“Ahh, that asshole. You stay away from him. He’s a bad egg.”
“Really?”
“One of them white supremacist nuts. Was even helping train some group of goombahs in the backwoods. Williams was a real wacko. That’s why we booted him out.”
“How’d you find that out?” I asked.
“Ah, we tapped all of your phones. Bet you never knew that, did ya?”
I instantly tried to recall every phone conversation I had ever had when I was with the outfit. “No, sir,” I managed to croak.
“Oh yeah,” he said, “I heard every word you ever said about me, Drummond.”
“Well, you know. The heart grows fonder and all that crap.”
“Okay, Drummond, get back to it. And watch your ass, boy. Don’t forget. Read up on Phoenix.”
I hung up, returned the secure key to the duty sergeant, and walked back to my tent. Then I lay down and got three more hours of sleep before I showered and shaved, got dressed again, and went to our little wooden building.
Imelda was still asleep on her cot by the file cabinets when I came in. She could’ve had one of her girls do the guard duty, but that wasn’t Imelda’s style. I tiptoed over to the coffeemaker and prepared a pot. Then I went into my office and waited till it was percolated. Imelda awoke while I was pouring a cup.
“Fix two,” she growled.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black. Bone black. That cream and sugar, that crap’ll kill ya.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled. I quickly maneuvered my shoulder to block her view as I added a third spoonful of sugar to mine.
While Imelda crawled out of her sleeping bag I carried the two cups over, politely turning around to give the lady some privacy. After a minute I heard her stomping her combat boots on the floor, and I turned back and handed her the coffee. Then I hooked a finger and indicated for her to follow me.
I sat at my desk and began writing on a legal pad while asking, “So, how’d you sleep?”
“Good as can be. You?”
“Like a baby. Went to bed early and got the first full night of rest since we got here,” I said, holding up what I’d written on the page.
It read, “Research this: Operation Phoenix.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Good. Maybe you won’t be such a grumpy asshole to my girls anymore.”
I wrote out: “Vietnam era. Might find it on Internet.”
I said, “Today, what I’d like to do is work on the summary statement. I told Delbert and Morrow I’d write it.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said, also nodding her head at what I wrote on the paper.
“You know how I like to do these things. I’ll be wandering in and out all day, trying to compose my thoughts.”
“You don’t need to tell me, Major. I know how you like to work.”
“Good. Thanks, Imelda.”
“No problem,” she said, wandering back out of my office.
In the interest of authenticity, since I couldn’t be sure whether one or more of Imelda’s girls was informing on me, I quickly began scribbling out a long, rambling statement about how Sanchez and his men were completely innocent of all charges. I wrote fast and didn’t worry about syntax or literary refinement. It only had to be convincing enough that if anyone checked, they would believe I was doing my part in the whitewash.
I scribbled for two hours, then there was a knock on the door. When I looked up, Martie whoever and David the wimp, my two favorite CID agents, were standing there.
“What?” I said.
“Could you spare another moment of your time, Major?” Martie asked.
I decided to be politic. “Sure. Can I get you coffee?”
“No thanks,” he said as the two of them entered and sank into the chairs across from my desk. “We’ve already had half a dozen cups. I’m jittery as hell.”
Their haberdashery had not improved in the past two days. Today Martie was dressed in a checkered suit, with a checkered shirt and a checkered tie. He looked like a walking chessboard done in three shades. David wore a more conservative chintzy-looking blue blazer, a dark blue shirt, and a garish tie covered with pastel-colored flowers that looked as if they were exploding. He reminded me of a hybrid between a mobster and Bozo the Clown. These guys were hard to take seriously.
“How’s the investigation going?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. A piece here, a piece there. These kinds of things, you rarely find a golden nugget that breaks it all open. Usually it takes a lot of small clues.”
“You took the footprints, right?”
“Yeah. They’re back in the lab in Heidelberg.”
“Anything else interesting in Berkowitz’s notebook?”
“Tough to tell. You learn a lot about a guy when you investigate his death. Take Berkowitz. The guy was a real slob. Dirty clothes and candy wrappers everywhere. Left notes and scribbles all over his damn room. We’re still sorting through it.”
“I heard there’s lots of new reporters in town.”
“A whole army. They’re climbing all over the information officer’s ass. And you know how the feeding cycle works. They chew on his ass, he chews on mine.”
“I guess,” I said. “So is there anything specific you want to talk about?”
“Uh, yeah, actually.” He looked up and stared at my ceiling. “Just thought I should inform you that I’ve got two agents in your tent right now. I’ve got a military judge’s order to search your personal possessions and to borrow your running shoes.”
I didn’t like the sound of this one bit. I took a sip of coffee and tried not to look distressed. This wasn’t easy. I was feeling very distressed. I don’t know why, I just was.
I gave him a hard stare. “And may I ask why?”
“Just some lingering concerns about a few notes Berkowitz left behind. Don’t get all bothered, though. We’re just borrowing your shoes to compare them with some molds back at the lab.”
“But I shouldn’t be concerned?”
“No. It’s just standard procedure. We’re collecting lots of molds. You never set foot in that latrine, right?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Then we’ll get you cleared faster than you can say Jack the Ripper.”
Chapter 22
One thing you learn when you practice criminal law is that the moment a police officer tells you not to be concerned, start gnawing on your nails. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I didn’t have anyway near enough time or attention to worry. I kept writing my opus summary while I waited for Imelda to bring me some materials on Operation Phoenix.
She waltzed back in at quarter after eleven and dropped a bunch of printouts on my desk.
“Where have you been?” I bellowed.
She bent over and began writing on my yellow legal pad.
“Workin’,” she said. “I made the supply run, then ran all over this damn post lookin’ for printer cartridges.”
I watched what she was writing. I said, “Well, I’ve gotten a lot of work done, and I want someone to start typing.”
“And what’s with you?” she barked. “Is your ass glued to that chair or something? You can’t tell those clerks to type?”
She straightened back up and I read what she had written. “Found on Internet. To be safe, used supply room terminal.”
“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “Just take what I’ve finished and get it typed.”
She collected my stack of yellow pages and departed. I grabbed the printouts she left behind and dug in. It took nearly thirty minutes. There was a lot of stuff on the Internet concerning Operation Phoenix. There were extracts from history books. There were testaments from guilt-ridden veterans who were participants. There were some wild ramblings from antiwar groups who made reference to it in fairly negative ways. Some of the articles made for pretty fascinating reading, and some made you wonder if everyone who posted things on the Internet had all their marbles.
Operation Phoenix was a secret operation run jointly between the CIA and the Green Berets during the Vietnam War. A secret pact was made between the two that actually bypassed the military chain of command. Neither the Joint Chiefs nor General Westmoreland even knew it was happening.