Midas

by Russell Andrews

  At the same time, there was something uniquely moving about being on this military base, Justin thought. Actually, there were many things that were moving. The youth he was surrounded by. The fact that everyone he saw might be called to battle. The fact that everywhere he looked was someone who was willing to go to battle for something he or she believed in.

  Of course, everyone believed in his own side of a war. That’s why wars were fought. To prove that your country was right or your God was right.

  Justin decided he was lucky he had very few beliefs. His wars were private and personal. In the long run, a lot less dangerous than the wars facing these kids. And in the short run . . . well, maybe not as inspiring, but in some ways, more satisfying. He didn’t have to take orders. He didn’t have to operate under restraints. He didn’t have to fight fair.

  Of course, there was one serious drawback to his position. He was beginning to think that he might not have the opportunity to fight at all. Not after two entire minutes in Colonel Zanesworth’s presence.

  “I’m not sure I understand why you’re here,” the colonel said when Justin was ushered into his office.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure either,” Justin said. He didn’t know if he was supposed to call the older man “Colonel” or not. Justin didn’t put much stock in titles. He didn’t call doctors “Doctor.” And he never understood why sportscasters on TV called guys like Bob Knight “Coach,” as if it were some anointed attachment to their names. But in this instance he figured it couldn’t hurt. People were people—they liked to be shown respect. He wasn’t there to make a point, he was there to get information. “To be honest, Colonel, I’m conducting a bit of a fishing expedition.”

  “What are you fishing for?”

  “Information about someone who was stationed here for several years. Hutchinson Cooke.”

  “I understood that much. That’s why I pulled his file. I’m curious as to why you’re fishing for it.”

  “It’s relevant to a murder investigation.”

  “Hutch Cooke’s murder?”

  “That’s right.”

  “According to the reports I’ve seen, Captain Cooke wasn’t murdered. They call it an accidental death.”

  “I’d love to get a look at any paperwork you’ve seen, Colonel, but I’m not sure any of that’s accurate. As far as I know, I’m the only person investigating and I haven’t written any reports yet.”

  “Anytime a serviceman is”—Zanesworth hesitated, not sure where to go with his phrasing—“involved in anything of this nature, we immediately check things out.” The colonel tried a brief flicker of a smile. “The military is all about reports, as I’m sure you know. They’re standard and, in this instance, inconsequential.”

  “I don’t really know, Colonel. But even so, at the very least I’d like to talk to the person who prepared them.”

  Zanesworth coughed into his hand. He looked unhappy. “If what you’re saying is true about Captain Cooke, of course we’ll do everything we can to help. But I will be your contact here. I’m afraid it will be too disruptive to just . . . how shall I put it . . . let you loose on the base.”

  “If anyone else has begun any kind of investigation, it would really be better if—”

  “What information are you looking for?”

  Justin knew he’d been effectively cut off. It was Zanesworth or nothing. At least for the moment. “Okay. Let’s begin with this: I’d like to know what Cooke was doing the past eighteen months.”

  “You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that, son. Doing where? And in what capacity?”

  “According to the reports I’ve seen, Captain Cooke was away from the base for that period of time. In fact, he didn’t seem to be filling any official Air Force function.”

  “Now you’ve got incorrect information. I was his commanding officer for that period. And I probably didn’t write those reports you read.”

  “So he was stationed here for the past year and a half?”

  “Here and nowhere else.”

  “Did you know he was drawing a salary from a private company during that same period? Something called Midas Ltd. You ever hear of them?”

  “No. No, I didn’t know he was getting paid by them, and no, I’ve never heard of them. But there’s certainly nothing illegal or even suspicious, even if it’s true.”

  “He was stationed here the whole time?”

  “He was in the Air Force, son. This was his home base.”

  “And what were his responsibilities during the past eighteen months?”

  “The same thing he was responsible for over the past eighteen years. Serving in the Air Force and serving proudly and well.”

  “Can you be more specific, Colonel?”

  “Captain Cooke was a member of the 89th Airlift Wing and, as such, he was part of SAM FOX.” When Justin shook his head blankly, Zanesworth went on. His words were in even more of a monotone than seemed usual, as if he’d offered this explanation thousands of times, which Justin realized he probably had. “SAM FOX was originally used as an aircraft tail number; it formed a radio call sign to identify Air Force aircraft that were transporting high-ranking VIPs, usually on a foreign flight. SAM is Special Air Mission, FOX for Foreign.”

  “That’s what Cooke was doing? Piloting VIPs?”

  “Captain Cooke. And yes. That’s our primary mission at Andrews. We transport the president of the United States and worldwide airlift for the vice president, the president’s cabinet, members of Congress, military leaders, and other dignitaries of the appropriate stature.”

  “Do you keep flight logs for all your pilots?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could I see his? Captain Cooke’s?”

  “I’m afraid not. You don’t have the clearance to see that kind of information.”

  “And I suppose there’s nothing I could do to get that kind of clearance?”

  Zanesworth didn’t bother to respond to that one. He just let his lips spread into the thinnest of smiles.

  “Did you know him, Colonel? Captain Cooke?”

  Zanesworth waited an appropriate length of time—two or three seconds—before nodding his head and saying, slowly, “Of course I knew him. There’s no one I don’t meet under my command. But I didn’t know him well, unfortunately. We had very little interpersonal contact.”

  The man was lying. It was a strange lie to tell and there was no real reason for it. But Zanesworth stumbled over the words and his eyes shifted just slightly when he spoke. Up until now he’d been difficult and obviously resisting any kind of probe. But now he was definitely lying. Of that Justin was certain. He just had to try to figure out why.

  “Funny. I’d think you’d make it a point of knowing the people who fly heads of state.”

  “Captain Cooke wasn’t flying heads of state. At least our head of state. And there are twenty thousand people living and working at Andrews. I wish I knew them all, but I don’t.”

  “So he never flew Air Force One?”

  “No.”

  “You know that without checking?”

  “I know who flies the president. I know everyone who flies the president.”

  “Did he ever fly the vice president?”

  “It’s possible. I’d have to look at his flight records over the years.”

  “Would you mind doing that?”

  “Yes, I would. I don’t see the relevance.”

  “There probably isn’t any. It’s just that, you know how it is, once you start snooping it’s hard to stop.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know how that is, Mr. Westwood. But unless you can show me the relevance, I won’t be revisiting the records.”

  “Okay. Then let’s try this one: When did you hear about Captain Cooke’s death? What day was it?”

  “I assume it was the day he died. Possibly the morning after.”

  “Really? That soon? Because somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide his identity. I didn’t know who
he was the day he died. Or the morning after.”

  “It was probably the day after that, now that I think about it. Or at least I assumed it was that close to his death. I certainly could be off by a few days.”

  “Who called to tell you?”

  “I . . . um . . . I’m not sure. One of my aides. The police must have called and he took the call.”

  “The thing is, Colonel, I’m the police. For some reason, that doesn’t seem to be getting through. But I’m the only one who could have called that soon. And I didn’t.”

  “Then maybe it wasn’t the police who called. Maybe it was Captain Cooke’s family. I’ll talk to my aide and see what he says. He’ll have all that information.”

  “How about if I ask him?”

  “He’s not on base today. I’ll talk to him when he’s back and let you know his response.”

  “Can I have his name?”

  “I’ll get back to you with all the information.”

  Justin cleared his throat and twisted his neck to the right. It was stiff as a board. That was because since he’d set foot on Andrews Air Force Base he felt as if he were carrying around a thousand-pound weight on his shoulders. “How long have you been on the base, Colonel?” he asked.

  “What relevance does that have?”

  Justin exhaled a deep breath. It wasn’t a happy exhale and he made no attempt to hide his dismay. “Have you ever conducted an investigation, sir?”

  “On a small scale.”

  “I’m not talking about stealing a quart of strawberries here. I mean something on the level of a multiple-murder investigation.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then let me give you a little lesson, just in case you ever find yourself in my position. You know . . . investigating. The first thing you have to keep in mind is that my questions don’t necessarily have any implicit belief or disbelief to them. I’m just trying to get to the particular information I need to solve my problem. So, for instance, if you didn’t know Hutchinson Cooke well, my question doesn’t necessarily mean that I think you’re lying. It could mean that I’m trying to find out if there’s someone else I should be talking to. Your predecessor, for instance, who might have known him better. And had some interpersonal contact.”

  “I’ve been base commander here for eleven years.”

  “And Captain Cooke was here for . . . ?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Huh. Out of those twenty thousand who live and work here, how many are officers who serve under you?”

  “We’re here to talk about Captain Cooke, Mr. Westwood. I’m not going to discuss anything about other men and women.”

  “Chief.”

  “What?”

  “Chief Westwood. As long as we’re doing the whole title thing. I’m the chief of police, actually. Of the town where Captain Cooke was murdered.”

  “Are there any other questions, Chief Westwood?”

  “What was Hutchinson Cooke doing in East End Harbor when his plane crashed? Why was he there?”

  “He was on official leave. He had a few days off. I can’t tell you what he did during his private time.”

  “Was it his plane?”

  “Again, private information. I don’t have any idea whether or not he had his own plane.”

  “Not curious?”

  “The man’s dead. It doesn’t strike me as relevant whether he was flying his own plane or borrowing someone else’s. The man was a pilot. He preferred being in the air to walking on the ground. As most of us do.”

  “Any idea where he was coming from? Or flying to?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anyone who might, Colonel?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Justin made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “What was he, a hermit? Eight years on this base and he didn’t have any friends he might have talked to?”

  “I’ve asked anyone here I thought might be helpful, in anticipation of your arrival. No one had answers to any of the questions you’ve asked.”

  “So you already anticipated all my questions?”

  “It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to come up with this list.”

  “Would you mind if I asked them myself? To the people who didn’t have any answers when you asked?”

  “Yes, I would mind. I’m afraid that won’t be allowed.” Colonel Zanesworth stood. A not very subtle sign that the interview was over. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Justin nodded slowly. “Here’s one question I can’t quite figure out the answer to,” he said. “And you probably didn’t anticipate this one because it wasn’t on my list.” The colonel’s expression didn’t change. There was only the slightest flicker in his eyes to reveal his anger. He was better at covering up anger than he was at lying. “One of your men died in a plane crash. An expert pilot, so I was told. And someone who worked for you . . . well, that’s not the right term, but you know what I mean . . . for eight years. Suddenly, someone comes into your office and tells you this officer didn’t die accidentally, that he might have been murdered . . . ”

  “So far I haven’t heard a question in all of this.”

  “The question is, Colonel: How come you don’t seem to give a shit? How come you’re not saying to me, ‘What makes you think what you’re saying is true and how can I help?’ That’s my question. Well, I guess it’s two questions, if you want to get technical.”

  Zanesworth still showed no outward signs of anger or discomfort. He stared at Justin for a long time, as if he were used to winning such staring contests. “I don’t know who you are, Chief Westwood. I’m going to make a point of finding out, however. And when I do, my guess is that this is what I’ll learn. That you’re a smart-ass, small-town cop who’s decided to cause trouble for God knows what reason. It’s not that I don’t give a shit about what happened to my officer, it’s that I don’t give a shit about you. I’m in the Air Force. That’s where my loyalty lies, that’s who I answer to. Not to an arrogant little turd like you. Does that answer your question? Or questions?”

  “Not exactly. But I have a feeling that’s as close as I’m going to get.”

  “I’ll have Lieutenant Grayson show you to your car.”

  Justin stood up. Neither man made any attempt to shake hands. But before Justin moved, he pulled a piece of paper from his wallet, dropped it onto Zanesworth’s desk. “That’s my card, Colonel. If you decide to go for the truth instead of all this bullshit about loyalty, feel free to give me a call.”

  “How long have you been a police chief, son?”

  “Why?” Justin asked. “Think I need to work on my technique?”

  Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth’s only answer was a quiet snort, followed by, “I think you need to start looking for a whole new line of work.” Then he closed the door firmly behind Justin, who didn’t say a word until he and the lieutenant escorting him reached the Grand Am and the lieutenant was holding the driver’s door open.

  “So did you know Captain Hutchinson Cooke?” Justin asked as he was climbing in behind the wheel of the car. “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Have a nice trip, sir,” the lieutenant said, closing the car door.

  “Thank you. That’s damn polite of you.”

  “No,” Lieutenant Grayson said. “Thank you, sir.”

  When Justin pulled up to the gate, about to turn out of the complex, he glanced in his rearview mirror. In the reflection he could see the lieutenant, still standing in the same spot, seemingly at attention, unmoving, staring straight ahead. It wasn’t until Justin was a couple of blocks away and picking up speed that he realized he was breathing normally and that his hands had unclenched. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and called the station house. He heard Reggie’s voice on the other end of the line say, “East End Police.”

  “Hey,” he said.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Great. Couldn’t be better.”

  “You sound k
ind of funny. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I just needed to talk to somebody normal.”

  He heard her laugh and then say, “Things must be tough if you’re using me as the standard for normal.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Silver Spring. Outside of D.C.”

  “You need me to do anything?”

  “I’m just going to go try to charm a woman and see if I can get her to talk to me. I should be able to manage on my own.”

  “You sure? I’ve seen you turn on the charm. You probably could use the help.”

  “You got anything for me on Lockhardt?” he said.

  “Not a thing.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m trying, Jay. But there’s zip on the ballistics and nobody saw anything. The only possible lead that’s come up at all is a car that was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the airport. Looks like it was parked there at the time of the murder and moved sometime not that long after. But the witness didn’t see the driver. Just the car pulled off to the side of the road. And his ID on the car is pretty tenuous.”

  “All right. Keep on it.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Tonight. Catch a seven or eight o’clock shuttle, I hope.”