She studied my face. “You’re wondering if I have the emotional mindset to handle this?”
“That thought crossed my mind.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
“Of course it will.”
“No… it won’t.”
“Nobody can shut down their emotions that way.”
“I can.” Trying to appear sincere, she added, “I shed my tears this morning. I won’t cry again until this thing is finished.”
“No… I’m sorry.”
She waved an arm and the waiter rushed over. She looked up at him and said, “Check, please.”
I said to Janet, “Please don’t take this personally.”
“I won’t.” She smiled at me and dropped a twenty on the table. She got to her feet and asked, “Where do we start?”
“ We don’t.”
She took my arm and began leading me. “You drive. I took a taxi.”
“Sure. What hotel did you say you were staying at?”
CHAPTER TEN
Fort Myer is a small base located on Arlington Heights,a big lump of earth with a commanding view of the majestic city of Washington, D. C. The land was once part of the ancestral estate of a certain Anna Washington Custis, who married a certain Robert E. Lee, whose southern sympathies made it suddenly difficult for him to appear in Washington to pay the land taxes. The property fell into arrears, the government promptly seized the homestead, and somebody in the federal government with a sense of humor and/or irony converted the family homestead into a Union military base and a cemetery. Not amused, Lee did his best to fill the cemetery. The post has since become a quaint relic of Army times past, filled with ancient red-brick quarters for senior officers, horse stables, and ceremonial units. It was here where the Wright brothers launched the first military test flight; it crashed and burned, and on that oxymoronic note, the United States Air Force was born. On this same post, on a chilly December day, General George C. Marshall was interrupted from his horseback ride to be informed that the Japanese were kicking the crap out of Pearl Harbor. Much history, good, bad, and otherwise, has been written or buried inside its fences and accompanying cemetery.
The Post military police station is a deceptively small red-brick building located near the community center.
The young duty sergeant perked up as we entered and asked with rare enthusiasm, “Evening, ma’am. Can I help you?”
“Yes, please,” Janet replied. “We’re looking for Mr. Spinelli.”
“I’ll see if he’s in.” He pushed a button on his switch, had a brief conversation, then informed us, “He’ll be out in a minute.” He very politely asked, “Can I get you something, ma’am? Coffee? Soda?”
I’ve been in a lot of MP stations and never been offered so much as a seat. Thirty seconds later, Spinelli cruised out of a back hallway.
“Oh… you,” he said to me, followed by a half-assed salute.
“Yeah… me.” Usually, it’s nice to be remembered; this obviously wasn’t one of those occasions. I added, “Mr. Spinelli… Janet Morrow, the victim’s sister.”
Janet looked around the station as she asked him, “Could you spare a few minutes? In private?”
“Maybe.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Why’s he here?”
Good question. Why was he here? Could it be because he’s a gutless ninny who couldn’t stand by his convictions?
But Janet didn’t say that. She said, “He’s handling the estate. He offered to chauffeur me around and I accepted. Ignore him.”
Spinelli smiled and appeared to like that answer. But we were here to gain his confidence and cooperation, and I thought to myself that if that meant I had to eat a little humble pie, I’d just play along. This made me feel good about myself, that I could, you know, swallow my pride and accommodate Janet’s needs.
I’d get Spinelli back later, of course.
Nor had it escaped my notice how easily Janet picked up on the bad blood between us, nor how instinctively she exploited the mood. This was a woman with impressive situational awareness, and a good nose for male idiocy.
“Follow me,” said Spinelli.
So we did, back to his tiny, cramped office in the back, where a menagerie of framed I-adore-myself things were hung floor-to-ceiling. I spied around for the Dear John letters from former girl-friends, late notices from mortgage companies, and so forth. But they somehow didn’t make it to this wall. Well, probably they were hanging on another wall.
As we got settled, I did spend a moment examining what was present-commendation letters from various generals, case closure awards, certificates of graduation from various technical courses, including the FBI Academy. The former attested that he was good at his job, the latter that he wasn’t quite the incompetent boob I had initially presumed. On paper.
“Somethin’ particular you have in mind?” asked Spinelli as he fell back into his chair.
Janet handed him her business card and by way of introduction said, “I won’t beat around the bush. I’ve taken thirty days off to find out who murdered my sister.”
He studied her card for a moment. He asked, “And there’s a reason I should find this acceptable?”
“A very good one, actually. You may need my help to solve this case.”
“No shit?”
“I’m perfectly serious.”
He replied, “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
Bad idea, Spinelli-the woman couldn’t spell no. I might’ve warned him about this, except I actually wanted to witness this scene. I mean, all this male machismo crap aside, it would harm my frail, frail ego to discover I was the only one she could drag around by the scrotum.
But Spinelli was still shaking his head.
Janet said, “I don’t want to play cop. I want to work with you. We have things to offer each other.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
She smiled sweetly and asked, “But would you at least answer a few questions?”
He did not appear happy at this prospect, yet reluctantly said, “You bein’ family, a few.”
“Thank you.” She paused a moment and then asked, “Did you return to the murder site and resweep the scene in daylight?”
“Yeah. We quarantined the site last night, then came back with a full forensics team. We even brought dogs.”
“Was any new evidence discovered?”
“Not a thing. Sterile site.”
“I called in permission this morning for an autopsy. Has it been conducted?”
“This afternoon. But toxicology and lab results won’t be done till next week.”
“You were present?”
He nodded. “Required to be.”
“What were the results?”
“Hemorrhaging around the pupils, severe bruising on her left and right clavicles… the preliminary verdict, subject to the lab results, death by asphyxiation brought on by the fracture and dislocation of her vertebrae.”
I watched Janet’s face to see how she responded to the clinical description of her sister’s death. Indeed, this was tough territory, and I found myself swallowing hard. But Janet nodded and suggested, cool as a pin, “Then allow me to reconstruct for a moment. One hand pinned her throat to keep her from screaming while the other twisted her head around to break her neck, right?”
“That seems to be the technique.”
“And which direction was her head twisted?”
“The right.”
“Indicating a right-handed killer, correct?”
“Most likely.”
“Further indicating the murderer was a male, correct?”
“It takes great strength to snap a neck.” In other words, yes.
She asked, “Any particles or skin in her fingernails?”
“Yeah. There was.”
“Skin?”
“Deerskin.”
“Then the killer wore gloves.” He nodded again, and she then hypothesized, “The gloves were to protect against fingerprints.” When he didn’t respond to that, she suggested, “And from that, is it safe to assume the murder was premeditated?”
“From that, it’s safe to assume it was cold. I wore gloves.”
They stopped dueling for a moment to catch their breath.
Janet’s courtroom experience and technique were evident and impressive. She understood the trail of evidence in a murder investigation, what questions to ask and which to avoid. Some lawyers are very good at this. Some lawyers should consider a different line of work.