Four Blind Mice Page 6

  Just about everyone at Boulevard Estates worked on the base and lived in what is known as basic allowance housing. BAH is based on rank and pay grade, the size and quality of the residence improving dramatically with rank. Most of the places we saw were small ranch houses. Several of them looked to need serious maintenance work. I had read somewhere that over 60 percent of the current army was married and had children. It seemed that statistic was about right.

  Sampson and I walked up to one of the brick ranch houses, and I knocked on the battered and bent aluminum front door. A woman in a black silk kimono appeared. She was heavyset, attractive. I already knew that her name was Tori Sanders. I could see four small children behind her, checking out who was at the door.

  “Yes? What is it?” she asked. “We’re busy. It’s feeding time at the zoo.”

  “I’m Detective Cross and this is Detective Sampson,” I told her. “Captain Jacobs told us you’re a friend of Ellis Cooper’s.”

  She didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink.

  “Mrs. Sanders, you called me at my hotel two days ago. I figured your house had to be within walking distance of the base if Sergeant Cooper stopped here on the night of the murder. I did a little checking. Found out he was here that night. Can we come in? You don’t want us standing out here where all your neighbors can see.”

  Tori Sanders decided to let us in. She opened the door for Sampson and me and ushered us into a small dining area. Then she shooed her kids away.

  “I don’t know why you’re here, or what you’re talking about,” she said. Her arms were crossed tightly in front of her body. She was probably in her late thirties.

  “We have other options. I’ll tell you what we can do, Mrs. Sanders,” Sampson spoke up. “We can go out and ask around the neighborhood about you and Sergeant Cooper. We can also involve CID. Or you can answer our questions here in the privacy of your home. You do understand that Cooper is going to be executed in a few days?”

  “God damn you. Both of you!” she said, suddenly raising her voice. “You got this all wrong. As usual, the police have it wrong.”

  “Why don’t you straighten us out, then,” Sampson said, softening his tone some. “We’re here to listen. That’s the truth, Mrs. Sanders.”

  “You want to be straightened out, well then here it is. You want it real? I did call you, Detective Cross. That was me.

  “Now here’s what I didn’t say on the phone. I wasn’t cheating on my husband with Sergeant Cooper. My husband asked me to make the call. He’s a friend of Ellis’s. He happens to believe the man is innocent. So do I. But we have no proof, no evidence that he didn’t commit those murders. Ellis was here that night. But it was before he went drinking, and he came to see my husband, not me.”

  I took in what she said, and I believed her. It was hard not to. “Did Sergeant Cooper know you were going to call me?” I asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea. You’ll have to ask Ellis about that. We were just trying to do the right thing for him. You should do the same. The man is on death row, and he’s innocent as you or I. He’s innocent. Now let me feed my babies.”

  Chapter 25

  WE WERE GETTING nowhere fast, and it was frustrating as hell for both of us, but especially for Sampson. The clock for Ellis Cooper was ticking so loud, I could hear it just about every minute of the day.

  About nine that night, John and I had dinner at a popular local spot called the Misfits Pub, out in the Strickland Bridge Shopping Center. Supposedly, a lot of noncom personnel from Fort Bragg stopped in there. We were still nosing around for any information we could get.

  “The more we know, the less we seem to know.” Sampson shook his head and sipped his drink. “Something’s definitely not right, here at Bragg. And I know what you’re going to say, Alex. Maybe Cooper is the heart of the problem. Especially if he put the Sanderses up to calling you.”

  I nursed my drink and looked around the pub. A bar dominated the room, which was crowded, loud, and smoky. The music alternated between country and soul. “Doesn’t prove he’s guilty. Just that he’s desperate. It’s hard to blame Cooper for trying anything he can,” I finally said. “He’s on death row.”

  “He’s not stupid, Alex. He’s capable of stirring the pot to get our attention. Or somebody else’s.”

  “But he’s not capable of murder?”

  Sampson stared into my eyes. I could tell he was getting angry. “No, he’s not a murderer. I know him, Alex. Just like I know you.”

  “Did Cooper kill in combat?” I asked.

  Sampson shook his head. “That was war. A lot of our people got killed too. You know what it’s like. You’ve killed men,” he said. “Doesn’t make you a murderer, does it?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?”

  I couldn’t help overhearing a man and woman who were sitting next to us at the bar. “Police found poor Vanessa in the woods near I-95. Only disappeared two nights ago. Now she’s dead, she’s gone. Some freaks killed her. Probably army trash,” the woman was saying. She had a thick southern accent and sounded angry, but also frightened.

  I turned and saw a florid-faced, redheaded woman in a bright blue halter top and white slacks. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. What happened?” I asked. “Somebody was murdered outside of town?”

  “Girl who comes in here sometimes. Vanessa. Somebody shot her,” the redhead said, and shook her head back and forth. The man she was with wore a black silk shirt, cowboy hat, and looked like a failed country-and-western singer. He didn’t like it that the woman was talking to me.

  “My name is Cross. I’m a homicide detective from Washington. My partner and I are working a case down here.”

  The woman’s head shot back. “I don’t talk to cops,” she said, and turned away. “Mind your own business.”

  I looked at Sampson, then spoke in a lowered voice. “If it’s the same killer, he’s not being too careful.”

  “Or the same three killers,” he said.

  Someone elbowed me hard in the back. I whirled around and saw a heavyset, well-muscled blond man in a checkered sport shirt and khakis. He had a “high and tight.” Definitely military.

  “Time you two got the hell out of Dodge,” he said. Two other men stood behind him. Three of them. They were dressed up in civilian clothes, but they sure looked like army. “Time you stopped causing trouble. You hear me?”

  “We’re talking here. Don’t interrupt us again,” Sampson said. “You hear me?”

  “You’re a big load, aren’t you? Think you’re a real tough guy?” the front man asked.

  Sampson broke into a slow smile that I’d seen before. “Yeah, I do. He’s a tough guy too.”

  The muscular blonde tried to shove Sampson off his stool. John didn’t budge. One of the blonde’s buddies came at me. I moved quickly, and he swung and missed. I hit him hard in the gut, and he went down on all fours.

  Suddenly, all three men were on us. “Your asshole friend’s a killer,” the blonde yelled. “He killed women!”

  Sampson hit him on the chin, and he sank down on one knee. Unfortunately, these guys didn’t stay down once they were hit. Another bruiser joined in, making it four against two.

  A shrill whistle sounded inside the bar. I whirled around and looked toward the door. The military police had arrived. So had a couple of eager-looking deputies from the Fayetteville police. They all had batons at the ready. I wondered how they’d gotten here so fast.

  They waded in and arrested everybody involved in the bar fight, including Sampson and me. They weren’t interested in who’d started it. Our heads bowed, we were escorted out to a black-and-white in handcuffs. We were shoved down into a squad car.

  “First time for everything,” Sampson said.

  Chapter 26

  WE DIDN’T NEED this crap — especially not now. We were taken to the Cumberland County jail in a small blue bus that sat ten. Apparently there were only a couple of cells at the jail in Fayetteville. At no ti
me were we offered any professional courtesy because we were homicide detectives from Washington, who just happened to be working on behalf of Sergeant Ellis Cooper.

  In case you’re ever looking for it, the booking facility at the county jail is located in the basement. It took about half an hour for the local police to do our paperwork, fingerprint us, and take our photographs. We were given a cold shower, then “put in the pumpkin patch.” That was the guards’ clever way of describing the orange jumpsuit and slippers that prisoners were made to wear.

  I asked what had happened to the four soldiers who’d attacked us, and was told that it was none of my goddamn business but that they’d been transported to the stockade at Bragg.

  Sampson and I were put in a misdemeanor block in a dormitory cell, which was also in the basement. It was built for maybe a dozen prisoners, but there were close to twenty of us crowded in there that night. None of the prisoners were white, and I wondered if the county jail had other holding cells and if they were segregated too.

  Some of the men seemed to know one another from other nights they had spent here. It was a civil enough group. Nobody wanted to mess with Sampson, or even me. A guard walked by on checks twice an hour. I knew the basic drill. The prisoners were in charge the other fifty-eight minutes an hour.

  “Cigarette?” a guy to my right asked. He was sitting on the floor with his back up against a pitted concrete wall.

  “Don’t smoke,” I said to him.

  “You’re the detective, right?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

  I nodded and looked at him more closely. I didn’t think I’d met him, but it was a small town. We had shown our faces around. By this time a lot of people in Fayetteville knew who we were.

  “Strange shit going down,” the man said. He took out a pack of Camels. Grinned. Tapped out one. “Today’s army, man. ‘An army of one.’ What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “You army?” I asked. “I thought they took you guys to the stockade at Fort Bragg.”

  He smiled at me. “Ain’t no stockade at Bragg, man. Tell you something else. I was in here when they brought Sergeant Cooper in. He was nuts that night. They printed him down here, then brought him upstairs. Man was a psycho killer for sure that night.”

  I just listened. I was trying to figure out who the man was, and why he was talking to me about Ellis Cooper.

  “I’m going to tell you something for your own good. Everybody around here knows he did those women. He was a well-known freak.”

  The man blew out concentrated rings of smoke, then he pushed himself off the floor and shuffled away. I wondered what in hell was going on. Had somebody arranged the fight at the bar? The whole thing tonight? Who was the guy who had come over to talk to me? To give me advice “for my own good”?

  A short while later, a guard came and took him away. He glanced my way as he was leaving. Then Sampson and I got to spend the night in the crowded, foul-smelling holding cell. We took turns sleeping.

  In the morning, I heard someone call our names.

  “Cross. Sampson.” One of the guards had opened the door to the holding cell. He was trying to wave away the stink. “Cross. Sampson.”

  Sampson and I stiffly pushed ourselves up off the floor. “Right here. Where you left us last night,” I said.

  We were led back upstairs and taken to the front lobby, where we got the day’s very first surprise. Captain Jacobs from CID was waiting there. “You all sleep well?” he asked.

  “That was a setup,” I said to him. “The fight, the arrest. Did you know about it beforehand?”

  “You can go now,” he said. “That’s what you should do. Get your stuff and go home, Detectives. Do yourselves a big favor while you still can. You’re wasting time on a dead man’s errands.”

  Chapter 27

  THE AWFUL STRANGENESS and frustration continued the day I got back to Washington. If anything, it got even worse. An e-mail was waiting for me in my office at home. The message was from someone who identified himself as “Foot Soldier.” Everything about the note was troubling and impossible for me to comprehend at that point.

  It began:

  For Detective Alex Cross,

  Your general interest: The Pentagon is currently taking steps to prevent some of the more than one thousand deaths each year in the “peacetime army.” The deaths come from car crashes, suicides, and murders. In each of the past three years, at least eighty army soldiers have been murdered.

  Specifics to think about, Detective: An army pilot named Thomas Hoff stationed at Fort Drum near Watertown, New York, was convicted of the slaying of a homosexual enlisted man on base. The convicted man claimed his innocence right up until the moment of his execution. In his defense, Hoff wasn’t actually stationed at Drum until three months after the murder was committed. He had visited a friend at Drum prior to the murder, however. His prints were found at the murder scene. Hoff’s service record was clean before his conviction for murder. He had been a “model soldier” until the supposed murder.

  Another case for your consideration, Detective. An army barber, known by his friends as “Bangs,” was convicted of murdering three prostitutes outside Fort Campbell in Kentucky. Santo Marinacci had no criminal record before the killings. His pregnant wife testified that he was home with her on the night of the murders. Marinacci was convicted because of fingerprints and DNA found at the murder scene and because the murder weapon, a survival knife, was discovered in his garage. Marinacci swore that the knife was planted there. “For God’s sake, he’s a barber,” his wife called out during the eventual execution of her husband. Santo Marinacci claimed that he was innocent and had been framed up to the moment he died.

  Foot Soldier

  I read Foot Soldier’s e-mail over again, then I called Sampson at home. I read him the message. He didn’t know what to make of it either. He said he’d contact Ellis Cooper as soon as he hung up with me. We both wondered if Cooper might be behind the strange note.

  For the rest of the day, I couldn’t get the disturbing message out of my head, though. Information had been passed to me that someone thought was important. No conclusions were reached. Foot Soldier had left that up to me. What was I supposed to make of the murders at Fort Drum and Fort Campbell? The possible frame-up?

  That night I took a break for a few hours. I watched Damon’s basketball team play a league game at St. Anthony’s. Damon scored sixteen points, and he was as smooth an outside shooter as some high school kids. I think he knew it, but he wanted to hear my opinion of his play.

  “You had a real good game, Damon,” I told him. “Scored points but didn’t forget about the rest of your team. Played tough D on number eleven.”

  Damon grinned, even though he tried to hold it back. I had given the right answer. “Yeah, he’s the high scorer in the league. But not tonight.”

  After we talked, Damon took off with some of his teammates, Ramon, Ervin, Kenyon. That was a new one, but I knew I better get used to it.

  When I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ellis Cooper and the e-mail about other murders by army personnel. According to Sampson, Cooper swore he didn’t have anything to do with it. Who then? Someone at Fort Bragg? A friend of Cooper’s?

  That night in bed I couldn’t stop thinking about the damn note.

  Innocent men might have been executed.

  Sergeant Cooper wasn’t the first.

  This has happened before.

  Who the hell was Foot Soldier?

  Chapter 28

  I DESPERATELY NEEDED to see someone at the Army Court of Criminal Appeals, and the FBI helped me get an appointment with the right person.

  The court and its administrative offices were located in a bland-looking commercial building in Arlington. It was considerably nicer inside the building, kind of like a dignified and reserved corporate legal office. Other than the fact that most of the men and women wore uniforms, the normal touches of military culture weren’t much in evidence.

  Samp
son and I went there to see Lieutenant General Shelly Borislow, and we were brought to her office by an aide. It was a lengthy walk — lots of long hallways, which is typical of government buildings all over the Washington area.

  General Borislow was waiting for us when we finally arrived. She stood ramrod straight and was obviously physically fit. A handsome woman, probably in her late forties.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” Sampson said, and shook General Borislow’s hand. I had the feeling that he wanted to handle the meeting, maybe because he had more experience with the army than I did, but possibly because Ellis Cooper’s time was running out.

  “I read the transcript of the trial last night,” General Borislow said as we sat around a glass-topped coffee table. “I also went through the CID notes from Captain Jacobs. And Sergeant Cooper’s records. I’m pretty much up to speed. Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?” I was pleased that the general was the one to bring up gender.

  “I have some questions. If you don’t mind, General?” Sampson said. He leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his thighs. His eyes were steady on General Borislow’s, who was just as focused on Sampson’s.

  “Ask any questions you wish. I don’t have another meeting until ten. That gives us about twenty minutes to talk, but you can have more time if you need it. The army has nothing to hide in this matter. I can tell you that much.”

  Sampson still held Borislow’s eyes. “Detective Cross and I have worked hundreds of homicide scenes, General. Some things about this one bother us a lot.”

  “What, specifically?”

  Sampson hesitated, then went on. “Before I get into what bothered us, I was wondering if anything about the trial or the investigation bothered you?”

  General Shelly Borislow stayed in perfect control. “A few things, actually. I suppose it could be construed as a little too pat that Sergeant Cooper held on to the murder weapon. It was a valuable souvenir, though, from his years in Vietnam. And a souvenir from the murders themselves.”