Murder in the Smithsonian (28 page)

***

The Concorde captain’s final words to his passengers were, “If you look down and to your left you’ll see quite a crowd of people celebrating the Fourth of July. Sorry we’re not a few hours later when you could
see the fireworks. They’re quite impressive from up here. Cheery-O.”

Killinworth looked out the small window next to him. The ground was barely visible beneath the sea of people about the Mall. He checked his watch. “Not fast enough, not for four thousand dollars,” he muttered.

***

“Fill me in, Joe,” Hanrahan said. He’d arrived at his office minutes before, and Pearl was waiting for him.

Pearl shook his head. “A certifiable ding-a-ling, Mac. Wait’ll you meet him. I figured him to be young but he’s not. Middle-aged. A nervous wreck, twitches a lot and never finishes a sentence. A piece of work, as they say.”

“Why’d he turn himself in?”

“He says he never wanted to hurt anyone, and when he read about people getting cut from the bomb he decided to come in and take his punishment. From what I gather he wouldn’t have bothered if the injured had been men. Women, that’s a different story. He has a definite psychosexual personality.”

“He does?”

“No doubt about it.”

“Why are you sure he’s the bomber?”

“You’ll know it when you talk to him. He knows too much to be faking it. He’s the one. I’d stake my career on it.”

“Your
career
. No kidding. Well, bring him up here. I want a steno. You read him his rights?”

“Sure, and he called a lawyer. I think he has a little money.”

Pearl no sooner left the office than Commissioner Johnson called. “Mac, What’s with the bomber?”

“Pearl called you?”

“Of course he did. I left a standing order that if anything developed over the holiday in the Tunney case I was to be notified immediately.”

“I was going to call after I had a chance to talk to him.”

“Do you think he’s the one?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him yet. Joe’s convinced he is.”

“Well, I can be reached here all day. We’re having a little family get-together, a barbeque. One thing before I get off, Mac. Don’t let the press get hold of this until morning, and not until I’ve had a chance to think it out. We’ll hold a press conference and make sure it gets reported the way it should.”

The alleged Smithsonian bomber was led into Hanrahan’s office by Pearl and two uniformed officers. His hands were cuffed in front of him. Hanrahan judged him to be in his late forties. He wore thick glasses, behind which a pair of small, green eyes were in constant motion. He wore a shiny blue suit, a green tie and tan shoes with perforations. He was slight, about a hundred and forty pounds. Hanrahan pegged his height at five-six or seven. What struck him most, however, was his head, which tended to come to a point. He had fine blond hair, corn silk cascading down from a pyramid.

“Hello,” Hanrahan began.

“I want my attorney. I’ll say nothing more without my attorney.”

“Sure. I take it he’s on his way. Sit down.” He told an officer to take off the handcuffs. A stenographer arrived and complained about working on a holiday. “Time and a half,” she was told.

Everyone sat silently until the bomber’s attorney arrived. He was tall and distinguished looking, cut from
a D.C. attorney’s mold. “Hello, Harold,” he said. “Are they treating you all right?”

“Yes, they’ve been very nice to me.”

“That’s good.” To Hanrahan the attorney said, “I’m Dell Tierney, Captain, attorney for Harold’s family.”

“What family is that, Mr. Tierney?”

Tierney glanced at Harold, then said, “Could I speak with you privately, Captain?”

They went into the bullpen. Tierney shoved his hands in his rear pants pockets and shook his head. “His name is Harold Benz, Captain. He lives with an aged aunt in Rockville. His father, Morgan Benz, made a lot of money in real estate out west. Morgan Benz claimed to be descended from the duke of Northumberland, Sir Hugh Smithson. Whether that’s true or not is unclear. It’s also unimportant. The point is that Harold
believes
that his father was linked to that family. With normal people that might not be a problem, but Harold has some difficulty with reality. He’s a disturbed young man, I’m afraid. He’s also brilliant.”

“Anybody who goes around setting off bombs is disturbed, Mr. Tierney.”

“Yes, of course. I take it he’s confessed.”

“No, but he turned himself in. We wouldn’t take a confession without an attorney to represent him.” Hanrahan sounded calmer than he felt.

Tierney nodded. “Naturally I’ll advise Harold to say nothing.”

“Naturally.”

“Even if he did confess it wouldn’t stand up, not with his history of institutional confinement.”

“Remains to be seen. What are you suggesting, Mr. Tierney, that we let him go?”

“I can think that’s reasonable—”

“He might have killed people. As it turned out he
injured a few. If he’s as disturbed as you say, he ought to be back in an institution.”

Tierney sat on the edge of a desk. “Captain Hanrahan, I agree with you. If I promise to see that he’s confined and receives treatment, would you allow him to leave with me? In my custody?”

“I can’t do that and you know it. Let me ask you something, Mr. Tierney. Is he disturbed enough to have run a sword through Dr. Lewis Tunney?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I’m still going to have to book him. I’d like his statement.”

“I won’t allow that. I don’t practice criminal law. I’m basically a real estate and tax attorney. I’ve been handling Harold’s aunt’s investments for years. But I can’t allow him to incriminate himself. There’s enough money to hire the best counsel, which we’ll do.”

“Fine. Thanks for filling me in.”

“My pleasure, Captain.”

An hour later, and despite Tierney’s objections, Harold Benz gave a complete if rambling statement to Hanrahan. He was filled with remorse, he said, that people had been hurt, especially women.

Hanrahan’s final question was, “Harold, did you kill Dr. Lewis Tunney?”

He seemed confused by the question. He frowned. “Kill someone? Me? I’d never do that.”

“Okay, Harold.” Hanrahan said.

Harold was led away by the uniformed patrolmen.

“Buy you a beer, Mac,” Pearl said when they were gone.

They went around the corner to a bar popular with cops. Sergeant Arey had gotten off duty and was there with a couple of buddies.

“Weil, Captain,” Arey said. “Was he the one?”

“Looks like it.”

“Did you get my message from the McBean woman—?”

“What? No, no I didn’t.”

“Yeah, she called a few times. I left the message on your desk.”

“I’ll be back,” Hanrahan told Pearl.

He returned to his office and found Arey’s message shuffled in a pile, of papers. “
Miss McBean called. Is meeting a Miss Prentwhistle at seven. Something to do with a Harsa medal.
” Hanrahan tried Heather’s apartment. No answer. The same when he phoned Chloe Prentwhistle’s house.

He called Cal Johnson and filled him in on Harold Benz. Johnson was pleased. “Good job, Mac.”

“I didn’t do anything. He walked in and gave himself up.”

“Well, we’ll prepare a statement in the morning for the press. Can you be in early?”

“How about eight?”

“Make it seven.”

Hanrahan returned to the bar and downed a beer. “Where are you headed, Joe?”

Pearl shrugged. “I was just hanging out at the apartment when they called. I suppose I’ll go home and finish
War and Peace
. Going in for the light stuff these days.”

“Yeah. Funny. How about staying around the office?”

“For what?”

“In case I
need
you. I’ve got to take off… the Tunney case. I’d like you on hand in case Heather McBean calls in—”

Joe started to protest, cut it short. It had been a long cold month of Sundays since Mac had shown even a passing interest in a female of the species.

“Okay, Mac. You got it.” He smiled.

“Don’t be a jerk, Joe.” And he told Pearl about the
message from Heather. “It’s got to be damned important for them to be meeting at seven o’clock on the Fourth of July. I don’t much like it.”

“Probably nothing, Mac. They’re pretty strange folk, that whole museum crowd.”

“I’d still feel better trying to hook up with them. The fact that Heather McBean called means she’s worried too. I’ll get back to you.”

He got in his car and headed for the Mall. Traffic was heavy as tourists tried to get close to the site of holiday festivities. He cursed and slapped a flashing red light with a magnetic base on the roof, activated it and sounded his siren. Cars slowly made room as he snaked his way to the Constitution Avenue entrance to the Museum of American History. He went to the administrative offices, found them deserted except for a security guard. He showed his badge and asked if anyone was working. The guard shrugged. “Just me up here, Captain. They’re never around on holidays.”

“Has Miss Prentwhistle been in?”

“No, sir. Her assistant, Mr. Saunders, was up here for a while but he’s gone.”

Hanrahan left the museum by the Mall entrance. He stood on the steps and looked out over three hundred thousand heads. The aroma of barbeque and chili was thick enough to feel. “Where would someone be meeting at seven o’clock on the Fourth of July?” he muttered. “Heather McBean, where the hell
are
you?”

***

Evelyn Killinworth walked through his front door, saw the disarray in his living room, went to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. The box of cat food was gone. He hurried upstairs and used his key to enter Heather’s apartment. The box was in her kitchen, the top open, the chamois sack gone. “Damn that girl,” he said aloud as he returned to his apartment. He dialed MPD, where
Sergeant Arey was on duty. “Sergeant,” Killinworth boomed, “Dr. Evelyn Killinworth here. Is Captain Hanrahan there?”

“No sir. Was he expecting your call?”

“No. Actually, I was looking for Miss McBean. Captain Hanrahan wanted me to contact her concerning the Tunney case.”

“Yeah, well, she called in looking for the captain.”

“Did she say where she was?”

“No. She’s meeting up with a Miss Prentwhistle at seven. She said—I’ll tell Captain Hanrahan you called.”

“Thank you.”

He called a local cab company and ten minutes later was squeezing himself with difficulty into the back seat of a compact sedan. “The Mall,” he said.

“No way,” the driver said. “That’s like New Year’s Eve in Times Square.”

“I don’t care if it’s like VE Day in Trafalgar Square, you twit. Take me there.”

***

Heather arrived fifteen minutes early at the courtyard between the National Gallery’s East and West buildings. Saunders had been right. It was all but empty. The afternoon’s threatening weather had blown through without depositing a raindrop. The air was again fresh and comparatively bracing for a July day in Washington.

A young man sat in a corner strumming repetitive chords on a guitar. His girl friend, a frail young blond who needed sun to look healthy, sat at his feet and listened. Or was it absorbed? Whatever, Heather was glad they were there. She sat on a sculptured stone bench and felt the Harsa through her leather purse. She began to relax. Chloe would be here soon. For all her shifts in mood, Chloe was a strong woman. Between them they would somehow make sense of this…

She looked at her watch. Seven straight up. She walked to a phone booth and rummaged about in her purse for the change she’d taken care to get earlier. She inserted a dime in the slot and started to dial MPD’s number when a hand reached into the booth and depressed the switch hook. Startled, Heather quickly turned her head.

“Hi,” Ford Saunders said. He was dressed in white jeans, a blue Popeye T-shirt and brown deck shoes. His bizarre getup diverted her from her initial scare.

“You… you startled me,” Heather said.

“Sorry about that. Also that I’m late. I assume you were calling to see where Chloe was.”

“Yes, I was… where is she?”

“She’s been detained. She asked me to come ahead.”

“But I wanted to talk to her.”

“Relax, Miss McBean. Chloe told me to find out what you had to say that was so important. Not to keep you waiting.”

“I… I’d like to see her. She
is
coming?”

“Yes. Let’s sit down and talk.”

“Where is she?”

“As I told you, she’s on her way.” He took hold of her upper arm, holding it too tightly.

“You never told her about the meeting, did you?”

His answer was to press harder. And then: “What did you find, Miss McBean?”

“Let
go
of me.”

“When you give it to me. You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t I—” But by now she was afraid she did.

“The
Harsa
, damn it. Give me—”

What Heather gave him was what she had given the London masher. She brought her knee up into his groin. Saunders doubled over, his face contorted. The guitar
player looked up briefly, went back to playing chords for his worshipful companion.

Heather ran toward the Mall. She looked back, saw Saunders still clutching his groin. The mass of people loomed as a refuge, and she plunged into it. She felt sharp stabs in her injured foot as she moved through the throngs, adroitly skirting some clusters of sightseers, pushing her way through others. Ahead she saw the Arts and Industries Building and the Castle. Crowd noise was all around her, yet penetrating through it were the constant, tinkling sounds of the Mall’s permanent carousel playing, “Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen.” A green-and-white “Spirit of ’76 Tours” bus offered refuge but pulled away too soon.

She was surrounded by people, not one of them a friend.

She reached the carousel, stopped and looked back. If Saunders had come after her, he’d apparently been swallowed up by the crowd. She drew a sharp breath, checked that she still had her purse and its prize, then started west toward the Washington Monument. Hanrahan’s suggestion that she go up to its top while visiting Washington came into her head. What a thing to think of now, she told herself as she pressed on, constantly checking behind her…