Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) (17 page)

“Sure. We just want to get this settled,” Felicia repeated.

“We all do.” Holly watched them out the door, then returned to her desk. Moffatt next, she thought. And the pilot’s sister, Priscilla Lewis. And the newspaper. Check with Crime Scene, see if the Colbys could return to their house. And at some point, she’d better face up to the rest of the interview with Maggie, who had wanted to talk about how the murderer had gotten out. With a little luck, Crime Scene would have found the forced window or whatever it was that had been used. But if they hadn’t, she might as well find out what Maggie had to say. The first on the scene. She was observant, bright, persistent, in addition to being a shit.

How had it slipped out? Holly hadn’t told anyone about Nam for years. It was so much simpler to leave it behind her, leave it alone. And if you didn’t watch the news, if you threw yourself into your job, it would leave you alone too.

Usually.

Right after she’d DEROSed at the end of 1967, she’d seen her parents for a few days on leave before reporting to Walter Reed to finish out her enlistment. She’d brought out her photos, eagerly tried to tell her mother something about that astounding year of challenge and horror, achievement and disillusion. She showed her a photo of herself and Billie Ann dressed in fatigues, grinning at a Montagnard child. Then a shot of the 18th’s original tent hospital in Pleiku. Twelve-hour shifts minimum, she’d told her, often seven days a week. “Yes, you wrote how busy you were,” said her mother.

“More when there was a Mas-Cal.”

“A what?”

“Mass casualty. The choppers would come in from the combat zones, run the guys in and we’d triage. Then—”

“What’s that?” asked her mother politely.

“Three priorities. Like if a guy had maybe run into a grenade and had a lot of frag wounds but nothing serious, he’d have to wait till we weren’t busy. If he was hurt bad but we could save him, he was an Immediate and we’d take him straight to the OR. Operating room. The others, well, we’d send them to Expectants, give them a shot of morphine, and—”

“Expectants?”

Still staring at the photo, Holly explained gently, “Means the poor fuckers were going to die.”

“Oh, honey!” exclaimed her mother. “You mustn’t say that!” Holly had glanced at her, thinking for an instant that her mother meant they should not have given up, should have tried to save everyone. Then she’d realized what the problem was. The chasm between them that she’d been struggling to bridge suddenly yawned into a gigantic gulf. Hopeless. She’d gathered up the photos and stood up.

“Honey, don’t be angry. You know I just want what’s best for you. You’ve been in a very crude place, I know, but you mustn’t use such language. You’re home now. You must put it behind you.”

None of her friends wanted to hear about it either. “Tell us a funny story,” they’d plead. “Lik
e
M*A*S*
H
.”

So she’d put it behind her.

Ignored the news. The body counts. The demonstrations.

Torn up the letter to Billie Ann she’d started to write.

Gotten out of nursing because the emergency wards stirred up the adrenaline and the nightmares, and the other wards bored her to distraction.

She’d worked hard. Drunk hard. Put it behind her.

Until this year. In January, the mad scramble as the last Americans scurried onto helicopters. Peace with honor. Whoopee. In March, overhearing a snippet of a news program that stopped her in her tracks. The South Vietnamese had pulled out of Pleiku. No fight. Just plain pulled out. All her boys had fought to keep Pleiku for the south. They’d lost legs, faces, brains, lives. All wasted. Why? Why?

Did heaven look on, and would not take their part?

Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn.

She still struggled against it but since then she’d hardly had an undisturbed night’s sleep. Her defenses were eggshell-thin. Work usually still helped, but last night, a swollen belly and a peace sign had snapped her like kindling.

“Holly.”

She realized it was the second time Gabe had called her. “Sorry,” she said. “Just thinking deep thoughts. What’s up?”

“You’re looking a little raw this morning.”

“I’m okay. What’ve you got?”

“Two things. One local, one national.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yeah. The local—well, here he is.”

Holly looked around to see a frail old man of erect military posture, wearing a light gray summer suit, his long face elegantly lined with wrinkles, his pale eyes troubled. He seemed vaguely familiar.

Gabe said, “Mr. Taynton, this is Detective Schreiner. Mr. Taynton is the curator at the John Singleton Mosby Museum.”

Holly remembered him now. Every historic affair that Mosby held included a speech by this man, a walking encyclopedia of the Civil War guerrilla battlefield in the area. One of his grandfathers had fought with Mosby. Against the prevailing winds of the glorification of the Union cause, Taynton and his friends took their stand, staunchly championing the valor and nobility of the losers.

Holly wondered if anyone would ever do the same for her boys.

She shook his hand and asked, “How can we help you, Mr. Taynton?”

“Our museum has been robbed,” he said shakily.

Gabe put in, “He’s given the details to us already, but he wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry to hear Chief Posey is on vacation,” said Taynton fretfully. “Good friend of mine.”

“We’ll help you, Mr. Taynton,” said Holly in resignation. Looked like bouncing it back down to the local uniformed cops was not an option. “What was taken?”

“Our wonderful painting of Colonel Mosby’s forces. Cut out of its frame—it’s terrible!”

“Any leads?” Holly asked Gabe.

“Yeah. Mr. Taynton says a tour bus arrived from D.C. at opening time. He gave them the tour and they were back in the bus heading for Manassas already when he noticed the missing painting.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened!” Mr. Taynton was clearly very upset despite his rigidly dignified bearing. Holly could understand; to him this was violation of a shrine, of a sacred trust. “We’ve had some vandalism outdoors, of course—but when I walked into that room and saw the bare wall—”

“I thought you said it had been cut out of the frame. Was the frame there?”

“It was broken into pieces, on the front steps. Strips of the canvas still tacked on the stretcher on the back but the painting cut out. And the tools were there—razor, crowbar, glass-cutter.”

“Looks professional, then. Not just someone grabbing it on impulse,” Gabe pointed out.

“Okay, Gabe, get Winks on this. Tell him to contact Manassas right away.” She turned to Taynton. “We’ll do our best.”

“It’s so distressing!”

True. With the chief and three senior detectives on vacation, they were already stretched thin. But Mr. Taynton had clout around here, so they’d have to make room for his problem.

Gabe returned from escorting Taynton to Winks. Holly sighed. “Shit. I needed him to follow up the Colby thing.”

“Well, here’s more on Colby,” Gabe told her. “Remember I said there was local news and national news?”

“Congressman Knox?”

“Got it in one. D.C. called. A Sergeant Thornton. Says they’re up to their ears now what with guys on vacation—”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

“So he can’t put anyone on it there, but he’s set things up so we can visit the congressman at ten. He said there’d be two of us.”

Holly glanced at her watch. “Shit. I’d wanted to hit Moffatt and the pilot’s sister first.”

“Yeah. But you know how much more important a congressman’s time is than a cop’s.”

“Yeah, I know.” Rear echelon motherfucker. She looked over her desk. Nothing but a note to call Olivia Kerr, who probably just wanted the latest for her story. She’d catch her later at the newspaper. Holly said, “Okay, Boy Wonder, let’s go. Can’t disappoint the bigwigs.”

Knox’s office was pretty much what she’d imagined: thick carpet, dark masculine furniture, personable young brunette in a linen suit at the reception desk, the Ohio state shield flanked by well-lit photos of the congressman smiling with Johnson, with Ford, with some schoolchildren, with a hog. A less well-lit photo of him smiling with Nixon. The brunette took them to an inner office where the real-life Knox, also smiling, put down a sheaf of papers, stood up to show off expensive tailoring on a trim athletic frame, and said, “Glad to meet you. Please sit down,” with a practiced handshake. Then he assumed a more sober face. “But is my understanding correct? This terrible business of the plane crash has brought on another tragedy?”

“We don’t know yet, sir.” Holly studied him: longish face with photogenic smile creases, intense eyes, hair cut carefully to disguise a receding hairline.

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“A reporter was murdered. One of the stories he was investigating was the January crash. But as yet we don’t know that it was related to his death.”

“I see. Colby? That’s the one the district police said, right, Dot?”

“That’s right.” The brunette nodded.

“Dale Colby, of the Mosby, Virginia Sun-Dispatch,” Gabe confirmed.

“Just spoke to him the other day.” Knox shook his head. “Unbelievable!”

“What was the subject of your conversation?” Holly had her notebook out.

“Well, in fact, I just said hello on my way into this office. Carol took care of him.”

“Carol?”

“Carol Carson. Runs the office here, right, Dot?”

“That’s right,” agreed the brunette.

“Can you tell me anything about Mr. Colby’s interest in the crash, sir?” Holly asked.

“Not really, except that he’s been one of the most persistent in asking for updates. Generally he just took the releases, came to the scheduled news conferences, that kind of thing. I didn’t have any reason to give him a special interview.”

“I see.” Washington papers or Ohio papers would get the interviews. Yet Dale had kept chipping away. She asked, “Did you have any sense of whether he was interested in some particular angle of the investigation recently?”

Knox shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry. Just didn’t talk to him enough.”

“What is your own idea about the cause of the crash?”

“Terrorists,” he said confidently.

“Terrorists?”

“I’m one of the sponsors of an anti-terrorism bill. And I was planning on being on the plane until an important vote came up at the last minute.”

“So you think you were the target?”

“Makes sense. Kennedy, King …”

And Knox, yeah, sure. Holly asked, “Have there been any attempts since?”

“Not that we know of. Maybe the publicity about the crash made them realize we’d be on the alert.”

“What about the other sponsors of the anti-terrorism bill? Any attempts to harm them?”

A testy frown flitted across the photogenic face. “Not that I know of. But Carol Carson could probably help you.”

“Yes, we’d like to talk to her too.”

“Fine. Dot, why don’t you take them over there?” Knox picked up his sheaf of papers again.

11

Carol Carson’s office, behind the reception area, was less grand than Knox’s swagged and paneled room, but just as masculine. Carson herself was stocky, gray-haired, and dynamic. Nothing grandmotherly about her except her age. This was Rosie the Riveter thirty years further along. She was leaning back in her chair, talking to someone in the corner, when Dot opened the door to announce Holly and Gabe. Carol Carson stood up behind her massive teak desk and extended her hand.

“Glad to meet you!”

“Same here.” Holly entered to shake hands and glanced at the person getting to her feet in the corner.

Wonderful.

“You’ve met Maggie Ryan, I understand?” asked Carol Carson.

“Yes. And today I seem to be following in her footsteps.” Watch it, Schreiner, don’t sound cranky.

Maggie shrugged airily. Today there was no peace sign, just a sky-blue summer dress that drifted gently across her breasts and belly. She said, “I told you I was curious.”

“Well, Ms. Ryan, sorry to interrupt, but—”

“Hey, it’s okay! I’ll just grab a Coke for Sarah and see you later, Mrs. Carson.”

“Fine. Don’t go far. I’ll dig out that photo you wanted to see.”

“Great! Bye for now.”

“Bye!” piped Sarah. Gabe wagged his fingers at her and she giggled. He beamed and shut the door behind them.

“Please sit down,” said Carol Carson. “Interesting young woman, isn’t she? From Ohio.”

“She wanted to see a photo?” Holly asked.

Carol smiled. “Yes. Her mother is mayor of a town near Cincinnati, and I have a photo of her at a conference we both attended once.”

“I see.” Holly noted it down.

“She was asking about the plane crash investigation too. That’s why you’re here?”

“Yes. The congressman said you could fill us in on that.”