Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  “Count on it, Mr. Throckly.”

  ***

  Hanrahan went over the passenger manifests again. His staff had done a thorough job. The name of every transatlantic passenger between Washington–New York and London were on the sheets. It had been a shot, one he had to take. He’d hoped to see a name from the Tunney investigation that could be linked to the Ashtat murder, but that hadn’t happened. The absence of Throckly’s name, however, had caught his attention…

  “Mr. Huffaker?” Hanrahan said when his call was answered.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Captain Mac Hanrahan, Washington MPD.” Silence. “Mr. Huffaker?”

  “Please, leave me alone.”

  “Sorry, but I need to talk to you.”

  “Good God, what have we come to?”

  “What?”

  “A man is entitled to live his private life in private, not be harassed because of his sexual preferences. It’s not only unconscionable, it’s unconstitutional.”

  Hanrahan wanted to be patient and was tempted to take on the issue Huffaker had just raised, but this wasn’t the time to indulge himself in philosophical debate. “Mr. Huffaker, I want to question you about the Lewis Tunney case.”

  “Oh, my God, you can’t be serious.”

  “What time would be convenient for you?”

  “I don’t know, I… not here, for God’s sake. I don’t need any more police cars with sirens and flashing lights in my driveway. I’ll come to you.”

  “Fine. An hour?”

  “God, no, I’m not even up yet. This afternoon. Could I come by at two?”

  “Sure. You know where we are.”

  “I think so. Your name was…?”

  “Hanrahan, Mac Hanrahan.”

  Hanrahan hung up wishing he had a tap on Huffaker’s phone. The nasty conversations with Throckly and Ford would be interesting.

  Joe Pearl called. “Janis Dewey will be here at three. She’s upset, Mac. I thought she was going to cry.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Commissioner Johnson called and asked whether Hanrahan was free for lunch. “No,” Hanrahan said. He quickly left his office and drove to Connecticut Avenue, N.W., went down a flight of steps that looked like they led to a subway station, pushed through a door and was in Jo and Mo’s, a favorite steak house. One of the owners kidded him about the editorial, about his tie and the extra pounds he’d put on since he’d last been there.

  “Drink?” a waiter asked after telling him the latest and worst Polish joke.

  “Gin on the rocks.”

  He sipped his drink, chewed on a thick piece of dark pumpernickel, doodled on a lined yellow legal pad. He checked his watch a half hour later, waved a waiter to the table and ordered a rare sirloin, fried onions and another drink. He never stopped writing, making numbered lists with lettered subcategories, drawing arrows to connect words and names, chewing his cheek as he worked, looking up only to check on who’d come through the door.

  His steak arrived. He sliced into the meat, took a bite and glanced up at new arrivals. Leading a party of four was Commissioner Johnson, who spotted Hanrahan immediately, excused himself from his luncheon companions and came to the table.

  “Commissioner,” Hanrahan said.

  “Eating alone, Mac?”

  “Yeah. My date stood me up.”

  “Tough. Real tough.” Johnson sat down. “What’s with this Killinworth character?”

  Hanrahan put a portion of steak in his mouth, holding up a finger as he chewed.

  “Looks good,” Johnson said.

  “Best in the city.” Hanrahan added half an onion ring to what was in his mouth and savored the combination. “Killinworth is a fat, pompous pain in the ass, Cal. Along with that, he pretty much heads my list of suspects in the Tunney case.”

  “He wasn’t even at the party.”

  “Maybe he pulled the strings. All I know is that there’s too much about him that keeps me awake nights. He gets my ten-Tums rating.”

  Johnson shot his cuffs. “He’s lodged a complaint.”

  “Yeah, I know. He called this morning.”

  “He told me he had. He claims you didn’t give him any satisfaction.”

  “That’s his version. What was I supposed to do, offer an out-of-court settlement because he’s offended at being tailed?”

  “Who’d you put on it?”

  “Joe Pearl.”

  “Evidently Pearl wasn’t very subtle.”

  “You might say that.” Hanrahan attacked his steak again.

  “Mac.”

  “What?”

  “Lay off. I’ve already told you that.”

  Hanrahan swallowed. “Lay off what? Killinworth? The others on the list? I’m supposed to be investigating a murder at the Smithsonian. What I hear is lay off. That’s a no-win deal.”

  “Maybe so, Mac, but I’m telling you again, slow down. Let the Fourth slide by and make everybody happy.”

  “Does it make you happy, Cal?”

  “Happiness isn’t written into my job description.”

  “Who’s on your back this time, besides Killinworth?”

  “Would you believe the vice president of the United States? It seems your fat pompous ass complained to him, too.”

  “You’re joking.” Hanrahan told a waiter that he didn’t want dessert. “Killinworth calls the vice president because he’s sore at being followed by MPD?”

  “Seems so.”

  “And Oxenhauer listened to him? What is this? What does the V.P. do up there in the White House, take complaints and give refunds on duplicate Christmas gifts?”

  Johnson looked across the room to where his party had been seated. He put his hand on Hanrahan’s arm. “Don’t let me down, Mac. There’s more at stake here than a single case.” He got up and joined the others.

  Hanrahan paid his check, defended himself against a mock right cross from one of the owners and stepped out into the intense midday heat and humidity, wishing he were back in the dark, quiet cool of Jo and Mo’s. If he hadn’t had appointments back at MPD, if Johnson weren’t there he might have scooted back inside, called in sick and spent the rest of the day drinking gin and exchanging tall tales at the bar. But that would have to wait, probably until his retirement. He popped a Tums into his mouth, started the engine and thought about Kathy, the kids and the upcoming Fourth of July picnic. It seemed his life had somehow come unstuck so fast he never even had a chance to watch it happen. Or maybe he wasn’t paying enough attention…

  Norman Huffaker was waiting for him. He was considerably older than Hanrahan had anticipated, with a fleshy, florid face and watery blue eyes. He parted his gray-and-red hair from just above the left ear to maximize its covering power. Pudgy hands were freckled with liver spots, and he wore four rings, one on each pinky and on each ring finger, the largest of which was the initial “N” in diamonds. He had a small rear end and a large belly; the seat of his jeans bagged, and the buttons of a red-and-white cowboy shirt strained against his stomach. His boots were tooled and highly polished.

  “Sit down, Mr. Huffaker,” Hanrahan said, after taking in the vision before him.

  Huffaker moved across the room with exaggerated care, one shoulder leading the other. Hanrahan noted how small his feet were.

  “Well, I’m here,” Huffaker said, crossing one leg over the other and lighting a cigarette. “I don’t want to be but I answered the summons.”

  “The summons?”

  “I was summoned. I obey the law. I believe in the law. I may disagree with it but I obey it.”

  “I wish more people felt that way.”

  “No fencing, Captain. Obviously your call has upset me. I’ve never been arrested in my life, never stolen anything, pay what few parking fines I’ve received and treat my neighbors with respect. Of course I’ve been harassed, as recently as a few days ago, but no charges were filed. You can check.”

  “I did. Vice isn’t my department.”

  “Vi
ce. What a characterization for human behavior.”

  Hanrahan said, “I don’t care how you live your private life, Mr. Huffaker, any more than I’d want you to care about how I live mine. Understand that and we can get to the reason for having you here today.”

  “Summoned me. Why am I here?”

  “Well, for some reason, Mr. Huffaker, just about every time I take a step forward in the Tunney investigation, Norman Huffaker pops up.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m a suspect in that grisly affair?”

  “No, but you sure know a lot of people connected with it in one way or another.”

  “Ford Saunders.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Because we’re friends who share certain interests.”

  “Dressing up like women?”

  “Yes, although I’m not about to explain that. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t care about that, Mr. Huffaker.”

  “You have a strange way of not caring about it, Captain.”

  “The raid? I had nothing to do with that. I told you, another department. Look, Mr. Huffaker, we’ll be here all afternoon if we keep talking about things that don’t interest me.”

  Huffaker sat in silence, lit and drew on a cigarette, chewed his lip, crossed and recrossed his legs. Turning away from Hanrahan, he said, “I’ve already been questioned about Ford Saunders’s visit to me the night of Tunney’s murder. I told the truth. He wasn’t feeling well, left the party early and stayed at my home. That’s all there is to it.” He turned and faced Hanrahan. “Now, as a result of your police department not having anything better to do than force their way into a private party and harass decent people, I end up being interrogated. You know, of course, that Ford was at my party the night of the raid.”

  “Yes, I do. You two are pretty close?”

  “Should I resent that question?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. If I ask whether you and Ford Saunders are lovers, I don’t ask it sarcastically. If you are, that interests me purely in terms of the Tunney case. That’s it. I’d ask the same thing of a heterosexual. When people are intimate, it can mean they’ll do certain things for each other, including bending the truth to protect one another.”

  “I told the truth.”

  “I haven’t said you didn’t, Mr. Huffaker. I am asking whether you and Ford Saunders are close.”

  “We have a relationship.”

  “Okay… what about Alfred Throckly.”

  “Why do you ask about him?”

  “He didn’t tell you that he told me he stayed with you recently?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Huffaker, you’re losing your credibility.”

  “Why would—?”

  “Hold on a minute.” He picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Alfred Throckly.”

  “Please don’t… all right, yes, he stayed with me. We’ve been friends for years. He needed to get away for a few days. He was on the verge of a breakdown. I suggested he tell everyone he was in Europe and stay at my place, where no one would bother him.”

  “And he took your advice.”

  “It was good advice.”

  “I’m sure it was. Believe it or not, I’m not crazy about asking this next question, Mr. Huffaker, but I feel I have to. Do you and Throckly have a relationship?”

  “Do you mean—?”

  “I think we both know what I mean. No need for word games.”

  “In the past.”

  “How far?”

  “In the distant past. We’re just good friends now. We share a love of music and art and—”

  “Why wasn’t he at the party?”

  “Which party?”

  “The one at your house that was raided. For making too much noise.”

  “He wasn’t invited.”

  Hanrahan looked closely at him, decided to back off. He’d gotten all he was going to get, he decided.

  “I won’t keep you much longer… who else are you friendly with at the Institute?”

  “No one.”

  “Walter Jones, Chloe Prentwhistle?”

  “I’ve met them.”

  “Through Ford Saunders and Alfred Throckly?”

  “I don’t know, over the years, that sort of thing. Some mutual interests. Anything wrong with that?”

  “Mr. Huffaker… you’re what we call a constant in our business, somebody who links up with a lot of other pieces.”

  “It doesn’t sound very attractive, the way you put it.”

  “I suppose not, but there it is.” Hanrahan stood and offered his hand. “I appreciate your cooperation. I know it wasn’t easy.”

  Huffaker shook Hanrahan’s hand. “I think I almost believe you.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later Joe Pearl came in, saying, “She’s here, Mac.”

  “Janis Dewey?”

  “Yeah. Your place or mine?”

  Hanrahan smiled. “Your place. You good cop, me the heavy.”

  “Go easy, Mac. She seems really upset.”

  Walking down the hall to Pearl’s office Pearl said, “I hope she had nothing to do with the Tunney murder.”

  “Why?”

  “I like her. Any crime in that? Even for a super professional like myself?”

  Hanrahan stopped. “You know what, Joe? Sometimes I wonder about you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re bucking for membership in the good-guy club. Could be dangerous… by the way, did you slash Johnny Carter’s tires?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he deliberately got between me and Killinworth. Because he’s a creep. Because I was sore at you and frustrated and, God knows, I got out of line. I know, I know, I’m lucky a cop didn’t come along.”

  Pearl hadn’t overstated Janis Dewey’s anxiety. The tall redhead fidgeted with anything within reach. She had a slight tic in her left eye. Hanrahan felt sorry for her too, but not enough to hold back. He ignored her greeting when Pearl introduced them, tossed his jacket on a table, propped his foot on it. “Okay, Miss Dewey, let’s get down to it. What’s the connection between you, Evelyn Killinworth and the late Lewis Tunney?”

  She stiffened, looked up at Joe Pearl, who started to say something and was waved off by Hanrahan, “My patience is running out. Answer my question, Miss Dewey.”

  “Connection between… I don’t understand. There’s no connection between me and what happened to Lewis Tunney.”

  “Killinworth?”

  “The professor? I don’t even know him. I mean, I’ve met him once and—”

  Hanrahan pulled out a notebook, pretended to read from it. “Lunch, cafeteria, National Gallery of Art, West Wing…” He was reciting from memory what Pearl had reported. “Shrimp salad for you, ham sandwich for him… what’d you talk about?”

  “Nothing. He called me at my office, introduced himself and said he wanted to ask me questions. I told him I couldn’t but he insisted, so I met him in the museum cafe.”

  “If you didn’t want to meet him, what did he say that changed your mind?”

  “He said he knew some people I knew and—”

  “Walter Jones?”

  “Yes, and… why are you asking me these things? You must have had a microphone or something at the table. Why ask me if you already know everything?”

  Hanrahan had been guessing, mixing speculation with the little Pearl’s surveillance had turned up. It was working, though. If she thought she’d been taped during lunch with Killinworth, she was unlikely to lie.

  “Miss Dewey, you’re in fairly serious trouble. I’d like you to stop being belligerent and cooperate. For example, if I ask about some stolen art in, say, the Middle East,”—a shot in the semidark—“you’ll be helping us both by telling what you know—” He realized his voice was rising, and didn’t like it. Joe slashes tires, I berate ladies. What next?

  Pearl stepped between them. “Mac,” he said q
uietly, “could I have a minute alone with Miss Dewey?”

  Hanrahan understood. “Just one minute, Mac, okay?”

  Hanrahan made something of a show of angrily snatching his jacket from the table. “I have some calls to make from my office… and Miss Dewey, remember, you’re not under arrest, haven’t been charged with anything. You’re here voluntarily. We appreciate that. So just answer our questions and you can leave. I’ll be back.”

  He went to his office and dialed Pearl’s number. “Joe, lean on the Middle East thing. She and Killinworth sure as hell must have talked about it…”

  Next Hanrahan called Heather McBean. No answer. He checked his watch; he’d give Pearl and Dewey another ten minutes. He had just started to read a report on a homicide that had occurred the previous night during a floating crap game when a young detective opened the door. “Captain, he did it this time.”

  “Who?”

  “The Smithsonian bomber. The kook set one off on the third floor of the American History Museum. There are injuries.”

  Hanrahan let loose a string of obscenities as he followed the detective to the basement garage, where they got in Hanrahan’s car and sped to the scene of the bombing. It wasn’t until they were pushing their way through crowds that had gathered outside the museum that he realized he’d forgotten Joe Pearl and Janis Dewey. “Call Joe’s office and tell him what happened,” he told the detective. “Tell him to get what he can from Janis Dewey and let her go home.”

  The bomb had been planted in the Philadelphia, a single-masted, square-rigged gunboat that had been launched on Lake Champlain in August, 1776, as part of a ragtag flotilla under the command of Benedict Arnold. The cumbersome fifty-four-foot-long oak vessel and its crew of forty-four had been sunk by the British off Valcour Island in October, 1776. It was raised in 1935 and donated to the Smithsonian.

  The bomb, which was not very powerful, had blown off the ship’s upper bow. The injuries to bystanders were not serious, according to a patrolman. Paramedics from a nearby hospital and from MPD had gathered the injured in a corner of the exhibit hall. The patrolman gave Hanrahan a note written taped to a stanchion:

  Do you believe me now? Do you finally understand that the time has come for actions to speak louder than my words? This is only the beginning. I will leave my explosive message every other day until the Congress of the United States agrees to sit down and seriously discuss returning the Smithsonian Institution to its rightful owner.