I sat there a while longer and thumbed through Rodriguez's report. The building manager said Marsha was a quiet tenant. Few visitors. A husky man fitting Fox's description would come over late, leave early the next morning, his Chrysler illegally parked on Ocean Drive. None of her friends reported anything strange in her behavior. She had not complained of threats. Nothing out of the ordinary her last days on earth.
I told Rodriguez I wanted to talk to him alone. Fox suggested his conference room, a place with more bugs than a Fourth of July picnic. Instead, we took the elevator down to the courtroom level of the Justice Building. A bailiff unlocked a door and we sat in a holding cell, our words drowned out by the cacophony of inmates yelling for their lawyers, mothers, girlfriends, all protesting their innocence at majestic decibel levels.
"Got Whitson's autopsy and lab reports yesterday," Rodriguez said. "Death by manual strangulation, just like Doc Riggs said. No evidence of sperm or seminal fluid in the vagina, plus her diaphragm was found in the bathroom drawer, dry as toast."
"So, no rape and no consensual intercourse, either."
"Right, only thing out of sync is that substantial vaginal secretions indicate sexual activity in close proximity to death."
"Find a vibrator, that sort of thing?"
He shrugged. "No. Maybe just thinking of Nick's dick was enough to wet her panties."
"What else you have?"
"Still working on the computer stuff," Rodriguez said, leaning close to block out the noise. He handed me a printout of the directories from the computer's hard memory.
COMPU-MATE 06/26/90 00:03
RECIPES 02/12/90 10:35
X-MAS LIST 12/17/89 23:18
TO-DO LIST 06/22/90 06:24
LETTERS 05/02/90 21:35
INVST-1 06/25/90 23:56
CUES 08/29/89 20:12
MAKEUP 11/02/89 08:20
VOICE 10/20/89 21:45
GOALS 05/03/90 22:49
"Not much there," he said. "The first five categories are all personal stuff. We read the letters. Family mostly. The last four are all work-related. Tips on getting ahead, that kind of thing."
A huge, bald black man in the next cell banged his hand on the bars. Our cell shook. "Ain't no mugger. Been framed by the Man, " he yelled, looking at Rodriguez.
"Get yourself a good lawyer," I suggested.
"They never seen me do it, got no ID," the man wailed.
"That's a good defense," I said, hoping to quiet him down.
"It was way too dark in that alley," he proclaimed.
"Clients always say too much," I told Rodriguez.
I looked at the document again. "Have you printed out the files in each directory?"
"You want 'em all? They're mostly crap."
"I want Compu-Mate as soon as you can get it. What's INVST-1?
"Don't know exactly. Thought maybe it was some investment software, you know, keep track of your stocks. But the only file in the directory is a list of questions, like some quiz or something." He handed me another printout.
1. WHO GAVE THE ORDERS TO WALK ALONG THE DIKE PRIOR TO ENTERING THE VILLAGE OF DAK SUT?
2. AFTER THE MEDIC AND RADIOMAN WERE KILLED, WHAT WAS THE STATE OF DISCIPLINE OF YOUR MEN?
3. WHEN YOUR PLATOON ENTERED THE VILLAGE OF DAK SUT ON JANUARY 9, 1968, WHAT ORDERS DID YOU GIVE?
4. WAS THERE EVIDENCE OF NVA OR VC IN THE VILLAGE?
5. WERE THE VILLAGERS ARMED, AND IF SO, DID THEY THREATEN YOUR PLATOON?
6. WERE ANY VILLAGERS WOUNDED OR KILLED BY YOUR MEN?
7. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR TRANSLATOR?
8. THE LAST TIME YOU SAW LIEUTENANT FERGUSON ALIVE, WAS HE
"She didn't finish the last question," Rodriguez said.
I looked back at the printout of directories. "What time did the ME say she was killed?"
"Around midnight on the twenty-fifth. Give or take two hours either way."
"Had to be after midnight," I said, examining the first document. "She finished working on the INVST-1 file at four minutes till midnight and logged out of COMPU-MATE at three minutes past. Her last conscious thoughts might have been about Lieutenant Ferguson, whoever he is, or some playmate on the computer."
"How you gonna find the lieutenant?"
"By figuring out what she was investigating."
"Huh?"
"It's not an investment file. INVST-1. Her first investigation. Something about Vietnam."
A jailer came in and emptied the cell next to ours. Twelve men, chained together at the ankles in twos, filed into a courtroom for arraignment.
"Why would a bimbo on local TV give a shit about Vietnam?" Rodriguez asked.
"Fox served in 'Nam, right?"
"Sure. A first looey with a chestful of medals. Uses it in all his campaigns."
I chewed that over a moment.
"Hey," Rodriguez said, watching me. "A million guys did their time there."
"Sure they did," I said. "But best I can tell, she was only screwing one of them."
CHAPTER 8
Arnold Tannenbaum toddled toward the bench, his three-hundred-twenty pounds occupying center stage. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, snapped his fire-engine-red galluses for effect, and began: "A classic invasion of privacy, Your Honor. Prohibited by the penumbra of rights of the United States Constitution and Article One, Section Twenty-three of the Florida Constitution. Ever since Griswold versus Connecticut, Your Honor, we have held sacred the right of privacy in the home. When the bedroom door closes and the lights are dimmed, the government-here personified by Mr. Lassiter-may not intrude within. No, Your Honor, government may not poke, pry, or peep beneath our sheets."
In a matter of seconds Tannenbaum had taken us inside the home, into the bedroom, and under the sheets. I wondered how far he would go. So did Judge Dixie Lee Boulton. She peered down at Two-Ton Tannenbaum through pink glasses with fins like a '59 Plymouth. She listened for a moment, then slid the glasses off her tiny nose and let them dangle around her neck on a chain of imitation pearls. Even without her bifocals, Dixie Lee could see all she wanted of Arnie Tannenbaum, former amateur magician, failed operatic baritone, and perennial summer-stock actor. Currently, he sported a half-grown beard as he prepared to play Ephraim Cabot in Desire Under the Elms. Perched in the front row of the gallery was his client, Roberta Blinderman, long legs demurely crossed at the ankles, black mini hiked halfway to heaven.
"A man sits at a computer in the privacy of his own home," Tannenbaum droned on, "composing words in the darkness. And Your Honor, a man's home-or a woman's home for that matter-is his…that is…his or her castle."
It was clear Tannenbaum was winging it now, and Judge Boulton's face was wrinkled in confusion.
"By the miracle of modern technology, those electronic words are transported to the home of a willing woman who awaits his entreaties. He may have the eloquence of a Byron or the crudeness of a pornographer. But either way, it is the modern equivalent of a Romeo, nay, a Cyrano, or…or…what's-'is-name?"
The judge extracted a pencil from her silver beehive. "What's-'is-name?"
"Damn. In The Fantasticks. The horny kid at the wall…"
"'Try to re-mem-ber,'" I cooed at him, putting a little tune to it.
"'The kind of Sep-tem-ber,'" he sang out in a rumbling baritone, "'when life was slow and oh so mellow.'"
"'Try to re-mem-ber,'" I whispered again.
"'The kind of Sep-tem-ber when grass was green and grain was yellow. Try to re-mem-ber the kind of Sep-tem-ber when you were a tender and callow fellow…'"
The bailiff snickered, the court clerk nearly dropped her romance paperback, and the judge seemed more baffled than ever. "Mr. Tattle-beyer," she piped up, loud enough to quiet the singing lawyer.