The Night Crew (34 page)

He now had become that wolf with his foot caught in the steel trap, and none of his tugging or struggling so far had dislodged it. But he had to attempt one last jerk and said, “Still, everything you’ve said so far sounds circumstantial. You cannot convict a man on circumstantial evidence. No court martial board will render a guilty verdict on something so flimsy and conditional.”

“But that’s not exactly correct, Nate. In fact, I have sent many men to prison on nothing but circumstantial evidence. The Supreme Court recognizes its legal validity. It’s not nearly as difficult as you might think. Given all that I have unearthed so far, and all these promising leads we just discussed, I am confident I can name the killer and provide CID with an incontrovertible case. By tomorrow or the next day, at the latest, I expect to have enough evidence to refer this case to the proper authorities, and to request an arrest.”

I dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table and informed Nate, “Now I really must be going. It’s late and I have to walk back to my apartment in Highland Falls.”

“I can give you a ride, sir. My car is in the parking lot.”

“Thank you, Captain, but I need the fresh air.” I added, “Partner Lane is a short walk. Out the front gate, hang the first right, then up the big hill to the house at the top.”

I stood and looked down at Nate Willborn.

We locked eyes for a moment, and I saw exactly what I expected to see—the tugging had not dislodged his foot and the time to gnaw off his own limb and escape, had passed.

There was only one option left. The time had come to eat the hunter.

Instead of bidding him adieu or farewell, I told him, “See you later.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

I departed the hotel through the front entrance, and then plodded slowly down the hill, directly to the road that led to the front gate, all my senses on high alert. As the crow flies, the distance from the Thayer Hotel to the rented house on Partner Lane was probably a quarter of a mile; on foot, however, it was more like half to three-quarters of a mile. Said otherwise, Nate Willborn had, at best, fifteen minutes to kill me.

Modus operandi. Man is a creature of habit, as much in how he chooses to kill another man as in the way he puts on his pants in the morning. Nate Willborn had killed one man with a baseball bat, one with a car, and one with a knife. All three weapons were different, just as there were differences in time, place, and the choice of his victims. But the essential method was remarkably similar in one regard. Misdirection. Willborn designed his murders to mislead the investigators, diverting suspicion to another man in one case, hiding behind the randomness of an unobserved death in another, and, in the last, leaving clues at the crime scene that were intended to make it appear that someone driven by Islamic madness was seeking retribution.

But in all three cases, he timed and designed his killings to avoid witnesses.

In a court of law, modus operandi is one of several variables you use in trying to prove or disprove a criminal charge, depending on whether you are prosecuting an accused, or defending a client. In this case, I was considering Nate’s past methods as a blueprint of how he intended to kill me.

The note I had sent up to his room with last night’s doggy bag was a taunt, a warning, but more than that, it was an invitation for him to consider killing me.

For, if you considered the pattern he had employed in all three murders, it was clear that Nate Willborn was what a criminal specialist would classify as an organized killer. He planned in advance, so I had given him time to mentally organize his assault. He applied misdirection to conceal his crimes. And he employed the principle of surprise: certainly, that had been his method against Howser and Weinstein—though it would not be with me.

I thought it was a good bet that Willborn would not try to murder me until I was outside the grounds of West Point, as the sidewalk on post was both well lit and under the direct observation of the guard at the front gate.

As I walked through that gate, the MP saluted and said to me, “Good evening, sir.”

I saluted back, and returned his ritual greeting. “Good evening.”

I continued walking, still at the slow pace I had been using. I walked the short block to the street sign that said “Partner Lane” and hung a right onto the road that would be his killing ground. In my left hand was the amulet Terry O’Reilly had issued me; my right hand was stuffed inside my pocket.

I paused when, to my rear, I heard the MP at the gate call out to another pedestrian passing by his post, “Have a good night, sir.”

I looked straight ahead, up the long steep hill to the house at the top where Katherine and Imelda were probably having dinner, or going over the case. As this was a side street in a sleepy village, there was no traffic. The overhead lighting was sparse and spotty, with long swaths of the road hidden in shadows. Small, old homes lined both sides of the street with narrow distances between them. It struck me, however, that Willborn’s avenue of attack would be from the right; he would not want to risk detection by trying to cross over to the other side of the street.

So I kept my eyes to the right as I continued my ascent.

I was nearly at the top when it occurred to me that I might be wrong. Willborn might’ve changed his mind. He might’ve left the hotel dining room, checked out, jumped in his car, and tried to make a run for it. That would be the smart thing to do, and Willborn was certainly smart enough.

I almost began to relax when a figure came sprinting out of a dark space between two houses. I spun to the right and threw up my left arm just in time to catch the brunt of a metal baseball bat swung with full force. I felt the force of the blow and a stab of intense pain, but adrenalin kicked in. My right hand came out of my pocket and in it was my .45 caliber pistol, fully loaded, with a round already chambered, and the safety off.

Just as Willborn was raising the bat over his head, and before he could bring it down again, I raised the .45 and there was a moment, less than a second, in which we stared at each other. I watched his eyes go wide as the realization dawned on him that rather than me, he was about to die, then I fired one round into his face, and six more fast rounds into his chest.

The .45 caliber was designed for the US Army in the early years of the twentieth century in response to the war in the Philippines and the threat of doped-up Moro warriors who absorbed bullets from smaller-caliber weapons, and kept attacking with their bolo knives and machetes. The weapon is not particularly accurate. Because they are large, the bullets it discharges are low velocity. But at a short distance it is an ideal weapon for killing people. The force of the first bullet struck Nate Willborn in the face. The six I pumped into his chest put him down on the tarmac.

I bent down and felt for a pulse. Not even a dying flicker. I then stood up, pressed the amulet in my left hand, and waited for Chief O’Reilly and his crew to come running.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Terry O’Reilly was joined by several members of the village police, and an array of military police officers from the academy, all of whom were loitering around the crime scene without any good reason to be there. Killings are always like cop conventions.

The first responders from the village tried to impose their authority, but, as both the killer and the corpse were dressed in army uniforms, it was hopeless, and they were quickly muscled aside by the military investigators. The Military Academy, being the main reason for the village to exist, not to mention its largest single employer, was a bit like the Vatican in Rome; its power and influence may officially end at the border, but God and the federal government set their own rules.

I was seated on the rear of the ambulance that had arrived, as per standard procedure, because a man had been shot. But the EMTs, after one glance at Captain Nate Willborn’s body, recognized that he wasn’t in need of a doctor, but a mortician, so they diverted all their attention to my left arm.

The head EMT had just informed me, “Absent an X-ray I cannot confirm this, but your radius is clearly fractured and I would guess your ulna may have trauma as well.”

Without a medical journal I had no idea what he was saying, but judging by the pain pulsing from my left arm, I think he was saying it was broken. The EMT gently placed my arm in a sling and advised me to keep it immobilized and to see a doctor, ASAP.

Now that he knew I had not experienced a life-threatening injury, O’Reilly and another man in a bad suit moved in to initiate their interrogation.

O’Reilly gave a good demonstration of cool professionalism by starting off, “Jesus H. Christ . . . I mean, Jesus H. Christ. You blew that guy’s fucking head off. Then you pumped six more rounds into his fucking heart. Holy shit . . . Jesus H. Christ.”

This sounded like a fairly accurate rendition of what I had just done, though Jesus was definitely not a coconspirator. I nodded.

He said to me, “Haven’t you ever heard of the fucking expression, excessive force? You were less than three feet from the guy. One bullet from that cannon you used was more than enough to stop him. Jesus H. Christ. Why did you keep shooting?”

I was tempted to tell him that he was asking the wrong question. Why had I stopped firing before my magazine was empty—that was the question he should be asking. The .45 automatic carries seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. I had deliberately left one bullet in reserve in the event the others didn’t do the trick. The French call it a coup de grace, an elegant way to describe the inelegant butchering of a man who survived an execution. Thankfully, my bullets hit the mark, so I did not have to discover if I was really that cold-blooded.

“He wasn’t worried about excessive force, so neither was I, Chief.” I added, “It’s a dark night. I had no idea whether my bullets hit him.”

“Bullshit . . . that’s bullshit. From that distance, you couldn’t miss. This looks like something personal.”

“I barely knew the man.”

“Bullshit.”

I stared straight ahead.

“What was your relationship with the victim?”

“He was one of the witnesses in the trial. I met with him once or twice to clarify certain elements of his testimony.”

“More bullshit.”

I made no response.

“Was he testifying for, or against, your client?”

“If you’re suggesting that I would assassinate witnesses to influence the outcome of the trial, there are enough prosecution witnesses in this case to fill five morgues. You insult your own intelligence with that suggestion, Chief.”

“When was the last time you met with him?”

“Less than an hour ago. We shared dinner. At the Thayer Hotel. I was walking back to our house when he attacked me.”

“Yeah? So what got said at that dinner to make him decide to kill you?”

“It was a nice, quiet meal. I enjoyed his company. Ask the restaurant staff.”

“Are you saying you have no idea why he was trying to kill you?”

“I can’t read his fucking mind, Chief.”

“Neither can I. You blew it out of his head.”

I suggested, “If I had to take a guess, he didn’t like lawyers.”

O’Reilly replied, with real conviction, “I can understand that.”

“Under the circumstances, I think he should be regarded as a suspect in the murders of Captain Howser and Major Weinstein.” I then made the helpful recommendation, “You and the FBI should try to establish if Willborn was in Colorado the day Howser died, and the DC area the day Weinstein was killed.

“No shit. I think I figured that out on my own.” He bent toward me, and warned, “Here’s a little good advice, counselor. While, circumstantially, this looks like self-defense, it’s definitely something more than that.”

“I’m not following your logic, Chief.”

“Then let me make it clearer for you. You gave us the slip a few hours ago, getting rid of your protection, which might also be construed as eliminating any possible witnesses.” He asked, “Why did you give the shake to my boys?”

“Weren’t they behind me?”

“Don’t try that shit on me, Colonel. You know you did. You took them on a chase through post, then all those little shops in town you dodged in and out of.”

“Chief, I will not be held responsible for the incompetence demonstrated by your agents.” I shook my head. “I believed they had my back. I had no way of knowing otherwise.”

He fell back on his favorite conclusion and said, “Bullshit.”

“You said yourself that they are good boys, able to follow me without me even knowing it.”

He recognized his own words, and clearly did not enjoy having them thrown back in his face. His jaw became tight and his hands balled into fists. “I’m tempted to put you in cuffs and haul your ass down to the MP station on post where we can continue this discussion in a more conducive environment.”

“Ordinarily that would be an option, Chief. Except the killing occurred off-post, here, in Highland Falls, meaning neither you nor the army has the jurisdictional authority to investigate, or to produce charges against me. And if you take one step in my direction in an attempt to apprehend me, I’ll have you charged with assaulting and kidnapping a superior officer.”

He did not acknowledge this, as it was not in his interest to do so. But it was a reminder to him that he was dealing with every cop’s worst nightmare—a lawyer as a suspect.

But like the good cop he was, he had to get one last lick. “This isn’t over, Colonel. Army CID will offer the village police everything at our disposal.”

“Are you through?” I asked. “My arm requires immediate treatment in a hospital.”

O’Reilly was a good guy and I got no joy from treating him this way. Despite not being on the criminal end of things, so far his instincts and insights about what really happened were mostly spot on.

Poor Nate Willborn had gotten himself into something much bigger than he understood, maybe too big for anybody to understand, both back in Iraq, where he had killed a man and ignited a scandal, and then, here, at home, where he murdered two army lawyers to cover up what he’d done over there.

Along the way he had placed himself in a position where the fate of an entire war rested on whether he was discovered or not. Some three thousand men and women had already given their lives to the cause; tens of thousands more had lost limbs, other body parts, and in some cases, their minds. It did not seem fair or just—at least, not to me—that after everything they had fought and sacrificed so much for, the one chance for it to become a success should be thrown away because one army captain became upset with his lousy performance reviews and decided to take out his frustration on one stubborn Iraqi prisoner.

I did, however, feel some sympathy for Nate Willborn. He had voluntarily left the cool, leafy suburbs of Boston only to end up in the worst shithole on the planet, a madhouse in a country he did not understand, as part of a war he also did not fully understand. Around him Amal Ashad and Danny Elton and the rest of the night crew were going mad. It should surprise nobody that Nate Willborn caught a little whiff of that madness.

But once I decided that Nate Willborn murdered Palchaci and two army lawyers, it occurred to me that there really was no way to place him under arrest and on trial, at least not without exposing the continued existence of Amal Ashad and the cover-up of what really happened at Al Basari—throwing away the one good chance to win the war.

The truth was, I convicted Nate Willborn in my mind, and I then maneuvered him into a position where he saw no choice but to kill me. The discussion he and I had shared over dinner was a preview of how any competent prosecutor would present the case against him at a trial in front of a board of his peers; I was confronting him with the criminal narrative and the evidence that would be used against him. In turn, Willborn was revealing to me the alibis and lies he would employ to conceal his guilt. His defense was weak. It was full of holes large enough to drive a guilty verdict through, and I think he recognized this.

I’m a good lawyer: I certainly did my best to make him recognize it.

Of course, I gave him the time-honored chance, as any good lawyer or cop would do, to turn himself in, and try to work a deal.

But if I was honest with myself, it was an offer I knew he would never take. I knew he had killed two men in cold blood to conceal his crimes, I knew he had sat back and watched five American soldiers be pilloried and tried for a crime he committed, I knew he deserved to die, and I knew it would be better for everybody concerned if I pulled the trigger and blew the brains out of his head.

And, too, O’Reilly was right about another thing. I could have easily aimed my .45 to maim or disarm Nate Willborn.

Where he was wrong was in suggesting that was ever an option in my mind.