Lee Child: Gone Tomorrow

‘Maybe you shot her.’

Theresa Lee gave me a sympathetic look. I said, ‘I didn’t.’

Docherty said, ‘Maybe it was your gun.’

I said, ‘It wasn’t. It was a two-pound piece. I don’t have a bag.’

‘You’re a big guy. Big pants. Big pockets.’

Theresa Lee gave me another sympathetic look. Like she was saying, I’m sorry .

I said, ‘What is this? Good cop, dumb cop?’

Docherty said, ‘You think I’m dumb?’

‘You just proved it. If I shot her with a.357 Magnum, I’d have residue on me up to my elbow. But you just stood outside the men’s room while I washed my hands. You’re full of shit. You haven’t fingerprinted me and you haven’t Mirandized me. You’re blowing smoke.’

‘We’re obliged to make certain.’

‘What does the medical examiner say?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘There were witnesses.’

Lee shook her head. ‘No use. They didn’t see anything.’

‘They must have.’

‘Their view was blocked by your back. Plus they weren’t looking, plus they were half asleep, and plus they don’t speak much English. They had nothing to offer. Basically I think they wanted to get going before we started checking green cards.’

‘What about the other guy? He was in front of me. He was wide awake. And he looked like a citizen and an English speaker.’

‘What other guy?’

‘The fifth passenger. Chinos and a golf shirt.’

Lee opened the file. Shook her head. ‘There were only four passengers, plus the woman.’

LEE TOOK A SHEET OF PAPER OUT OF THE FILE AND REVERSED it and slid it halfway across the table. It was a handwritten list of witnesses. Four names. Mine, plus a Rodriguez, a Flrlujlov, and an Mbele.

‘Four passengers,’ she said again.

I said, ‘I was on the train. I can count. I know how many passengers there were.’ Then I re-ran the scene in my head.

Stepping off the train, waiting among the small milling crowd. The arrival of the paramedic crew. The cops, stepping off the train in turn, moving through the throng, taking an elbow each, leading the witnesses away to separate rooms. I had gotten grabbed first, by the big sergeant. Impossible to say whether four cops had followed behind us, or only three.

I said, ‘He must have slipped away.’

Docherty asked, ‘Who was he?’

‘Just a guy. Alert, but nothing special about him. My age, not poor.’

‘Did he interact in any way with the woman?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Did he shoot her?’

‘She shot herself.’

Docherty shrugged. ‘So he’s just a reluctant witness. Doesn’t want paperwork showing he was out and about at two in the morning. Probably cheating on his wife. Happens all the time.’

‘He ran. But you’re giving him a free pass and looking at me instead?’

‘You just testified that he wasn’t involved.’

‘I wasn’t involved either.’

‘Says you.’

‘You believe me about the other guy but not about myself?’

‘Why would you lie about the other guy?’

I said, ‘This is a waste of time.’ And it was. It was such an extreme, clumsy waste of time that I suddenly realized it wasn’t for real. It was stage managed. I realized that in fact, in their own peculiar way, Lee and Docherty were doing me a small favour.

There’s more than meets the eye.

I said, ‘Who was she?’

Docherty said, ‘Why should she be someone?’

‘Because you made the ID and the computers lit up like Christmas trees. Someone called you and told you to hold on to me until they get here. You didn’t want to put an arrest on my record so you’re stalling me with all this bullshit.’

‘We didn’t particularly care about your record. We just didn’t want to do the paperwork.’

‘So who was she?’

‘Apparently she worked for the government. A federal agency is on its way to question you. We’re not allowed to say which one.’

They left me locked in the room. It was an OK space. Grimy, hot, battered, no windows, out-of-date crime prevention posters on the walls and the smell of sweat and anxiety and burnt coffee in the air. The table, and three chairs. Two for the detectives, one for the suspect. Back in the day maybe the suspect got smacked around and tumbled out of the chair. Maybe he still did. It’s hard to say exactly what happens, in a room with no windows.

I timed the delay in my head. The clock had already been running about an hour, since Theresa Lee’s whispered talk in the Grand Central corridor. So I knew it wasn’t the FBI coming for me. Their New York field office is the largest in the nation, based down in Federal Plaza, near City Hall. Ten minutes to react, ten minutes to assemble a team, ten minutes to drive uptown with lights and sirens. The FBI would have arrived long ago. But that left a whole bunch of other three-letter agencies. I made a bet with myself that whoever was heading my way would have IA as the last two letters on their badges. CIA, DIA. Central Intelligence Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency. Maybe others recently invented and hitherto unpublicized. Middle-of-the-night panics were very much their style.

After a second hour tacked on to the first I figured they must be coming all the way from D.C., which implied a small specialist outfit. Anyone else would have a field office closer to hand. I gave up speculating and tipped my chair back and put my feet on the table and went to sleep.

I didn’t find out exactly who they were. Not then. They wouldn’t tell me. At five in the morning three men in suits came in and woke me up. They were polite and businesslike. Their suits were mid-priced and clean and pressed. Their shoes were polished. Their eyes were bright. Their haircuts were fresh and short. Their faces were pink and ruddy. Their bodies were stocky but toned. They looked like they could run half-marathons without much trouble, but without much enjoyment, either. My first impression was recent ex-military. Gung-ho staff officers, head-hunted into some limestone building inside the Beltway. True believers, doing important work. I asked to see ID and badges and credentials, but they quoted the Patriot Act at me and said they weren’t obliged to identify themselves. Probably true, and they certainly enjoyed saying so. I considered clamming up in retaliation, but they saw me considering, and quoted some more of the Act at me, which left me in no doubt at all that a world of trouble lay at the end of that particular road. I am afraid of very little, but hassle with today’s security apparatus is always best avoided. Franz Kafka and George Orwell would have given me the same advice. So I shrugged and told them to go ahead and ask their questions.

They started out by saying that they were aware of my military service and very respectful of it, which was either a bullshit boilerplate platitude, or meant that they had been recruited out of the MPs themselves. Nobody respects an MP except another MP. Then they said that they would be observing me very closely and would know whether I was telling the truth or lying. Which was total bullshit, because only the best of us can do that, and these guys weren’t the best of us, otherwise they would have been in very senior positions, meaning that right then they would have been home and asleep in a Virginia suburb, rather than running up and down 1- 95 in the middle of the night.

But I didn’t have anything to hide, so I told them again to go ahead.

They had three areas of concern. The first: Did I know the woman who had killed herself on the train? Had I ever seen her before?

I said, ‘No.’ Short and sweet, quiet but firm.

They didn’t follow up with supplementaries. Which told me roughly who they were and exactly what they were doing. They were somebody’s B team, sent north to dead-end an open investigation. They were walling it off, burying it, drawing a line under something somebody had been only half suspicious about to begin with. They wanted a negative answer to every question, so that the file could be closed and the matter put to bed. They wanted a positive absence of loose ends, and they didn’t want to draw attention to the issue by making it a big drama. They wanted to get back on the road with the whole thing forgotten.