Man In The Middle Part 8

Anyway, it was all very interesting. In fact, John was just winding up a comprehensive and, dare I say, spellbinding explanation about the protocols involved with firewalls when I pulled out my gun and plugged them both. Just kidding.

Actually, I wasn't armed, so I did the next best thing--I fled.

Even Bian, who had showed enough familiarity with the subject to ask them a few probing and intelligent-sounding questions, looked relieved to get out of there.

We stopped off at the coffee machine, filled a cup for me, a cup for her, and proceeded to my cramped office carrel, where we sat.

I mentioned, "Why did you ask questions questions? It only encourages them."

She smiled. "The expression on your face when I asked about code-mapping made it all worth it."

Obviously needing to change the subject, I mentioned, "Incidentally, I was very impressed with your boss. Does he ever pull his head out of his b.u.t.t?"

"I could see you two hit it off. Is this the start of something beautiful and lasting?"

"Personally, I like the guy. I really do. I'm going to do my best to develop a warm and amicable relationship."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"Right. Who is he?"

"Former military. A retired MP colonel, in fact. Look, I know he's a little intense, somewhat rigid . . . but he's good at his job. Very deliberate, by-the-book."

"Like Adolf Eichmann."

"Good a.n.a.logy. But, well . . ." She searched her mind for something nice to say and came up with, "At least there's never a mystery about where he's coming from."

"Okay. Where is he coming from on Clifford Daniels?"

"Who the h.e.l.l knows?" She laughed.

"He knows." After a moment, I asked, "So, how should we approach this thing?"

Bian understood exactly what I was asking, and why. At the start of a murder investigation you usually have a corpse, if you're lucky, also a murder weapon, and you have to dig for the rest--things like motives, suspects, and, for good measure, sufficient evidence, eyewitnesses, and elements of proof to get the bad guy an appointment on the hot seat. Sometimes--very often, in fact--the killer is an idiot and leaves a mother lode of clues and leads that draw a straight line from victim to killer--such as fingerprints, sperm cells, DNA markers, witnesses, and, increasingly in this cinematic age, the deed might even be captured on videotape. Killers, at least most killers, really aren't that clever or deceitful.

This wasn't one of those cases. Here, I suspected, we had that rare criminal who operated on a higher plane--thus, where we began, and how we began, would determine how fast we went and how many dead ends we hit.

She sipped her coffee. She suggested, "Okay, let's a.s.sume a.s.sume it was murder. I think we're both leaning that way. Procedurally, approach it like a standard homicide case." it was murder. I think we're both leaning that way. Procedurally, approach it like a standard homicide case."

"Good idea."

"Why don't we start with suspects?"

"Okay. I think there are lots of people who wanted Daniels's mouth sealed. People here, perhaps, Americans who are worried about the political fallout and/or the damage to their careers if he spilled the beans to a congressional committee. So that includes the people he worked with, and the people he worked for, up to and including the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States."

She nodded.

I continued, "Possibly, there were some Iraqis who wanted him dead. And--"

"Can't you be more specific?"

"Well . . . there are some Iraqis who might carry a grudge because our friend played a heavy role in persuading the President to invade their country. Small-minded, of course--but people can be petty. Or maybe Charabi, or some of his a.s.sociates, wanted to keep him from exposing some nasty secrets."

"This is pretty open-ended, isn't it?"

"Not yet. We're only at about thirty million suspects. Don't rule out enemies with more intimate motives--teed-off girlfriends, angry husbands whose wives Cliff may have been popping, a jealous ex-wife, a greedy brother who stands to inherit the full family fortune, or--"

"Okay--thank you. I think that covers the range."

"No it doesn't. The range is everything you expect, and everything you don't." In fact, I once prosecuted a murder that turned out to be over a pair of running shoes. Premeditated murder, too. The victim's parents were in the courtroom, and I'll never forget the shattered looks on their faces when they learned their son took three bullets in the gut over a pair of hundred-dollar athletic shoes that in six months would be vogued-out, worn-out garbage. The reasons people kill other people are almost endless, sometimes picayune, and often ridiculous. I looked at Bian and said, "Killers have limitless imaginations. Don't narrow yours."

"I've got it," she said. "Forget the suspect angle. Let's try reconstruction."

"Good decision."

"I'll raise the facts we know. You suggest the hypotheses."

"Bad decision. Why don't I ask? You're the cop."

"It was was my idea." She punched my arm. "Besides, lawyers are more creative bulls.h.i.tters." my idea." She punched my arm. "Besides, lawyers are more creative bulls.h.i.tters."

Right.

After a moment, she said, "There was no sign of burglary. What does this suggest?"

"That Daniels let the murderer into his apartment, suggesting further that this was someone he knew. Or the murderer had a key, suggesting someone he knew even better. Or the murderer was an expert lock picker. Or Daniels's lock malfunctioned."

"The lock works. After I left you in the bedroom, I checked."

"Between ratting me out, you found time to inspect the lock?"

"Oh, get over it."

"I did. You made up for it."

"How's that?"

"You could have informed Waterbury that I entered Daniels's apartment with a false ID. But you didn't. Or you could have contradicted me and confirmed that I already suspected that Daniels's briefcase contained evidence. Again, you didn't."

She nodded but made no reply.

I looked her in the eye. "Why didn't you?"

"What would be the point?"

"That's what I'm asking." After a moment, I again asked, "Why?"

Instead of replying, she asked me, "Why do you you think?" think?"

"I think you don't like or trust your boss."

"He is a . . . difficult and . . . an aggravating man to work under."

"He's an a.s.shole."

"That too." She laughed.

I did not laugh. "Also, I think you're worried that your own department wants this thing buried. Not covered up, necessarily--but we both know an internal investigation would move at a snail's pace, in very oblique directions, and only a small circle of friends would be exposed to the sequel."

She did not confirm this, but instead asked, "And why would I care about that?"

"You want me to a.s.sume it's because you're motivated by higher sensibilities. A West Pointer, that duty, honor, country thing." I looked her in the eye and said truthfully, "In fact, I believe you are motivated by these factors."

"But you think there are other motives, too. Right?"

Right. I looked at her. "If we're going to be working together, I'd like to know about them." I looked at her. "If we're going to be working together, I'd like to know about them."

"You don't trust me?"

I did not, but there was no point in saying that. Instead, I said, "We could find things that will be very embarra.s.sing and possibly very damaging for your bosses. I'd like to know where you stand, how you're going to react."

"You've read too much into this." She looked at me and said, "I think you're very clever, very observant, and you seem to have a firm grasp of investigations. I want to solve this, and you'll make a good partner. That's the professional reason." After another moment, she added, "And maybe I like you. Perhaps this is cliched . . . you remind me of somebody."

"You're right. It's cliched."

"And true. My fiance. He's in Iraq, a major with the First Armored Division." She examined me a moment with those warm eyes. "You don't look alike, but you share so many quirks and mannerisms. It's almost uncanny."

It did not escape my notice that she had changed the subject, but this sounded more interesting and certainly more pleasant than the topic of murder. "Such as?"

"Mark . . . that's his name . . . Mark has a certain swagger, a way of moving. s.e.xy. Self-a.s.sured. And you both have this unnerving habit of shoving people around when you think you're right and they're in your way."

"And you're engaged to this guy?"

"He has some rough edges." She laughed. "I'll fix him after after we're married." we're married."

That's what I love about women.

She looked at me. "Also like you, he doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, he has no sense of self-preservation, and--"

"Excuse me--weren't we talking about a crime reconstruction?"

She smiled, sort of.

Back to the matter of how Daniels died, I said, "Fact two. The man was dead on his own bed with the gun in his hand."

"Yes. Why?"

"He either put it there himself, or it was placed there. If you're building a mental flowchart, this one's fifty-fifty."

"All right. Fact three. He was naked with a hard-on. What do you deduce from that that?"

I stared at her.

She asked, "Should I rephrase that?"

"Too late." I suggested to her, "The most innocent explanation is that he was enjoying a moment of s.e.xual solitude before he killed himself. We already discussed this."

She did not ask me to review that discussion, but instead wisely suggested, "But there are also less innocent explanations, right?"

"Apparently. He had company, and the company did not behave the way he antic.i.p.ated."

"Female company."

"Well . . . don't discount the possibility that Mr. Daniels's taste ran the other way, or that he was a switch-hitter. But we'll work with that a.s.sumption until we know otherwise." I said, "And here's where it gets interesting. Why would he have a dirty video in the machine?"

"You tell me."

"This is beyond my experience or imagination."

"And you think I know something about this?"

I smiled.

She smiled back, a little coolly. She decided to be a good sport, though, and said, "All right, I'll take a stab. Some people use p.o.r.nographic images to create a romantic or sensual mood, a prelude or warm-up before they get into the real article. In fact, it's not unhealthy . . . not even aberrant. A lot of s.e.xual therapists actually recommend it." She looked at me and noted, "Also, the video wasn't necessarily his idea--maybe it was hers."

"Okay, his or hers. That's still a little hard to explain to a first date. Some women or men might find it a little bizarre and respond negatively."

"Yes, I think that would be a little awkward."

"So this suggests somebody he knew fairly well. This wasn't the first time they were together, was it?" She nodded, and I continued, "So that's where we start: a woman, someone he had already . . . somebody he already had intimate relations with."

"That was nicely put."

"I'm working on cleaning up my act."

"Keep working on it."

"Good point. Bear in mind, though, it's still possible a person he did not not know entered the apartment, Cliff was asleep, they blew out his brains and planted the gun in his hand. Don't get hung up on opening a.s.sumptions." know entered the apartment, Cliff was asleep, they blew out his brains and planted the gun in his hand. Don't get hung up on opening a.s.sumptions."

"I'm not. But it helps to have something to work with." Bian crossed her legs and went back to sipping her coffee. I put Daniels's address book in my lap and began leafing through the pages.

The book was thick and organized alphabetically, and I noted that Cliff's handwriting was surprisingly neat, with a light touch and precisely formed and uniformly sized letters. I'm no expert in handwriting a.n.a.lysis, but with males such orthographic neatness is often a sign of a Catholic-based education, or a school experience dominated by bossy women who care about such things. My own handwriting has never been mistaken for having a light touch.

Bian, watching me, observed, "You know what? I've never actually seen a crime solved through an address book."

I made no response to that observation.

"It's odd," she continued. "Something like 90 precent of murders are committed by people the victim knew."