Murder at the Pentagon (16 page)

If there was one aspect of chopper flying that Margit didn’t enjoy, it was the vibration. You learned to deal with it—you had to—but you never liked it. The vibration that suddenly shook Huey 423, however, was beyond normal limits. Margit had been taught to differentiate between types of vibrations, and this one was high frequency, emanating from the pedals, most likely caused by a problem with the tail rotor. She reduced power to compensate for what was happening at the rear. She wasn’t concerned about making it back to the tarmac; she’d successfully dealt with tail-rotor problems before. Once she’d landed, however, it meant filling out multiple forms. Paperwork. The military thrived on it.

She approached her landing straight into the wind, and used minimal power changes to put as little pressure as possible on the tail rotor. As she felt the skids touch the ground, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The young line chief was running a visual inspection on another Huey when Margit approached on foot. She told him of the problem she’d encountered.

“Shouldn’t be,” he said. “She just came out of her hundred hour.”

Margit had heard that before. It didn’t matter what maintenance it had undergone. The fact was that the tail rotor posed a potentially dangerous situation for the next pilot.

“I’ll write it up inside,” Margit said, doing a good job of hiding her annoyance.

“We’ll have to truck it,” he said, looking to where she’d left the craft.

“Right,” she replied.

He didn’t bother to salute this time. S.O.B, Margit thought as she went into Ops and found the appropriate forms. Nothing like her father. He would have shown instant concern, would have listened carefully to the pilot’s description of the problem.

By the time she was in her car heading back to Bolling, she’d forgotten about the line chief, thought only of what
she’d left on the ground an hour before—Flo and Robert Cobol, Jeff Foxboro, and whether she could convince Mac Smith to help her officially.

She took a shower, wrapped herself in a heavy terry-cloth robe, and returned a call Smith had left on her answering machine. No luck. She’d missed him again, machine talking to machine. He said he’d be home later that evening.

There was a second call, this from Colonel William Monroney, who said he was having dinner in the Bolling Officers’ Club with some people and invited Margit to join them.

“No thanks,” she muttered.

She thought of Jeff and the disappointment of having their weekend plans dashed, and she reminded herself that she had no right to feel anger or bitterness about it. But the portion of her brain giving out that rational message wasn’t communicating with the softer side where emotions dwelt.

Monroney had said he would be in the club at seven. She again dismissed the idea, looked at the corner of her desk where the growing file on the Cobol case rested, debated it, and decided she could use a good dinner and some upbeat conversation. Why not?

Margit and Monroney sat in the Officers’ Club cocktail lounge. With him was an old friend, Lewis—she never did get the last name—who was stationed in Europe and was in Washington for a week of meetings, and an aide to Monroney, Major Anthony Mucci. Monroney’s friend Lewis and Tony Mucci were a study in contrasts. His friend was a jovial sort who kept Margit and Monroney laughing with stories about his recent exploits in avoiding a good-conduct medal. He’d had quite a bit to drink, and proposed marriage to Margit at the end of the evening. “It would be great having a chopper pilot and lawyer as a wife,” he’d said, “even better than marrying somebody whose father owns a liquor store.” Margit had pleasantly declined his offer, and an hour later he departed, leaving Monroney, Mucci, and Margit standing at the front door. “Nightcap?” Monroney asked.

“Can’t, Colonel,” Mucci said, his face set in stone as it
had been all evening. It wasn’t that Mucci was sullen. He wasn’t even unpleasant. The problem for Margit was that he seldom laughed, as though his life had precluded opportunities to practice. Sitting with someone who doesn’t laugh can make you feel guilty for laughing. Too frivolous, too shallow, for the stiff, correct, and handsome young major. But, she’d decided early, that was his problem, not hers, and she’d giggled even louder at Lewis’s funny, obviously tall tales. After all, that’s why she’d decided to join them.

“Your call, Tony,” Monroney said.

“I have to run the duty roster,” Mucci said. “Good night, Major.”

“Good night,” Margit replied.

They watched him leave the club. “You, Margit?”

“Thanks, no. I’d better get back.”

“Just a quick one, Margit. Please. For old times’ sake.”

And so they sat in the lounge, he sipping a gin and tonic, she looking at an untouched Serrana.

“Glad you could join us,” he said.

“I enjoyed it. Your friend’s a funny guy.”

“Almost as funny as Tony.”

“Almost,” Margit said, enjoying another laugh.

“He’s a good officer. Loyal, conscientious, bright. He won’t win the Pentagon personality award, but he gets the job done. As for Lewis, the only problem is, he dominates a conversation. I’d hoped to have more time to talk with you.”

“I wouldn’t have had much to say.”

“You have a lot to say,” he said. “You know, Margit, I think a lot about Panama, about the time we spent together there.”

She was now uncomfortable, and wondered whether he sensed it. Panama was
then
, in the past, nothing to dwell upon. “I don’t,” she said, knowing she sounded nasty. It was also dishonest because she
had
thought about Panama many times, especially that aspect of the assignment that had brought her into a brief but close relationship with the handsome man sitting next to her. She hadn’t known he was married
then; she hadn’t asked, nor had he offered the information. She’d found out later about Celia and their two children. It had upset her, although their relationship was over by that time. She’d resented him for not telling her that he had a family. She’d felt used, assumed she’d been just another conquest by a married man who’d undoubtedly conquered many.

As though reading her thoughts, he said, “You know, Margit, I meant what I said in Panama.”

“What was that?”

“That you represented something special for me. I’m not a womanizer. I don’t play around, take off my wedding band and apply tanning cream whenever I’m on TDY. There was a lot more to my feelings about you than a fling.”

She remembered the night he told her that. That was the night he’d admitted that he was married. She didn’t believe it then. Now, it wasn’t a matter of not believing. It just didn’t matter.

“Look, Margit, I’m not suggesting we rekindle what we had.”

“Thank you very much.”

“But I don’t see any reason why we can’t be friends now that you’re here in Washington. I’d like to feel we could get together and talk, laugh like we did tonight, enjoy each other’s company.” He smiled and held up his hands. “On a platonic level, of course.”

Margit said nothing.

“Is there someone in your life, someone special?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Military?”

“No, another lawyer. On Senator Wishengrad’s staff. We met in law school.”

“Senator Wishengrad. The bane of the Pentagon. Must make for some interesting dialogue between you and your friend.”

Margit laughed. “Well, we do come at the military establishment from different points of view.”

“That’s probably good,” said Monroney. “Keeps things from getting dull.”

“Sure does,” said Margit. “Look, Bill, I really do have to get back. This was a lovely evening, and I thank you for inviting me.” She stood.

He remained seated. “One of the things I wanted to ask you, Margit, was about the Joycelen murder. You’ve got yourself one hell of an assignment defending Cobol.”

“That is putting it mildly.”

“I assume you’ll be interviewing me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I was there—I went into the building afterward. Remember?”

“I have photos, and the statement you wrote. That should be enough. If it isn’t, I know where to find you.”

They walked to the club’s front door. “Can we get together again, just the two of us, to talk, a couple of air-force buddies?”

“Not for a long time, Bill. The Cobol case will have me tied up for the duration. Thanks again. I enjoyed it.” They shook hands.

It was too late to call the early-to-bed, early-to-rise Mac Smith. It would wait until tomorrow. Margit watched television until midnight, then climbed under the covers and lay awake for a long time. Things seemed to be getting out of control, a situation with which she was singularly unfamiliar, and that she didn’t like. Maybe that was what happened as you got older, she mused.

If so, who needs birthdays?

Margit came out of a long, dull Labor Day weekend revved up and rarin’ to go.

During a long, leisurely run on Monday that worked up a cleansing sweat, she came to the conclusion that she’d been acting wimpish, had allowed herself to become muddled with confusion and afraid to take the reins in the Cobol case. Her assistant and investigator would arrive on Wednesday. They would need immediate direction from her, definitive, sure supervision. She’d seen ineffectual leaders in the military who, because they weren’t confident in themselves and in their mission, transmitted weakness to those reporting to them. That wouldn’t be the case with her.

She was aware, however, that her newfound confidence was based, in part, on two hours spent on Sunday with Mackensie Smith. Their answering machines had finally caught up with each other and had put their respective human owners together.

Smith had agreed to work with Margit as an unofficial adviser. Yes, he would accept a modest fee from Mrs. Cobol,
which would be shared equally with the Washington Humane Society and the Coalition for the Homeless. It didn’t matter to Margit who ended up with the money, as long as Smith was a
paid
adviser.

They agreed that Smith would review all materials gathered by Margit for the defense, and would help her structure a strategy to use during the court-martial. “But strictly in the background,” he’d said.

“But won’t the court have to be made aware that other counsel is involved?” she asked.

“Probably, but you’re the trial attorney.” Smith laughed. “Just the opposite from when I was practicing law in this city. The other people in my firm often wrote the script. All I had to do was deliver it before a jury, with feeling. In this case, I’ll support you the best I can, but you’re in the spotlight. You take the heat.”

“Fair enough,” she’d said.

They’d also discussed specific strategies, each keyed to how the court-martial might progress. As it stood, Cobol had pleaded Not Guilty, and the focus of Margit’s preparation would be to counter tangible evidence presented by the prosecution and to create a sufficient level of doubt in the minds of the court-martial board as to his guilt. If the investigation failed to turn up sufficient hard information to render the prosecution’s evidence questionable, they agreed that she would have to be prepared to go to another level, perhaps to attempt to point the finger of guilt in another direction if allowed to do so by the court or, as a last resort, to seek to save Cobol’s life through an insanity plea.

“That would depend upon whether there was some personal relationship between Cobol and Joycelen,” Smith said.

“You say Cobol flat-out denies a homosexual relationship with Joycelen. Believe him?”

Margit nodded. “Yes, I do, just as I’ve come to believe he’s innocent.”

“Based upon what?”

“A gut reaction. Being with him.” She held up her hands in mock defense. “I know, I know, Mac, I’m probably naive.
But his answers to my questions have a ring of truth to them. Either he’s telling the truth or he’s a skilled liar.”

“Which would make him a credible witness on his own behalf,” Smith said.

“I’m not sure about that.”

Margit asked Smith if he would be willing to meet with Cobol. Smith said he would.

“Which takes you out of the shadows,” Margit said.

“It can be done quietly. Set it up.”

“Okay.”

As she was getting ready to leave Smith’s house, he said, “You do know that you might be treading on thin ice, Margit, bringing me in like this. You say your boss didn’t like the idea. How are you going to appease him?”

“By telling him that the accused requested civilian counsel.”

“Which is not entirely true.”

“Not entirely a lie, either. All I did was make the suggestion to Cobol and his mother. They decided it was a good idea. I don’t think I’ll have any problem with Bellis. He’s tough, but fair.”

On Wednesday morning following the long weekend, Margit sat in her new office across the hall from Bellis. With her were marine warrant officer Peter Woosky, the legal assistant sent her from Quantico, and an investigator from the Army Military Police Operations Agency, Master Sergeant Matthew Silbert.

Margit judged Woosky to be about fifty, a man whose face said “weary.” Ashy jowls hung loose from the framework of his long face. His eyes were large, brown, and sad. His gray hair looked tinderbox dry, a brushfire in search of a match.

Silbert, on the other hand, was bright-eyed, intense, and quick to smile. He wore a classic crew cut and was spit-and-polish in his dress, as opposed to Woosky, for whom, rare among marines, uniform maintenance was evidently not a high priority.

“Well, gentlemen, nice to have you here. I can certainly use the help.”

Silbert smiled. Woosky did not.

“Have you been filled in on the nature of this case and the person I’m defending?”

Woosky shook his head, but Silbert said, “I know you’re defending Captain Robert Cobol in the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. Once I knew that, I learned a lot from reading the papers and watching TV. If you can believe them.”

“They have it right so far,” Margit said. “Captain Cobol denies the charges against him despite physical, if circumstantial, evidence to the contrary. The weapon used to kill Joycelen, according to the prosecution, belonged to Cobol. It has the serial number that was checked out to him, and his initials are carved in the butt. Less tangible, but certainly not insignificant, is that he was in the vicinity at the time of the murder. As you know, it was Saturday morning. And, the papers speculate, he was involved in a homosexual relationship with Joycelen.”