Authors: Brian Haig
“Okay . . . it’s out.”
“You right- or left-handed?”
“Normal. Right-handed.”
“As was Daniels. Switch the pistol to your left hand.”
“Okay.”
“Now raise the pistol . . . now aim the barrel at your temple . . . just above your left ear.”
“There’d better be a point to this, Drummond. People are staring at—”
“Is the pistol there?”
“Yeah . . . okay, it’s—”
“Quick—pull the trigger.”
He said, after a long moment, “Very fucking funny.”
“I didn’t hear a bang. I knew you were smart.”
“If you were standing here, you’d hear a bang, you son of a bitch.”
“How hard would it have been?”
“I got your point. But it’s not natural. Unnatural things are always cause for suspicion.”
“Not
always
. Sometimes they merely require alternate explanations.”
“I’m dying to hear this one.”
“Think of what you observed inside Daniels’s bedroom. The television was on, a porn flick in the video machine, the victim had an erection, and his right hand was gripped on his doolie.” I added, “The term is multitasking.”
He did not reply.
I said, “Cliff Daniels, not being ambidextrous, faced a choice. Which takes more strength? Greater deftness? Spanking your donkey or pulling the trigger?”
After a moment, he replied, “I wouldn’t know, would I?”
In spite of himself, he laughed, and I, too, laughed. Actually, I liked this guy. No good cop ignores his gut instincts; his were telling him this was wrong, and he was going with it. Well, it
was
wrong; he just didn’t know why. He lacked what Bian and I possessed, factual knowledge of Daniels’s professional and extracurricular activities, or about the large and growing population who might want him dead, and why.
To tell the truth, I felt a little guilty; he was one of the good guys, diligent, honest, good cop. But his concern was law and order in his county; mine was peace and security throughout the entire United States. Bottom line—you can rationalize just about anything under the guise of “for the good of the country”; it’s a slippery slope, and I might have been overstepping that line.
“Back to the autopsy,” he said, after a moment. “Other than that, Daniels was missing his tonsils. Twice had his left knee cut on, and—”
“Was there blood splatter on his left hand?”
“Well . . . yeah—there was. Not a lot. Also there was some burnt powder. Blowback.”
“And has this blood been tested? Was it his?”
“It’s the right blood type, A pos. The DNA test will take longer, of course.”
For some reason this did not surprise me. After a moment he added, “One other observation. His liver showed the beginning stages of cirrhosis. Daniels was a big-time boozer.”
“It’s the family hobby.”
“No shit. The Mrs., too? Hey, how’d that go?”
“Different. His ex celebrated with a fresh bottle of gin.”
“She want him dead?”
“Yeah . . . but no. She’s going to miss him. Busting his balls was the one great joy in her life.”
He thought about that a moment, then said, “Tim . . . the forensics guy you spoke with . . . he told you about the hair fibers?”
“Three types as of last count. Why? Were there more?”
“Isn’t three enough? Personally, after looking at Daniels, I never would’ve pictured it. You know?”
I glanced at Bian. “My partner says it’s all about size.”
“That right?” he replied. “My wife’s always telling me it’s all about becoming more sensitive, about helping around the house more. Shit—you’re saying all I had to do was grow a bigger dick.”
I laughed.
“According to his former,” I told him, “Clifford had a thing for the ladies. He screwed his way out of the marriage.”
“Well . . . that can happen.” He informed me, “Anyway, two of these hair specimens turned out to be organic. The redhead and brunette.”
“Organic? What does—”
“Straight from the head. That’s what it means. The follicles come off with the strands. That’s how you tell.”
“And the third sample . . . the blonde?”
“Yeah . . . the blonde. The hair was real enough, only the ends were cut at the end, and knotted. Know what that means?”
“A wig.”
“Hey, I knew you CIA guys were sharp. Thing is, the cheap ones have synthetic hair—manufactured stuff. Better ones are made from authentic hair, contributed by real people, and knotted into a wig piece.” He asked, “What do you think about that?”
“Hold on . . . I’m trying to picture Daniels in a blonde wig . . . Wait, it’s coming to me—oh my God . . .”
“What?”
“I went out with her—him.”
“Very funny.”
“What am I supposed to think, Detective? Maybe he had a lover with premature baldness. Maybe he told the redhead or the brunette he was in a blonde mood, and one or both obliged. Maybe Daniels attended a costume party as Marilyn Monroe. Possibilities abound.”
After a pause, he replied, “You left out a possibility.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did.” He then told me what I left out, saying, “Maybe he had a visitor who wore a disguise because this visitor didn’t want to be recognized by the neighbors. And maybe this visitor didn’t want to leave DNA traces. Add that up, and once again, maybe he didn’t kill himself.”
“I didn’t want to insult your intelligence.” I asked, “Fingerprints?”
“We collected four or five samples. We printed the maid’s before we released her, and lifted Daniels’s prints off his corpse. Disqualification and isolation will be finished tomorrow.”
I was sure that would lead nowhere, but kept the thought to myself. I asked, “As of this moment, what’s your thinking on this case?”
“You know what? I was leaning toward suicide. It sure looks like suicide. But some guy from the Defense Department called like six times today. Waterbury?”
“I know him.”
“He every bit the tightass he sounds like on the phone?”
“Jam a quarter up his ass and you get a dime.”
He laughed. “Who is this guy?”
“Bian’s boss.”
“I’ll bet people are beating down the door to work there.” Apparently we had exchanged enough slapstick and insults, because his tone turned serious. “Point is, I’ve got this corpse, and who shows up and starts nosing around? A CIA guy, an MP, and now I’ve got this Pentagon jerk looking over my shoulder.” He asked, “See my problem here?”
Actually, I saw the problem the instant Bian notified me who was calling. The hour was late and detectives don’t put in that much overtime unless they smell something, and what he smelled stank.
Also, supervisors have to authorize overtime—for both the detective and the lab—so Enders wasn’t pursuing a private hunch.
Waterbury was an even bigger idiot than I gave him credit for, if that was possible. His idiotic snooping was stirring up the one thing he, and the people he worked for, least wanted or needed—public scrutiny about how Daniels died.
“You’re reading too much into this,” I insisted.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Okay . . .” I allowed a moment to pass. “You want the full truth?”
“Sure.” He laughed. “That’s why I called the CIA.”
“Don’t take my word for it—check the
Post
about two weeks back.”
“Why?”
“It will confirm that Cliff Daniels was scheduled to testify before a House investigating subcommittee next week.”
“So?”
“So . . . let’s just say money was missing from an operational account. A lot of money. You didn’t hear this from me, okay? Seriously, this is I’d-have-to-kill-you-if-you-knew stuff. I barely know the half of it—to be honest, the other half I don’t want to know.”
“All right. Tell me the half you know about.”
As he knew I would, I ignored that line of inquiry. I said, “The point is . . . powerful people on the Hill are all over the Pentagon’s rear over this.” I added, “The White House is now involved. That’s why this guy Waterbury is climbing up your back.”
“Is that right?”
“What I’m saying is this. Ten tons of crap was about to land on Clifford Daniels’s head. He did a bad thing. He was getting caught. He was, as you might imagine, agitated and depressed. We’ve spoken with his coworkers. They say he’d been acting strangely the past few days, and—”
“I’d like to interview those witnesses.”
“Barry, I . . . how far did you say you are from retirement?”
He cleared his throat and said, “I don’t appreciate threats.”
“No one does, Barry. The federal government entrusts you and your department to handle this . . . with the professional discretion it deserves. Should that faith be lost, an army of truly tightassed people in blue suits will descend upon you and turn your world inside out. Are we clear on this?”
“Make it clearer.”
“Suicide, Barry. The guy knew his fanny was swinging in the wind. He chose to spare himself and his family the shame and indignity of public exposure.” I paused. “Don’t complicate things.”
“Maybe he—”
“Gotta go. The White House is on the other line.”
I punched off, and Bian, who had obviously been listening closely, commented, “You were rough on him.”
“Nonsense. I did him a favor.”
“Then don’t do me any favors.”
“Here’s something you should already know. In this case, ignorance
is
bliss.”
She asked, “You think he bought it?”
“No. He’s smart. But he’ll at least make sure all the i’s and t’s are dotted and crossed before he raises the M-word.”
“So you’re just buying time.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Apparently not, because she said, “What about the wig?”
“Forget about the wig.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. As evidence, it’s extremely pertinent.”
I looked at Bian. “We’re not communicating.”
“About what?”
“Think, Bian. Everything here points to a premeditated act, not something spontaneous, or even situational. Not only did the killer wear a wig to disguise her appearance and avoid DNA traces, she also splattered some of Cliff’s blood and a little burnt powder on his shooting hand. What does this tell you?”
She considered my question for a moment and concluded, I thought accurately, “That . . . the killer was a professional.”
I nodded at her and added, “She studied her target carefully, and I think it’s now fair to conclude that the murder was planned down to the most minute detail.”
“Explain that.”
“She knew Daniels had a gun in his apartment. His ex told us how much that pistol meant to Cliff, and possibly he bragged about it to his killer. Maybe he showed it off as a talisman of his importance and machismo. Ergo, the killer had been inside his apartment before last night, which we already suspected. And by showing her his gun, maybe Cliff himself planted the idea of using
his
own gun to kill him. It had all the obvious advantages, after all, especially as a prop for a staged suicide. Further, we now know Daniels was a ladies’ man—in his ex-wife’s words, whatever couldn’t outrun him, the man laid wood on it. Plus he was an alcoholic. His killer was familiar with his two obsessions, booze and broads; she, in effect, exploited them as vulnerabilities to arrange his murder. She made sure to get him drunk
before
they went to Cliff’s apartment—thus, no saliva traces, nor were her fingerprints on his glassware.” I asked, “After print elimination, we’re left with two or three unidentified sets. Do you want to bet any of them will be hers?”
“Okay . . . I get it.” She sounded irritable, and I realized I had come on a little forcefully, or worse, condescendingly. Commissioned officers in the Military Police Corps aren’t savvy beat cops, nor are they detectives. What they are are leaders and supervisors of other cops. Though generally conversant with policing techniques, they don’t think like sleuths, and a case like this would stretch the talents of even the best CID agent.
Also, I felt bad about busting Barry’s balls and I may have been venting a little. This is when you know you’ve been around Agency people too long. I was starting to act like
them
.
“I’m sorry,” I informed her, and I meant it. “This is a tough one.”
“You’re a tough one.”
Back to the original topic, I said, “Okay. I think it’s also fair to assume that our killer was firmly grounded in police work and forensics. She used this knowledge expertly. Does this sound right to you? Daniels’s murder was completely cold-blooded, not an act of passion. A premeditated execution. An almost perfect crime.”
“Almost? Oh . . . right. The perfect crime would have looked conclusively like a suicide. No doubts.”
“Exactly.” A fresh thought struck me, and I said, “But why kill him there . . . in his own bed? In that manner?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking. The effort to make it look like suicide was to throw us off the scent. Didn’t we already cover this?”
“Let’s cover it again.”
“I’m confused.”
“I think we were both confused.” I asked her, “If I told you to kill a man, or if you had your own motives for murder, would you do it like that?”
“I don’t think that way.”
“Here’s my point. Professional killers don’t get close to their victims. They pump a bullet through the back of their head, or they murder from a distance. A sniper shot, for instance, or an arranged accident. Less risk of failure, and less possibility of leaving inculpatory evidence.”
“Maybe the killer was overconfident.”
“Maybe.” I suggested, “Knowing what we now know, though, consider this possibility: Maybe this killing wasn’t cold-blooded.”
“That’s not what you’ve been saying, nor do I think it comports with the evidence.”
“The forest and the trees might be telling us contradictory things here, Bian. Consider the indignity . . . the pathetic circumstances of this man’s death. I laughed. As did you. Imagine the jokes going around the Arlington police station at this moment.”
She thought about this, and I added, “Maybe that was her intent. In fact, for the killer, maybe that was a primary goal. If this gets out to the press—as surely it will—Cliff Daniels will be a laughingstock, stigmatized for eternity.”
“And you believe the killer planned that?”