Max, incidentally, had spiffed himself up for the Feds and/or the press by putting on a tie, a silly one decorated with nautical flags. Elizabeth was still wearing her tan suit, but had removed her jacket, revealing one holstered.38 and two holstered 36 Ds.
A small black and white TV sat on the counter, tuned to one of the networks, the volume low. The lead story was about a presidential visit to some strange place where everyone was short.
Max said to the two guys, "This is Detective John Corey, homicide," and let it go at that without mentioning that my jurisdiction began and ended about a hundred miles west of here. Max indicated the dark suit and said, "John, this is George Foster, FBI…" He looked at Mr. Bluejeans and said, "… and this is Ted Nash, Department of Agriculture."
We shook hands all around. I informed Penrose, "Giants scored in the first minute of the third quarter."
She didn't reply.
Max motioned toward the box of cups and asked, "Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
Ms. Penrose, who was closest to the TV, heard something on the news and raised the volume. We all focused on the screen.
A female reporter was standing in front of the Gordon house. We missed her lead-in and caught, "The victims of the double murder have been identified as scientists who worked at the top secret government animal disease laboratory on Plum Island, a few miles from here."
An aerial shot now showed Plum Island from about two thousand feet. It was bright daylight, so it must have been stock footage. From the air, the island looked almost exactly like a pork chop, and I guess if you wanted to stretch an irony about swine fever… Anyway, Plum is about three miles at its longest, and about a mile at its widest. The reporter, in voice-over, was saying, "This is Plum Island as it appeared last summer when this station did a report about persistent rumors that the island is home to biological warfare research."
Aside from the hackneyed phrases, the lady was right about the rumors. I recalled a cartoon I'd once seen in The Wall Street Journal where a school guidance counselor says to two parents, "Your son is vicious, mean-spirited, dishonest, and likes to spread rumors. I suggest a career in journalism." Right. And rumors could lead to panic. It occurred to me that this case had to be wrapped up quickly.
The reporter was now back in front of the Gordons' house, and she informed us, "No one is saying if the Gordons' murders were related to their work on Plum Island, but police are investigating."
Back to the studio.
Ms. Penrose turned off the volume and asked Mr. Foster, "Does the FBI want to be publicly connected with this case?"
"Not at this time." Mr. Foster added, "It makes people think there's a real problem."
Mr. Nash said, "The Department of Agriculture has no official interest in this case since there is no connection between the Gordons' work and their deaths. The department will issue no public statements, except an expression of sorrow over the murders of two well-liked and dedicated employees."
Amen. I mentioned to Mr. Nash, "By the way, you forgot to sign in."
He looked at me, a little surprised and a lot annoyed, and replied, "I'll… thank you for reminding me."
"Anytime. Every time."
After a minute of public relations chitchat, Max said to Messrs. Foster and Nash, "Detective Corey knew the deceased."
Mr. FBI immediately got interested and asked me, "How did you know them?"
It's not a good idea to start answering questions — it gives people the idea that you're a cooperative fellow, which I'm not. I didn't reply.
Max answered for me, "Detective Corey knew the Gordons socially, only about three months. I've known John on and off about ten years."
Foster nodded. Clearly he had more questions and while he was hesitating about asking, Detective Penrose said, "Detective Corey is writing a full report on what he knew of the Gordons which I will share with all concerned agencies."
That was news to me.
Mr. Nash was leaning against a kitchen counter looking at me. We stared at each other, the two dominant males in the room, if you will, and we decided without a word that we didn't like each other, and that one of us had to go. I mean, the air was so thick with testosterone that the wallpaper was getting soggy.
I turned my attention to Max and Penrose and asked, "Have we determined that this is more than a homicide? Is that why the federal government is here?"
No one replied.
I continued, "Or are we just assuming that it is more? Did I miss a meeting or something?"
Mr. Ted Nash finally replied coolly, "We are being cautious, Detective. We have no concrete evidence that this homicide is connected to matters of… well, to be blunt, matters of national security."
I remarked, "I never realized the Department of Agriculture was involved in national security. Do you have, like, undercover cows?"
Mr. Nash gave me a nice fuck-you smile and said, "We have wolves in sheep's clothing."
"Touché." Prick.
Mr. Foster butted in before it got nasty and said, "We're here as a precautionary measure, Detective. We'd be very remiss if we didn't check it out. We all hope it was just a murder with no Plum Island connection."
I regarded George Foster a moment. He was thirtyish, typical clean-cut, bright-eyed FBI type, wearing the FBI dark suit, white shirt, muted tie, black sturdy shoes, and halo.
I shifted my attention to Ted Nash wearing the aforementioned denims; he was closer to my age, tanned, curly salt-and-pepper hair, blue-gray eyes, impressive build, and all in all what the ladies would call a hunk, which is one of the reasons I didn't like him, I guess. I mean, how many hunks do you need in one room?
I might have been more pleasant to him except that he was throwing glances at Elizabeth Penrose, who was catching them and pitching them back. I don't mean they were leering and drooling; just real quick eye-to-eye flashes and neutral expressions, but you'd have to be blind not to figure out what was going through their dirty minds. Jeez, the whole friggin' planet was about to get anthrax and die or something, and these two are like dogs in heat, eye-fucking each other when we had important business at hand. Really disgusting.
Max interrupted my thoughts and said to me, "John, we have still not recovered the two bullets fired through their heads, but we can assume they went into the bay, and we'll be dredging and diving early tomorrow." He added, "There were no shell casings found."
I nodded. An automatic pistol would spit out shell casings whereas a revolver would not. If the weapon was an automatic, then the murderer was cool enough to bend down and gather the two shell casings.
So far, we had basically nothing. Two head shots, no bullets, no casings, no noise heard next door.
I regarded Mr. Nash again. He looked like a worried man, and I was happy to see that between thoughts of popping Ms. Penrose, he was thinking about saving the planet. In fact, everyone in the kitchen seemed to be thinking about things, probably germs, and they were probably wondering if they were going to wake up with red blotches or something.
Ted Nash reached into the cardboard box and asked Detective Penrose, "Another coffee, Beth?"
Beth What the hell…?
She smiled, "No, thank you."
My stomach had settled down so I went to the refrigerator for a beer. The shelves were nearly empty and I asked, "Max, did you take things out of here?"
"The lab took everything that was not factory sealed."
"Do you want a beer?" No one answered, so I took a Coors Light, popped the top, and took a swig.
I noticed eight eyes on me, like they were waiting for something to happen. People get weird when they think they're in an infected environment. I had a crazy urge to clutch my throat, fall on the floor, and go into convulsions. But I wasn't with my buds in Manhattan North, chicks and dicks who would get a kick out of sick humor, so I passed on the opportunity to add some comic relief to the grimness. I said to Max, "Please continue."