Incentive for Death, page 3
The wall behind his desk contained bookcases that held awards and citations of significance to his career. The only items not up to the style of the rest of his office were a couple of four-drawer metal cabinets, although they were at least black rather than the usual governmental gray.
George Whittaker had been a detective in nearly all of the divisions, spending the longest period in Homicide. Whittaker is a six-foot African American with a close-trimmed head of hair and a gray brush mustache. He seems taller because he always stands erect and is trim. It doesn’t hurt that he is probably the best-dressed person in the entire department.
We both said “Chief” as a greeting and gave a slight nod. He waved us to the chairs in front of his desk. He asked us what we had on the Gideon & McCaffery case.
As was our usual approach, I summarized things first and Oliver followed up with specific details and items for further follow-up. “The decedent was Weldon Van Damm, the managing partner at the firm.”
Whittaker exhaled. “I knew him somewhat from events around town.”
I continued. “The M.E. found a pinprick on his neck and is suspicious that he was injected with something that killed him. She is running a tox screen and determined TOD as around nine p.m. yesterday. She’s doing the autopsy herself this afternoon, and we’ll go by to see if anything further shows up to give us a direction to pursue.
“He was sitting in his office chair with his head and shoulders leaning forward on the blotter portion of his desk. Nothing appeared to be stolen. No sign of a struggle.”
Oliver joined the conversation. “We’ve already talked to the office manager who has been there for thirty years. She has provided us with lists of all of the attorneys and the contact for the cleaning service which comes in each evening. Video from all the closed-circuit cameras at the building is being delivered to us within the next hour.”
I added, “We did a preliminary interview with his legal assistant—who discovered his body when she came in this morning. She’ll be here at two o’clock for us to get a formal statement.”
Oliver said, “After talking with her, we probably need to focus on the video to see who was coming and going during the window of seven to midnight. And get those people identified.”
“So, preliminarily, it looks to be a homicide, but no ideas on who or why yet?” Whittaker asked.
“No, sir,” we both said.
“Keep me posted regularly. This guy was prominent enough that I’ll be getting questions from upstairs.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SERENDIPITY HAD PLAYED a significant role in his life, Vincent Morehead reflected. More than once.
After college, he had gotten into Army Intelligence as a second lieutenant. He felt that he had found his niche and excelled in intelligence analysis. What he couldn’t stand about the Army, however, were the morons who populated the ranks of majors and lieutenant colonels who were his superior officers. Morehead didn’t think they could survive in the real world and their own ineptitude prevented further promotions.
When his four-year tour of duty came to its conclusion, Morehead figured there was a limited shot at advancement with these deadweights occupying the seats above him. He had decided to move on when he was approached by a recruiter for the Special Operations Group of the CIA.
They were seeking people to run intelligence operations disguised as cover businesses owned by the Agency. He saw it as an opportunity to succeed based on merit, contrary to any future in the Army.
After his training, Morehead ran two successful operations in Afghanistan. The first was an import business that brought in weapons and military gear needed by the tribal chiefs in the northern part of the country. In getting that material delivered to the end recipients, he was initially surprised by the extent of shrinkage in the shipments due to theft and black-market sales—mainly by his own staff.
Over the months he ran that operation, he became drinking buddies with Kurt Bardak, the shipping manager where most of the shrinkage occurred. Kind of like the note on cereal boxes that some settling of contents may occur during shipment.
In return for not keeping too close an eye on the shipments, Bardak cut Morehead in on a share of the proceeds from the black-market sales. Morehead started to accumulate money, and he liked it.
Then Langley decided to move Morehead to another front organization. This operation was officially designed to help resettle Afghan refugees displaced by the never-ending war with the Taliban. He asked that Bardak be transferred with him to the new operation. They set up shop in Kabul.
They employed a number of Afghan government people in their new operation and, for a period of time, effectively relocated many refugee families. Their funding from the Agency continued to grow as the volume of dispossessed persons increased. There was virtually no monitoring of the funding, and Morehead developed a system to shrink the funds by keeping two sets of books.
After Morehead had made off with three million dollars from a larger tranche of nearly unaccountable funding, the proverbial shit hit the fan. Morehead had planned well for this eventuality. He had put some of the local government officials in the path of any investigators who came to determine what happened.
After the accounting types gave up and fled back to the safety of the States, the Agency gave up and shut down the relocation operation. Because they couldn’t clearly determine who was responsible, the Agency pulled all of its employees back to the Special Operations Group located in the New Headquarters Building in Langley, Virginia. Morehead was transferred out of the Special Operation Group and made the chief of the Financial Analysis Section of the Political Action Group.
Morehead had dodged a major bullet on that one. When he relocated to Virginia, he had a substantial amount stored in three offshore numbered accounts.
Morehead decided he needed to use a more subtle means of growing his wealth. He was not satisfied with the prospect of growth through a wealth manager. Plus, he thought, that led to a paper trail and taxes. He didn’t want either.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SUSANNA WALES ARRIVED shortly before two p.m. We had the desk sergeant put her in Interview Room Two. We used to call them Interrogation Rooms, but the name was changed to sound less confrontational.
Once inside the interview room, I offered her a bottle of water, and she thanked me.
Oliver took his notebook out to jot down anything that might need follow-up. Everything said would be captured on the automatic audio and video systems for later review if necessary.
I told her that we had an automatic audio and video system. “At the end of our discussion, we have software that converts our discussion into text and then we have you review it, make any changes you want, and sign it.”
“Am I a suspect?” she asked.
“Oh no. We do this with all of our interviews. Oliver takes some notes, but he’s not fast enough to keep up like a court reporter would.” Oliver nodded to that, and she gave a small smile of acknowledgement.
“We figure you knew Mr. Van Damm as well as anyone at the firm. We’re looking for background, and any thoughts you have may be helpful, even if they didn’t seem important to you at the time.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“First, tell us again how long you have worked with Weldon Van Damm.”
“For the past fourteen years or so.”
“Tell us about Mr. Van Damm.”
“Well, he’s been the managing partner ever since Mr. McCaffery retired about ten years ago. The other partners elected him the managing partner. He’s been running the firm ever since.”
“I’m not that familiar with how law firms run. What were his main duties? Did he have problems as the managing partner?”
She said, “Mainly it was overseeing the day-to-day operation of the firm. He also chaired the compensation committee that decided bonuses at the end of the year, which he sometimes got some blowback about. He also oversaw the hiring of new associates and, occasionally, the hiring of a lateral partner from another firm, if they brought in a substantial enough book of business.” She paused for a bit, as if she were in thought, and then continued, “About six months ago, the firm was not doing as well as it had been, and he and a couple of other senior partners made the decision to fire five partners and five associates.”
“How did they decide who to fire?”
“Well … I wasn’t privy to those conversations. I did regularly see the monthly partnership books that showed the revenue brought in by each partner and associate. After those ten people had been given their notice, I went through the most recent partnership books, and it looked to me like those ten people were either bringing in less money or working less billable hours than the others. I assumed that is what got them fired.”
“Was it a surprise to those people who got fired? I mean … did they see it coming?”
“I don’t think they saw it coming. The decision was made over the weekend, and the three partners who made the decision dropped the bad news on each of them as soon as they came into the office on Monday.”
“So, they were fired on the spot? Uh, did they have to clean out their desks and leave the office right then?”
“Pretty much. I typed the termination letters on Sunday. Those were the letters they were given on Monday morning. The partners got three months’ severance pay and the right to officially continue to be part of the firm … to help them find a job somewhere else. They were not allowed to come into or use their office after they were terminated. The associates got one month’s pay but had to leave immediately. The termination letters came with the severance checks in them. But they only got the severance pay if they agreed on the spot to sign a waiver saying they couldn’t sue the firm.”
“Did they all sign the waivers?”
“Every one of them did. They were each told, both the partners and associates, that their personal stuff would be boxed and delivered to their homes that afternoon. All of them had to leave immediately so that they couldn’t download anything from our computer system. It had to be kind of humiliating, particularly for the partners.
“Mr. Van Damm had a security guard in the office in case anyone had to be walked out to their car. He also had our IT guy ready to immediately cut off all their access to our computer system and the offices.”
Oliver spoke up. “Must have been some pretty unhappy campers that morning.”
“You got that right. I would say all of the partners and three of the associates were totally shocked. The other two associates were kind of deadbeats and had to know they were never going to make it.”
Oliver asked for the ten names. He wrote them down in his notebook.
I asked for the names of the other two partners who participated in the decision on whom to terminate. She gave us those names, and Oliver made a note.
Then I asked, “Did most of them land with another firm?”
“I’m not sure about the associates. I think three of the partners found jobs.” She named names. “One decided to start his own practice.” Again, she named him. “And one just quit practicing altogether.” Again, she identified him. Oliver made annotations in his notebook.
“Did he have any problems with clients? Like disgruntled clients?”
“He was a business attorney. He set up companies and helped them with various corporate issues. He didn’t do lawsuits. So, he never lost a case that someone would be upset about. I’m not sure if he ever saw the inside of a courtroom. I think his clients liked him a lot. He socialized with a lot of them—you know, golf, dinners, serving on boards. That sort of thing.”
“Was he married?”
“He’d been divorced from his second wife for at least seven years. They didn’t have any children. His children by the first marriage are both grown.”
“Girlfriends?”
“I think he dated some, but I think it was just people kind of in his own circle. Like friends. Or existing acquaintances. I usually booked his travel, and he hadn’t had any seemingly romantic holidays in a long time.”
“Had the firm been sued for anything? Malpractice or otherwise?”
“I’m pretty sure that the firm had not been sued for anything in the fourteen years I worked with Mr. Van Damm.”
“Are you aware of anyone in the firm or outside the firm who had a hostile relationship with or hard feelings toward Mr. Van Damm?”
“None other than the fired partners. And I think they all got over it.”
“Can you think of anyone who had a reason to want him dead?”
“Not really. He was a tough taskmaster with the attorneys. Very demanding. Always trying to squeeze more work out of them. But I think that’s the way it is at most firms.”
“Okay. We’ll hit the print button and the system will have this typed up in ten minutes or so. Then one of us will bring it in for you to review and sign. Sorry about your loss. Will you be staying at the firm?”
“I hadn’t even thought about that. Oh my. Guess I’ll have to check with the office manager tomorrow and see what happens.”
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN WE GOT BACK to our desks, we had received a padded envelope from Lt. Robert Johnson, the head of security at the Charter Building. Inside was a note explaining that they had enclosed a thumb drive covering each of the closed-circuit cameras from five p.m. to midnight the previous day. Each was labeled by the location of the camera.
Someone was going to have to view all the footage and make a list of the times when people entered or left the building and parking garage. As I was reading Lt. Johnson’s note, our intern, Kit Cardona, approached my desk with a manila folder, which she said contained her initial background research on Weldon Van Damm.
Kit is five foot eight inches tall and has a tight crown of black hair with a reddish tinge. Her skin is light brown and tinted with freckles across her nose and cheeks. This confident young lady has a total can-do attitude about nearly all requests we make of her. She also has much better computer skills than either Oliver or me.
“Want to make some overtime?” I asked her.
“Whatcha got?”
“Lots of closed-circuit footage from eighteen cameras at the Charter Building. Time span on each is five p.m. yesterday to midnight.”
“That’ll take forever. What am I looking for?”
“Yeah, it’s too much footage. The M.E. thinks the time of death is around nine p.m., so let’s initially restrict the search from eight to ten and limit it to the external cameras on the front door, the garage entry, and the rear door, as well as the cameras over the lobby reception desk on the ground floor and in elevators 1 through 3. Also, the camera over the elevators in the garage.
“Maybe also cover the cameras on the elevator landings on floors 9 and 10 for the same time frame,” Oliver added.
“For now, ignore the landing cameras at the elevators on floors 2 through 8,” I said. “What I’m looking for is a list of the times when people come and go on the cameras. Particularly those leaving between eight thirty and ten so that we can get people at the law firm or building security to try to identify them.”
Kit had been taking notes. She held up one finger and said, “Couple of questions. First, aren’t there cameras on the law firm’s elevator landings on 11 and 12?”
Oliver answered, “Nope, the lawyers didn’t want cameras there or in their dedicated elevator, which is number 4, by the way, and only serves those two floors. Supposedly to keep their clients’ identities confidential.”
Kit scrunched up her right cheek, which partially closed her right eye and compressed the freckles on that side of her face. She always wore this dubious expression when she questioned something that Oliver or I said. “Are there other law firms in the building? I assume none of them are doing the same thing about no cameras.”
“You said a couple questions. What are the others?”
Kit did that scrunch-up-the-right-side-of-her-face thing again. “Well,” she said, “it is going to be very time-consuming if we make someone sit through hours watching video on ten cameras, with lots of fast-forwarding. They won’t be happy about spending that much time. Why don’t we make a condensed version that only shows people coming and going, and eliminate all the dead time in between?”
“Good idea. But keep the originals intact. Can you do that?”
“Sure. I’ll pick up some clean thumb drives from IT and see if I can sweet talk someone there to help make the duplicates.”
“Great. If we’re lucky, maybe we get a picture of the person leaving. Probably less likely to catch them coming in because we have no specific time frame to focus on.”
Kit: “I’ll make sure the compressed videos still have time stamps on them.”
I mentally checked that chore off our to-do list.
After detailing Kit Cardona with the package of thumb drives, Oliver looked at me. “What say we get IT looking at his phones and then regroup to figure out our next steps for tomorrow?”
“It’s a plan. Let’s go talk to Carter Enright.” He is head of MPD’s Information Technology division. We verified that he was in and we rode down to the third floor to Enright’s personal version of the Geek Squad. Their quarters looked more like a college laboratory with long tables covered with every type of desktop and laptop computer, as well as iPads and similar devices. The tables shaded servers beneath.
Enright saw us coming and ushered us into his conference room, which also serves as his office. He was not a conventional sort of guy. He stood about 5’5” with thinning sandy hair. His wardrobe consisted of blue button-down oxford shirts and khaki pants with cuffs. He either wore the same clothes every day or had multiples of the very same items.
On top of that, he had a squeaky, nasal voice. All of this probably contributed to his lack of employability in the private sector—which was a major gift to MPD. Enright could surgically unwrap nearly anything electronic, especially computers, telephones, and digital images.
