Murder at the Pentagon (6 page)

She awoke before her alarm clock did its job, thanks to a torrential downpour and the stiff wind that erupted with it. The weather posed a transportation question for Margit—car or bus? She’d get soaked walking to catch the bus. On the other hand, if she took her car, she’d get soaked walking
from her parking space. Always some major decision to make, Major. One of the things Margit enjoyed about being in the military was that the choice of what to wear each morning depended only upon the seasons. No need to debate whether this scarf went with that blouse, whether this skirt matched that jacket. There was summer and there was winter, with dress versions of each to be worn as appropriate for the occasion.

She sat next to a captain with whom she’d become acquainted on previous bus rides. Assigned to the Office of Special Investigations (OSI), whose headquarters was at Bolling, he was a pleasant, open sort of fellow, not the investigator type. She couldn’t resist: “Anything new on the Dr. J. murder?”

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Do you think they’ll ever solve it?”

“ ‘They’ll?’ ”

“The investigators. Your office.”

“I’m not involved with it,” he said. “I’ve spent the last two months investigating commissary theft.”

“Oh. Mice?” She smiled and turned to a Dick Francis paperback mystery that had been her bus companion the past few days.

Jay Kraft was out again, which didn’t displease Margit. She had settled at her desk and started to write a report when Max Lanning motioned for her to join him in the hall.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s coming down in an hour.”

“The Joycelen case?”

“Yes, ma’am. His name is Cobol. Robert Cobol, captain, United States Army.”

“The CIA liaison officer you mentioned?”

“I think so.” He looked up and down the hall, waited until a battery-powered cart passed them, then leaned into her ear. “Can I tell you something strictly off the record? QT? For your ears only?”

“As long as it’s not classified.”

“I would never tell you anything classified, Major Falk.
The word is that this Captain Cobol killed Dr. Joycelen over a personal matter.”

“Death’s always pretty personal,” Margit said.

They stopped talking. A tour led by a backward-peddling army corporal rounded the corner and came in their direction, the tour leader spouting a canned speech they all used. After they’d passed, Lanning said, “They were lovers.”

“Joycelen? This Cobol?”

“That’s the word.”

Margit leaned against the wall. “Joycelen was married twice. He was engaged to be married again. I met his woman. She was no transvestite.”

“That’s what I heard, which makes the story seem stupid. Right?”

She looked directly into his eyes. “Right.”

“I’m just passing on what I heard. They’re making the announcement at ten.”

“Where?”

“Here. In the building. I don’t know any more than that.”

“You seem to know a lot.”

“I keep my ears open. Hey, you don’t mind that I share this with you, do you? I mean, I figured you’d be interested, that’s all.”

“No, I don’t mind. It’s nice of you. I suppose we’ll all know the real story at ten. I have to get back. A heavy-duty report to get out. Can I offer you a suggestion?”

“I’d be honored.”

“Be careful who you tell things to.”

He looked hurt. “I just tell you, Major Falk. I’m the original Tight Lips, believe me.”

“I believe you.” She didn’t, of course. Just as it is impossible for anyone to have only one phobia, gossips are constitutionally unable to limit themselves to a single listener.

The press conference was held in the large room used for the Pentagon’s daily press briefing. This morning, augmenting reporters assigned to the Pentagon, who had only to stroll across the corridor from their newsroom, were crime and
beat reporters, gossip columnists, free-lance magazine writers, foreign press, and the producer of a popular network TV show that presented true-crime stories each week.

The conference started promptly at ten. By ten-fifteen the first reaction to the announcement spread through the building. Like a joke that changes in the telling from person to person, the recounting of what had been said was altered as it traveled. But the basic facts were evident: Army captain Robert Cobol, a CIA officer assigned to the Pentagon as liaison with the Joint Chiefs’ Compliance Testing and Space Division, had been charged with the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. The murder weapon found at the scene, an army-issue, Italian-made Beretta 9-mm automatic handgun, belonged to the accused. This was confirmed through the weapon’s serial number. In addition, his initials were engraved in the weapon’s handle. No motive had been established, at least not in the reports that reached Margit’s office, nor was there any mention of homosexuality. The investigation had been conducted by a special unit established by the secretary of defense, and included close cooperation with the FBI. Cobol was in custody at an unnamed location. End of statement.
“No questions at this time.”

The rain made it impossible to enjoy the center court for lunch that day, so Margit brought back to her office one of the seven thousand sandwiches and thirty thousand cups of coffee that would be purchased that day from the building’s six cafeterias and nine stand-up snack bars. She considered going to POAC for a quick workout, but decided her time would be better spent at her desk.

Lieutenant Max Lanning was out of the building all afternoon driving SecDef’s general counsel to meetings across the river. He returned just as Margit was packing up to leave. “Well, what do you think?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “Have you heard anything that hasn’t already been around this building a hundred times?” she asked.

“No. I had an hour to kill waiting for him and popped into a bar with a TV. They ran the press conference again. Pretty short. Didn’t say much.”

“Well, I’m heading home,” Margit said. “I’m sure they’ll be repeating it every hour on TV. Have a nice evening, Lieutenant.”

“You, too, Major.”

She stopped at Building P-15 before going to her quarters, and worked out on a Nautilus and enjoyed the sauna. Refreshed, she went to her BOQ and flipped on the television. It was only minutes before a newscaster led into another rerun of portions of the Joycelen news conference. The announcement was made by Lieutenant General Morris Paley, director of the Defense Criminal Investigation Service, who’d been assigned by SecDef to spearhead the Joycelen investigation. He was joined at the podium by Frank Lazzarus, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“As unfortunate as this incident has been, we can take some solace in the speed with which the accused has been apprehended. A special task force that included selected members of the uniformed services, and special agents of the FBI, have worked round the clock to bring this phase to a quick conclusion. A brilliant and dedicated man, Dr: Richard Joycelen, has been taken from us. I can assure everyone that justice will be pursued to its fullest extent under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I can also assure you that the accused, Captain Robert Cobol, will be fairly tried under that same code.”

The anchor reappeared and said that reporters’ questions had not been answered, including those about the motive for the murder, the circumstances that had led investigators to Captain Cobol, whether he’d confessed to the crime, and whether legal counsel had been chosen.
“Stay tuned.”
A commercial for a thirst-quenching, or thirst-inducing, soft drink filled the screen.

Her phone rang.

“Hello, Major. Mac Smith.”

“Hi, Mac. We had a very nice time with you two.”

“Good. And thanks for the flowers. How are you?”

“Fine. Annabel’s prettier than any flower. Me? I just came back from working out.”

He laughed. “So did I. You know what they say about a healthy body. Next I’ll try for a healthy mind.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“Annabel and I were thinking of having a bite out. We know Jeff’s away, and wondered if you’d care to join us.”

It was tempting. It was Friday night, and she was off-duty until Monday morning, but she declined the offer. Things had been piling up on her lately—letters to write, reading to finish, a manicure to get to. “Another time, I hope,” she said.

“Sure. I assume you’ve heard the news about Joycelen.”

“Hard to miss.”

“Anybody bring up the rumor of a homosexual slant to it?”

She thought of what Max Lanning had said but decided not to repeat it. He was the only person who’d raised it, and considering his penchant for gossip … “No, no facts on that. Have you?”

“Locker-room blatherskite. Doesn’t make sense, considering Joycelen’s long marital history.” Before she could respond, he added, “Of course, being married doesn’t necessarily mean a lifelong pledge to heterosexuality. Nasty business, those kinds of rumors. They can be misleading. Say ‘gay,’ and some people think all motives fall into place. If I’ve heard them, I’m sure it’s all over town by now, replacing cocktail chat about nuclear bombs, aid to the Russians, and who Beardsley will nominate for the Supreme Court vacancy. Well, wish you could join us, Margit. Annabel sends her best.”

“And mine to her. It’s nice—and therefore typical—of you two to think of me. Thanks for the invitation.”

She changed into pajamas and robe, pulled the ingredients for a simple, healthy dinner from the refrigerator, and sat at the window. She missed Jeff. She wished they could spend time together that weekend. She thought of her father, with whom she’d been very close, and of her mother, whom she hardly knew at all. She was sad; it could turn into a depressing weekend if she allowed it. She looked at her nails and
considered working on them. Looked as if they could use some rehabilitation. She picked up the phone and made an appointment with the base beauty shop for a haircut, manicure, and pedicure at eleven the next morning. Sometimes, you just had to do those things. They might not contribute to the security of the United States of America, but they’d do quite a bit for hers.

Under ordinary circumstances Margit would not have been required to keep the base locator informed of her whereabouts while off-duty. But because recent events in the Middle East didn’t fall into the ordinary category, many Pentagon commands and offices had instructed their personnel to do just that. Margit felt slightly foolish informing the duty airman that she would be at the beauty parlor, but she did. As it turned out, it was just as well she had. The result, however, was one she could have done without.

Work on her fingers and toes had been completed. The polish on her nails was still wet; she was afraid to touch anything. Tiny pieces of white cotton separated her toes; her feet rested in paper sandals designed for such artwork. Her hair had been cut, and the young woman who’d wielded the scissors with considerable skill now held a dryer to Margit’s shorter-shorn head.

“Phone call for Major Falk,” a woman at the reception desk announced.

Desperation was painted on Margit’s face. The woman
laughed and said into the phone, “Major Falk is indisposed at the moment. Can she call you back in a half hour?” The reply was obviously negative. “Hold on,” she said, placing the receiver on the desk and crossing to Margit’s chair. “He says it’s important.”

Margit shuffled to the desk and picked up the phone between her thumb and middle finger as though it were contaminated. “Major Falk,” she said.

“Major, this is Lieutenant Lanning.”

An instant anger flared in her. She enjoyed their office banter, but to call her at home—even worse, here at the body-and-fender shop—was inexcusible.

“Sorry to bother you, Major, but this is no for-fun call. The boss told me to get ahold of you right away.” The boss was Colonel James Bellis, general counsel to the secretary of defense.

“Why?” she asked, feeling less angry.

“He wants you at the office at two this afternoon,” Lanning said.

“What for?”

“Major, I don’t know. I’m just following orders.”

“Is it a general staff meeting?”

“I don’t know any more than what I’m telling you. But no. Two o’clock sharp.”

“All right, I’ll be there. Thank you for calling, Max.”

“Hey, Major.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What?”

“I think it might have to do with the Cobol thing.”

“Cobol?”

“Nothing tangible, except I heard his name mentioned yesterday afternoon, and I heard your name mentioned in the same breath.”

She was not about to pursue this latest line of speculation, thanked him again, and hung up.

Being summoned to the General Counsel’s Office set up several reactions in Margit. She suffered them simultaneously as she returned to her chair and waited for hair, hands, and feet to dry. Had she done something wrong to be summoned
on a Saturday? Weekend duty wasn’t unusual in the military, but this sounded serious. Could Max Lanning, Pentagon scandalmonger, be correct in his assessment? It was inconceivable that her meeting with Colonel Bellis could have anything to do with the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. She kept that thought in mind as she returned to her quarters and prepared for the meeting, paying particular attention to her uniform and shoes.

The Pentagon parking lot was only a quarter full. Still, she parked in her designated slot lest some overzealous security guard be called upon to boost his weekend summons tally. She went to her office and pretended to be busy, but her thoughts focused exclusively upon what she might face twenty minutes from now.

At 1:55 she entered the general counsel’s reception area. The door to his office was closed, and she wished his secretary were there. She paced, checked her watch: two o’clock straight-up. She knocked. His familiar gruff voice barked, “Come in.”

Colonel James Bellis was a contradiction in style. Very much the career soldier, exhibiting some of the rough edges career soldiers seem compelled to adopt, his law training—Harvard, and a stint at Oxford—spoke of considerable intellectual depth. He was a marine. The hair on the side of his head, and what was left on top, had been red but was now accented with gray. Freckles covered his forehead and spread up into his bald pate. He had the complexion of a redhead; Margit had heard that he’d had dozens of basal-cell skin cancers removed over the years. He liked to talk informally, off-the-cuff, but there was a military formality that could not be ignored. On this Saturday, seated at his desk, he had no rolled-up sleeves or tie pulled loose from the collar. He was in full uniform and sat erect in his chair.