Chapter 5 - THE MAN WHO HIT ME BECAME THE PERFECT SUSPECTChief Walker Reed was arrested before midnight.
He didn't resist.
That surprised me.
The same man who had punched me because I challenged his authority stood with his hands behind his back while investigators cuffed him and read him his rights.
The arrogance was gone.
Maybe because he finally understood how useful arrogance had made him to someone else.
His registered pistol had been discovered beneath Danner's passenger seat.
Ballistics weren't back yet, but preliminary evidence was ugly.
Reed's fingerprints were on the weapon.
He admitted owning it.
He also admitted he hadn't checked his private weapons locker in nearly a week.
“Who knew where you kept it?” I asked.
He sat across from me in an interview room.
“My team. Maybe Vaughn.”
“Combination?”
“Keypad.”
“Code?”
“Changed monthly.”
“Who had this month's?”
“Me.”
“Written down?”
“No.”
“Then how did somebody get your pistol?”
He stared at the table.
“I don't know.”
I placed the typed message beside him.
YOU MISSED HER.
“Prints?”
“None.”
“Paper?”
“Common office stock.”
He leaned back.
“You think I killed Danner?”
“I think someone expects me to.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“No.”
He looked surprised.
“You don't?”
“I think you're impulsive, reckless, entitled, and far too comfortable using force when embarrassed.”
His jaw clenched.
“Appreciate that.”
“But people who commit sophisticated procurement fraud don't usually advertise their instability in cafeterias.”
“So my stupidity saved me?”
“Potentially.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
I continued.
“Danner was shot once. Whoever did it placed your weapon afterward.”
“How do you know?”
“I don't yet.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because the scene is too neat.”
The pistol.
The body.
Reed's recent confrontation with Danner.
His connection to the fraudulent disposal records.
A perfect suspect.
Perfect suspects make me nervous.
Actual crimes are messy.
Manufactured stories are often cleaner.
I left Reed under guard and found Admiral Cross waiting outside.
“You're defending him?” he asked.
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I want the right man punished.”
Cross nodded.
“And Reed?”
“For assaulting me? Absolutely.”
“Even if he helps?”
“Cooperation doesn't un-punch people.”
Cross almost smiled.
“You haven't changed.”
“That disappoint you?”
“Quite the opposite.”
We walked toward the operations building.
Federal agents had obtained preliminary analysis from Danner's truck.
He had died approximately ninety minutes before the fire.
That meant he hadn't personally triggered it.
His administrator credentials had.
Somebody was using dead men's accounts.
First Hale.
Then Danner.
“What about Hale's access?” I asked.
“Cyber team says it came from an internal terminal.”
“Which one?”
Cross handed me a report.
I stopped walking.
Terminal 06-14.
Located inside the base executive conference suite.
A room accessible to senior command staff.
Including Captain Hale.
Including his executive officer, Commander Richard Sloan.
And including Senior Chief Vaughn during logistics briefings.
We needed narrower evidence.
The next morning, I asked for gate records covering six months.
Vehicle traffic.
Contractors.
Salvage trucks.
Delivery manifests.
The base database showed Rusk Maritime Salvage entering Blackridge eleven times.
Physical security logs showed nineteen entries.
Eight visits had been erased electronically.
But handwritten gate notebooks still existed.
People forget paper.
Computer criminals especially.
An older civilian guard named Harold Kemp had kept meticulous notes.
“Mr. Rusk talked too much,” Kemp told me.
“What did he talk about?”
“Fishing. Money. His boat.”
“Who met him?”
“Usually Senior Chief Vaughn.”
“Usually?”
Kemp adjusted his glasses.
“Sometimes Commander Sloan.”
There it was.
First new senior officer.
“What about Captain Hale?”
“Never saw him meet Rusk.”
“You sure?”
“I've worked this gate nine years. Captain's car comes through, I notice.”
“Did Rusk ever leave with cargo?”
Kemp glanced toward the door.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“At least six times.”
“Was it documented?”
“Sometimes.”
“And when it wasn't?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“I assumed classified transfer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Sloan.”
My pulse quickened.
Commander Richard Sloan had served as Blackridge's executive officer for two years.
On paper, spotless.
Former surface warfare officer.
Graduate degree.
Excellent evaluations.
No disciplinary history.
Men like Reed dominated rooms.
Men like Sloan controlled them.
I scheduled an interview for 1300.
He arrived early.
That told me something.
People who feel powerful often make you wait.
People who want to look cooperative arrive before you ask.
Sloan sat.
“Commander Marlowe.”
“Commander Sloan.”
“I heard Reed was arrested.”
“Temporarily detained.”
“For murder?”
“I can't discuss an active investigation.”
“Of course.”
He folded his hands.
“What can I help you with?”
I placed Rusk's gate records on the table.
“Eight undocumented visits.”
Sloan studied them.
“Looks like an administrative problem.”
“You approved three.”
“If my initials are there.”
“They are.”
“Then I approved them.”
“For what?”
He shrugged.
“Classified logistics.”
“What classification?”
“I don't remember.”
“Who requested them?”
“Probably Vaughn.”
“Probably?”
“This was months ago.”
“Did Rusk remove equipment?”
“Possibly.”
“Which equipment?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you authorize off-record departures?”
“No.”
“Harold Kemp says otherwise.”
For the first time, Sloan's smile thinned.
“Security guards misunderstand command-level movement all the time.”
“Convenient group, these people who misunderstand you.”
“I don't appreciate the implication.”
“You weren't supposed to.”
He leaned forward.
“I know what people are saying about this command. Missing gear. Danner dead. Reed acting like an animal.”
“Interesting word.”
“What?”
“Animal.”
I opened my notebook.
“Reed told me Vaughn instructed him to assault me as a loyalty test.”
Sloan's eyebrows rose.
“That sounds insane.”
“It does.”
“Reed is protecting himself.”
“Maybe.”
“And you're believing him because?”
“I didn't say I believed him.”
Sloan smiled.
“You don't seem easily manipulated.”
“Neither do you.”
His smile disappeared.
I slid another sheet forward.
“Your office suite contained the terminal used to access the Baltimore seizure records.”
Sloan looked at the sheet.
Then laughed softly.
“Dozens of people enter that suite.”
“Name ten.”
He stopped laughing.
I watched him.
He watched me.
Neither spoke.
Finally he said, “Are we finished?”
“For today.”
He stood.
At the doorway he turned.
“One piece of advice, Commander.”
“I've been getting a lot of those.”
“You're looking for a conspiracy because conspiracy makes an investigator important.”
I smiled.
“And you're trying to insult my ego because you think ego is how people make mistakes.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Very small.
But there.
“Have a good afternoon,” he said.
“You too.”
At 1700, I received ballistics results.
The bullet that killed Danner did not match Reed's pistol.
The gun was planted.
Reed was being framed.
I went to tell him.
But when I reached detention, the guard desk was empty.
Reed's holding-room door stood open.
My pulse jumped.
“Chief Reed?”
No answer.
I drew the sidearm Cross had authorized me to carry.
The corridor lights flickered.
Then I saw blood.
Not Reed's.
A guard lay unconscious behind the desk with a wound across his scalp.
His weapon was missing.
I ran to the holding room.
Empty.
Then my radio crackled.
“Security alert. Detainee escape. Chief Walker Reed considered armed and dangerous.”
I stared at the open door.
Something didn't fit.
Reed had spent twenty-four hours trying to convince me he was being framed.
Running now would destroy that argument.
Unless he hadn't run willingly.
I checked the corridor camera.
Dark.
Disabled.
Again.
Then my secure phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No voice.
Only breathing.
Then Reed whispered:
“Commander.”
“Where are you?”
“I didn't escape.”
“Where are you?”
“I don't know.”
Metal rattled somewhere near him.
His voice was weak.
“They took me out through maintenance.”
“Who?”
“I only saw one face.”
“Whose?”
Reed hesitated.
Then said:
“Senior Chief Vaughn.”
A door slammed on his end.
Someone shouted.
Reed spoke quickly.
“They're moving me tonight.”
“Where?”
“The old ammunition pier.”
The line crackled.
Then Reed said something that chilled me more than anything else.
May you like
“They said after I'm dead, you're next.”
The call ended.
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