"Most of you who personally know me will be in disbelief to hear from media reports that I have decided to end my life," it began. "You are saying to yourself that this is completely out of character for the man you knew who always wore a smile wherever he was seen. But since I got home from Iraq, that smile had become more of a mask than a sincere expression.
"I know I will be vilified by the NCIS, which will say that since I returned from my tour in Iraq my investigative work has suffered, that I have been obsessed by make believe crimes I convinced myself were committed by U.S. officials and contractors. They will call these 'conspiracy theories' and 'X-files plots' and such. They even called me Fox Mulder, said I should wear a tin foil hat. They will tell you I returned from the war afflicted with severe depression and was no longer stable. They will tell you I was terminated from NCIS because of this.
"I have decided they were right.
"I have lost everything which made me me—my Navy career, my NCIS career, now my wife and two children. I no longer can function as the man I once was. I cannot provide for my wife, Yolanda, or my children, Bill Jr. and Beatrice. I've decided they can do better without me. I hope someday they can come to forgive me."
Schag nervously bit his lower lip, and looked out at the other cars on the freeway. Nothing in the words sounded like Bill Butcher, a man whose zest for life Schag envied. In a profession that often turns even the most charitable people hard and callous, Bill Butcher always remained a staunch believer in the goodness of mankind. More importantly, he always believed in himself. Schag turned back to the printout.
Two or three line spaces separated the next section of writing. Schag thought that curious. It looked added on as an afterthought or, maybe, like it was supposed to be separate from the words written above.
"But when I am gone, I hope others will take up my challenge. I call on all journalists and honest law enforcement investigators to demand the answers to this list of questions.
"1. Who received the nearly nine billion in cash shipped to Iraq by the Bush Administration and which disappeared without a trace?
"2. What role did Charles Bennett the Third and Gordias play in the disappearance of the money?
"3. What role did Gideon Security International play in the disappearance of the money?
"4. Why has the government refused to prosecute contractors who committed egregious crimes including rape and murder, and even protected them by paying off the families of victims?
"5. Why has the government done so little to ferret out the hundreds of bribes contractors have paid to otherwise honest military officers?
"These should be more than just questions. These should be demands, demands for the truth. Every American citizen should demand the answers to these questions. We owe to the men and women service members who risked their lives in Iraq and, especially, to those sacrificed their lives."
Schag knitted his eyebrows as he reread these last lines again. It seemed to him like an entirely different person wrote the last section—not the sad and depressed loser in the first paragraphs, but a confident, determined leader. It sounded like Bill Butcher.
☼
The Navy's Fleet Anti-Submarine Warfare Training Center—also known as the ASW base—sits on a small point of land that juts into the bay like a movie star's square chin. Despite its name, there are no sub-chasing destroyers or helicopters here, no depth charges or anti-submarine torpedoes waiting for the kill. The moorings here are either unused or filled with pleasure craft. The only clues it was a military base were the welcoming sign at the main gate and the uniformed guard checking vehicles. Unlike the noisy workshops and warehouses at 32nd Street, the ASW base looks more like a college campus than a naval base, with modern classroom buildings, barracks that look like dorms, a parking structure, even a hotel for visiting personnel. Most times the base shows the same level of activity expected on a college campus during summer break.
This, however, was not most times.
North Harbor Drive, the wide, four-lane street that snaked past the base, was normally full of traffic. But as the agents approached, they saw nothing except dozens of black-and-white police cars, ambulances, and news vans with telescoping antennae lining its curbs. There were patrol cars from at least half a dozen different agencies, including the San Diego city police, the sheriff's department, the harbor police, even the Border Patrol. The parked cars led to a tighter knot of vehicles forming a semi-circle around the main gate. Parker slowed to show his credentials to a traffic cop who waved them through without a word. Up ahead, Schag saw a SWAT team line up to climb into an armored assault vehicle. The men wore camouflaged fatigues, ballistic vests and helmets, and carried a variety of automatic weapons. His heart sank into his stomach.
Parker pulled up to another traffic cop and flashed his badge again. The cop pointed to a large black-and-white bus bristling with antennae and said, "Incident command's right over there." Parker drove as close as he could to the bus and parked. The three agents got out and made sure their badges could be clearly seen before walking up to the incident command center.
Uniformed and plain-clothes officers crowded the bus, including a SWAT lieutenant Schag assumed was the weapons team's leader. He was talking to a tall, uniformed city police captain with thinning gray-blond hair and matching moustache. The officer looked up, saw Tom Riley enter the bus, and waved him over. The two shook hands before making introductions.
"Captain McManus," Riley said, "these are Special Agents Schag and Parker."
The police officer shook both agents' hands, then introduced the SWAT officer. He was a baby-faced man with sun-reddened skin and angry blue eyes. His name was Whitney. He gave each of the agents a dark glare.
"Schag?" The captain pointed a finger of recognition at Schag. "You're the agent Butcher asked for."
Schag shrugged. "I'm afraid I am."
"You have any light on why the suspect did what he did," McManus asked softly.
Cringing at the thought of Bill Butcher as a suspect, Schag said, "Sorry, but no. I'm as much in the dark as everyone else. I haven't seen Bill in nearly two or three years. We exchanged some emails, but just routine stuff. Family and work."
"So this guy writes your name in blood on a wall and you say you don't know anything about it?" Whitney snarled.
Schag bristled at the SWAT officer's tone. Checking himself, he turned to the captain. "As I said, I hadn't even received an email from him in months. I didn't even know he'd left NCIS until this morning."
"That's right," said Riley. "I called Agent Schag this morning to tell him about—what happened. He was as surprised that Mr. Butcher was no longer with NCIS as he was about what he did to those men."
"Allegedly did to those men," corrected Schag.
"Yeah," Whitney sneered. "Allegedly."
Schag drew a deep breath, then let it out. His teeth clenched. He turned to look the baby-faced cop in the eyes, his own gray eyes hard and cold.
"You don't know how to play nice with others, do you?"
"Hey, he's your wacko friend," Whitney shot back. "We don't let that type in our department."
Schag stepped forward and grabbed the officer's ballistic vest so fast, the cop didn't have time to react.
"Bill Butcher is a former Navy SEAL with a couple dozen combat deployments under his belt and an equal number of citations for valor," Schag said. "He could take you and your whole damn team apart single-handedly."
Whitney swatted Schag's hand away as his own went for the pistol grip of the assault rifle hanging from a three-point rig.
"Lieutenant Whitney!" The police captain's voice echoed through the command bus, causing heads to turn. "Tend to your team. Now!"
Whitney glared at the captain, then at Schag. As he turned to leave, he muttered, "Looks like NCIS has more than one whacko agent."
Riley started to speak, but Schag interrupted him.
"I apologize, captain," he said. "Bill Butcher was—is a very good friend and colleagu
e. I'm having trouble believing he's done the things . . . that people say he has."
McManus shook his head. "Understandable, Agent Schag," he said. "Every agency has had good people go bad. As for Lieutenant Whitney, he has his own personal stake in this. He took a leave of absence from the department a couple years ago and went to Iraq with Gideon, and he still works as a part-time instructor for them. He knew one of the victs, a guy named Cavendish."
Great, thought Schag. Another mercenary.
"And, as you said," McManus continued, "Whitney doesn't play nice with others."
CHAPTER 5
Monday
San Diego Antisubmarine
Warfare Base
San Diego, California
1100 Hours
AFTER LIEUTENANT WHITNEY'S EXIT, THE hubbub of conversations in the bus returned.
"Captain McManus, why don't you brief us on the situation here?" Riley asked.
"Sure," McManus said. He turned and scanned the others in the bus, caught the eye of a sailor at the far end and waved him over. The sailor wore the Navy's blue camouflaged fatigues and a black nylon duty belt with a M-9 Beretta in the holster, and a handheld radio with a microphone clipped to the front of his uniform. On his right chest above his nametape he wore a base security shield. "This is Senior Chief Fredericks. He's our liaison from base security." McManus introduced the NCIS agents. "Could you fill them in on the activities here last night?"
Frederick nodded, pulled a small, dark-green notebook from his thigh pocket, and flipped through the pages. Clearing his throat, he began his brief.
"At approximately 0530 this morning, our office received a BOLO from the San Diego County Sheriff's Department that they were seeking a retired Navy service member and former . . ." The senior chief looked at the agents nervously, cleared his throat, and continued. ". . . a former NCIS special agent named William Butcher on suspicion of murdering two indivi—"
"Senior chief," Riley interrupted, "that part we know. Please cut to the chase."
Fredericks cleared his throat again, and nodded. "Yes, sir. Ah, anyway, we immediately alerted our patrols to look for anyone matching the suspect's description. We also alerted the front desk of the BOQ—that is, the Navy Gateway Inn on base to notify us if anyone matching the suspect's appearance or name checked in. The Gateway Inn notified us that a Mr. William Butcher had checked in earlier in the morning at approximately 0230, using a retired Navy ID card. We locked down this base and every other Navy installation in the Point Loma area. No one was allowed in or out.
"Our patrol units responded to the Gateway Inn and sealed off all exits. The front desk confirmed the suspect's identity and description, and provided our officers with Mr. Butcher's room number and a pass-key card. After rousing and evacuating everyone else on Mr. Butcher's floor, our officers approached the suspect's room. When there was no answer to our officers' knock and demands to open the door, they used the hotel key card to unlock the door and tactically enter the room."
The senior chief stopped reading and looked up at the agents expectantly. After a few moments of looking at each other, Riley said, "And?"
"The room was empty, sir. No suspect. No luggage. Nothing."
"Any chance Bill—that is, the suspect, could have left the floor with the other guests?" Schag asked.
"Not likely, sir," Fredericks said. "Everyone's identification was checked before they left their room and again when they were secured in the Inn's restaurant."
Schag nodded approvingly. "Well done, senior chief."
"Thank you, sir."
"What about a vehicle," Riley asked. "Any information on what he was driving?'
Fredericks shook his head. “Guests at the Inn are required to fill in a form describing their vehicle with its license plate. It appears Mr. Butcher failed to fill it in and the desk clerk didn't notice."
"So, we don't know what kind of car he's driving," Riley said flatly.
"Perhaps, sir," the senior chief said. "But we did have another incident that might be related. Shortly after 0600, our dispatch received a call from a sailor staying in the student barracks saying his pickup truck had been stolen. We rarely get stolen vehicle reports on base, sir."
Schag looked at Riley then at Parker. "It's possible Bill stole the truck to cover his tracks."
"Senior chief, we'll need information on the stolen vehicle," said McManus. "Year, type, color, etc."
"Yes, sir."
"That would mean the car he came in is still parked on base," Schag said.
"I could have some of my men run the plates on all the vehicles parked around the Inn," McManus said. "See if we can identify which car was his."
"If I may suggest, sir," Fredericks said, "once we have finished checking all the buildings on base and lift the lockdown, we could have the Inn's guests show us which vehicles are theirs. That would reduce the number of plates to run, sir."
McManus and the NCIS agents looked at each other, nodded, and smiled. "You ever thought about a career in NCIS when you retire, senior chief?" Riley asked.
"Oh, no you don't, Riley," McManus said. "I saw him first."
The senior chief stifled a grin, but the proud flush of his cheeks betrayed his satisfaction.
Schag saw Riley glance at a Rolex watch on his wrist. The agent couldn't tell if it was a real Rolex or a knockoff. Either way, it was an unusual item to see a NCIS agent wearing, even if he was agent in charge for the Southwest Region.
"Captain, you're aware there's a joint meeting at the county emergency operations center at 1400?" Riley asked.
McManus nodded and glanced at his own watch, which Schag noticed was a moderately priced sports brand.
"I think our bird has flown the coop here," he said. "I'll hand off to my second-in-command and meet you there." He nodded at Schag and Parker. "Pleasure meeting you, gentlemen." He turned and wound his way to another part of the bus.
☼
The county emergency operations center, or EOC, stood on a side street away from the main flow of traffic, next to the county administration center. While the administration center was open to the public, the fenced-off EOC was only accessible by two locked gates. Parker pulled up to one and pressed a button on an intercom mounted on a pole.
"May I help you?" a disembodied female voice asked.
"Agents Riley, Schag, and Parker from NCIS," Parker announced, holding his badge up toward a video camera pointing at their car. "We're here for the 1400 joint task force meeting."
"Thank you," the voice answered. "Standby."
"Aren't EOCs used for disasters and such?" Schag asked as he watched the gate slide open. "Why here rather than the sheriff's department?"
"More room," Riley said, turning to look at Schag. As he did, he laid his arm across the backrest, revealing the Rolex again. It certainly looked real to Schag, who once considered buying one. That, however, was in another career, when he made much more money than he did as a federal agent. "The EOC is set up better than the sheriff's OC for a joint task force. Besides, the top floor of the EOC is the sheriff's dispatch center, so the department has office space here anyway."
The EOC was a massive three-story, wedge-shaped structure. The front of the building was at the base of the wedge where three wings formed a ragged tooth-like facade. Schag imagined that, from the air, the building resembled a B-2 stealth bomber. The entire structure was sitting on giant metal springs set deep into the earth and designed to let the building ride out severe earthquakes, which happened with great frequency in this part of the country. Parked next to the EOC was a group of mobile command vehicles in various sizes, from a large truck to a bus-size vehicle like the one Schag had seen at the ASW base.
Parker found a slot to park in, and the three agents got out, again adjusting their badges to be readily identifiable. Two glass doors made up the entrance to the EOC, and standing at these doors were three men and a female Navy officer in khakis. Schag noticed a certain degree of uneasiness among the four. As they
got closer, one of them spoke.
"Would you gentlemen know how to open these doors?" a man with a ring of ruffled hair circling a baldpate asked.
"And you all would be?" asked Riley.
"My name is Dr. Winslow," the bald man said. "And this is Dr. Porter and Dr. Davis."
Like Winslow, the two other men wore conservative dark suits and carried leather brief cases, the type that opened from the top. They shook hands with the agents and Riley asked, "Physicians?"
"No," Winslow said, "PhDs. We're psychologists, experts in deviant behavior, PTSD, and so on. We were asked to attend a meeting of the joint task force, to be their brain trust, so to speak."
"I'm the only real doctor here," the Navy officer said, with a condescending smile aimed at Winslow, who had ignored her in his introductions.
She was short, with a wide, childlike face sprinkled with freckles, and medium-brown hair cut short and pulled back beneath a black beret. Her light-brown eyes were large and spaced far apart, and her nose small, above a wide, full-lipped mouth. Schag thought it a very nice face, and the figure beneath her shirt and skirt looked just as nice.
"Lieutenant Commander Clarke," she said, holding out her hand. "Unlike these gentlemen, I wasn't invited. I asked to attend and my commanding officer at Balboa Hospital—Admiral Mattson—made it so."
"Now that we have established everyone's bona fides, did any of you try knocking on the door?" asked Riley.
The three PhDs and Clarke looked at each other a moment, then toward the ground.
"Ah, no," Winslow muttered.
With a smirking glance at Schag and Parker, Riley rapped his wedding ring against the glass. A sheriff's deputy leaned over a counter barely visible from the door, saw the group, and held a finger up indicating, "Just a moment." Seconds later, the deputy rounded the corner and opened the door.
"Joint task force?" he asked, eying the badges worn by the agents.
The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2) Page 4
