descent.
In Room 2, Tuchman had already placed the black, charred remains of Winslow on a stainless steel gurney. There was little semblance of the human state in the mass of burned tissue and white bone that lay on that gurney.
The stench arising from the gurney, a combination of wet wood ashes, burnt tissue, and death, was overpowering, but was abated in the chill of the room. What remained of the head and skull graphically displayed the power of a .357 Magnum bullet. Most of the right frontal and temporal portions of the skull and face were gone. Eyeless sockets stared into space in anguish.
"Have you performed an autopsy or other examination?" said Smith.
"Don't have to. Just looking at him you can tell that he died of a gunshot wound."
"Mr. Tuchman, did you find anything in or around the body that looked out of the ordinary?"
"No, like I said, there weren't no need to go poking around with such an obvious cause of death."
"Mr. Tuchman, we need to transport this body to Washington as soon as possible. I have some men outside who can help you prepare the body. We also have a special casket designed for travel."
Tuchman looked up at Smith and then at Adams at that request.
"I'm not sure I can release him tonight. We haven't had a proper coroner's inquest."
"But you said the cause of death was obvious."
"Don't replace the inquest. We've got to have an inquest."
"How long will that take?"
"Probably two or three days."
"I'm afraid that we can't wait, this body must be in Washington this evening without delay."
"Sorry, this body will be kept here until the formal inquest, government or no government." Tuchman folded his arms over his chest.
Just about this time, Johnson joined the three men in the cold room. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Tuchman?"
"Sheriff, these men seem to feel that they can take this corpse without a formal inquest. I just cannot allow such a thing."
Smith identified himself as a State Department official to Johnson. "National security demands that we take immediate possession of the remains of Mr. Winslow. I've been instructed to transport these remains to Washington, D.C., without delay. I'm sure you can understand that, gentlemen."
"I can't let you take the body unless Mr. Tuchman agrees and it sure doesn't seem that he agrees, " said Johnson, as his right hand slowly undid the holster strap to his service revolver.
Johnson's movement did not go unnoticed. Just as deliberately, Smith reached inside his pants pocket and pressed the button on the paging device. Twoomey's pager beeped once and he immediately went into the funeral parlor following the loud voices. Two Marines with their weapons followed him.
In less than ten seconds, Twoomey opened the door, dropped to a kneeling position and aimed his automatic right at the sheriff, who had his revolver drawn and was holding both Smith and Adams at bay. Immediately behind Twoomey the two Marines fanned out to take positions on each side of Twoomey. The Marines' Striker 12 shotguns were fully choked for a tight shot pattern and the red beam of the lasers were aimed at Johnson's chest.
Twoomey said, "Drop that weapon, Sheriff. There is no way you can get all of us."
Sweat poured down Johnson's face. His shirt was drenched from perspiration. Nothing he had ever encountered had prepared him for this occasion. T
he weapons themselves were unlike anything he had ever seen. His trigger finger started to tighten. His face flushed. His eyes squinted both from fear and the salty, biting sweat that continued to bead down from his forehead.
"I don' know who you are, but I'm pretty sure you aren't who you say you are. You just can't just come here and demand things. I ain't gonna let you, no way."
"Sheriff, you are making a big mistake. I'm not sure who these fellows are either but I can tell you that George Smith is legit," said Adams.
"Buddy, I don't know who you are."
"I'm Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI. If you will allow me, I can get my identification card for you."
"Don't you dare reach for that. I weren't born yesterday."
As Johnson's attention was momentarily diverted, Twoomey was able to fire one shot, intentionally grazing Johnson's right arm, which caused him to drop his revolver. Tension filled the room as the two Marines started to squeeze the triggers of their Striker 12 Shotguns.
Instinctively, Twoomey said, "Hold your fire!"
The troopers responded immediately.
Johnson clutched his right arm with his left hand, a rivulet of blood streamed down his right arm. Tuchman, who until this moment had been huddling in the corner of the room, rushed forward with some sterile gauze to staunch the flow of blood. The two of them now looked at the intruders with nervous gazes.
"I'm sorry I had to fire, but you left me with no choice," said Twoomey. "Our instructions are that we will return to our base with the remains and that no one, I repeat, no one will prevent us from doing so." Twoomey held the small, pocket-sized communicator to his mouth. "Bring the casket down into the cold room. Use the service elevator."
Tuchman, for all his years in the undertaking business, had never seen a casket quite like the one being pushed into the cold room. Shaped in a half-cylinder, the casket was made of stainless steel. The casket was hermetically sealable and there appeared to be a way to control its internal temperature. Two small cylinders were attached to the outside of the casket. Stenciled on the two small cylinders was the word, "Nitrogen." The cylinders were connected to the casket by copper tubing and gas valves.
