by Davis Bunn
“We can only assume that Washington has ferreted out some vital new information about a case that is six months dead.”
The sergeant took up station beside the major’s desk. “Washington is very good at that, sir. Ferreting.”
“No,” Matt said. “Nothing new on this investigation at all.”
“Well now, I find that very strange. Since I’ve been ordered to see you. My commanding officer, who has been on base a grand total of six weeks, ordered me and my entire staff to extend you every courtesy.” He was not ageless so much as well preserved. A pickled version of the base itself, long stewed in military brine. “As though we had nothing better to do than wait for you to waltz in. Isn’t that so, Sergeant.”
“Courteous, sir. That’s us in a nutshell.”
“Strange how Washington would wait six months to contact us at all. Then traipse in here and declare everything so urgent. What would you call that sort of behavior, Sergeant?”
“Best not say, sir.”
“So, Mr. Kelly. As you can see, we are extremely eager to help you any way we can.”
“The police investigation identified one culprit, a retired Captain Snedley-Cummins. The court then found him not guilty.”
“Are you asking or telling, Mr. Kelly?”
“My question is this: Were there then or are there now any other suspects?”
“Of course not. He did it. Cummins murdered the chopper pilot.”
“The court decided otherwise.”
The two military police smirked. Stafford said, “Obviously we poor air force types don’t have access to Washington insider information.”
“Could you tell me if Snedley-Cummins has been around these past few weeks?”
The two men stared at each other and burst out laughing. “You travel four thousand miles to ask me that?”
Matt rose to his feet. He had never felt so tired in his life. “Thank you for your time.”
“Here, now. I’ve got a question of my own.” Stafford planted two elbows on his desk. “What’s happened that this case is suddenly so all-fired important?”
“There’s been another bombing. With a decommissioned claymore.”
“And?”
“Barry Simms’s thumbprint was found at the scene.”
It was worth the aggravation, seeing the two men gape like that. Stafford managed, “Our Barry Simms?”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible!”
Matt headed for the door. “I know.”
The federal courthouse was jammed. It took D’Amico five and a half hours to jump through the legal hoops and obtain the necessary writ. Even so, when he finally pulled up in front of Connie’s home, she bounded through the front door and gave him a schoolgirl’s wave. Carrying a shoulder bag that must have weighed forty pounds, what with the Taser and gun and speedloader and Mace and tape recorder and everything else a rookie could possibly imagine needing for her first trip to the pen. But Connie slung the bag like it was empty and actually skipped down the stairs. Lucas tried to recall the last time he had been so eager about going to work.
She slid into the car. “How’re you doing?”
“Feeling seriously ancient.” He put the car into gear. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Is that a joke, you apologizing to me?”
“It’s what partners do when they show up at three in the afternoon.”
He slipped through the stop sign at the end of her street and headed north. “I got the typical hassle downtown. A perfect example of why I detest all feds.”
“Matt’s fed.”
“He’s an exception only because he hasn’t been in long enough.
Wait a year. You’ll see.” He noticed she was smiling. “What?”
“Nothing. I’m just hoping you’re wrong, is all.”
Connie was easy with silence. Which D’Amico liked in a cop.
Chatterers wore him down. Only today his thoughts made so much clamor, he might as well have been on the firing range. Connie was only a couple of years older than his Katy. Young and eager and smart and alive. Her whole future ahead of her. So achingly full of life. “Tell me about yourself, Morales. You’re from Philly, right?”
“My dad covers the police and courts for the Philadelphia Enquirer.” She shot him another smile. “Dad really admires cops and made sure I learned that much growing up. Mom died while I was still in diapers.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged easily. “My father is the best. I count myself super lucky.”
“What’d he think of his daughter becoming an officer of the law?”
“Wild as I was growing up, Dad’s happy I’m on this side of the bars. He has his worry moments. I get these calls, usually around two in the morning, making sure I’m being careful. Otherwise, he’s so proud he could explode. The guy actually wept at my swearing in.”
The state penitentiary had been erected back in the thirties using work-relief labor and federal money. Back then, the area had been a wasteland. Druid Lake, a half mile east, had been country. Now the pen’s neighbors were the I-83 extension and Johns Hopkins. A few years back the city had made a big noise at state level, trying to get the legislature to move the prison. But the state had bigger problems and no money. It responded by paying for a new roof, the legislature’s way of saying that the pen was there to stay.
The pen was a demented stone castle. The new tin roof shone clean and white, an enormous dunce cap for all its inhabitants and their manic ways. The U.S. government leased one wing for federal inmates.
Cops entered Men’s Detention through a sally port on Eager Street. The big metal gate rolled up and down, clanking like a human garbage disposal. When D’Amico drove in, he caught two guards grinning over Connie’s wide-eyed expression. Every first-timer reacted the same way. D’Amico leaned over and said what his first partner had told him several centuries back, “Don’t worry. The sally port only eats lawyers.”
The place shouted hopeless in a wordless prison clamor. Concrete walls, guard towers, coiled razor wire. A lot of this was hidden from the street behind clever construction and high brick walls. All the menace was aimed inside and down.
“Leave all your gear except for the pistol in the car. Did you bring a clip holster?”
“Yes.”
“Put that on your belt. Keep your gun at the ready. You’re my only backup while the prisoner is in our custody.”
They left the car and were buzzed through the official entryway. Connie followed his example, signed in, left her badge and gun, stepped through the metal detectors, and entered a claustrophobic wire-mesh tunnel. They passed through the steel door at the other end. D’Amico handed his federal writ through the slot and told the guard behind the bulletproof glass he was here to collect federal prisoner Bert Lang. They sat on a metal bench in a cheerless antechamber. Today D’Amico found it harder than usual to tune out the prison’s constant din. He leaned against the sweating wall and did what a cop does too much of. Wait.
Bert Lang was escorted out by three guards. One held each arm. A third walked a pace back, stick at the ready, telling D’Amico more clearly than words ever could what kind of prisoner he was taking.
Lang was typical hard-core Aryan. He used his body as a sketchbook and rage as his pen. Prison tats decorated hugely defined muscles on his chest and shoulders. Spiderwebs and swastikas and fury ran over his wrists and knuckles and neck. A professional artist had done a flaming third eye on his forehead. Cell-yard build. Swagger. Sneer. Eyes so empty the color didn’t matter.
Lang gave Connie the long prison stare while D’Amico took the manacles from the guard and personally chained his prisoner. Ankles first, then the chain up to the padded belt around his middle, and then this to the restraining pads on his upper arms. Finally a pair of cuffs. He went over everything a second time. Only then did he sign the clipboard and formally announce, “I have the prisoner.”
“He’s all yours.”
&nb
sp; D’Amico took one arm and led him back through the tunnel. Connie adopted the proper guard-stance, two steps back. Once they were rearmed, her hand never left the grip of her pistol. Lang’s chains clattered across the concrete as D’Amico led him back to the car.
As D’Amico unlocked the doors, Lang stared over his shoulder at Connie. “What’s the matter, honey? Afraid to get any closer to a real man?”
D’Amico pushed down on the greasy bald head. “Inside.”
Lang kept his gaze on Connie as D’Amico locked the ankle chain inside the bolt welded to the floor of his car’s backseat. They climbed inside. D’Amico started the car and rolled forward. The gate ground up and they drove out.
Lang watched the outside world in silence. Prisoners always took a few minutes to reorient to a world beyond bars. Then he spoke to D’Amico for the first time. “Do I know you?”
“My name is Detective Lucas D’Amico. When you get back inside, ask around. They’ll tell you the same thing. I only have one forward gear. Straight and honest.”
“This means something to me?”
“I don’t make promises unless I aim to keep them. If I tell you something, it’s for real.”
“Whatever.” Lang turned back to the side window. He waited through five minutes of silence, then, “We headed someplace special?”
“Police headquarters by way of Lexington Market. What do you say to a corned-beef sandwich? You like corned beef?”
“I was always partial to pastrami.”
D’Amico pulled up by the north entrance. “Go get Mr. Lang a pastrami on rye. You want mustard with that?”
“Sure, mustard’s good.” His eyes tracked Connie as she rose from the car. “Does your honey come with the sandwich?”
Connie stooped down and replied, “The detective has just offered you your first decent meal in six months, Adolf. You like, I could drop it in the gutter, make it taste like home.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“News flash, Adolf. You don’t make the rules here.”
“You children play nice,” D’Amico said. “Go get Mr. Lang his sandwich.”
It was hard to say who had the deader eyes. Connie gave their prisoner a full minute, then turned and walked inside.
They drove to headquarters with the aroma of hot pastrami permeating the car. They parked in the underground secure section and took the elevator to seven. A pair of detectives stopped to watch Lang’s clanking progress. Lang spoke only when they passed the crime board. “What, you think one of these got my name on it?”
“This way, Mr. Lang.” D’Amico kept a firm grip on his arm as Connie unlocked the first interview room. The room was painfully bare. Steel table bolted to the floor. Same for the prisoner’s seat. Drop ceiling. Harsh fluorescents. “Have a seat here. Would you like a Coke?”
“I won’t say no.” He watched Connie leave, then turned his attention to D’Amico as the detective shackled Lang’s left wrist to the table and his left ankle to the floor. “Matter of fact, I won’t say another word.”
D’Amico unlocked Lang’s right wrist, opened the drink, set it on the table, and unwrapped the sandwich. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Lang.”
D’Amico left the interview chamber and entered the room next door. Bernstein stood beside Connie. The room’s only light came through the one-way glass. Connie said, “What an animal.”
Bernstein turned so she did not have to watch the prisoner eat. “How will you play this?”
“Alone,” D’Amico replied. “Connie came up with the goods. If anything will turn him, it’ll be this.”
He waited until Lang finished licking the sandwich wrapper. “Showtime.”
D’Amico took his time settling the plastic chair across the table from the prisoner. He took out his tape player, flipped the notepad to an empty page, and uncapped his pen.
“What, you think I’m gonna roll over for hot pastrami?”
D’Amico continued with his preparations. He took Connie’s sheets from his jacket pocket. Three of them. “I told you I delivered on what I say.”
“Yeah. So?”
“I just want you to remember that.” D’Amico turned over the first page.
Lang’s sneer dissolved. His common-law wife stared up at him from the page. In prison garb. “Hailey used your last name at the trial, Mr. Lang. Hailey Saunders Lang. Charged with falsifying a police application. Aiding and abetting. Passing confidential police information to criminals. Namely, you. She was convicted of using her position as dispatcher to slow down our response and warn you when the call finally went out about the National Guard robbery. Which is how you managed to escape with those weapons. I’m only telling you this since you might have missed the news. Being inside yourself.”
It cost Lang a lot to ask, “What’d she get?”
“The DA refused to plea-down this one. Five to ten. Upstate.”
Lang said nothing.
“You know what that means.”
Lang did not respond.
“Two parents convicted of felonies. The court has taken custody of your little boy. He’s in foster care.”
Lang bore holes in the table with his gaze.
D’Amico turned over the second page. A dark-haired child of five stared solemnly up at them.
Lang did not move.
D’Amico turned over the third page. The child had drawn a boat on the ocean. Overhead in rainbow letters was written, “I love you, Daddy.” Compliments of Connie.
D’Amico said, “I need information about the claymores, Mr. Lang.”
“I want to see my kid.”
“A murder took place using a decommissioned claymore. Possibly two. We suspect the bombs originated from your heist. Can you confirm this? Wait, Mr. Lang. I’m not done. I also want a detailed run-through of the heist’s planning and execution. And where the extra claymores went. And how many others might be out there.”
“I don’t say nothing ’til I see my son.” Lang’s growl was so feral the table vibrated. “And not in the prison. Somewhere else.”
D’Amico rose from his chair and went next door. The two women had been joined by Crowder and three others. The observation room was hot and cramped. “What do you say?”
Bernstein asked, “Who put this together?”
“I told you. Officer Morales.”
All eyes went to the young woman. Bernstein said, “Fine work.”
Connie flushed crimson. “Thank you, Chief.”
“All right. Fix it with Social. Make it happen.” She started for the door, turned back, said to D’Amico, “Did you get the message from Kelly?”
“I didn’t know he’d called.”
“Actually it was that guy from his Washington office.”
Crowder supplied, “Jack Van Sant. Dude sounds like he snores at attention.”
“Matt asked him to phone us. The feds ID’d the fingerprint from their house. It belongs to one Barry Simms.”
“The victim of the British bomb?”
“One and the same, if their info is correct.” She gave D’Amico a nod. “Looks like you’re building yourself a team, Detective.”
When she was gone, Crowder asked, “Did I just see the chief smile?”
Lucas turned and winked at Connie.
“Can’t be.” Crowder headed for the door. “Must be an age thing, my eyes going funny on me like that.”
Brian Aycock started the car when Matt emerged from the guardhouse. The three young guardsmen still stood at attention in the rain. The corporal still leaned against the pillar, protected by the porch awning, watching the guardsmen with a tight smile. He did not even glance Matt’s way. Matt slammed his car door and sat staring at the three drenched soldiers. Brian Aycock reversed from the slot and aimed for the main gates. He did not speak until they rounded the corner and the guardsmen were out of sight. “I don’t suppose I need to ask how it went.”
Matt unclenched his hands. The two young women had still been cowering inside the guardhouse’s fron
t room when he left. “No. You don’t.”
“The judge will give you five minutes.” Brian Aycock crawled along the narrow streets bisecting manicured lawns and stodgy brick buildings. He turned the wipers on high as he gunned through the front gates. “I’d hate to be in Major Stafford’s bad graces.”
The city of Oxford might have been pretty. Matt had no idea and did not care. The weather matched his internal state. He was mired in a gray nothingness where random thoughts and emotions flashed, then disappeared. Their view was of snarled traffic and clouds so heavily laden they drifted like unraveled ribbons, falling with the rain.
“Is jet lag always this bad?” Matt asked.
“It hits some people worse than others.” The light went green. Brian Aycock threaded a roundabout and merged with sullen city traffic. “You’re booked into the visiting officers’ quarters on base. But I could find you something nicer if you want.”
“The way I feel, any bed will do just fine.”
The Oxford Crown Courts possessed broad stone stairs, Palladian windows, columns, and a sense of burdensome duty. The Cotswold stone edifice glistened gray and stern. Matt gave his name, passed through security, and was pointed toward a hard wooden bench. A court official stopped by to say that the judge had been informed and would call a court recess as soon as possible. Matt thanked the official and tried to rub the image of those shivering young soldiers from his eyes. A man and a woman passed by, walking swiftly. The man wore a suit. The woman wore a dark robe and a gray powdered wig with a blue ribbon. They talked in serious voices about something. Matt could not make out a single word.
“Mr. Kelly, do I have that correct?” A tall, big-jawed man in robes and wig halted before Matt and offered his hand. “Edward Compston. So sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Matt struggled to his feet. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Not at all. Just popped in from the States, have you?” The judge was Matt’s height but had him by thirty years and pounds. He had a cheery voice and very cautious eyes. “Perhaps we’d be more comfortable chatting in my chambers. Do come this way.”
At the end of the hall they passed by another uniformed guard seated at a little desk. As the guard buzzed them through the doors, Compston asked, “Will you have anything, Mr. Kelly? A coffee, perhaps?”
