"Thank you."
"No, I mean it. You look really… good in a suit."
What the…? Following her eyes to the far corner of the room, there hung a life-size blow-up of an idiot in nothing but his Hanes briefs standing beside an armored van. Attached was a banner reading, "Major Underpants Strikes Again." Somebody had a sense of humor.
I smiled at Lila.
She smiled back.
I looked Lila in the eye and said, "Get rid of that picture."
"On eBay… tonight." She added, "By the way, three guests are waiting for you in the conference room."
So off I went to the conference room, where indeed, three men in blue and gray suits and Phyllis with a pissed-off expression awaited. Phyllis tapped her watch and said, "You're late."
"Punctuality is the habit of the weak-minded."
"I think you mean punctuality is the habit of those who want to keep their jobs."
"Exactly"
She introduced me to the three gentlemen, named Larry, Moe, and Shemp. Or perhaps they were named Larry, Bob, and Bill. I wasn't in a particularly charitable mood.
Larry flashed an FBI shield and beamed a pseudo-smile. Bill and Bob shuffled their feet. Nobody mentioned it, but something in their shifty manner suggested they were from the Bureau's equivalent of internal investigations.
This was better than a congressional subcommittee, but not much.
Larry appeared to be the ringleader-he invited me to sit, and he informed me that his team was cleaning up some loose ends and probing a few unresolved matters.
Nobody read me my rights, which is always a good sign. Larry glanced at Bob, and Bob put a tape recorder on the table. Bill reached forward and turned on the recorder. I'm not making this up.
Larry informed me, "This is an official testimony Be accurate and truthful, as best you can. Speak clearly. Now recount for us your involvement in the case involving Jason Barnes."
So I did.
About two dozen times, Larry, or Bob, or Bill interrupted to ask me to clarify a certain point or elaborate on some event. Three times Bob changed tapes, and Bill turned the recorder on and off each time. Seriously, I'm not making this up. But they were good listeners, and they had done their homework and seemed to be up to speed on what occurred, because they knew the right questions to ask and didn't waste too much of my time.
They seemed particularly interested in who killed whom, so I related what MaryLou told me and I hypothesized that-by process of elimination-the rest were murdered by Clyde or Hank. I shared my view that I didn't think Jason pulled any triggers himself.
Bob confided that in fact, ballistics comparisons from the weapons found on the bodies at the townhouse confirmed this guess. Yet there remained open questions about who fired the LAW on the beltway and who pushed the button that exploded the bomb that killed Joan Townsend, as though it really mattered.
But these people wrote reports for a living, and their lives were dedicated to leaving no blank spaces on any form. So they batted around a few theories, and I listened politely, without comment, until we got down to the nutcutting, which turned out to be not an inappropriate metaphor.
Larry said to me, "So when you arrived at the townhouse, only the red pickup was present. Correct?"
"No, the yellow pickup was also present. I was driving it."
Larry didn't like being corrected and snapped, "That's what I meant."
"Then say what you mean." I didn't like Larry very much.
Bob asked me, "Do you know where the black pickup was? The one driven by Clyde Barnes?"
"Why?"
"If you don't mind, we'll ask the questions."
"Bob, I do mind. If you want me to keep answering your questions, you'll answer my questions."
Bob leaned toward me and said, "I'm not here to cure your curiosity, Major. We can always compel your testimony"
"How, Bob?"
"What?"
"I don't work at your Bureau. How will you compel my testimony?"
"We have our ways. Answer my question," Bob insisted. Incidentally, I didn't really like Bob either.
Larry again asked if I knew where the black pickup went after we departed the shopping center and before Clyde returned to the townhouse.
I replied, "Larry, I'm developing a serious memory lapse."
Bill appeared to be the designated good cop. He said, very amiably, "All right, Sean. Some of the money seems to be missing."
"Seems to be missing?"
Bill smiled unctuously. "Hey… you got me there, didn't you? All right-it is missing."
"How much is missing, Bill?"
Time for Bob, and he said, "None of your business."
"It is now."
Larry felt the need to assert himself. "Drummond, I don't like your attitude. I'll remind you again, this is an official investigation"
When that didn't seem to work, Larry turned to Phyllis and said, "Reason with him."
Phyllis smiled at Larry and replied, "I've tried from the day he started working here. The only advice I can offer is to answer his questions. He sometimes responds well to reciprocity."
Larry, Bob, and Bill looked a little baffled by this insight. I'm sure Bureau employees were scared out of their wits by these guys. I'm sure Larry, Bob, and Bill asked, and everybody popped out answers. I was just as sure I'd be an idiot to answer another question without knowing what this was about.
It was Bill's turn again. He said, "About twelve million is missing."
"About?"
He smiled again. "Twelve and a half, to be precise."
I remarked, "Precision is always good, right, Bill? I mean, what if you guys had identified yourselves as internal investigations or whatever you are, and what if I had been distrustful of you right from the start. What if I knew this was an interrogation, not a debriefing. That wouldn't have been good, would it, Bill?"
Bob said, "You'd be well-advised to can the sarcasm, Drummond."
Phyllis interjected, "He can't. It's like Tourette's syndrome. It just spills from his lips, an uncontrollable river."
I smiled at Phyllis. She smiled back. I really liked her. I think she was getting used to me.
Bob and Larry thought Bill had the best chance with me, and he took over. But I didn't really like Bill either, to be honest. He was the sneaky type. Bill said, "Help us determine where the money went. You told us it was loaded in the back of Clyde Wizner's truck when he departed the shopping center. Between our discussions with Agent Sanchez and with you, we've managed to time out approximately how long it took each pickup to arrive at the townhouse. You arrived with MaryLou Johnson, you said, perhaps ten to twelve minutes behind Hank Mercer. Correct?"
Bill examined my face for confirmation. I stared back at him, sort of blankly.
Eventually Bill said, "We know for sure that Clyde Wizner arrived at least thirty minutes later. What did you and MaryLou Johnson talk about during the nearly forty-five minutes you were alone together?"
"Mostly, Bill, we argued about where my cut was to be delivered." Obviously this was a joke. Right? I should work on my comic timing.
Bill did not laugh, or even smile. Bob examined me more closely.
Larry decided I was kidding. He was sharp. He leaned toward me and said, "When Clyde Wizner first called, he specified that you had to be the courier. Why you? And how did he know you?"
"Ask him."
After a moment, Bob also leaned forward and informed me, "The Army would not allow us to view your military records, which they said are classified and sealed. However, the Office of the Judge Advocate cooperated with our request for information. We were informed that although you were never actually stationed at Fort Hood, on three different occasions you were there on temporary duty, once for over two months. Isn't it possible that during those months you might have met Clyde Wizner?"
"Of course, Bob. It's possible."
Larry saw that Bob wasn't doing well, and said, "Here's another thing we find interesting. Agent Sanchez informed us that you initially refused to take the tracking device."