Man in the Middle (3 page)

Tran asked, “Do you have a clear view?”

“I . . . Am I missing something?”

This question for some reason elicited a smirk. “Yes, I think you probably are.”

I took this as a suggestion and walked across the room to a position on the far side of the body where the forensics dick no longer obscured my view. I began at mid-body and worked up, then back down.

The first thing I noted was a purpling around his butt and upper arms, as you would expect a few hours after his heart went out of business and gravity cornered the market on blood flow. His stomach had already bloated with gas, and I saw no bruising or abrasions on the corpse. His eyes were frozen open, and his facial expression indicated surprise, or shock, or both. I spent a moment thinking about that.

About two inches above his left ear was a small dark hole, roughly the size of a 9mm bullet, which was indicative that the Glock in his left hand was the weapon that did the dirty deed. I took a moment and examined the pistol more closely. As I said, a silencer was screwed to the barrel, and as I also said, it was a Glock, but a specialty model known as the Glock 17 Pro, which I knew to be expensive and usually imported.

The bullet had been fired straight and level, and part of his right ear, half his brain, and chunks of his skull had produced a sort of Jackson Pollock splatter arrangement on the far, formerly white wall.

No wedding ring—thus Cliff Daniels either was not married or, based on the photographic evidence in his living room, was keeping it a secret.

More interesting, for a man who in so many ways seemed so inconspicuous, in one very notable way Clifford Daniels, at least in his present state, was anything but—I mean, I’m fairly comfortable about my own manhood, but I wouldn’t want to have a locker beside Cliff’s.

And most interesting of all, his right hand was gripped around his other gun, and at the moment of passing he appeared to have been in a state of sexual arousal. Goodness.

I walked back over to Ms. Tran. She looked at me and asked, “You saw it?”

“It?”

Silence.

Somebody had to say something, and eventually she defined
It
. “He’s so . . . large.”

“Oh . . . that? I don’t call that big.”

She smiled.

“Of course, it’s not about the size,” I told her.

“Wrong.”

“Right.”

We suddenly found ourselves on thin ice. I mean, here we were, a man and a woman, barely acquainted professionals, sharing a small room with a monster Mr. Johnson flying at full mast.

She suggested, “I suppose we have to address his, well . . . his state of . . .”

“His what?”

“You know . . . his . . .”

“Spell it out.”

She said, sounding annoyed, “That’s enough, Drummond. We’re both adults.”

“Really? You should ask my boss about that.”

“Look . . . the corpse has . . . had an erection—okay? Let’s just keep it clinical. Act like professionals. We can deal with this.”

“Good idea. After all, you can’t ignore the elephant in the room.”

She put a hand over her mouth and smiled, or maybe frowned. Then she mustered a stern look and said, “I hope that’s out of your system.”

“Not a chance.”

“Well . . . now, here’s the good news. I think we can rule out erectile dysfunction or penile insecurities as motives for suicide.”

We laughed.

I mean, we both were affected by this man’s death, sympathetic about the miseries that led to such a tragic act, and professionally dedicated to getting to the bottom of this.

Eros and Thanatos—sex and death. When the ancient Greeks wrote about sex, it was comedy, and of death, tragedy. So the scene before us was a combination of sad, nauseating, and ridiculous. As every cop knows, satire is a coping mechanism, a path to detachment, without which you haven’t a prayer of catching the bad guys.

Anyway, that was her excuse. My dog ate mine.

I cleared my throat, and tried to clear my mind, and asked, “So, was it murder or was it suicide?”

“Well . . . the lead detective mentioned a few other things you should be aware of.”

“Go on.”

“When the maid entered the bedroom, the TV was on . . . as was the DVD player, albeit in passive mode.”

“So he watched a little tube before he pulled the plug. Maybe he didn’t like the show. Rather than get up and turn the channel, maybe he pushed his own stop button.” I recalled a lady friend who once made me watch a full episode of
General Hospital
; I thought seriously about killing myself.

She said, “A porn video was in the DVD player.”

We exchanged eye contact.

She added, “I’ve never seen or heard of this with a suicide. Have you?”

“I’ve read of cases where certain sexual fetishes resulted in death. For example, asphyxiation, or near asphyxiation, apparently heightens the sexual sensation.”

“I’ve heard of it. In those cases, though, death is accidental, an unwanted by-product. That doesn’t apply here.”

“Maybe he was holding his breath when he blew out his brains.”

I thought she was going to make me stand in the corner. She said, “Sexual asphyxia . . . that’s the clinical expression for the fetish you’ve raised. It involves strangulation, a sudden disruption of blood, and therefore of oxygen, to the brain. But that’s not what happened here, was it? He watched a dirty movie, he put a pistol to his head, and he blew out his brain.”

I had a really funny response to that, having to do with the possibility that he accidentally blew out the wrong brain. But I sometimes obey my better angels, and instead I suggested, “You could theorize that he used the tape as a distraction from a task that was surely unpleasant. A mental diversion . . . a form of mental anesthesia.” Recalling the conversation with my lady shrink friend, I informed her, “Here’s another thing to consider. With suicide victims, the manner of their death often expresses what they were thinking, their final thoughts.”

“All right . . . I can see where that makes sense.” She gazed thoughtfully at Clifford Daniels’s body and asked, “What do you think was the last thing that passed through his mind?”

“A 9mm bullet.”

I think I had worn out her stamina for my bad jokes. In fact she said, “Try again.”

“Well, it’s not necessarily a conscious or even deliberate arrangement on the victim’s part. Maybe he was experiencing a final narcissistic impulse. You know, like subliminal exhibitionism run amok.”

“You think?”

“I think it’s fair to say that Clifford had one exemplary feature. Wouldn’t you agree? Maybe he wanted to be remembered for that.”

I couldn’t tell what she was thinking about this, but she remarked, “Men are really strange.”

“Check the nearest magazine rack. Males have no monopoly on sexual exhibitionism . . . or oversize organs, or weirdness.”

“And you consider who buys those magazines, and why.” She then concluded, “You raise an intriguing point, though. I’ll be sure to consult with a psychiatrist about this.”

Which offered the opening I’d been waiting for. “Why are you here? Have you got a piece of this case?”

“Why are
you
here?”

“Ladies before gentlemen.”

“Oh . . . now you’re a gentleman?” It wasn’t that funny, but she laughed.

I should mention why I asked. Bian Tran’s tan- and loam-colored outfit was not your ordinary feminine attire, but a desert-style camouflage battle dress uniform with Uncle Sam’s Army embroidered above her right breast.

The Army uniform can be both illustrative and informative. For instance, the insignia on her right collar—crossed dueling pistols— designated her a member of the Military Police Corps, which might have something to do with her presence here. And from the gold leaf on her other collar, she was a major, with the combat patch on her right shoulder indicating she had a full combat tour under her belt, and had done her part to secure Western civilization, such as it is.

Regarding the person inside the uniform: thick, straight hair, parted down the middle, black in color, and shoulder length, as per regulations, which not all women follow. Eyes large, black, Asiatic in cast, with arched eyebrows that were slyly expressive. I estimated her age at about thirty—young for her rank—so she probably was very good at her job, and there was a warm intelligence in her eyes.

“I asked why you’re here,” she said.

Vietnamese by name and by race, though her English carried no hint of an accent, in fact was flawless—idiomatically correct, native in tone and inflection, and so forth. Light on the makeup and, if you’re interested, as I sometimes am, no wedding band, just a practical black plastic runner’s watch, tiny gold West Point ring, and a plastic-wrapped dog-tag chain around her neck.

All in all, I thought Bian Tran was an impressive specimen of soldierly attributes—fit, wholesome, and freshly scrubbed; ready to launch a volleyball on the beach, or a fire mission on an enemy village, whichever the occasion calls for.

She now looked a little miffed and said, “Remember as kids when we played I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Would you just tell me why you’re here?”

Also she was quite attractive, though of course in the new Army we don’t notice those things. A soldier is a soldier, and lust is a weakness monopolized by the hedonists outside the gates.

Oh, yes, and another thing I didn’t notice was the lovely body beneath that camouflage. Svelte, muscular, sexy.

Anyway, I had clearly worn out her patience, and I had a good alibi and informed her, “Well . . . an FBI liaison works at the Arlington police headquarters. As the victim is—or
was
—an employee of the Defense Department, our liaison thought we should take a look.”

“What does that mean?”

“If it turns out to be murder, we might exercise jurisdiction. If suicide, on the other hand, it’s beneath Bureau dignity and interest— we’ll let the locals keep it.”

“How generous.” She stared at me a moment. “Why would the FBI be interested even if it
was
murder?”

“We wouldn’t, necessarily. My job is to report back. The big guys make the call.”

She nodded.

“And you? Why does the Army have an interest in the death of a Defense Department civilian?”

“I’m not working for the Army right now. I’m assigned to a Special Investigations unit that reports to the Defense Secretary. The office Cliff Daniels worked in was notified by the Arlington police that he was dead. They called my office, and here I am.”

“Investigating, or fact-finding?”

“Like you, I’m expected to compile a brief report on the circumstances of Daniels’s death. Nothing more.”

“Did you know the victim?”

“No.”

“Who gets the report?”

“The header will be the Secretary of Defense’s Office. However, it will be read by one of his staff assistants, and probably ignored.” After a moment, she added, “Unless Mr. Daniels was murdered.”

“And then?”

“This is my first case like this. My office doesn’t usually handle violent crimes. Fraud, theft, and sexual improprieties are our bread and butter. But my guess would be the Secretary’s Office will send a letter to the Arlington Police Department and ask to be kept in the loop.”

I smiled. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Death . . . the amount of paperwork it generates.”

“Sure is.” She smiled back. “Look, I have to go talk to the lead detective again. Do me a favor?”

“I’m all yours.”

“I neither need nor want
all
of you, Drummond.” She smiled. “Just keep an eye on that briefcase.”

“Briefcase? I don’t see—”

“That one.” She pointed it out. “The one you accidentally nudged under the bed.”

“Oh . . . I hadn’t—”

She put her finger on my chest. “I intend to have it dusted for prints. Don’t let me find yours on it.”

CHAPTER TWO

T
he moment Bian Tran stepped out of the bedroom, I shifted position, closer to the bed and directly behind the forensics specialist, who remained bent over the body, manipulating tweezers and picking debris off the sheets. I cleared my throat and asked, “What are we seeing here?”

“It’ll all be in my report,” he replied.

“Okay, but—”

“Aren’t you
listening
? I said it’ll be in my report.”

I allowed a moment to pass. Then I withdrew a pen and a small green notepad from my pocket. “What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your name—spell it.”

He straightened up. “What are you talking about?”

“For
my
report.”

“What the—”

“Back at the Bureau they throw monumental fits over silly things like misplaced modifiers and split infinitives. Misspellings really make them pissy.” I added, “I think it’s because we hire too many lawyers and accountants. You know? Totally anal.”

“I still don’t know what—”

“It’s fairly simple. I can spell ‘impeding a federal investigation.’ I just need to be sure I get your name right, Mr. . . . ?”

“Reynolds . . . Timothy Reynolds.” He turned around and faced me, and in a nasal, whiny voice, said, “I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Aren’t we all, Tim?” I flashed my phony FBI creds in his face. “Now what are we seeing here?”

Timothy looked around for a moment, obviously torn between doing his job and mollifying the impatient prick with the federal badge. He insisted, “Well, nothing conclusive. On the surface, it appears the victim committed suicide.”

I let a moment pass and asked, “What about below the surface?”

“You must understand that I can’t answer questions with any accuracy until everything’s run through lab analysis.”

“Of course.”

“Also I haven’t yet taken prints from the gun.”

“Check.”

“Obviously, this is very important, and—”

“Noted.”

“A complete toxicology and serology will need to be worked up. If the victim was on drugs or under the influence of alcohol, that can—”

Holy shit
. “Shut up, Tim.” I took a deep breath and tried to recall my question. “Is there any physical matter we should be concerned about at this stage of the investigation?”