“I’m sure the D.C. medical examiner knows how to do her job,” McCaskey told his old acquaintance.
“No doubt,” Daily replied. “But questions are already being asked, given Mr. Wilson’s standing. The AC would feel very much better if someone with experience in criminal matters had a look.”
“Do you have information that Mr. Wilson was the target of any particular group?” McCaskey asked.
“There is no such indication whatsoever.”
“So this is a cosmetic application,” McCaskey said.
“Hopefully, yes,” Daily replied. “None of us wants to find evidence of criminal activity in this matter.”
McCaskey looked at his watch. “Tell you what, George. I’ll make some calls and get myself invited over this morning. Do you want me to call you at home when I’m finished there?”
“Please,” Daily said.
“Same number in Kensington?”
“What was it your Western cavalry used to say? They would not be back ‘until the enemy is captured or destroyed. ’ I’ll be here until the cavalry drags me away or my wife tosses me out.”
McCaskey laughed. He enjoyed Daily. The man took his cases seriously, but never himself. McCaskey also envied the detective’s relationship with his wife. When they were working in London, Lucy Daily was openly proud of the work her husband was doing. A childhood survivor of the blitz, Mrs. Daily was a strong supporter of law and those who maintained it.
McCaskey hung up, then called his contact at the FBI, Assistant Director Braden, to get him into the coroner’s office. Braden understood the drill and arranged for McCaskey to meet with the medical examiner. The Bureau had a lot of clout with other local offices and set up a meeting for 12:30. McCaskey left his office at once. On the way out, he saw Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers talking outside Rodgers’s office. Herbert looked uncharacteristically sullen. The intelligence chief had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Tucked in a high-tech wheelchair, Herbert did everything with passion. He laughed hard, fought doggedly, took field assignments whenever possible, and had an explosive lack of patience for bullshit. To see him this quiet was disconcerting.
“Good morning,” McCaskey said as he passed.
Herbert’s back was to McCaskey. The intelligence chief grunted loudly but did not turn.
McCaskey stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Obviously, you didn’t hear,” Herbert said. His voice was a gloomy monotone. “Mike Rodgers got canned.”
McCaskey’s eyes shifted to the officer. “For what reason?”
“I’m budgetary fat,” Rodgers said.
“You’re saying that Paul signed off on that?” McCaskey asked.
“He signed off on it and delivered the message personally, without offering to resign in protest,” Herbert said.
“That would not have accomplished anything,” Rodgers said.
“It would have made me respect him more,” Herbert replied.
“It also would have been easier,” McCaskey pointed out.
Herbert wheeled around. “Are you sticking up for him?”
“I didn’t realize we were taking sides,” McCaskey said.
“We’re not,” Rodgers said with finality.
Herbert continued to brood.
“It may be a stupid question, Mike, but how are you with this?” McCaskey asked.
“I’m a soldier,” he said. “I go where I’m told.”
That was what McCaskey had expected Rodgers to say. The general let you know what he was thinking. But with rare exception, he did not let you know what he was feeling.
“Will you stay with the army?” McCaskey asked.
“I don’t know,” Rodgers said.
“Jesus!” Herbert said. He was no longer brooding. “I can’t believe we’re hanging here, calmly discussing the screwing of a friend and coworker.”
“We’re not,” McCaskey said. “We’re talking about his plans.”
“Darrell, the man has no plans; he was just fired,” Herbert said. “As for you, you’re a company boy, you’ve always been a company boy, and you’ll always be a company boy.” Herbert pushed on the hard-rubber wheels of his chair and turned. “You may be next. You need to grow a pair, my friend,” the intelligence chief added as he maneuvered around McCaskey.
“Really?” The former FBI agent dropped a strong hand on Herbert’s shoulder. He gripped it hard and stopped the intelligence chief from leaving. “Yeah, I’m a team player. Always have been, always will be. Battles are won by artillery working in tandem, not by loose cannons.”
“What is that, a quote from the FBI manual?”
“No,” McCaskey replied evenly. If they both got angry, this would get ugly. “That’s a personal observation from twenty years of stakeouts, undercover stings, field work, and saving the asses of rogue warriors who thought they could handle entire operations by themselves.”
Herbert thought for a moment. “Okay. I deserved that. Now, take your hand off my shoulder before I go rogue warrior on it.”
There was a disturbing absence of levity in Herbert’s voice. He knew he had been the target of McCaskey’s remark and did not like it. McCaskey let go and stepped to one side. Herbert wheeled away. McCaskey would try to talk to him when he got back. Herbert’s temper had a way of subsiding as quickly as it flared.
Other Op-Center personnel had maintained a discreet distance from the three men. They moved through the corridors in silence, their eyes down or facing straight ahead. But this was an intelligence-gathering organization with sharp political hearing. The employees did not miss much.
“Sorry about that, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “Bob’s angry.”
“He’s Bob,” McCaskey replied.
“True.”
“Look, you’ve got things to do, and I’ve got to be somewhere,” McCaskey said. “Let me know when you’re free for a beer.”
“The end of the week should work.”
“Sounds good,” McCaskey said and shook Rodgers’s hand. It seemed a remarkably anticlimactic gesture after all these years and all they had shared. But this was not the time or place for good-byes.
McCaskey hurried down the corridor to the elevator. He got in his car and switched on the new FIAT device, the Federal Intelligence Activity Transponder. It was a chip built into his watch and activated by pulling the stem and twisting it clockwise. The signal was monitored by all mobile metropolitan and state police units. It was basically a license to speed or leave the scene of an accident. It told the authorities that the car was on time-sensitive government business and could not be stopped. The FIATs were introduced two years before so that unmarked Homeland Security officials would not be stopped or detained. Though McCaskey was not on a high-priority mission, Scotland Yard was an important ally. He wanted to get them what they needed as quickly as possible.
Wilson’s body had been taken to the Georgetown University Medical Center on Reservoir Road. That was where the medical officer was conducting autopsies while the coroner’s office was being modernized. McCaskey went downstairs to look at the body with Dr. Minnie Hennepin. The middle-aged woman had red hair and freckles. She was wearing a sharply pressed lab coat.
“I guess this is what the Feds refer to as ‘cover your ass,’ ” the slender woman said as they walked down the concrete stairs.
“There’s a little of that in everything we do,” McCaskey admitted.
“May I ask why Scotland Yard did not simply send over one of their own investigators?”
“The press would have been all over that,” McCaskey said. “It would be positioned as suggesting a suspicion of wrongdoing. British authorities want to put their minds at ease and also be able to tell Wilson’s shareholders that someone with criminal investigation experience had a look at the body.”