Official Privilege

by P. T. Deutermann

  There was evidence in the street (two shoes, blood spots, and a woman’s handbag) of an impact with a vehicle or vehicles unknown. There were no skid marks or other visible signs of avoidance maneuvers. The distance between point of impact in the street and the final position of the body was seventy-three feet, eight inches. No witnesses heard or saw anything.

  Seventy-three feet, she thought. The vehicle had been moving right along. Figure something big, like a van or a Suburban like Dan’s: eight, nine thousand pounds going forty, fifty miles an hour. What was that old inertia equation: my = my? Eight thousand pounds times fifty miles an hour versus 125 pounds going one mile an hour. The difference in the energy equation had to be absorbed by the smaller participant, hence the distance.

  She shivered.

  The poorly typed report of the follow-up investigation, conducted by one Detective (second grade) William Marshal, was not much more informative.

  Appropriate news releases had been filed, including an appeal to the hypothetical driver and to the public at large for any information, all without further results.

  Bulletins to local area auto-body shops had produced no reports.

  Victim’s clothes had been sent to Forensics for collection of paint samples, but none had been found. Interview with the girl’s mother had produced no adverse or incriminating information that would indicate this had been anything but an accident. Investigating officer’s conclusions: hit-and-run; perpetrators unknown; vehicle type, make, and color unknown; case status: open. A handwritten note on the bottom in the

  “Contributing Factors” block indicated that the woman had been a black woman, jaywalking in the early-morning darkness, wearing dark clothes.

  The third page was a report from the medical examiner’s office as to extent of injuries and cause of death, which conformed to the previously described consequences of the human body going one-on-one with a large steel mass moving at high speed. There were some notes in a cramped, difficult-to-read doctor scribble at the bottom of the page, probably from the ME, which she skipped over. She turned the page. The fourth page of the report was the report of the examining physician who had declared the young woman dead on arrival at George Washington University Hospital emergency room. The litany of blunt-force trauma, multiple internal injuries, and massive shock was repeated: “High likelihood of near-instantaneous death, based on extent and severity of injuries. Next of kin, one Mrs. Angela Hardin, notified in accordance with instructions in victim’s wallet. Body released to the ME.”

  Grace turned back to the ME’s report, scanned the unfamiliar form with its anatomical and laboratory findings, and then tried to decipher his handwritten notes.

  The ME’s handwriting was just about unintelligible, but one word did leap out. Elizabeth Hardin had been in the very early stages of pregnancy at the time she died.

  Grace closed the file.

  Well, now. That might be important. Pregnancy indicated a relationship with a man, a man who might be able to shed some light on Elizabeth Hardin the woman, the person, as opposed to Elizabeth Hardin the hit-and-run victim. Possibly, through Elizabeth, they might learn something about her brother. Grace was ready to concede that the young woman’s death was just what it looked like: an accident. The cops usually had a pretty good sense of these things, and the investigation looked to have been by the book, but no more than that. But she was still bothered by the coincidence of the two deaths—first the sister, then the brother, within a two-week time frame. She needed a human contact to explore that coincidence.

  “Excuse me, Miss. Snow?” a voice at her elbow interrupted her thoughts.

  Startled, she nearly dropped the file in surprise and looked up.

  Standing to her side was the captain who had taken her into Goldsmith’s office.

  Vann, that was the name. There was no graceful way to get out of the chair-desk, so she continued just to stare up at him. Vann was of medium height, slender build, and had a thin-looking face that Grace found vaguely familiar.

  “Yes,” she said. With her neck at an odd angle, there was a squeak in her voice.

  “I’m Moses Vann. I’m the executive assistant to the Deputy Chief of Police for Criminal Investigations.

  Used to be chief of the Homicide Division. I understand you’ve come in asking about the Hardin case?”

  “You’ve spoken to Captain Goldsmith?”

  He looked away for a second, as if impatient or annoyed with her answering a question with a question.

  “Why are you here, Miss. Snow? Why is the Navy Department suddenly interested in Elizabeth Hardin’s death?”

  Grace was becoming uncomfortable looking up at him from the chair. She slid sideways out of the chair and put the file back on the counter before replying.

  The clerk dutifully signed it back in and disappeared with it.

  “I’m conducting an investigation into the death, and apparent homicide, of her brother, It. Wesley Hardin, in Philadelphia. He was—”

  “Yeah, I heard about it. See, I know Angela Hardin.

  What’s the connection?”

  “I—we—that is, I have a partner, actually he’s in charge of the investigation—he’s in Opnav, and, uh—”

  “What’s the connection, Miss. Snow? Is there a basis in fact for your being here? Or are we Easter-egging here?”

  Grace resented the tone and substance of his question.

  This man almost seemed to be angry with her.

  “I’m a federal investigator,” she replied. “I’m with the NIS—that’s the Naval Investigative Service. I represent the federal government, Captain Vann. Is there some special sensitivity to this case behind your tone of voice?”

  Vann stared at her and then laughed a nasty laugh.

  “Naw,” he said. “That’s just my usual sparkling personality comin’ through, dig? Us local cops jes naturally likes to jone on pretty white women. Especially when they feds, you know what I’m sayin’? Specially when they feds.”

  Grace gave him an arch look. “That was truly special, Captain Vann. Can you do Bill Cosby, too?”

  Vann tried to glare at her but then began to have trouble controlling his face. He finally grinned. “All right, Miss. Federal Government Snow.

  I guess I had that coming. How’s about I buy you a cup of coffee and let’s start over.”

  She hesitated, but then she agreed and began gathering her things. He led her down the hallway that led to the building’s entrance lobby. They walked out into the bright sunlight of the plaza in front of the Center, where the same crowd she had seen when she arrived still seemed to be milling around. There was an ongoing traffic jam as a few cars tried to creep through all the people, and two harassed-looking women police officers were in the street, contributing to the disorder as they tried in vain to direct pedestrians and traffic. Several of the cops greeted Vann as he shepherded Grace across the crowded street to a corner cafe called Barista, which was next to the entrance to the Judiciary Square Metro station. Vann pointed Grace to a table outside, asked her what kind of coffee she liked, and stepped inside to get their orders. He returned with two coffees and a prune Danish, which had been cut in half.

  “Prune Danish is my downfall,” he said, sitting down.

  “But this time it’s okay, because I had ‘em cut it in half; now you gotta eat half so’s my conscience doesn’t hurt.”

  Grace smiled and obliged. Vann took the other half and consumed it in two eager bites. She noticed that he was never still, shifting around in his chair and looking around all the time.

  “The coffee’s just an excuse to get the Danish,” he said, licking his fingers. His coat had flopped open and she saw a shoulder rig with what looked like a miniature cannon hanging upside down in it. He saw her looking.

  “That’s a Ruger blackhawk forty-four Mag,” he said.

  “I can’t hit anything with it smaller than a building, but when it goes off, every guilty bastard within a block usually puts his hands up. We solve
a lot of cases that way.”

  Grace smiled. “They gave me a three fifty-seven Magnum for a side arm at NIS,” she said. “As kind of a new-girl joke, I think. I was afraid to pull the trigger after I’d fired it once. It hurt my hand.”

  Vann laughed. “Know what you mean. We got a little lady here on one of the detective squads—Tamassa

  Green, her name is. Little bitty thing. She showed up j on the qualification range first time with a Colt Woodsman —that’s one of those high-priced twenty-two j semiautos. The mob likes ‘em. Instructor said she wasn’t gonna stop anything with that thing. She said yes, she would, since she favored putting the first round i through an eye and the second round between the I mutts legs. I remember how it got quiet when she said that, how all the macho dudes started to ease sideways a little bit, sorta tryin’ to make room without being’ caught at it.

  That’s what she’s carryin’ to this day, and when she does her quals, she finishes up with an extra two shots, one high, one low, if you follow.

  She’s something else. But enough of this. You came over here from the Pentagon on a hunch, right? You’re looking for something, don’t know what it is?”

  Grace nodded and then recounted where they were with the investigation.

  Vann seemed almost to solidify and settle into place as she talked. His body stopped jiggling around and he focused his eyes on hers. She got the impression that every word she said was sticking in his memory like insects to flypaper.

  “You used the term basis in fact a little while ago,” she concluded. “We have precious few facts to go on right now, and a very cold trail. We only picked up the pattern of the two deaths today using a case board.”

  He nodded, indicating he knew what a case board was all about. Then he took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and gave her an inquiring “do you mind?” look.

  “Go ahead,” she said. She didn’t mind it as long as she was outside.

  “Can’t smoke damn near anywhere these days,” he grumped, lighting up and taking a deep drag. He was careful to blow the smoke away from her.

  “Appreciate it. So what exactly were you looking for over here?”

  “I was hoping to come over here and talk to the people who did the .hit-and-run investigation. Goldsmith felt that the file would tell me as much as they could, given the time that’s gone by.”

  “And?”

  “The report seems open-and-shut. I guess we’ll press on with what Commander Collins is doing—talking to Lieutenant Hardin’s ex-supervisors in that ship to see what they might tell us. We’re operating under the theory that something he did or was doing got him killed.

  My guess is that it was probably something here in Washington.”

  “So you found nothing of interest in that Traffic file?”

  She thought he might be testing her. “Well,” she said hesitatingly. “One thing—Elizabeth Hardin was pregnant.”

  “Ah,” he said, taking a second enormous drag on the cigarette. “Yes. Why is that significant?”

  “It would indicate a boyfriend, a france or a lover— someone close to her, someone who might know something about her brother. Again, what, exactly, I don’t know.”

  He nodded approvingly, mashed the cigarette out, and then sipped some coffee. She felt a sudden need to keep talking, to fill the silence between them, but then decided to see what he would do if she shut up.

  At length, he spoke.

  “I know Angela Hardin—that’s Elizabeth and Wesley’s mother.”

  “So you said. We met her in Philadelphia, when she came up to ID the body.”

  “I know about that, too. How did she react to you and your partner, the—what, commander? Yes, Commander Collins. How did she react to you?”

  “She seemed hostile. We put it down to grief reaction.

  Except—”

  “Yes?”

  “I had the sense she came up there knowing that it was going to be her son she saw in that morgue. Like she was resigned to his being dead, and that the trip to Philadelphia was simply a formality, a confirmation of something she had known in her heart. Again, we put it down to grief reaction. To lose both of her children—”

  “This is Washington, D. C., Miss. Snow,” Vann said grimly. “There are many, many black families here who have lost more than one child.

  Sometimes all their children.”

  “Yes, I know,” Grace said. “But tell me why you sought me out today. You obviously have a special interest in the first Hardin case. Is there something you can tell me?”

  He hesitated before replying, and he began to move around again in his chair. He frowned, sighed, looked across the street, down at the floor, and then back at her. Finally, he spoke.

  “No,” he said. “I have nothing to tell you that you can put up on a case board. I just happen to know the family. I knew about Wesley’s disappearance, and I heard on the news about the Navy finding a guy dead in the shipyard—in that ship. I wondered if it just might be Wesley.

  But, no, I have no insights to give you.” He paused. “At least not at this time. But we’d appreciate it very much—very much—if you would let me know what you find out about Wesley’s death.”

  “We?”

  “The department. The chief takes murders in this city very seriously, despite the image you may have of us from the papers. And if you need stuff from us, call me first.” Grace nodded. “Of course,” she said. “And we’d appreciate it very much if when we do that, you might share with us any insights that you develop. Here’s my card.”

  Vann went fishing in his pocket for one of his own cards. Grace picked up her purse and stood up. “As best we can tell, Captain, Wesley was buried alive in that ship. Bolted into a boiler when he was probably unconscious after getting beaten up and hit on the head. He would have awakened in the dark, inside that boiler. Dan Collins says he would have figured out what he was in. He was probably in there for a week or so.

  Then the shipyard filled the ship with nitrogen gas. ‘To put her to sleep,’ as the shipyard calls it.”

  She looked at him for a moment. He was holding one of his own cards in midair but had gone motionless, the

  card suspended over the table, his face registering a sick shock while he just stared at her. Then he swallowed.

  “You get something, you call me,” he said in a strangled voice, handing her his card. “Please.”

  that same morning, Dan made his first call at 9:30 a.m. to a Capt.

  Martin Fletcher, ex-commanding officer of Luce, now serving on the staff of the Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, in Norfolk, Virginia.

  Captain Fletcher was in a meeting; the yeoman asked if he could take a message.

  “Yes. Tell him Commander Collins called from Opnav regarding a JAG investigation. I need to talk to him about a It. (jg) Wesley Hardin. I also need you to work up a Freedom of Information form for him to sign and fax so I can use his Social Security number on an interview form.”

  Dan gave the yeoman his phone and fax numbers and hung up. He had to wait until 10:30 a.m. to make a second, similar call to San Diego, this time in search of a Comdr. William Brownell, formerly the executive officer in Luce, who was now the skipper of a destroyer in San Diego.

  The phone call to the ship’s number was shunted over to the base operator, who said that ship was out at sea. He then called the Naval Surface Forces Pacific Fleet scheduler on his secure phone and found out that the ship would be back in port in three weeks.

  Dan thanked the scheduler and hung up. Zip for two.

  The third name on his list was a It. Francis Baler, Supply Corps, USN, who had been Hardin’s department head, and thus Hardin’s direct supervisor, in Luce. The locator listed Baler as being assigned to the Shore-Based Intermediate Maintenance Activity, or SIMA, at Mayport, Florida. After three calls, he got a hit.

  “Lieutenant Baler speaking, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, I’m Comdr. Dan Collins, Division of Politico-Military Policy, o
n the CNO’s staff in Washington.

  I’m conducting a JAG investigation into the disappearance of It. (jg) Wesley Hardin two years ago. I understand that you were the chop in Luce prior to your present assignment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dan informed him that this was a formal interview and that he would need some forms signed when they were done. He also told him that he was taping the interview so that he could keep accurate notes. Baler understood the drill and they went through the name, rank, and serial number motions to establish Baler’s identity for the tape.

  “And Lieutenant Hardin was the disbursing officer and your assistant when you were the supply officer in Luce, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. He was the Disbo and the supply division officer. Has he finally turned up?”

  Dan was struck by the supply officer’s choice of words. He had used the phrase “turned up” in a way that implied that a runaway had finally returned to the fold.

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking, he has, Mr. Baler,” Dan said. “It appears that he didn’t go UA back there in 1992. It appears that he was murdered and his body hidden in one of the main engineering spaces of the Wisconsin.”

  “Holy shit! I heard about that. You mean that was Wes Hardin?”

  “Yeah. I’m talking to you in hopes of finding out anything about Mr.

  Hardin’s performance of duty or personality traits that might have a bearing on why such a thing might have happened. I also have calls in to your former CO and the XO.”

  “Holy shit,” Baler said again. “Although I don’t know what I can add to the first investigation, Commander.”

  “What first investigation?”

  “Well, we had to do one when he went missing. Standard procedure, you know, a JAGMAN. I was the designated investigator, but the Philly NIS office actually ran it because Hardin was the Disbo. But that part of it was clean. There were no funds missing or anything out of order other than some admin nits and hits. He didn’t book with bucks.”