The Mile Marker Murders

by C. W. Saari

  “This’ll do just fine.” Bannister noted Weber smelled like he’d just finished a cigarette. “We’ll only need a few minutes.”

  “So I got word this weekend one of my missing persons was no longer missing. I reviewed the report this morning. Figured someone would be calling,” Weber said. He crossed his arms in front of him and rocked back on a steel, gray chair. “But I didn’t expect the first call to be from the Bureau.” He looked at Bannister and Quattrone.

  “I guess you could call it a police cooperation case, about now,” Quattrone said.

  “We’re certainly willing to cooperate. How can I help?” Weber asked.

  “Do you think the husband had anything to do with your missing woman’s disappearance?” Bannister asked.

  “I don’t know. Do I think he killed her? No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone to do it.”

  “So what was your read on him?” Bannister asked.

  “Initially suspicious. Hey, the guy takes two major hits from his wife. First, out of the blue she tells him she wants a divorce and second, she insists he gets a blood test right away.”

  “We know the results.”

  “Exactly. He comes back HIV positive, and then she tells him she’s got the virus, too.”

  “So, who gave it to whom?” Bannister asked.

  “Don’t know,” Weber said.

  “So, what’s he got to gain by killing her?” Quattrone asked.

  “Maybe only revenge. As I said, we don’t know who got infected first. It’s possible only one of them was playing the field and infected the other. Or maybe both of them were screwing other people and got infected independently. In any event, they both had to face reality. They were both given a death sentence.”

  “After he filed the report, did Wells ever call you back?” Bannister asked.

  “Yeah, once. After his wife’s Lexus was towed to an impound lot, he called me for my help in getting it released so he could turn it in to the leasing company.”

  “That’s it? He never called to see how the investigation was going?”

  “Right. Real sensitive guy.”

  “Did you think she might have been suicidal?” Bannister asked.

  “I explored that possibility but basically ruled it out. I checked with her gynecologist and informed her that Lillian was missing. I told her the police had been informed by her husband that Lillian Wells was HIV positive.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Initially she cited confidentiality and all that bullshit, but I simply asked her if she thought we should be concerned with suicide as a possibility. She said no, she didn’t. The Wells woman seemed to be handling things okay. She’d been to a lawyer to file for divorce, and she paid him a three thousand dollar retainer. That’s not something you normally do if you’re going to take a header off a bridge or something. She had a net worth of maybe five or six million. So she had megabucks to spend on medical treatment and the works. She’d already met with a counselor that Dr. Connie Bradford recommended and was making plans to meet one of her girlfriends who was coming from Chicago to visit,” Weber said.

  “The obvious signs weren’t there,” Bannister said.

  “And even the not-so-obvious. All her medication, clothing, and cosmetics were in the apartment. She’d been grocery shopping the same day she had appointments with her doctor and lawyer. And her car was found at one of the busiest shopping centers in the state. It wasn’t pointing toward suicide.”

  “What about the husband’s whereabouts at the time she went missing?”

  “The concerned husband waits seventy-two hours before filing a report, and only after his wife’s lawyer urged him to do so. He said he was at their apartment Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights the week his wife disappeared. He didn’t notice she wasn’t home; he didn’t go out, didn’t have anybody over, and simply stayed home watching TV in his bedroom.”

  “So, he doesn’t have a verifiable alibi, right?” Bannister asked.

  Before Weber could answer, Quattrone leaned forward and asked, “Do you think he’d take a polygraph?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. My guess is he’ll lawyer up. Not because he’s shrewd or anything like that, but just because he comes across as an insensitive, gutless, self-serving guy who’ll be too scared to make a decision by himself.”

  “This is helpful,” Quattrone said.

  “I also made a CD of all her e-mails I copied off her laptop.”

  “Did you review them?” Bannister asked.

  “I did six months ago when I opened the case, and I looked over my notes before you guys got here. Wells had a separate e-mail address open for six weeks after getting back to the United States and only received two messages. One was unsigned; the other was signed, ‘Andre.’ The IPC addresses for both messages were from cyber cafés—I think one in Geneva, Switzerland, and the other one in Moscow. I never interviewed her husband about anything on her computer, so that’s something you might want to explore. I also have a printout, which lists all her credit cards, balances, and telephone numbers. The names of her lawyer, dentist, and gynecologist are on there also. Thought you guys could use it.”

  “Thanks. You saved us a lot of work.”

  “No problem. By the way, I don’t think anyone interviewed the victim’s friend in Chicago. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  Back at the office, while Quattrone typed up his notes, Bannister mapped out a list of people to interview. Working the phone, he set up appointments with Dr. Connie Bradford and Homer Vinson, the attorney who was one of the last people Lillian Wells had seen before she disappeared. Felix Wells was scheduled to work a half day at the State Department tomorrow. They’d try and surprise him in the morning. His wife’s funeral would be twenty-four hours later. Bannister set out a lead for the Chicago office to track down and interview Mary Claire Vines, Lillian’s best friend. He’d already made arrangements to attend the service for Cal Williamson. Quattrone and other team members would cover Wells’ funeral.

  Doug Gordon stopped by Bannister’s desk. “I’m off to Quantico for a meeting with our lab people and the State Police, so I’ll see you in the morning. Here are the keys for your rental car. It’s a silver Pontiac Bonneville parked in the Colony Parking garage at the corner of 7th and F Streets.”

  Bannister stayed at the office another three hours, trying to find a connection among the three victims. When he left the building later that night, he was reminded that the District was not alive at night like New York or San Francisco. It was more like downtown Detroit, quiet and dark with graffiti-covered steel curtains rolled down the fronts of businesses shuttered until daylight. A few street people were slowly emerging from hidden hideaways. Although it was cold, he walked with his topcoat open as he always did at night. If necessary, Bannister wanted quick access to his Bureau-issued Sig Sauer nine-millimeter.

  Approaching the entrance to the four-story Colony garage, he glimpsed two shadows for a second before they disappeared. The car was on the second floor, parked along the outside wall. As Bannister swung the door open to the staircase, the pungent smell of urine hit his nostrils. He walked up the dank, slick steps and pushed the door open to the second floor. Standing next to the elevators were two black males. The taller one spoke first.

  “Hey, Mack. Got the time?” He wore a purple Lakers jacket and a black doo-rag on his head.

  Without looking at his watch, but keeping his eyes directly on the young man, Bannister said, “It’s eight-thirty.”

  “Since you’re so smart, put your mutthafuckin hands in the air and give it up.” The Lakers fan pulled a silver-plated automatic from behind his back and grinned.

  His partner, who was about six inches shorter and looked to be maybe fifteen, stood behind him, appearing innocent enough with his black Reebok baseball cap on backwards. As Bannister glanced at the first guy’s gun, he saw the smaller one was holding a knife down along his right side. Bannister sl
owly raised his hands but only to shoulder level.

  In a fraction of a second, his left hand flew forward, grabbing the barrel of the automatic, jerking it rapidly to his side as he violently twisted the barrel in toward his assailant. Just as quickly, Bannister snapped his attacker’s gun hand and arm back toward the left. At the same time as the bone of the assailant’s index finger snapped, Bannister’s right fist smashed into the side of his nose with a quick punch, and his right knee buried itself into the guy’s groin.

  As the blood gushed from the mugger’s nose, Bannister swung him down to the pavement on his right. Bannister pivoted to his left and whirled a right leg kick to the jaw of the short partner standing a few feet away. He never saw it coming. The heel of Bannister’s wingtip caught the guy flush on his mouth and jaw. Bannister heard the crunching of breaking teeth and bone, followed by a dull thwack as the younger man’s head bounced into the concrete floor as he fell backward. Bannister thought the subject was probably unconscious before he hit, and his accomplice lay curled up in a fetal position, moaning on the cold, gritty concrete.

  Bannister searched both assailants for other weapons, then called 9-1-1 and told them he was an FBI Agent who’d just been assaulted by two subjects, both of whom he’d disarmed. He asked them to send a black-and-white as well as an ambulance for the two subjects who needed medical attention. It had all happened so fast his pulse wasn’t even racing. Bannister had just reacted.

  Three minutes later he heard sirens. This time Bannister was glad to hear them. Four officers responded, along with an ambulance. It turned out that the larger of the two subjects was wanted for parole violation and questioning in two gang-related shootings; the smaller guy had a warrant for two armed robberies.

  Forty minutes later, the garage was quiet as Bannister familiarized himself with the controls of the rental car and adjusted its mirrors. Soon he was on I-95 South, heading for Fredericksburg.

  Bradford Alden had to let Bannister in at the B&B. He asked him to join him for a brandy. Bannister agreed. They each found a comfortable chair in the library.

  “So, how was your first day back in DC?” Alden asked.

  “It was a full day, but it ended well,” Bannister said, again relishing the warmth of the brandy going down his throat.

  “Doug told me about the close call you had last night. How you feelin?” Quattrone asked.

  “Fine. I’m lucky those gang bangers thought I was just a schmuck businessman.”

  “From what I hear, they’re going to be sipping prison food through straws.”

  “They’re lucky they didn’t get shot.”

  “Yeah. Luck is relative.”

  The four lanes of Shirley Highway, as the locals called I-95, was a red ribbon of tail lights for the forty miles from Fredericksburg to DC. Traffic moved, and it took only an hour to arrive at the Watergate Hotel. Bannister checked in, and ten minutes later he and Quattrone were crossing the Potomac River into Arlington, ready to interview some of the last people to see Lillian Wells alive.

  Homer Vinson had agreed to meet them at his law office before he saw any of his scheduled clients.

  “I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much.” Vinson put his large forearms on top of his desk and leaned in their direction. “It’s a real shame when a nice person’s taken from us. You know, in my career I’ve only had one other client die a violent death. In that case, the cops arrested the perpetrator at the scene.”

  “Well, we’re not that fortunate,” Quattrone said.

  “I only had that initial meeting with Mrs. Wells. She retained me to represent her in her divorce, and I never talked to her again.”

  “Did she say why she wanted a divorce?” Bannister asked.

  “Her husband had been unfaithful. She’d been diagnosed with HIV the week she saw me.”

  “Is that right?” Bannister said. He didn’t think it was necessary to tell Vinson what Detective Weber had already told them.

  “Yes. Her doctor is Connie Bradford. She has an office two blocks from here. You may want to talk to her.”

  “We have an appointment with her,” Bannister said, glancing at a note card.

  “Anyway, after Lillian found out she was HIV positive, she demanded her husband be tested. He came back positive, and she came to see me.”

  “Did she mention she and her husband had been living in Vienna, Austria, for two years before she visited you?” Bannister asked.

  “Yes. She said her husband was assigned there, and that he had admitted sleeping with prostitutes in Amsterdam.” Vinson straightened a couple of papers on the end of his desk. “I read where her body was discovered with a couple of other victims. Are you at liberty to tell me if there’s a connection among them?”

  “We’re looking into that,” Quattrone said. He glanced down at his cell phone, which was buzzing.

  “I got a call yesterday from Felix Wells,” Vinson said.

  “What did he want?” Bannister asked.

  “It was strange. He asked if I’d be the executor of his wife’s estate. He said he knew an attorney or a bank normally handled that task, and since I’d already met with Lillian, he assumed I’d be interested.”

  “That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But, hell, I had no ethical problem with it, and told him I’d handle it. I’m still holding his wife’s retainer payment in trust. During the call, Wells sounded sad. The last thing he said was, ‘I feel so guilty. I can’t believe I’m burying her this week.’”

  “Did you read anything into that?” Bannister asked.

  “Not really. But who knows? I’ve met a lot of good actors.”

  As they walked out of Vinson’s office, Quattrone said, “Doug sent a team message that lab results are in for Victim Number Three. The meeting’s at 4:00 p.m.”

  They drove two blocks to the office of Dr. Connie Bradford. She saw them right away, and because her patient was deceased, she could confirm what they’d already found out. She dropped a name they’d need to identify. Lillian Wells had confided she’d had sex with another man besides Felix. The guy’s first name was Andre. No last name. Dr. Bradford said Lillian had mentioned he was handsome and an excellent tennis player. She said the liaison with Andre had taken place in Vienna.

  Bannister recalled that one of the deleted e-mails from Lillian’s laptop had come from a sender named Andre. In the message, Andre had mentioned that he was in Moscow but was coming to Washington, DC.

  He decided to review those printouts before discussing them with anyone.

  Shortly before noon, Bannister and Quattrone went to the State Department to interview Felix Wells. After walking past a dozen concrete barriers and several giant flowerpots, they checked in at reception and were issued visitors badges. Felix Wells III came down and led them past a wall of international flags to a main floor briefing room usually reserved for the press.

  Wells turned one of the blue-padded media chairs around to face the others. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said as he sat down. Maybe Wells was trying to impress them. He presented a good appearance. He was impeccably dressed and looked like he’d be comfortable in front of a camera.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Wells. We’re doing everything possible to identify who was responsible,” Bannister said, moving his chair to give Quattrone a little more elbow room.

  Wells answered all of their questions and made good eye contact. His voice showed no emotion. His words were well-chosen, and he didn’t in any way act like a man whose wife’s funeral was the next day. His tone and body language during the interview gave no indication of deception. Despite his apparent sincerity, he couldn’t shed light on anything. Wells agreed to take a polygraph exam.

  “One last question, Felix. Did Lillian have any male friends we might be able to talk to?”

  “Male friends? No, she had girlfriends, but no male friends as far as I know.”

  So much for his knowledge of an Andre connection.

&
nbsp; Doug Gordon and Detective Huggins interviewed Gina and Dawn Williamson. They also re-interviewed Cal Williamson’s replacement at CIA headquarters, who had taken over handling the Russian desk the week Cal had disappeared. Interviews in Atlanta failed to develop any new leads.

  The team of State Trooper Bell and CIA Security Officer Spencer Crum interviewed Mark Wattling, Stacy DiMatteo’s fiancé. They also talked with Janice Parker, who would have been Stacy’s maid of honor, and several of Stacy’s co-workers and friends. Both investigators had to loan out their handkerchiefs. Everyone associated with DiMatteo expressed shock or broke down in tears.

  DiMatteo’s fiancé hadn’t seen Stacy the day she disappeared. Wattling had called her at NSA during her lunch hour to let her know he and a friend were going to a Washington Wizards basketball game. Although Wattling didn’t have an alibi for after 11:00 p.m., the interview team was satisfied with his answers. He denied any knowledge of the other two victims. He also agreed to take a polygraph if asked.

  Wattling said he and Stacy had dated for three years before he’d proposed to her earlier that summer. To his knowledge, she didn’t have any serious former boyfriends or lovers. She was on good terms with everyone at work. It troubled him that her car had been found at the manager’s office. If the killer had driven it there, it didn’t make sense. And if Stacy drove to the office, knowing how paranoid she was about being out alone at night, it had to be for a good reason. For someone to lure her there, Wattling believed it had to be someone she knew or someone in a position of authority who could convince her to drive there. All the tenants knew the office closed at 6:00 p.m. during the week. It didn’t make sense to Wattling. Sergeant Bell made a note.

  On the drive back to the office, Quattrone glanced over and said, “You’re deep in thought.”

  “I’ve been focusing on the victims’ cars and telephone calls,” Bannister said.

  “Come up with anything?”

  “Look at the telephone calls. Williamson didn’t receive any, either on his home phone or cell phone. Lillian Wells received one unusual call the night before she disappeared. That call was traced to a phone booth in Arlington. Stacy DiMatteo received a call to her cell phone the night she disappeared. It came from the coin phone outside the apartment manager’s office. Whoever called Wells and DiMatteo knew their cell phone numbers.”