The Night Crew (19 page)

“Okay,” Katherine said in a placating tone, obviously having heard enough on this subject before she moved the interrogatory to the next topic. “Who do
you
think killed General Palchaci?”

Captain Delong awoke from his languorous slumber to insist, in a forceful and rude tone, “My client had nothing to do with Palchaci’s death. If you’re implying he did, this session is over right now.”

Katherine shot me a glance I interpreted to mean handle this officer-to-officer, or idiot-to-idiot, and, in my most reassuring tone, I responded, “Relax, Captain. We’re not implying that Sergeant Elton had anything to do with Palchaci’s murder. Katherine merely asked his view on who did.”

Actually, in my mind, and probably, a great many other minds, Danny Elton did seem the most likely candidate for Palchaci’s murderer. He was hot-tempered, had volcanic ego issues, no moral boundaries I could discern, and in a physical sense, certainly he possessed the strength and bulk to beat a man to death. Not to be overly chauvinistic, no matter how sexually libertine their behavior, I simply could not picture Lydia, June, or Andrea pulverizing a body with such obliterating force, abandon, and fury. Women, throughout time, have been known to employ sex as a weapon, and that is exactly what these girls did, in their own minds, and certainly, in the physical sense, as a weapon of war. Brute force, on the other hand, tends to be the provenance of men. As Chief Rienzi observed, the beating inflicted on Palchaci had been surreally brutal and, after five minutes with Danny Elton, there was not a doubt in my mind that he possessed both the thoughtless cruelty and moral laxity to inflict such severe carnage on a human body.

In fact, for a man like Elton, I thought, a man who detested authority in any manifestation, killing a general officer of any army would be a treat.

But Delong seemed to buy my reassurance, and he signaled with a jerky nod to Elton that it was all right to proceed. Actually, Elton seemed to welcome the opportunity. He grinned at me. “You know, you’re the first guy to ask me that fucking question.”

“Well, Sergeant, here’s your chance to answer it.”

“It was me, damn sure, I’d be lookin’ at Ashad and Willborn.”

I couldn’t resist replying, “Because you don’t like them? Because one is dead and the other is getting off scot-free? Why are they your prime suspects?”

“Cuz fuckin’ Palchaci, that guy drove ’em nuts. He wouldn’t give ’em the time of day. They was taking big heat over him.”

Katherine leaned forward on her elbows and asked, “How do you know this?”

He slumped down in his chair. “Okay if I smoke?”

This was a government building and it was definitely not okay, but I just nodded my approval—which drew a dirty look from Katherine, who did not appreciate my insensitivity to the environment or to her lungs.

He withdrew a pack of unfiltered Camels out of a pocket, tapped it a few times on the back of his hand, tough guy style, dug out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long, slow drag. He said, “Willborn tole me he and Ashad were ordered to do whatever it took to get him to crack.”

“Ordered by who?” I asked.

He took another drag and shrugged. “You had every flavor of spook in them trailers on the FOB. MI, CIA, NSA, all the alphabets was there. They tried all kinds of stupid shit to blend in and act like they was soldiers, but they stuck out like boils on a baby’s ass.”

Something went off in the back of my head, and I filed it away. I asked, “So
you
don’t know?”

“Specifically, nah . . . tell you what, though. They had big pull. I sure-as-shit know that.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Cuz Willborn, he was a pretty cool customer, and
he
was rattled.”

“How was he rattled? What rattled him?”

“Look, I broke a lotta those guys. I made Ashad and Willborn look damned good, but it was never enough for them assholes in the trailers. They really wanted Palchaci to spill his guts. Willborn and Ashad was catchin’ big-time heat. So they got Palchaci transferred to my block, and Willborn made me a promise that if I got the guy to sing, he’d arrange an instant transfer to Hawaii for me.”

“You didn’t like Iraq?” I asked.

“What can I say?” He smiled. “The beaches suck and raghead chicks don’t put out.”

“Shallow reasons.”

He laughed.

Regretting that I had amused him, I waited for his smile to wear off, then asked, “So did you try to get Palchaci to open up?”

“A few times, sure. And let me tell you somethin’, that old geezer had woodpecker lips for a hide.”

“What did you do?”

“A little rough stuff—just shoving him, maybe knockin’ him around a bit . . . but like I said, I coulda rubbed his dick with sandpaper and he wouldn’t of told me shit. We put him through the special treatment a few times and you know what?”

I took a guess and suggested, “He enjoyed it.”

“That old coot had a blast. Kept laughin’ and hollerin’ at the girls to step it up, make the show more lively. He really got into it. Thought he was directing a porno flick or somethin’. Wanted ’em to use dildos and make out with each other.”

“And did you report this to Ashad or Willborn?”

“Oh, they was following Palchaci’s progress real damn close. Yeah, yeah, I told ’em. Showed ’em the pictures, too.”

I paused to make another mental note to myself, then asked, “And how did Ashad react to that news?”

“How do ya think?”

“Sergeant, I already know what I think. I’m asking what you think.”

Elton took another drag and leaned forward, nearly across the table. He was the type who likes to get close to share confidences. “He detested that son-of-a-bitch. Wanted to kill him.”

“Those were his exact words?”

“He hadda lot of ways of sayin’ it, man. Oh, he really hated that guy. Him and Willborn thought the guy was the devil.” He leaned even closer and confided, “Ashad told me once, he actually dreamed of beating the shit outta him so hard he choked to death on his own blood.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s how the old bastard died, right?”

“So you believe he followed through on that wish?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “He definitely had bigger balls than Willborn.”

I thought about this a minute. Clearly in Elton’s claustrophobic view of the world, it all came down to balls. A real man had to be willing to beat, to torture, to kill somebody to gain his respect. A pecker contest with this man would be dangerous.

I looked at Elton and said, “Palchaci was in a locked cell, under constant surveillance and supervision from your shift. You see where I’m going with this, Sergeant? How could Ashad get in there without your knowledge or willing assistance?”

“Yer forgettin’ somethin’.”

“Am I?”

“The day shift.”

“Good point. Who was in charge of that shift?”

“Three or four guys. None of ’em ever lasted that long. Couldn’t handle it, y’know. If you haven’t heard, my block was a real roach hotel. But I think . . .” He paused and tried to remember. “Yeah, it was Jimmy Martin round the time Palchaci got whacked.”

Katherine did not appear interested in this and asked, “You know that Ashad is dead? He was killed by a roadside bomb.”

“Yeah, I heard that.” He chuckled. “Pretty convenient, if you think about it.”

Katherine observed, “Not if you think about Ashad’s or Sergeant Waylon’s families or loved ones.”

Elton took a hard last drag on his cigarette and then snubbed it out on the floor. With smoke dribbling out his nostrils, he responded, “Yeah, but if you really think about it, him bein’ gone’n all, everybody gets a get-out-of-jail card.”

I noted, “Not everybody.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m totally fucked.”

That seemed like an appropriate truth to end this session on, and I turned to his attorney, Captain Delong, and asked, “Bill, can you step outside with us for a minute?”

“I have a full schedule. I’m very busy.”

“I’m sure you are . . . it’ll just take a minute. Please, it’s important or I wouldn’t bother you.”

He looked annoyed but he got up and we all three stepped out and gathered in the hallway.

He looked at me. “Make it quick. What’s this about?”

I began by saying to him, “I understand you’ve just been appointed as Elton’s counsel. Congratulations.”

“A few days ago, that’s right.” He offered me a smug smile. “I was personally handpicked by General Fister.”

“Hey, me, too.”

“Well, if that’s all—”

“So what did you do to piss him off?”

“What? I . . . uh . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Personally, I hate getting the job after your predecessor got whacked. You know? Here’s a tip—get your life insurance up to date.”

Captain Delong took a deep swallow. “That has nothing to do with me.”

“Right. Hey, I sure hope the killer sees it that way. So . . . what kind of gun are you carrying?” I pulled out my big .45 automatic and showed it to him.

He stared at the gun like it was biological waste. “I don’t carry firearms.”

“Really? I love guns.”

“Lawyers have no business carrying weapons.” He looked at his watch and prodded, “If you have a point, then make it.”

“Well . . . I don’t want to alarm or upset you . . . but well . . . we just found Major Weinstein’s ears downstairs. In our car.”

His eyes suddenly became large. “What? . . . I . . . uh . . .”

“I know, right? Seems the killer has a real hard-on against your client’s lawyers.” I paused to allow that to sink in, then expounded a bit more. “I mean, less than an hour ago, the killer was right here. A few more steps and . . . Wow, those could’ve been
your
ears, Bill.”

“My . . . uh . . .”

“Think he knew you were up here?”

His face had turned pasty white, and he was sort of staring at the floor. “Oh, Jesus. Oh . . . his ears?” He then went speechless.

“I know, a real sick puppy. So how many security guys did they give you?”

He seemed to be preoccupied, contemplating how close his brush with the grim reaper had been, then his eyes jerked up. “Uh . . . three.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“What? . . . Is something wrong with that?”

“No . . . it’s just . . .”

He grabbed my arm. “It’s just
what
?”

“Well, Katherine and I . . . we have twenty.”

“Oh . . . shit . . . oh, shit.”

I patted him on the arm, then we left Captain Delong mumbling to himself and we walked down the hallway to the stairs. Katherine waited till we were almost at the bottom before saying, “You’re a heartless jerk. That was unnecessarily cruel.”

“Nonsense. I was merely raising his alertness level.”

“His . . . Sean, you scared the shit out of that guy.”

She started to say something else, thought about it a moment, apparently changed her mind, then laughed. “He was pretty full of himself, wasn’t he?”

“I believe
was
is the operative tense.”

Chapter Eighteen

The moment we got back to the house, I told Katherine that she, Imelda, and I needed to once again give the collected pictures a complete visual scrub, a suggestion that did not attract an enthusiastic response.

Katherine, in fact, inquired, “You’ve already seen the pictures, right?”

“I want to see them again.”

“Are you going strange on me, Sean?”

“Take a break, Katherine.”

Specifically, Elton had mentioned a group of photographs he had forwarded to Ashad and Willborn showing Palchaci undergoing Special Treatment. While I had reviewed the pictures only two nights before, I was nearly certain Palchaci had not been in any of them, but it wouldn’t hurt to be sure.

Also I wanted to see if we could locate any shots showing that little sneak, Ashad, standing in the background, snatching peeks of Elton and the girls in action.

I flashed a portrait of Palchaci to Imelda, allowed her a long moment to study his profile, told everyone what we were looking for, divided the shots into three roughly equal groups, and we all three dug in.

But if you think it’s fun studying these kinds of pictures in the presence of two stunningly judgmental women, try reading a
Penthouse
while sharing cucumber sandwiches with your mother’s knitting group. I was the personification of a pregnant silence.

It took nearly ten minutes of prudish silence, and the occasional disapproving glance, before Katherine said, “I think I have . . .” She paused to stare at the picture harder, “Yes . . . here . . . take a look at this one.”

We were seated side by side, and I leaned over for a closer examination of the photograph in question. The theme of this particular shot was Lydia holding a man’s Mr. Johnson as June and Andrea pranced around in birthday suits like a couple of Shakespeare’s less modest forest sprites. The lighting was dim and presumably Mike Tiller was wielding the camera as Danny Elton also was included in the shot, standing about five feet from Lydia, staring, but not at her, or at the prancing girls, or even at the prisoner having his puddly girl-handled, but off to his left where, if you looked hard enough, you could vaguely make out a figure standing in the shadows, right around the location Elton had described to us earlier.

Had I not known what to look for, or more specifically, where, I would never have noticed him. It looked like one of those hoax pictures with an eerie ghost in the background—the only things showing were his feet and legs; the rest of him was submerged in darkness. I said to Katherine, “Good catch.”

“No, it’s too vague. We can’t be
sure
that’s Ashad.”

“Right. Must be another Peeping Tom.” I assured her, “It’s Ashad, Katherine.”

“Damn it, I know who it is, Sean. But it’s too blurry, too indistinguishable to take into court.” She slid the photograph off to her left side. “At least we now know
exactly
where to look. Maybe we can find others.”

After another ten minutes of rooting through pictures we found two more, but in none of the shots was it all that clear that the figure in the shadows was Amal Ashad. In the most revealing one, you could make out his whole body up to his shoulders—as Lydia described, he had a long thin torso and broad shoulders—but he was stripped down to his army brown undershirt, thus there was no nametag, no other identifying patches or sew-ons, and his face was still obscured in darkness. Also, the pictures were all a little grainy and, because he was in the background, they were also unfocused at the point where he was standing, so I asked Katherine, “Can we get the originals of these shots?”

“I believe we have the same copies the prosecution has.”

“But you aren’t certain?”

“No, I’m not. But remember the photographs were all stored in a computer. I was told all of us have the same file and thus, the same pixels.”

Imelda, always quick on the uptake, looked at Katherine. “If Mr. Arnold will pay for a lab, there’s ways to sharpen them pixels to make that dude clearer.”

“Good idea.” I nodded and said, “You follow through on that, Imelda.” Then, to both of them, I asked, “Now who did we not see in any of these pictures?”

“Palchaci,” Katherine answered, confirming that she, also, had been paying close attention to what Danny Elton told us during our interview. She then looked at Imelda and explained about Elton’s claim regarding the pictures of Palchaci he forwarded to Ashad.

Imelda took that in. “So somebody’s got more pictures.”

Katherine nodded. “But we know all the pictures were stored in the same computer file.”

I said, “So now we also know the file was sanitized prior to its dissemination. By extrapolation, somebody deleted certain incriminating pictures before they forwarded the remainder to your friend Melvin.”

In truth, this was what I had expected to find when I first heard Elton mention that there were pictures showing Palchaci undergoing special treatment.

I looked at Katherine. “So what do the missing pictures mean?”

“That whoever leaked the file exercised a little damage control first.”

“Controlling the damage to who? Answer that question and we will know who sent the pictures.”

“To everybody.”

“No, he, or she, definitely meant to screw Elton and our client. I don’t think it’s accidental that they didn’t forward anything that might incriminate Ashad or Willborn, or anyone else in the chain of command. And somewhere, there might be even more pictures of Ashad, not to mention Palchaci.”

Katherine responded, “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, Sean. Lydia and the others are being scapegoated, while the people who are truly responsible are being protected.”

Before I could address that charge, or its tone and implications, Katherine’s cellphone began rattling—a tune from a Joanie Mitchell song, naturally—and she withdrew it from her purse and flipped it open, and thankfully, stopped the damn music. I’ve never really been into protest music. I’m the one the protests are about.

After she identified herself, the conversation went something like this, “Yes, I appreciate your reacting on such short notice . . . Uh-huh . . . Yes, I, see . . . I . . . Oh, shit . . .”—her face turned sort of pink—“Uh-huh . . . All right . . . How far along did you say? . . . Okay, thank you.”

She punched off and stared at the tabletop.

Acting on a strong hunch, I asked her, “What did the doc have to say?”

“How did you know?” She stopped staring at the table and looked at me. “About Lydia . . . how did you know?”

“How pregnant is she?”

“You either are, or you aren’t, Sean. It isn’t measurable by degree.”

“Thank you for the explaining that. I was wondering.” Obviously this news had put her in a snippy mood. I gave her some time to cool down then asked, “Do we at least know the name of the proud papa?”

“You can relax.” The look on Katherine’s face did not indicate she had cooled off. “You’re not a suspect . . . not this time.”

I decided to let that taunt pass. How do women know these things?

Katherine shrugged her shoulders, then said, “It’s obvious Danny Elton is the probable culprit.”

What was your first clue, Katherine? I commented, “But I wonder if he knows his fuck buddy is now eating for two.” Then, considering our own client’s general air of blissful ignorance, I asked Katherine, “Was Lydia aware of her condition or did the doc get to break the happy news?”

“Of course she knew.”

“Well, that’s not always the case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve read stories about women who ended up in the delivery room and that was their first clue they were knocked up.”

“Stop getting your news from
National Enquirer
. Of course women know. Monthly periods come to a stop. The body changes. Many experience morning sickness.”

“Really? I’ve had worse hangovers than that.”

“That’s . . .” Katherine did look impressed by my observation. “Let me ask again, how did you know about Lydia?”

I had a funny answer to that but Katherine did not seem to be in a light mood, so I canned the flippancy and instead explained, “Well, she’s packed on a few pounds, and even after two months of incarceration, I thought she looked . . . suspiciously healthy, rosy-cheeks . . . You know, knocked up.”

She examined my face. “I think it was something else. Or someone else. That bitchy lawyer of Willborn’s . . . Margaret . . . or Mabel . . . whatever.”

“You know her name, Katherine.”

“I don’t care about her, or her name. I think after you saw her condition you got the idea.”

Imelda was watching us, and made the wise and timely decision that she really didn’t need to be here for this conversation, so she quickly mumbled something entirely unconvincing about the need to make a fresh pot of coffee, and bolted for the door.

Katherine waited until Imelda was gone and, the moment the door shut, complained, “This case is a mess.”

“Just imagine how poor Elton’s going to feel when he gets the update about little Danny. Or is it Danielle?”

“Stop being a jerk. This is not the time for your sarcasm.”

Obviously there was more going on here than the news that Lydia had the proverbial bun in the oven. I mean, I’m not totally unaware, so I guess I knew what was behind it, and it pissed me off. I wasn’t getting on Katherine’s case about Nelson, a man she was currently involved with, who had recently made a marriage proposal, one she had yet to turn down. And yet, here she was climbing up my ass over a lady with whom I had a shallow one-night affair, and with whom I hadn’t spoken in nearly nine months.

Boy, just imagine if I had actually been sleeping with Katherine.

But I’d had enough of this nonsense and I said to Katherine, “You’re not being rational . . . or fair.”

“Well . . . this case is really bothering me.”

“And
you
volunteered for it, remember? I don’t recall being given a choice.”

“I see. And do you regret it?”

There were two ways to answer that, and I chose survival over truth. “No, I’m having a great time. I can’t remember having such a—”

“You’re lying. This case sucks.”

Yes, and getting worse by the second. I asked Katherine, “This case or being with me?”

She thought about that. “You’re really getting on my nerves.”

“Then I’m sorry, Katherine. But after ten years, you just told me how you feel . . . and I . . . I need a little time to digest that . . . to adjust and—”

“You shouldn’t, Sean. You either care for me, or you don’t.”

“All right . . . I do . . .” Suddenly a frog got caught in my throat, and I took a deep swallow and continued, “I do . . . well, I care for you.”

“That sounded forced . . . like it hurt.”

I tried to put a little more enthusiasm and confidence into it this time “Katherine, I care for you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sean. I shouldn’t have to squeeze it out of you.”

So much for trying to say the right thing. Sometimes it’s not you; it’s them.

But in all the years I’d known Katherine, she was always the cool, cerebral, serene, composed one, while I was the bull in the china shop, emotionally and otherwise. I wasn’t enjoying the role reversal.

I took Katherine’s hand. “Don’t press so hard. I’m confused. I need time to make up my mind.”

“Sean, if you haven’t . . . Look, you’re thirty-eight, single, never been married, probably never even had a serious long-term relationship—”

“And no children,” I interjected.

She placed an accusatory forefinger against my arm. “You need to think about your commitment issues.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Be honest with yourself. The moment it gets serious, the instant a girl expresses interest in you, you slap on the track shoes and make for the highway.”

“Katherine, I’m not the one holding a marriage proposal and straddling two men.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be, would you?” She added, “You would volunteer for a tour in Iraq long before the marriage word came up. You’d rather take the chance of getting your head blown off, then the chance of a long-term commitment.”

See what I mean? “Look, I don’t like being put on the spot this way.”

She looked at me a moment, then said, “You’re right. I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . .”

“I don’t—”

“Wait. Let me finish, Sean.”

She leaned back, away from me, which is never a good sign. “I think you’re still confused about your life, wrapped up in the army, and maybe you’re not ready to commit to someone else, or anything else. I understand that.” She paused to offer me a weak smile. “Maybe I even empathize a bit. But I’m thirty-four years old, I want to have children, and I don’t intend to wait around for you to sort it out.”

I almost replied, I’m not asking you to, but I had learned my lesson and kept my mouth shut.

She said, “This is not an ultimatum”—which of course was exactly what it was—“but I’m not being fair to Nel, leaving him hanging this way. I’m giving myself two days to make up my mind.”