Man In The Middle Part 20

"Why do men do such stupid things to prove their manhood?"

"Men don't--"

"Of course they do." She laughed. "You're really funny."

Actually, if it was possible, it tasted worse than it looked. But as Mom always reminded little Sean, waste not, want not. I set aside the cup for later.

Into the phone, Bian said, "I'm back, Barry," then went into listening mode for about two minutes. She made a few verbal nods and once or twice prodded Enders to elaborate on some point, but I had no idea what they were discussing. Eventually she said, "Okay . . . yes, I've got it . . ." Pause. "Yes . . . Colonel Drummond's also here." She looked at me and said to him, "Why don't you repeat this to him directly?"

She handed me the phone. Enders said, "I hope you two are working late, not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around."

"You have a filthy mind, Detective."

Bian was looking at me inquisitively.

Enders said, "Give me a break, Drummond. Tell me you're not thinking about it."

I looked at Bian. "My G.o.d, you're right. There's a female inside that uniform."

"Who you trying to bulls.h.i.+t? The lady can make cooked spaghetti stiff again."

Bian seemed to be seeking my attention by sort of waving her middle finger.

Well, enough male bonding. In fact, Bian's expression indicated it was beyond enough. "Where are you?" I asked him.

"The lab. The autopsy wrapped up an hour ago, and now I'm here."

"I wish my laundry worked that fast."

"Slow day." He added, "Where were-- Oh yeah . . . the autopsy--" Then, as if reading off a page, "Stomach contents: steak, well done, and a baked potato, with a spinach salad. That was probably dinner. Serology results: high alcohol content, point one nine, so Daniels was legally stewed. That's not uncommon with suicides, incidentally. Cause of death: gunshot to the head, fired two to three inches from Daniels's skull. Death: immediate--sometime between midnight and one."

"Okay, that's how it looked."

"Was it? There were no open bottles or empty gla.s.ses in Daniels's apartment."

"So he went out and got smashed beforehand. Does it matter where where he got drunk?" he got drunk?"

"Probably not. Now guess what you saw but didn't see?"

"Let me see . . ." I knew this contradiction was coming and answered, matter-of-factly, "Cliff Daniels was right-handed and the entry wound is in his left temple."

A little miffed that I ruined his surprise, for a moment he said nothing. Then he found his inner voice, which was p.i.s.sed off. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You knew . . . and you never mentioned it."

"I recall you saying my views weren't welcome." Which was true, of course, and petty of me to bring up. I added, "Anyway, it's irrelevant. Also, probably misleading."

"The h.e.l.l it is. This is highly suggestive that a right-handed killer fired the bullet. Then, to cover it up, the killer had to place the gun in the victim's left hand." As if I needed it spelled it out, he added, "In other words, it wasn't suicide--it was murder."

I allowed him a moment to cool off, then asked, "Are you armed?"

"Of course."

"Good. Work with me here." I instructed him, "Remove your pistol from the holster."

"Okay . . . it's out."

"You right- or left-handed?"

"Normal. Right-handed."

"As was Daniels. Switch the pistol to your left hand."

"Okay."

"Now raise the pistol . . . now aim the barrel at your temple . . . just above your left ear."

"There'd better be a point to this, Drummond. People are staring at--"

"Is the pistol there?"

"Yeah . . . okay, it's--"

"Quick--pull the trigger."

He said, after a long moment, "Very f.u.c.king funny."

"I didn't hear a bang. I knew you were smart."

"If you were standing here, you'd hear a bang, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"How hard would it have been?"

"I got your point. But it's not natural. Unnatural things are always cause for suspicion."

"Not always always. Sometimes they merely require alternate explanations."

"I'm dying to hear this one."

"Think of what you observed inside Daniels's bedroom. The television was on, a p.o.r.n flick in the video machine, the victim had an erection, and his right hand was gripped on his doolie." I added, "The term is mult.i.tasking."

He did not reply.

I said, "Cliff Daniels, not being ambidextrous, faced a choice. Which takes more strength? Greater deftness? Spanking your donkey or pulling the trigger?"

After a moment, he replied, "I wouldn't know, would I?"

In spite of himself, he laughed, and I, too, laughed. Actually, I liked this guy. No good cop ignores his gut instincts; his were telling him this was wrong, and he was going with it. Well, it was was wrong; he just didn't know why. He lacked what Bian and I possessed, factual knowledge of Daniels's professional and extracurricular activities, or about the large and growing population who might want him dead, and why. wrong; he just didn't know why. He lacked what Bian and I possessed, factual knowledge of Daniels's professional and extracurricular activities, or about the large and growing population who might want him dead, and why.

To tell the truth, I felt a little guilty; he was one of the good guys, diligent, honest, good cop. But his concern was law and order in his county; mine was peace and security throughout the entire United States. Bottom line--you can rationalize just about anything under the guise of "for the good of the country"; it's a slippery slope, and I might have been overstepping that line.

"Back to the autopsy," he said, after a moment. "Other than that, Daniels was missing his tonsils. Twice had his left knee cut on, and--"

"Was there blood splatter on his left hand?"

"Well . . . yeah--there was. Not a lot. Also there was some burnt powder. Blowback."

"And has this blood been tested? Was it his?"

"It's the right blood type, A pos. The DNA test will take longer, of course."

For some reason this did not surprise me. After a moment he added, "One other observation. His liver showed the beginning stages of cirrhosis. Daniels was a big-time boozer."

"It's the family hobby."

"No s.h.i.+t. The Mrs., too? Hey, how'd that go?"

"Different. His ex celebrated with a fresh bottle of gin."

"She want him dead?"

"Yeah . . . but no. She's going to miss him. Busting his b.a.l.l.s was the one great joy in her life."

He thought about that a moment, then said, "Tim . . . the forensics guy you spoke with . . . he told you about the hair fibers?"

"Three types as of last count. Why? Were there more?"

"Isn't three enough? Personally, after looking at Daniels, I never would've pictured it. You know?"

I glanced at Bian. "My partner says it's all about size."

"That right?" he replied. "My wife's always telling me it's all about becoming more sensitive, about helping around the house more. s.h.i.+t--you're saying all I had to do was grow a bigger d.i.c.k."

I laughed.

"According to his former," I told him, "Clifford had a thing for the ladies. He screwed his way out of the marriage."

"Well . . . that can happen." He informed me, "Anyway, two of these hair specimens turned out to be organic. The redhead and brunette."

"Organic? What does--"

"Straight from the head. That's what it means. The follicles come off with the strands. That's how you tell."

"And the third sample . . . the blonde?"

"Yeah . . . the blonde. The hair was real enough, only the ends were cut at the end, and knotted. Know what that means?"

"A wig."

"Hey, I knew you CIA guys were sharp. Thing is, the cheap ones have synthetic hair--manufactured stuff. Better ones are made from authentic hair, contributed by real people, and knotted into a wig piece." He asked, "What do you think about that?"

"Hold on . . . I'm trying to picture Daniels in a blonde wig . . . Wait, it's coming to me--oh my G.o.d . . ."

"What?"

"I went out with her--him."

"Very funny."

"What am I supposed to think, Detective? Maybe he had a lover with premature baldness. Maybe he told the redhead or the brunette he was in a blonde mood, and one or both obliged. Maybe Daniels attended a costume party as Marilyn Monroe. Possibilities abound."

After a pause, he replied, "You left out a possibility."

"Did I?"

"You know you did." He then told me what I left out, saying, "Maybe he had a visitor who wore a disguise because this visitor didn't want to be recognized by the neighbors. And maybe this visitor didn't want to leave DNA traces. Add that up, and once again, maybe he didn't kill himself."

"I didn't want to insult your intelligence." I asked, "Fingerprints?"

"We collected four or five samples. We printed the maid's before we released her, and lifted Daniels's prints off his corpse. Disqualification and isolation will be finished tomorrow."

I was sure that would lead nowhere, but kept the thought to myself. I asked, "As of this moment, what's your thinking on this case?"

"You know what? I was leaning toward suicide. It sure looks like suicide. But some guy from the Defense Department called like six times today. Waterbury?"

"I know him."

"He every bit the tighta.s.s he sounds like on the phone?"

"Jam a quarter up his a.s.s and you get a dime."

He laughed. "Who is this guy?"

"Bian's boss."

"I'll bet people are beating down the door to work there." Apparently we had exchanged enough slapstick and insults, because his tone turned serious. "Point is, I've got this corpse, and who shows up and starts nosing around? A CIA guy, an MP, and now I've got this Pentagon jerk looking over my shoulder." He asked, "See my problem here?"

Actually, I saw the problem the instant Bian notified me who was calling. The hour was late and detectives don't put in that much overtime unless they smell something, and what he smelled stank.

Also, supervisors have to authorize overtime--for both the detective and the lab--so Enders wasn't pursuing a private hunch.

Waterbury was an even bigger idiot than I gave him credit for, if that was possible. His idiotic snooping was stirring up the one thing he, and the people he worked for, least wanted or needed--public scrutiny about how Daniels died.

"You're reading too much into this," I insisted.

"I knew you'd say that."

"Okay . . ." I allowed a moment to pa.s.s. "You want the full truth?"

"Sure." He laughed. "That's why I called the CIA."