Incentive for Death, page 7
The doors of the nearby elevator opened. A blond-haired man stepped off the elevator and headed toward Bardak, who threw down his cigarette and rubbed it out with the toe of his shoe.
Kurt Bardak had worked for this man both in Afghanistan and at Langley. At least until his former supervisor had transferred over to the Political Action Group about five years ago. They had become good friends while working together in Afghanistan. Kurt always called him “Boss.”
Bardak knew he had crossed several lines in the time he had known the Boss. He had always done whatever the Boss requested of him without question. When the Boss had come to him six months ago with a request to kill an individual at a ski resort in New Hampshire, Bardak assumed it was CIA business and asked for no details. He knew that the CIA did not officially operate within the U.S. and suspected this was being done sub rosa for that reason.
Bardak was provided with a syringe of succinylcholine and was told how to use it. He was provided with a picture of his target and details of his trip itinerary. He was paid $5,000 up front and an additional $10,000 when the job was completed.
Today, the Boss walked up to him, doing that sniff thing he frequently did with his nose. He gave Bardak a 9 x 12 envelope containing $15,000 in cash. Ten was the balance for the ballpark job and five was for a new one. The envelope also contained a syringe filled with succinylcholine, along with a photo and details on his next victim’s schedule over the next several days.
Bardak asked, “Boss, we have a deadline on this one?”
“Within a week would be good. This one’s a lobbyist.”
Bardak nodded, and they shook hands. The Boss sniffed again and returned to the elevator with no further conversation.
Toward midafternoon, the same person who Bardak called the Boss made another trip to the parking garage under the CIA’s New Headquarters Building. This time he met with Marian Benedict, who had also worked for him during his time in Ground Support.
He nodded to her and handed her a regular business envelope containing $20,000. She didn’t look inside the envelope. She just slipped it in her shoulder bag.
He sniffed, bunching up his nose. “Good job on the two matters this week. Might have another one coming up for you shortly.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OLIVER AND I DECIDED to next interview Michael Fitzgerald, the partner involved in the law firm’s downsizing most likely to carry a grudge. We had been given the address where he had hung out a shingle for his solo practice. It was on Harrison Street NW, just off Wisconsin Avenue near the D.C./Maryland line.
It took us about a half hour to get from the Charter Building to Fitzgerald’s new office. We found a parking space and proceeded to the fourth floor. It appeared to be a small office suite with a reception area, a modest-sized conference room, and a lawyer office.
We identified ourselves to his receptionist, who also appeared to serve as Fitzgerald’s secretary, and asked to speak with him. She was a pleasant-looking lady of around forty-five, dressed conservatively with a small strand of pearls.
She advised us that Mr. Fitzgerald was in court at the D.C. Superior Court. “His hearing should be about finished. He told me that, since he didn’t have any appointments the rest of this afternoon, he planned to head home after court.”
Oliver asked if we could have his home address. She seemed a little hesitant, but ended up giving us the address in Chevy Chase. Even though it was across the D.C. line, we regularly interviewed people in both Maryland and Virginia because the majority of people who worked in D.C. lived in the suburbs surrounding the District. We also asked for his home telephone number, which she gave to us, as it was a listed number.
Once in Maryland, we headed north on Wisconsin Avenue, which ran past the Chevy Chase Country Club. About four blocks past the golf course, we turned right on Leland Street and found his house number. It was a red brick Colonial with white shutters, a well-landscaped yard, and white columns on the semicircular front porch.
We rang the bell. The door was answered by a blonde lady in her mid-fifties. Oliver introduced us both, and we showed her our credentials. She responded that her name was Audrey Fitzgerald.
“Ma’am,” Oliver said, “we’re here to speak with Michael Fitzgerald, whom I assume is your husband?”
“That’s correct. He phoned a little while ago and said he was headed home from court. He should be here shortly. What’s this about?”
Oliver continued, “You may have heard that Weldon Van Damm died under suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh, yes, I did. I’m not surprised. He was such a jerk. You want to come in and wait for Mike?”
“Thank you. That would be nice.”
She led us to a formal living room, which most older houses have but are used little. “Please sit down where you’d like. Would you like some iced tea? I only have sweet tea made.”
I said, “That would be great.” She headed for the kitchen. I took a wingback chair, and Oliver sat on the end of a love seat.
She came back a few minutes later with a small tray holding three tall glasses of sweet tea, which were already sweating from the ice. “I make my tea the same way my grandmother did. I melt the sugar first in water over a flame and then add the tea.”
I tasted mine and smiled. “Tastes just like my mother’s also.”
“So, why do you want to talk to Mike? He left the firm six months ago.”
I responded, “We’re talking to a number of current and former partners to see if anyone can help us determine who had a reason to do in Mr. Van Damm.”
“Well, that could be a long list. Mike won’t like me saying this, but Weldon treated him shabbily. With no notice whatsoever, Weldon canned a bunch of partners and associates. We were caught totally off-guard. That was a really tough day.”
“I’m sure it was very upsetting.”
“That was about the worst day we’ve ever had. And we’ve been married for thirty-five years.”
I asked, “What was your husband’s reaction to the termination?”
“He was crushed. He had a very good stable of clients at his old firm, which he helped found. And we made a very good living. Then Gideon & McCaffery lured him away with a good salary and bonus package. He had been a partner with the firm for eight years and then gets fired with no notice. It totally sucked.”
“Did your husband ever threaten suit or other action against Mr. Van Damm or the firm?”
“Two things. First, he had to sign a waiver, or he wouldn’t get his ninety days’ severance pay. Second, you don’t know Mike. He’s like a duck. He gets through adversity like a duck lets a thunderstorm roll off its feathers. He’s a survivor. Wait … I hear him pulling in. Let me get him, so you can talk with him directly.” She headed back to the kitchen, where the door from the garage apparently connected.
We could hear a brief whispered conversation coming from the kitchen. Then Michael Fitzgerald entered the living room with his wife behind him. He introduced himself, as did we, and showed him our credentials.
As Fitzgerald sat in the other wingback chair, he initiated the conversation. “I understand you’re investigating Van Damm’s death.”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re talking to different people, past and present, who worked at Gideon and McCaffery to see who might have had a grudge against Mr. Van Damm.”
“Well, that’s not going to be a short list. He treated people poorly. I think it was his general nature. And that was even before the purge.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald, in recent history, did he have any conflicts with people at the firm—or even outside the firm—that were contentious or hostile?”
“Inside the firm,” he replied, “the biggest group of people were the ones, like me, who got fired so he could raise the profits per partner with no regard to how that act—the firing—would impact the ten individuals who were unceremoniously canned.”
“How did your firing affect you personally?”
“Not well. I’m fifty-eight years old. Who’s going to hire me at my age after being canned for under-producing at the Gideon firm? It wasn’t like I had a big nest egg to fall back on.
“I signed the waiver because I needed the ninety days of severance pay, which I thought was downright stingy for a partner who had been there for eight years. Van Damm was a damned Scrooge. He had always been a shithead.
“Not only was I kicked out of my office, Van Damm had the IT guy cut off access to my computer files. Those files related to my clients. They were only with the firm because I brought them there. I had to get each client to sign a letter directing the firm to transfer their files to me, which meant I had to go to each and every one and explain why I’d been so shabbily fired.
“What’s more, I had to tap into my retirement account to fund opening an office and to carry us until I built up enough billings to support us. Plus, I had to pay taxes on the money I took out of my IRA.”
Fitzgerald shook his head slowly. “That’s just the financial side of it. Candidly, I was pretty pissed. After I got done ranting and raving to Audrey about what had happened, I downed two-thirds of a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet single malt. The good stuff. Before I crashed that night, I told Audrey that I’d start dealing with this mess the next day. Think my exact words were, ‘Tomorrow’s another day, Scarlett.’”
Audrey smiled. “Exactly those words, Rhett.”
I asked, “Did you have to make any changes to your lifestyle?”
He replied with a grimace. “I said we would have to figure out what to cut back on. But we never did. We lived on money borrowed from my retirement account.”
Audrey added, “We told the girls about the situation and assured them there would be no changes.”
I frowned. “The girls?”
“Our daughters, Erin and Shea. Erin had finished nursing school at George Washington University and taken post-graduate classes to be certified as a CRNA—that’s a nurse anesthetist. Shea is a junior at Georgetown, majoring in foreign service. They both still live with us.”
“Where does your daughter Erin work?”
“GW Hospital. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
I turned back to Mike Fitzgerald. “Did Mr. Van Damm have clients or anyone else who basically hated his guts or had a major grudge against him?”
He thought for a second and then looked at me. “Not that I know of but, on the other hand, I was not close to him. Professionally or personally. I can tell you that not many people at the firm liked the man. He was not pleasant. I don’t think any of the attorneys could be considered a friend of his.”
“Was he close to any of his clients? Or other people outside the firm?”
“Again, I just don’t know.”
After thanking them both, we climbed in my Jeep and headed for the office. Oliver said, “I noticed you picked up on the older daughter’s occupation. I gather you connected the dots where Doc Vaughan told us one of the most common uses of the ‘sux’ chemical is by anesthetists.”
I smiled. “Very perceptive, my dear Watson.”
Oliver took out his notebook. “I’ll add her to the list of people we need to speak with.”
We had just finished meeting with the Fitzgeralds when Beverly Gray called my cell. She said Chief Whittaker would like an update on our case. Timing is everything. We told her we would be back in the office in about twenty-five minutes. Once there, Oliver grabbed a copy of our to-do list, and we headed up to the fifth floor.
Beverly sent us in as soon as we arrived. Chief Whittaker seemed to be in a good mood. “So, what’ve you got so far?” Not a man for small pleasantries.
As usual, I took the lead. “We’ve interviewed a number of people. I’ll run through the list in a minute. So far, no obvious suspects. Time of death around nine p.m. on Monday. The M.E. is not certain on cause of death but suspects an injection of a muscle relaxant called ‘sux’ for short. Actual name is succinylcholine. Problem is the chemical dissipates quickly and is mirrored by the same potassium naturally released by the muscles after death.”
“So, she’s not certain?”
“No. Nothing cleanly provable at trial.”
Whittaker nodded that he understood.
I resumed. “Van Damm apparently led a purge of ten attorneys, five partners and five associates, about six months ago.”
“Why?”
“Mainly to increase profits per partner for those who survived the cut. The ten were the least productive in terms of dollars generated or otherwise not cutting it. We interviewed the other two partners who were in on the downsizing.
“One of the fired partners was financially devastated and had to borrow from his retirement account to open a solo practice. He was late fifties and too old to get hired at another firm.
“We just interviewed him and his wife both. She’s more hostile than her husband. He seems to have moved on, but it was a pretty difficult situation for them. They have two daughters. One in college at Georgetown, and one who is a nurse anesthetist at GW Medical Center. That may be significant because Doc Vaughan, the M.E. on this case, says a common use of sux is by anesthetists. The daughter is on our list.”
Oliver handed Whittaker a copy of the list that we had put together yesterday afternoon. He looked it over, while continuing to listen to me.
“We searched Van Damm’s house this morning. Got all of his phone numbers. Pamela Chenire in IT is assembling all incoming and outgoing calls on his cell, desk phone, and home phone along with the identity of the party on the other end. For the last thirty days.
“From the search, we also got all the financial records we could find. Brady Pollard’s financial person is reviewing them for anything of interest.”
Oliver added, “We also got Van Damm’s will and power of attorney. His two children from his first marriage are both grown, and are the sole beneficiaries of his will. Their names are on the list. Need to see where they were on Monday evening. Also, a Whitney Van Damm had the power to make financial and medical decisions for him if he became incapacitated. We’re going to track her down, too.”
Whittaker said, “I can help you a little there. I met her years ago. She was Weldon Van Damm’s first wife. Was it an old will?”
“No,” Oliver replied. “He made a new will after the divorce from his second wife about seven years ago.”
“Van Damm and his first wife must still have been in contact. I assume she is the mother of the two kids who inherit,” Whittaker said as he reviewed the list. “What about the closed-circuit video?”
I answered. “Lots of cameras around the building, but none in their law office or their dedicated elevator. We’ve got our intern, Kit Cardona, reviewing all of the video footage to cull it down for whoever we’re going to show it to. We pulled video from five to midnight, but are only currently looking at eight to ten—one hour either side of the TOD.
“We also have to talk to the cleaning crew that came on duty around eight on Monday evening. We’re going to talk to the supervisor and then catch the entire crew when they come on duty.”
“Okay, Detectives, sounds like you have it under control—even if you don’t seem to have made any progress solving it yet.”
“Early stages, sir,” I responded. He gave a backhand wave to send us out of his office.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER, my cellphone rang.
“Mac, it’s Courtney Vaughan at the M.E.’s office.”
She didn’t call me very often. “Hey, Doc, what’s up?”
“Mac, something’s come up that I want to show you. It may be related to your case, although I’m not sure. If I’m right, it may be important. Can you come over?”
“We’ll be right there.” I told Oliver what Doc Vaughan had said. We headed to the Medical Examiner’s office in Southwest.
Once we were settled in Courtney Vaughan’s office, I asked, “What you got, Doc?”
She had a computer file open on her desktop. “This may sound strange, but I have an idea running through my head.
“Yesterday morning, we got a body of a man who died during the Nationals baseball game on Monday evening. The guy’s body was discovered in a restroom on the gallery deck. No obvious cause of death. He apparently collapsed while using a urinal. An ambulance was called, and he was transported to the ER at Howard University Hospital where he was pronounced DOA. No obvious cause of death.
“The hospital sent his body to us yesterday. I finally got an opportunity to look at him this afternoon, more than twenty-four hours after time of death.
“I think everyone along the chain of care assumed a heart attack, but none of the usual chemical releases showed up supporting that. From what’s in his file, apparently no history of cardiac problems. Age forty-three. Had his two sons with him at the game.
“I did a full autopsy. No sign of heart disease. It appears he died of asphyxiation. I only found one unusual thing. Come with me.”
She led us to the morgue. “You won’t even need to gown up. This will take thirty seconds.” She pulled the drawer holding the body of Eugene Rollins and eased back the cover drape. She handed me a pair of latex gloves. “Give me a hand rolling him on his side,” which I did.
Then she pointed to a small red spot in his left buttock. We both leaned close.
She added, “Looks just like the puncture we found on Van Damm’s neck. Very fine gauge needle. We ran a prelim tox screen. Again, all we got back was potassium, which could be naturally released by the muscles following death.
“Or it could be another injection of succinylcholine, as I suspected with Van Damm. But I can’t prove it because too much time had passed after whatever was injected on Monday night. But no other chemicals, say more long-lasting chemicals, show up in the toxicology report. Other than the elevated potassium levels.
“I again got the chief toxicologist to run an expedited tox screen, specifically looking for succinylcholine. I explained my concern that it may be related to the earlier injection case on which I had requested an expedited tox screen. The toxicologist called me when the analysis was completed and told me that too much time had passed—the best he could say was that there was a possibility—but not a certainty. Not enough for court.”
