Authors: Brian Haig
“And Daniels was part of this cell?”
“Yes. A founding member.” Phyllis continued, “Now the question Congress wants answered is who cooked up the evidence that led our nation to war on phony premises. Specifically, the Iraqi nuclear progress that turned out not to exist. The stockpiles of chemical weapons that have never been found. The terrorist connections that haven’t materialized. The White House and the Pentagon have been madly leaking to the press and pointing their fingers at us. Clifford Daniels knew where the truth is buried. Follow his path and you shall learn that truth.”
“And the truth shall set you free.”
“Not this time.” She stared off into the distance a moment, contemplating how much to tell, or not to tell me. She eventually said, “Bear this in mind also. Lord knows what Daniels has been involved in since the war started. With luck, it’s possible you might uncover that as well.”
“Would that be good luck or bad luck?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”
“Phyllis, this isn’t doing it for me.”
“Well, then ask anything you like.”
“Are we talking espionage? Was Cliff Daniels betraying our country?”
When she made no reply, I said, “I need you to clarify this.”
“I can’t make it any clearer.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She smiled. When you ask a senior officer in the Army an impertinent question, you get a direct rebuke, like, “That’s enough, Drummond,” or the less ambiguous, “Have you ever seen the prison at Leavenworth? It sucks.” Senior CIA officers are shrewder, more austere, polished. They tend to couch their responses nonverbally, like they know there’s a hidden recorder in the room. So you get a frozen stare, or a slight knit of the eyebrows, or an icy smile. You need to listen with your eyes, because somewhere between the polite nod and the slight twitch of the left nostril, you’ve just had your balls cut off.
I moved on and asked, “If I find something, how am I supposed to handle it?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”
“That’s not good enough. Are we talking damage to my career, or damage to my life?”
We looked at each other and I realized I was getting in way over my head. She informed me, “This man Daniels was involved with the Iraqis for nearly twenty years. He knew where a lot of bodies were buried, and I think you’ll find his fingerprints on a lot of things that were hazardous for his health.” She added ominously, “Don’t let those things become hazardous for your health.”
Suddenly, I could see why a lot of people would want Clifford Daniels dead, quietly buried, and long forgotten.
When I walked out of Phyllis’s office, Waterbury was gone, and Bian Tran was standing alone, beside the water cooler, smiling.
W
e carried Daniels’s briefcase to a small windowless side office whose occupant had been told to get lost so a pair of prodigies from the Agency’s Office of Technical Support could perform a little on-the-spot forensics on Clifford’s computer. Bian and I entered the office and made our introductions. They were named Will and John. They looked like Delbert and Elbert.
Will had thicker glasses than John, with wider black rims, and he had more pens and pencils in his pocket protector. Based on the geekiness factor, I handed the computer to Will, who immediately popped it open, flipped it on, and they both erupted in giggles.
Apparently thinking I cared, Will and John tried explaining their intentions—decoding Daniels’s password, breaking through any fire-walls that were erected, then digging through the hard drive, where the really good stuff would be found.
From my experience, too much time on a computer alters your physical appearance, and your outlook. Will, for instance, was almost transparently pale, with a large, flat butt, a scary, myopic stare, and he seemed totally clueless about how to interact with people who aren’t connected to a joystick. John was the type who seems to believe all of life’s problems can be fixed or repaired with a thorough virus scan. I mean, they were probably good guys, and competent, too. A lot of nontechnical people become uncomfortable in the presence of computer geniuses, and I’m one of them. I felt ashamed of my small-mindedness.
Anyway, it was all very interesting. In fact, John was just winding up a comprehensive and, dare I say, spellbinding explanation about the protocols involved with firewalls when I pulled out my gun and plugged them both. Just kidding.
Actually, I wasn’t armed, so I did the next best thing—I fled.
Even Bian, who had showed enough familiarity with the subject to ask them a few probing and intelligent-sounding questions, looked relieved to get out of there.
We stopped off at the coffee machine, filled a cup for me, a cup for her, and proceeded to my cramped office carrel, where we sat.
I mentioned, “Why did you ask
questions
? It only encourages them.”
She smiled. “The expression on your face when I asked about code-mapping made it all worth it.”
Obviously needing to change the subject, I mentioned, “Incidentally, I was very impressed with your boss. Does he ever pull his head out of his butt?”
“I could see you two hit it off. Is this the start of something beautiful and lasting?”
“Personally, I like the guy. I really do. I’m going to do my best to develop a warm and amicable relationship.”
“Bullshit.”
“Right. Who is he?”
“Former military. A retired MP colonel, in fact. Look, I know he’s a little intense, somewhat rigid . . . but he’s good at his job. Very deliberate, by-the-book.”
“Like Adolf Eichmann.”
“Good analogy. But, well . . .” She searched her mind for something nice to say and came up with, “At least there’s never a mystery about where he’s coming from.”
“Okay. Where is he coming from on Clifford Daniels?”
“Who the hell knows?” She laughed.
“He knows.” After a moment, I asked, “So, how should we approach this thing?”
Bian understood exactly what I was asking, and why. At the start of a murder investigation you usually have a corpse, if you’re lucky, also a murder weapon, and you have to dig for the rest—things like motives, suspects, and, for good measure, sufficient evidence, eyewitnesses, and elements of proof to get the bad guy an appointment on the hot seat. Sometimes—very often, in fact—the killer is an idiot and leaves a mother lode of clues and leads that draw a straight line from victim to killer—such as fingerprints, sperm cells, DNA markers, witnesses, and, increasingly in this cinematic age, the deed might even be captured on videotape. Killers, at least most killers, really aren’t that clever or deceitful.
This wasn’t one of those cases. Here, I suspected, we had that rare criminal who operated on a higher plane—thus, where we began, and how we began, would determine how fast we went and how many dead ends we hit.
She sipped her coffee. She suggested, “Okay, let’s
assume
it was murder. I think we’re both leaning that way. Procedurally, approach it like a standard homicide case.”
“Good idea.”
“Why don’t we start with suspects?”
“Okay. I think there are lots of people who wanted Daniels’s mouth sealed. People here, perhaps, Americans who are worried about the political fallout and/or the damage to their careers if he spilled the beans to a congressional committee. So that includes the people he worked with, and the people he worked for, up to and including the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States.”
She nodded.
I continued, “Possibly, there were some Iraqis who wanted him dead. And—”
“Can’t you be more specific?”
“Well . . . there are some Iraqis who might carry a grudge because our friend played a heavy role in persuading the President to invade their country. Small-minded, of course—but people can be petty. Or maybe Charabi, or some of his associates, wanted to keep him from exposing some nasty secrets.”
“This is pretty open-ended, isn’t it?”
“Not yet. We’re only at about thirty million suspects. Don’t rule out enemies with more intimate motives—teed-off girlfriends, angry husbands whose wives Cliff may have been popping, a jealous ex-wife, a greedy brother who stands to inherit the full family fortune, or—”
“Okay—thank you. I think that covers the range.”
“No it doesn’t. The range is everything you expect, and everything you don’t.” In fact, I once prosecuted a murder that turned out to be over a pair of running shoes. Premeditated murder, too. The victim’s parents were in the courtroom, and I’ll never forget the shattered looks on their faces when they learned their son took three bullets in the gut over a pair of hundred-dollar athletic shoes that in six months would be vogued-out, worn-out garbage. The reasons people kill other people are almost endless, sometimes picayune, and often ridiculous. I looked at Bian and said, “Killers have limitless imaginations. Don’t narrow yours.”
“I’ve got it,” she said. “Forget the suspect angle. Let’s try reconstruction.”
“Good decision.”
“I’ll raise the facts we know. You suggest the hypotheses.”
“Bad decision. Why don’t I ask? You’re the cop.”
“It
was
my idea.” She punched my arm. “Besides, lawyers are more creative bullshitters.”
Right.
After a moment, she said, “There was no sign of burglary. What does this suggest?”
“That Daniels let the murderer into his apartment, suggesting further that this was someone he knew. Or the murderer had a key, suggesting someone he knew even better. Or the murderer was an expert lock picker. Or Daniels’s lock malfunctioned.”
“The lock works. After I left you in the bedroom, I checked.”
“Between ratting me out, you found time to inspect the lock?”
“Oh, get over it.”
“I did. You made up for it.”
“How’s that?”
“You could have informed Waterbury that I entered Daniels’s apartment with a false ID. But you didn’t. Or you could have contradicted me and confirmed that I already suspected that Daniels’s briefcase contained evidence. Again, you didn’t.”
She nodded but made no reply.
I looked her in the eye. “Why didn’t you?”
“What would be the point?”
“That’s what I’m asking.” After a moment, I again asked, “Why?”
Instead of replying, she asked me, “Why do
you
think?”
“I think you don’t like or trust your boss.”
“He is a . . . difficult and . . . an aggravating man to work under.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“That too.” She laughed.
I did not laugh. “Also, I think you’re worried that your own department wants this thing buried. Not covered up, necessarily—but we both know an internal investigation would move at a snail’s pace, in very oblique directions, and only a small circle of friends would be exposed to the sequel.”
She did not confirm this, but instead asked, “And why would I care about that?”
“You want me to assume it’s because you’re motivated by higher sensibilities. A West Pointer, that duty, honor, country thing.” I looked her in the eye and said truthfully, “In fact, I believe you are motivated by these factors.”
“But you think there are other motives, too. Right?”
Right.
I looked at her. “If we’re going to be working together, I’d like to know about them.”
“You don’t trust me?”
I did not, but there was no point in saying that. Instead, I said, “We could find things that will be very embarrassing and possibly very damaging for your bosses. I’d like to know where you stand, how you’re going to react.”
“You’ve read too much into this.” She looked at me and said, “I think you’re very clever, very observant, and you seem to have a firm grasp of investigations. I want to solve this, and you’ll make a good partner. That’s the professional reason.” After another moment, she added, “And maybe I like you. Perhaps this is clichéd . . . you remind me of somebody.”
“You’re right. It’s clichéd.”
“And true. My fiancé. He’s in Iraq, a major with the First Armored Division.” She examined me a moment with those warm eyes. “You don’t look alike, but you share so many quirks and mannerisms. It’s almost uncanny.”
It did not escape my notice that she had changed the subject, but this sounded more interesting and certainly more pleasant than the topic of murder. “Such as?”
“Mark . . . that’s his name . . . Mark has a certain swagger, a way of moving. Sexy. Self-assured. And you both have this unnerving habit of shoving people around when you think you’re right and they’re in your way.”
“And you’re engaged to this guy?”
“He has some rough edges.” She laughed. “I’ll fix him
after
we’re married.”
That’s what I love about women.
She looked at me. “Also like you, he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, he has no sense of self-preservation, and—”
“Excuse me—weren’t we talking about a crime reconstruction?”
She smiled, sort of.
Back to the matter of how Daniels died, I said, “Fact two. The man was dead on his own bed with the gun in his hand.”
“Yes. Why?”
“He either put it there himself, or it was placed there. If you’re building a mental flowchart, this one’s fifty-fifty.”
“All right. Fact three. He was naked with a hard-on. What do you deduce from
that
?”
I stared at her.
She asked, “Should I rephrase that?”
“Too late.” I suggested to her, “The most innocent explanation is that he was enjoying a moment of sexual solitude before he killed himself. We already discussed this.”
She did not ask me to review that discussion, but instead wisely suggested, “But there are also less innocent explanations, right?”
“Apparently. He had company, and the company did not behave the way he anticipated.”
“Female company.”
“Well . . . don’t discount the possibility that Mr. Daniels’s taste ran the other way, or that he was a switch-hitter. But we’ll work with that assumption until we know otherwise.” I said, “And here’s where it gets interesting. Why would he have a dirty video in the machine?”
“You tell me.”
“This is beyond my experience or imagination.”