Camel Club 01 - The Camel Club Read online

  “Oliver, I had no idea. Of course, you can.”

  As Stone walked to the Library of Congress, he thought about Patrick Johnson’s killers. They would know soon that the eyewitnesses had not gone to the police. And they might see an opportunity there that could lead to the extinction of the Camel Club.

  CHAPTER

  17

  ALEX PULLED HIS CAR OFF THE George Washington Parkway before it ascended sharply along the Potomac River, and parked in the lot for Roosevelt Island. The only access to the island from the parking lot was a long footbridge.

  The parking lot was filled with police cruisers and unmarked federal vehicles. A team from the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office was here as well as an FBI forensics squad. Alex knew he’d be running a gauntlet of suits and uniforms by the time their visit was over.

  “Busy place,” Simpson commented.

  “Yeah, it’ll be fun to see the Bureau and the Park Police fight out jurisdiction on this one. The D.C. cops will run a distant third.”

  They stepped onto the bridge and flashed their credentials at a guard posted there.

  “Secret Service?” the uniformed cop said, looking a little confused.

  “President sent us. Top secret stuff,” Alex answered, and kept on walking.

  They quickly made their way to the crime scene along the marked paths. As they drew closer, Alex caught snatches of conversation and the sounds of cell phones playing a cacophony of downloaded tunes. Alex was proud of the fact that his phone simply rang when someone called him.

  The two agents stepped into the paved area in front of the T.R. statue, where Alex looked around, mentally assembling the players working the homicide.

  The D.C. and Park Police stood out because of their uniforms and somewhat deferential manner. The forensics techs were also easy to spot. The suits standing around looking like they owned the place were the Bureau boys undoubtedly. Yet there were some other suits Alex couldn’t identify.

  He stepped toward what he’d picked out as the ranking park policeman. Getting the uniforms on your side was a very good rule to live by.

  “Alex Ford, Secret Service. This is Agent Simpson.”

  The policeman shook their hands.

  Alex inclined his head at the body. “What do we have so far?”

  The cop shrugged. “Probable suicide. Looks like the guy shot himself in the mouth. We won’t know for sure until the M.E. does the post. The guy’s in full rigor. We can’t get his mouth open without screwing things up for the autopsy.”

  “That the FBI over there?” Alex inclined his head at two suits standing near the body.

  “How’d you guess?” the cop said with an amused expression.

  “Superman capes sticking out of their jackets,” Alex replied. That comment drew a chuckle. “How about those guys?” he asked, pointing at the other men he’d noted earlier and who were talking quietly together.

  “Carter Gray’s boys from NIC,” the man said. “They’re probably analyzing what Al Qaeda has against Teddy Roosevelt.”

  Alex grinned and said, “You mind copying us on whatever you find? My boss is one of those real anal-retentive types.”

  “Sure thing, though we don’t have much interest in the case so far. His wallet’s still on him, and there’s a suicide note and a handgun with one round fired. And it looks like the guy sucked down nearly a quart of Scotch. You can still smell it. There’re prints on the gun and bottle, and the revolver’s registered to him. We’ll run the prints to confirm they match the deceased.”

  “Gunpowder residue on the hand?” Simpson asked.

  “None that we could see. But the weapon looks very new and well maintained. And even with a revolver you may not get residue.”

  “Any sign of a struggle?” Alex asked. The cop shook his head.

  “One thing,” Simpson said. “Did he drive here to do the deed?”

  “No car in the parking lot,” the cop said.

  “Well, somebody could have shot him and driven off,” said Simpson. “But if it was a suicide, how else could he have gotten here?”

  “There’s an elevated pedestrian bridge on the north end of the parking lot that crosses the GW Parkway and connects to the Heritage Trail and Chain Bridge,” the cop said. “And a bike path crosses the bridge and ends in the parking lot for the island. But we don’t think that’s how he came. Somebody would’ve seen him if he’d used those routes.” He hesitated. “We have another theory. His clothes are soaked, too much for it to be just dew.”

  Alex finally got it. “What? You’re saying he swam here?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Why? If he was in the water already and wanted to commit suicide, why not just go out by sucking in a bunch of the Potomac?”

  “Well, if he just swam across Little Channel from the Virginia side, it’s not very far,” the cop pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Alex retorted. “But if you’re going to come from that direction, why not just take the footbridge that goes over Little Channel, instead of sloughing through it? And if he was stone drunk, he would’ve drowned.”

  “Not if he drank the Scotch when he got here,” the cop answered. “And there’s something else.”

  He called out some instructions to a member of the forensics team canvassing the area. The man brought over something and handed it to the cop, who held it up. “We found this.” It was a plastic evidence baggie with another plastic baggie inside it.

  Alex and Simpson studied it. Alex got the answer first. “He used this to put his gun in so his ammo wouldn’t get wet while he was swimming here.”

  “You win the prize. It was a .22 revolver with jacketed rounds.”

  “I understand there was a suicide note,” Alex said.

  The cop pulled out his memo book. “I wrote it down verbatim.” He read it to the two Secret Service agents, and Simpson copied it down in her notebook.

  “Do you have the original note?” Alex asked.

  “And you are?” a strident voice asked.

  Alex turned and was confronted by a short, compact man in a two-piece Brooks Brothers, muted tie and shiny banker wing tips.

  Alex flashed his creds and introduced himself and his partner.

  The man barely glanced at the creds before announcing, “I’m FBI Special Agent Lloyd. We already have agents from NIC here to represent the Service’s interests.”

  Alex assumed his beleaguered federal lawman pose. “Just following orders, Agent Lloyd. And quite honestly, the Service likes to rep its own interests. I’m sure the Bureau can understand that losing someone from N-TAC is a sensitive area, what with us being part of Homeland Security instead of Treasury now.” Alex knew that Homeland Security carried a lot more beef than Treasury ever had in law enforcement circles. And if nothing else, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla Bureau tended to respect the nine-hundred-pound gorilla that Homeland Security had become.

  Lloyd looked like he was going to shoot back some ripping comment but then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. “Fine. Go play Sherlock Holmes. The body’s right over there. Just don’t contaminate the crime scene.”

  “I really appreciate it, Agent Lloyd. I was asking about the note that was found.”

  Lloyd motioned to one of the other FBI suits, and the note was brought over.

  Lloyd said, “They’re going to fume the clothes and other stuff for latent prints, but I’m not confident they’ll find much. It’s a suicide.”

  Simpson spoke up. “Cloth isn’t great for capturing latents, but that jacket he’s wearing isn’t a bad surface, particularly since it was damp and the weather last night was good for holding prints. Your tech guys have a Superfume stick in the truck? You can’t beat cyano for popping latents on surfaces like that.”

  “I don’t know if they do or not,” Lloyd said.

  “It might actually be better if you take the clothes to the lab. You can fume them in a heat-accelerated chamber or a megafume. I know the FBI lab has those.” She pointed t
o the suicide note. “Pop that in a heat chamber with ninhydrin or DFOSPRAY, and it’ll pull whatever’s there right out.”

  “Thanks for the pointer,” Lloyd said tersely, although it was obvious he was impressed with her knowledge of fingerprint lift techniques.

  Alex looked at Simpson with new respect, and then his gaze returned to Lloyd, who was staring darkly at her.

  “You’ll need to confirm it’s his handwriting on the note,” Alex added.

  “I’m aware of that,” Lloyd said.

  “I can get the Service’s lab to run it. And whatever fingerprints that might be there.”

  “The FBI lab has no peer,” Lloyd shot back.

  “But our lab has less of a backlog. We are on the same team here, Agent Lloyd.”

  This comment seemed to strike some cooperative nerve buried deeply within the stubborn FBI man. After a few moments his manner totally changed. “I appreciate that, Agent Ford.”

  “Make it Alex, she’s Jackie,” Alex said, inclining his head at Simpson.

  “Good enough, I’m Don. We’ll actually take you up on that offer. The FBI lab is pretty full with terrorist-related matters. You’ll have to sign for it for chain of custody. The M.E.’s a stickler for that.”

  Alex did so and then examined the paper closely through the plastic before giving it to Simpson to hold. “So we have any motive for the suicide? I heard he was getting married.”

  “That’ll sure drive some men to kill themselves,” the cop said.

  That comment drew a laugh from everyone except Simpson, who looked for a moment like she might pull her gun and produce some dead men of her own.

  Lloyd said, “Too early to tell. We’ll investigate, but it certainly looks like Patrick Johnson killed himself.”

  “No signs of anyone else having been here?” Simpson asked.

  The cop answered, “There might have been, but then fifty schoolkids came marching through. It was still foggy here this morning. They almost tripped over the body. Scared the crap out of them. The stone pavers here won’t be of much help for footprints or other trace.”

  “What path did he use to get here?” Alex asked.

  “Probably that one.” The cop pointed to his left. “If he swam across Little Channel, that path would’ve been the one he’d use after he walked through the trees and crap.”

  Lloyd added, “We’re making a search along the shore for his car. He lived in Bethesda, Maryland. He had to drive down here reasonably close and then swim for the island. If we find his car, we can better pinpoint where he entered the water.”

  Alex glanced toward the Virginia side. “Guys, if he swam across Little Channel, the only place to leave his car would be in the parking lot.”

  The cop shrugged. “But he didn’t. Unless someone drove him to his suicide spot and then left. That doesn’t make much sense.”

  “The police boat usually runs through here,” Simpson noted.

  Lloyd nodded. “They did in fact come by here last night. But the fog was so thick they didn’t see anything, certainly no swimmer in the water.”

  “How long has he been dead?” Alex asked.

  “M.E. thinks about twelve hours give or take.”

  “Any thoughts on why he picked Roosevelt Island?”

  “It’s private, quiet, but still close to everything. And maybe he was a Roosevelt groupie,” Lloyd added. The FBI agent glanced over at the men from NIC, frowned and then turned back to Alex. “We’ll be heading over to NIC to ask some questions, see if we can find out why Johnson would want to kill himself. What we learn might get those guys”—he motioned to the NIC folks—“a little more paranoid than they already are.”

  “Meaning Johnson might have been doing something at NIC he shouldn’t have?” Alex said.

  “Hard for me to say, since I’m not really sure what it is they do over at NIC,” Lloyd commented before walking off.

  “Join the club,” Alex muttered. He motioned Simpson to follow him over to the body. “Your stomach gonna be okay with this?” he asked her.

  “I was a homicide detective in Alabama. I’ve seen plenty of gunshot wounds and dead bodies.”

  “I didn’t know Bama was such a killing field.”

  “Are you kidding? Alabama has more guns than the entire United States military.”

  Alex squatted down and looked at Johnson’s body. He felt one of the stiffened arms. The sleeve was soaked through, and the body was still in full rigor.

  There was dried blood coming from the ears, nose and around the mouth.

  “Basilar fracture,” Simpson deduced. “The blood seeps down from the base of the fractured skull. The M.E. will probably find the slug near the top or the back of the head. Since it was only a .22 caliber, he would’ve had to really shove it up there to get a clean trajectory.”

  “There’s some blood spatter on the sleeve but only one small blood drop on the right hand,” Alex added. “That’s a little surprising.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes there’s less bleeding when the slug stays in the head.”

  “Probably right.”

  Over his shoulder Alex called out, “Where was the gun and note found?”

  The cop answered, “Gun was on the right side of the body, about six inches away. The note was in the right side pocket of his windbreaker.”

  When Alex rose, he bit back a searing pain in his neck. It almost always gave him a jolt when he stood quickly. Simpson looked at him.

  “You okay?”

  “Old yoga injury. What do your Alabama homicide detective instincts think?”

  Simpson shrugged. “I learned that the prelim manner of death was usually right.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. What does your gut say?”

  She spoke quickly. “That we need to know a lot more before we close the book on this one. This wouldn’t be the first case where the preliminary findings were misleading.” She nodded over at the NIC guys. “I doubt they’re going to be very cooperative.”

  Alex stared at the men. If there was one agency that was more shrouded in secrecy than the CIA and even the NSA, it was NIC. He could easily envision the roadblocks being erected with a foundation of national security interests outweighing everything else. While it was true that the Secret Service used that tactic at times, Alex had a lot more confidence in his agency invoking that authority properly. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable with NIC chambering that particular silver bullet.

  “So what do you think?” Simpson asked him.

  Alex studied the ground for a long minute and then looked up at her. “Not to sound too selfish about it, but I think this is going to be a pain in my ass that I don’t really need at this point in my career.”

  As Alex and Simpson were leaving Roosevelt Island, the two men who’d been identified as being with NIC hustled over to them.

  “We understand you’re Secret Service,” the tall blond one said.

  “That’s right,” Alex replied. “Agents Ford and Simpson out of WFO.”

  “I’m Tyler Reinke and this is Warren Peters. We’re with NIC. Since Johnson was a shared employee between our two agencies, it’ll probably be best if we work together.”

  “Well, it’s pretty early on in the game, but I don’t mind sharing so long as I get something in return,” Alex answered.

  Reinke smiled. “That’s the only way we play the game.”

  “Okay, so can you arrange for us to interview the people Johnson worked with?”

  Peters said, “I think so. Do you know anyone at NIC?”

  “Well, you’re the first two I’ve ever found who would admit you worked there.”

  Both Reinke and Peters looked a little chagrined at this comment.

  “Here’s my card,” Alex said. “Let me know when you’ve got it set up.” He pointed to the bagged note in Simpson’s hand. “We’ll also run a comparison on the handwriting on the note, to make sure it’s Johnson’s.”

  Peters said, “I actually wanted to talk to you about the
note. We’ve got lots of handwriting experts on staff. They can turn that around pretty fast.”

  “The Service can get it done quickly too,” Alex countered.

  “But NIC has a hundred samples of Johnson’s handwriting at work. I’m just offering to help make things go faster. Cooperation is the key these days, right?”

  Simpson piped in, “That note is evidence in a homicide investigation. The M.E. might have a problem letting you take it. It’s one thing to give it to the FBI or Secret Service, we’re sworn law enforcement.”

  “Actually, we are too,” Reinke said. “And I’ve already talked to the M.E. and pointed out that there are national security interests here. He was fine with us taking custody of it so long as the chain of evidence was properly maintained.”

  “Well, I’m sure that scared the hell out of him,” Alex said. He pondered for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay, let us know ASAP. And check it for prints too.”

  After Peters had filled out the appropriate paperwork with the M.E., he gingerly took the note. “Carter Gray’s going to be on the warpath. Probably already is.”

  “I can see that,” Alex replied.

  After the NIC men had left them, Simpson asked, “So what do you really think?”

  “I think they’re assholes who’re gonna pitch my card in the nearest trash can.”

  “So why’d you give them the note, then?”

  “Because now that they have control of material evidence in a homicide case, that gives us a great excuse to go to NIC and see things for ourselves.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  CARTER GRAY HAD RISEN AT six-thirty and arrived back at NIC forty-five minutes later. In the NIC lobby were a series of stark black-and-white photos that every employee had to pass each day. One showed the World Trade Center towers ablaze. The photo next to it graphically captured the rubble and empty space where the towers had stood. The crippled Pentagon was in the third photo, a hole punched in its face by the American Airlines jet. A fourth photo showed the stark crater in the Pennsylvania field, the final resting place of the doomed United Airlines flight. The picture beside that one captured the blackened and blistered skin of the White House where two rocket-propelled grenades had hit and actually entered the East Room of the president’s house, and the one next to it showed the devastation of the Oklahoma City bombing.