***
If they ever make a movie called The Onslaught of the Amazon Women, Sheila Reilly would be cast in the lead. Sheila was the physical therapist who put me through hell during my rehab and pushed, cajoled, challenged, and intimated me into coming out the other side as a man not only able to walk but run. We also developed a friendship that thrived beyond my discharge.
I found her in her office in the physical therapy section of the Charles George VA Medical Center on Tunnel Road filling out paperwork after a morning session.
“Hi, beautiful. Killed anyone yet today?”
Sheila stood up from her desk. I do mean up because she was well over six feet and more physically fit than any drill sergeant in my boot camp.
“Sam, you one-legged wimp. You back for a refresher course?”
“Only before my funeral.”
She laughed and came around her desk. I braced myself for a hug that could crush a grizzly.
“Good to see you,” she said. “Why have you been a stranger?”
“You know. Work gets in the way of life.”
“Why do I have the feeling you brought work with you?”
“Because it’s about a vet?”
“Somebody here?”
“No. He died in 1948.”
“A little late to the parade, aren’t you?”
“His eighty-year-old sister wants to know how he died.”
Sheila’s mood turned somber. “Oh, then I don’t mean to make light of it. I don’t know how good the records would be going back that far. Did he die in the hospital?”
“No. He was an outpatient. He was under care for chronic asthma brought on by a fuel explosion, maybe accidental, maybe sabotage, in Germany right after the war.”
“That’s not my area of expertise.”
“I know. But you’d give me a straight answer on who would be the best person to ask.”
“Ask what?”
“About how a person could die from asthma.”
“That would be Dr. Pete Misenheimer. He’s top-notch in respiratory and pulmonary medicine.”
“Do you know if he’s in today?”
Sheila nodded. “I saw him in the cafeteria this morning after his morning rounds. I’ll take you to his office.”
We found Dr. Misenheimer at his desk, reviewing some X-rays on his computer monitor. Sheila knocked softly on the open door.
He turned and smiled. “Come in, Sheila.” He hadn’t noticed my puny body dwarfed behind her.
“Sorry to bother you,” Sheila said. “I want you to meet a friend of mine and a former patient, Sam Blackman.”
“Mr. Blackman.” He stood and stretched his right arm across his desk. I squeezed past Sheila to shake his hand.
“You’re the detective, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sheila told me about you before, and she doesn’t brag on many people.”
“I guess that’s cause she didn’t kill me.”
“I told you he was a charmer.” Sheila crushed me with another hug. “Sam’s got a question for you, so I’ll leave you to impress him with your vast knowledge.”
She left and Misenheimer pointed to the chair facing his desk. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
I gave him what I knew about Paul Weaver’s condition and how stress seemed to exacerbate it.
“Asthma can be a killer,” he said. “That’s for sure. Most cases can be controlled, but in severe cases, death can ensue. Is that what the coroner reported?”
“No. Records have either been destroyed or lost. If you can, I’d appreciate you asking if Paul Weaver’s file still exists here. That would be 1946 to 1948.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes. If someone is having a lethal attack would a tracheotomy be a possible lifesaving procedure?”
Misenheimer clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth as he thought. “That depends. An asthma attack is usually the result of a bronchospasm. That’s the tightening of muscles around your air passages. Because this is usually below the incision point of a tracheotomy, such a procedure would be ineffective. Also the lining of the airways swells and becomes inflamed, which would further decrease any benefit of a tracheotomy.
“Now I’ve read of some cases where an early tracheotomy has been effective when coupled with a mechanical ventilator to force air through. But you said your veteran wasn’t in the hospital at the time of his death.”
“That’s correct.”
“Then I doubt if performing a tracheotomy would have saved his life.”
“Could an observer tell from a patient’s behavior that the blockage was above or below the point of a tracheotomy?”
Misenheimer shook his head. “No. Not unless they were trained to recognize the onslaught of the asthma symptoms. A rapid, lethal attack leaves the patient unable to speak. He’s doing all he can just to draw a single breath.”
A single breath, I thought. The difference between life and death.
Chapter Twenty-four
On the second day after Nancy Pellegatti’s murder, I figured the Asheville Police Department must have a forensics report of some kind. I also knew Detective Curt “Newly” Newland might be hesitant to bring me in since I wasn’t tied to the dead producer like I had been with Harlan Beale. The old-timer had placed his last phone call to me.
But I had a sure-fire method for getting Newly to at least talk to me—offer to buy him lunch. So, as I left the VA hospital, I called his cell phone, caught him at the department, and made my pitch.
“I don’t think so, Sam. I’m pretty busy.”
“I was thinking 12 Bones.”
I heard a faint groan of anguish.
“And I was thinking the Sweeten Creek location,” I added. “It’s less crowded.”
The 12 Bones Smokehouse is a renowned barbecue restaurant with two locations in the Asheville area. President Obama had made it a “must stop” whenever he came to town. Not only was the meat done to perfection, but the sides offered the likes of corn pudding, pickled okra, collard greens, and smoked potato salad.
Newly’s groan rose to a whine. “I guess I should eat if only to keep my strength up for this caseload.”
“Want me to pick you up?”
“Tuck’s with me. Why don’t we meet you there? Say, thirty minutes?”
“You got it.” I’d now be picking up the tab for both their lunches—and no one eats food like a cop when it’s free. I’d be lucky to hold them to one entree each.
***
“So, how are you getting along with the cold case?” Newly asked the question, and then gnawed the last bite of meat off a barbecued rib.
“I think we might have some answers soon.”
“I’m impressed.” Tuck Efird mumbled the compliment through a mouthful of pulled pork.
“Yeah,” Newly agreed. “What do you think happened?”
I raised my palms. “Sorry. Bad luck to speak prematurely. Fastest way to jinx a case. I will say I’m certain our investigation is linked to the Beale murder only because the killer tried to send you down the wrong trail.”
“I agree,” Tuck said. “We’ve talked to the manager of Phillips Building Supplies who’s pleading complete ignorance as to how the stolen materials came to be in their inventory.”
“Are you looking at other vendors?” I asked.
“What’s to look at?” Newly asked. “Nothing else has been taken.”
I stuffed my mouth with a spoonful of corn pudding, giving added restraint to admitting I knew the theft went deeper than lumber.
“We matched up the invoices and the itemized deliverables,” Efird said. “But all the Phillips’ employees have alibis.”
“What about Pellegatti?” I asked. “Wasn’t there an argument between her and the state accoun
tant over those invoices?”
Efird shook his head. “You mean Raymond Braxton? He said the argument was over timing. He’d boxed them away and told her she’d have to wait. But he had them for us. He was also in the bar of the Aloft Hotel at the time Pellegatti was shot.”
“You identify a murder weapon yet?”
“Thirty-eight caliber,” Newly said. “Not what I’d expect of a trained assassin. No silencer. Only professional aspects of the murder are dousing the lights before leaving and the absence of prints or DNA.”
“Forced entry?”
“No,” Newly said. “And where she was found, she had to have let him into the house and then led him back to the middle of the room.”
“Someone she knew,” I said. “But then no prints. Would the killer have been wearing gloves on such a mild evening?”
Newly and Efird looked at each other.
“We think he had a handkerchief at the ready,” Newly said. “He pops her, thrusts the gun into his pocket, grabs a handkerchief, and kills the lights before slipping out into the night. By the time Woody Farmer reacts, the killer is down the block and in his car.”
“You sure the killer is a he?” I asked.
Efird mopped up barbecue sauce with a hunk of cornbread and then pointed it at me. “Fair question. We’re checking out the woman we’ve heard will be named to her job.”
“Camille Brooks,” I said. “I’ve been told it’s a big career step for her.”
Efird nodded. “I’ve heard the movie business is cutthroat so I wouldn’t put it past anyone to take extreme measures to get ahead.”
“Like murder?” I asked
Efird shifted in his chair. “Well, I’m not saying everyone on the movie is a suspect, only that we’re winnowing them down. And we’re not even forty-eight hours from the crime.”
Efird took a large bite of his cornbread and we all chewed in silence.
So, Braxton had an alibi and was probably staying at the Aloft rather than with the crew in Black Mountain. Useful information and worth the price of two lunches.
***
My phone had vibrated a few times during lunch, but I’d waited until I was back in the CR-V before checking to see who had tried to reach me.
No e-mails, no voice messages. But two texts, one from Nakayla and the other from Special Agent Lindsay Boyce.
Nakayla wrote:
Saw Violet Baker and gave her printouts of all the photographed accounting documents. She will be in touch. Working with Shirley on researching other vendors involved with film.
The second text read:
Can we meet in my office this afternoon? —Boyce
Her message surprised me. There was no hint as to what the meeting was about. More striking, she didn’t want to talk over the phone but rather on the sanctity of her turf. That was fine with me. I felt ready to lay out my cards.
I dropped a quick text to Nakayla telling her I was headed to a summons from Boyce and would catch up later. Then I sat in 12 Bones’ parking lot organizing my thoughts on paper and thinking how Hewitt Donaldson, master of the courtroom, would present my case.
A few minutes after two, Special Agent Vance Gilmore admitted me to the FBI office.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackman.”
“Sam, please.” We shook hands. “Agent Boyce asked me to stop by.”
“Yes, of course. Do you remember the way, or should I escort you?”
“I think I can find her, thank you, especially since she’s standing in the hall.”
Agent Gilmore turned around and saw Boyce outside her office. He laughed. “She said you were a smart detective.”
“I hope she’s right.”
Boyce greeted me in her doorway and we took our seats from the day before, she behind her desk and I in the chair in front of her. I touched the notepad in my pocket for reassurance.
“How’s the case going?” she asked.
“Wrapping up a few loose ends. Then I can write a final report to the client and maybe she’ll want to hold a press conference.”
Boyce shifted uncomfortably. “What did you find out?”
“Probably something similar to what you did. FBI agents picked up Paul Weaver. My guess is that it was an interception off the campus of Black Mountain College as he was going for what he thought was a rendezvous with Nadine Oates, a meeting in which he planned to tell her to leave him and his friends alone. But, out of spite, Nadine had already reported him as a Communist or Communist sympathizer. He was taken somewhere for interrogation. The interrogation got physical. After all, the Bureau would have known Weaver was a proponent of equal rights for blacks and had even fought local vets over discrimination. Creating racial unrest was a Communist ploy, or so thought J. Edgar Hoover, the omnipotent FBI director at the time. The agents probably thought Weaver guilty by association.”
“All speculation,” Boyce said.
“Not really. You see, Weaver was being treated for chronic asthma contracted during his military service. One of the agitators of his attacks was stress. Now I submit that being sweated by a team of FBI agents is a stressful situation, one which brought on a major attack. Suddenly, the agents found their suspect unable to breathe. He didn’t have an inhaler with him. He might have desperately pointed to his throat. Someone tried a makeshift tracheotomy to try to get air into his lungs. But asthma doesn’t work that way. The swelling and muscle constriction happened below the point of where the windpipe was punctured. Paul Weaver died right in front of his interrogators.”
Boyce shook her head. “And you know this how?”
“From the coroner’s report.”
Her eyes widened. “Where did you find that?”
“An interesting question since the report should be readily available in county records or the office of the state medical examiner. Sorry, I failed to mention the report on my first visit.”
Boyce’s face flushed. She’d made a mistake and she knew I knew it.
I pressed on. “You learned from some buried file that a version of what I said happened. The coroner reported a puncture to the windpipe. There were fragments of bark found in the wound, but that was placed there to make it look like some stick had penetrated the throat. A fall would also explain the bruises, which I believe came from what is now euphemistically called ‘enhanced interrogation techniques.’ But the real evidence is the lack of evidence. From police reports to medical reports, all documentation has disappeared. Except for one copy of the coroner’s report that was probably sent to Paul Weaver’s father by a friend in the coroner’s office who didn’t like what was going on. But Weaver’s father did nothing. Instead, he sold the farm for a low price and moved to Pennsylvania, either intimidated or bribed to leave the area.”
Boyce stared at me for a moment, her lips drawn into a thin red line. When she finally spoke, her voice dropped to a tight, controlled whisper. “You think we would throw this man’s body off a cliff to hide how he died?”
“No. But I think you’d do what was necessary. That wasn’t necessary. I don’t think Paul Weaver’s body ever went over a cliff. The FBI could have said they were following him as a person of interest and they saw him fall. They claimed to have retrieved the body. The local authorities wouldn’t challenge them. No one wanted to cross the FBI.”
“Apparently you do.”
“This is now, that was then. And you invited me here. What are you going to tell me? That you couldn’t find anything? I don’t think that’s true, Lindsay. You work for the Department of Justice, but I know it’s really justice you work for. You’re going to see that Paul Weaver receives justice, and that his sister receives some answers. That’s the kind of person you are behind your badge.”
Boyce took a deep breath. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It wasn’t the Bureau’s finest hour, and I got some pushback just requesting the info
rmation. But, I figured if I didn’t find out the truth, you’d bring in 60 Minutes and learn it before me.”
She sat back in her chair. I waited for her story.
“Have you ever heard of the Venona Project, Sam?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Not really. You were only a kid when it was declassified by the NSA.”
Her mention of the National Security Agency piqued my interest and I leaned forward.
“The Venona Project was a top-secret and successful effort to break cryptic messages cabled in the 1940s by the KGB and the GRU, the Soviet Union’s military intelligence agency. By breaking the code, we were able to learn the identities of Soviet spies and Americans targeted for recruitment. Decoding Soviet cables provided crucial evidence against Americans working for the Communists, particularly those with knowledge of our atomic weapons program. You see, just because Joe McCarthy was paranoid and overzealous didn’t mean that there weren’t Communists, both U.S. citizens and foreigners, engaged in espionage.”
“Paul Weaver was a spy?”
“No. But Black Mountain College was mentioned in a cable as a potentially fertile environment for recruitment, and Paul Weaver was described as a disenchanted veteran who might be vulnerable. So, when Nadine Oates contacted the FBI with her suspicions that her former boyfriend was a Communist, the Bureau took her seriously. As you said, his civil rights actions in an era of the Red Scare meant he was probably considered guilty until proven innocent.”
“So, he was innocent,” I stated.
“That was the conclusion of the review after the tragedy. Several agents were reprimanded and the senior agent was terminated for the way the Weaver investigation was conducted. But that’s only half the story. The Bureau couldn’t have its interrogation of Weaver made public because there was no overt reason he should have been singled out. Except for that decoded cable. The fear was that the Soviets would realize we were decrypting their messages. It was like the Nazi Enigma code. Once you break it, you can only use the collected information if the enemy doesn’t believe you got it from their own communications. The Venona Project was so secret that even President Harry Truman wasn’t told the source of the information.”
Hidden Scars Page 21
