The Second Perimeter (5 page)

D
ave Whitfield had been stabbed to death.
He had called DeMarco’s cell phone at exactly 8:10 a.m. and had left the shipyard twenty-eight minutes later. No one knew for sure why he had left when he did or where he was going, but DeMarco had an idea. DeMarco figured that when Whitfield had not been able to communicate with him by cell phone when he was on the fishing boat, Whitfield had left the shipyard to go to DeMarco’s motel, thinking that at that hour DeMarco might still be there, if not in his room, then maybe having breakfast.
Whitfield’s car had been parked in a small lot three blocks from the shipyard. The lot had space for six or seven cars, and to reach the lot, Whitfield had to walk down an alley. The parking lot itself was the backyard of a private home; the home owner had concluded long ago that charging shipyard workers eight bucks a day for parking was more enjoyable than mowing a lawn. The parking lot was visible only to people walking down the alley and to the owner of the lot if he happened to be looking out one of his back windows.
Whitfield had been killed in the parking lot, and based on the temperature of his liver and other factors that came to light later, the time of death was established at approximately nine a.m. He had been stabbed once and the weapon used, presumably a long-bladed knife, had entered his rib cage, slid between his ribs, and severed his aorta. After he was killed, his wallet and watch were taken and his body was shoved under his car. The body wasn’t discovered until noon when another shipyard worker went to the parking lot during his lunch break.
In the two days following the killing, Frank Hathaway showed exactly how much muscle an angry Secretary of the Navy could flex. A squad of investigators from NCIS descended on the shipyard like winged furies and a large navy poker was jammed up the local police chief’s ass to prod him into action. Two FBI agents were also diverted from the Bureau’s Seattle office to Bremerton. The FBI’s jurisdiction was questionable as the killing had occurred on city— vice federal— property, but since Hathaway was the one demanding action they had decided to engage.
DeMarco and Emma were interviewed several times. As they had no reason not to cooperate they told the assorted groups of cops what they knew. The last phone call DeMarco had received from Whitfield was naturally of particular interest but the only thing DeMarco could tell them was that he thought Whitfield had been talking about Norton and Mulherin, but nothing Whitfield had said, or that DeMarco had heard over the poor connection, had led him to conclude that Whitfield had discovered anything that would be a motive for murder.
“Look,” DeMarco told the investigators, “this whole thing with Whitfield was him thinking these two guys were doing a shitty job and making more money than they should have. I don’t know why he called me, but we didn’t find any evidence that anything illegal was going on, and we sure as hell didn’t find anything worth killing somebody over.”
Norton, Mulherin, and Carmody were interrogated by navy and federal investigators and by city detectives. Alibis were asked for and verified. Whitfield’s coworkers and neighbors were questioned, evidence was collected from the scene of the crime, and the neighborhood where Whitfield had been killed was canvassed by teams of cynical cops.
Norton and Mulherin were cleared almost immediately. At the time of Whitfield’s death, they had been inside the shipyard and were seen by approximately twenty people. On top of alibis provided by multiple eyewitnesses, the two men also had an electronic alibi: to enter or exit the shipyard, employees had to swipe their badges through bar-code readers installed at all the shipyard gates. The bar-code readers provided the exact time Whitfield had left the shipyard and verified that Mulherin and Norton had entered the shipyard at 7:00 a.m. and remained there all day, Mulherin leaving at 3:59 p.m. and Norton at 5:30 p.m.
Phil Carmody was also eliminated as a murder suspect, although his alibi was not as airtight as that of his employees. He had been having breakfast at the time of the killing and the restaurant where he had eaten was only five minutes by car from the parking lot where Dave Whitfield had died. But for Carmody to have killed Whitfield, he would have to have been missing from the restaurant for almost fifteen minutes— five minutes to get to the parking lot, two or three minutes to kill Whitfield and hide his body, and five minutes to get back to the restaurant. The waitress who had waited on Carmody didn’t think there was any fifteen-minute period when he was out of her sight, and she remembered refilling his coffee cup at least twice while he was eating. The waitress did say that Carmody had been seated near the rear exit of the restaurant.
Mahoney, as DeMarco had expected, irrationally blamed him for Whitfield’s death.
“What the fuck did you do, Joe?” Mahoney had screamed. “Goddamnit, all Hathaway wanted was for you to check out some pissant navy contract thing, and the next thing you know, his nephew’s dead. You musta done something.”
DeMarco wasn’t sure that he’d done anything to cause Whitfield’s death, but not returning Whitfield’s phone call that morning had been a mistake. As he had told the cops, he had no
facts
to connect Whitfield’s death with Norton’s and Mulherin’s activities, but the timing of the phone call was disturbing. DeMarco couldn’t leave Bremerton until he could explain why Dave Whitfield had been killed.
Emma, who could have left had she wanted to, also decided to stay. Something was bothering her— something other than the fact that Dave Whitfield had been killed— but she wouldn’t tell DeMarco what it was.
Forty-eight hours after Dave Whitfield died, the Bremerton cops arrested a man for his murder.

J
erry Brunstad, Bremerton’s chief of police, was a paunchy man with a sunburned face, too much dyed-black hair, and long sideburns; DeMarco thought he looked like an Elvis impersonator with a badge. Brunstad’s blue uniform shirt was snug across his belly and when he raised his right arm to use the pointer, a shirttail came out the back of his pants. He was using the pointer to direct attention to a white board that listed the evidence his men had acquired on Dave Whitfield’s killer. His audience consisted of seven people: Richard Miller, who was in charge of security at the shipyard; two FBI agents; two NCIS agents; and Emma and DeMarco. It had taken a phone call from the Speaker’s office for Emma and DeMarco to be allowed to attend the briefing.
According to Chief Brunstad, Whitfield had been murdered by a man named Thomas “Cowboy” Conran. Conran was an easily recognizable, thirty-nine-year-old street person. He was six foot four, scarecrow thin, and always wore a battered black cowboy hat pulled down low on his forehead, making him look like a demented, undernourished Tim McGraw. Conran had been diagnosed as a schizophrenic in his teens and when he was off his meds— which was almost all the time— was known to act in an irrational, often violent manner.
“Shipyard badge readers,” Brunstad said, “recorded Whitfield going out the State Street gate at 8:38 and it takes about ten minutes to walk from the gate to where his car was parked. We walked the route. A witness saw Cowboy walking down the alley at 8:55. The witness said he was sure of the time because he was waiting for a buddy to pick him up and his buddy was late. From the window of his house, the witness couldn’t see the parking lot where Whitfield was killed, but he could see Cowboy leaving the alley.”
“Who was the witness?” an FBI agent asked. The agent was a woman with short dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a trim figure. She was as cute as a button, DeMarco thought, and she had outstanding ankles. And the lady agent had noticed DeMarco, too. When she first came into the conference room she’d glanced at everybody, the way a person does when entering a room filled with strangers, but it had seemed to DeMarco that her gaze had lingered longer on him. DeMarco wondered if the lingering look was because she found him devilishly handsome.
“A guy named Mark Berg,” Brunstad said, answering the FBI lady’s question. “He’s an out-of-work carpenter.”
The agent wrote this down. “Why did Mr. Berg wait until now to tell you about Conran?” she asked.
“He was over in Spokane visiting a cousin. Like I said, he was waiting for his ride the day he saw Cowboy and he left for Spokane right after he saw him. He didn’t hear about Whitfield’s murder until he got back last night.”
The FBI agent also included this information in her notebook. She had written down virtually every word that Brunstad had uttered, making DeMarco conclude: great ankles but maybe just a little anal.
“Anyway,” Brunstad said, “after we interviewed the witness, we went looking for Cowboy and in his backpack we found Whitfield’s wallet and watch. We also found a knife with a six-inch blade. There was blood on the blade and the ME says the shape of the blade matches Whitfield’s wound. We’ve sent the knife to a lab to see if the blood matches Whitfield’s DNA. We’ll know in a couple of days.”
“Whitfield was stabbed from the front,” Emma said. “Why would he let this street person get so close to him?”
“I don’t know,” Brunstad said. “Maybe Cowboy was asking Whitfield for a handout. He’s a big guy, he backs Whitfield up against his car, and when Whitfield doesn’t give him any money, he gets mad and stabs him.” One of Brunstad’s cops nodded in approval of his boss’s reasoning.
“Had Mr. Conran spent any of Whitfield’s money or used his credit cards?” Emma asked.
“He definitely didn’t use the credit cards,” the chief said. “We checked. As for the money that was in Whitfield’s wallet, we don’t know how much he had to begin with, but there was still cash in the wallet when we arrested Cowboy.”
“Humph,” Emma said.
“So what does this Cowboy character say?” one of the NCIS agents asked.
“He says gibberish,” Brunstad said. “We’ve questioned him but he just prattles on about weird stuff. You can’t get a direct answer to anything. We’re trying to get his lawyer to let us force-feed Cowboy his meds but his lawyer’s playin’ games with us. But right now, even without a confession, Cowboy looks pretty good for this thing.”
Brunstad’s presentation ended a few minutes later. Emma told DeMarco she needed to make a phone call and left him sitting there in the briefing room. DeMarco wondered who she was calling. He noticed the cute FBI agent had walked up to look at the crime scene photos taped on the wall near the white board. DeMarco decided he, too, was interested in the evidence.
“Gotta pretty good case against Mr. Cowboy,” DeMarco said to the agent.
“Yeah, almost too good,” the agent said.
It was the way she said “yeah.” Pure New York. “Brooklyn?” DeMarco said.
“No, smart guy. Queens. You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I know you?” DeMarco said.
“Sorta. My brother was Nick Carlucci.”
“You’re kidding!” DeMarco said. Nick Carlucci had been an acquaintance of DeMarco’s in high school. He’d never been a close friend because DeMarco’s mother wouldn’t allow DeMarco to pal around with him after Nick was arrested for stealing a car. DeMarco’s father may have worked for a mobster but that didn’t mean that Mrs. DeMarco would permit her son to associate with criminals.
“So how’s Nick doing?” DeMarco said.
“Never mind,” the agent said. DeMarco guessed that meant that ol’ Nick hadn’t gone on to Yale and become a doctor.
DeMarco vaguely remembered her now, recalling that Nick had a younger sister, a skinny little kid with a sharp mouth. What the hell was her name?
“My name’s Diane,” Diane said, apparently having the same ability all women had— which was to read DeMarco’s mind as if there was an electronic reader-board on his forehead.
“So what agency are you with?” she asked. “NCIS?”
“No. Congress.”
“Congress? What’s Congress got to do with this?”
Emma returned to the conference room before DeMarco could answer. She stood in the doorway and made an impatient come-on-let’s-go motion.
“It’s complicated,” DeMarco said to Diane Carlucci.
“Oh, yeah?” Diane said. Again, the New York “yeah,” this time communicating: like
anything
you had to say could be complicated.
Emma waved at DeMarco again; he could tell she was getting pissed.
“Yeah,” DeMarco said, “it’s so complicated it would take me a whole dinner to explain it to you.”
Diane Carlucci smiled. He liked that smile. She took a card out of the pocket of her suit jacket and said, “Why don’t you call me later today. If this thing’s under control, dinner tonight might be okay, you being from Congress and all.”
There was nothing like a girl from the old neighborhood.
DeMarco started over toward Emma, who was still standing in the doorway. He was halfway there when she said, “Hurry up!” then turned and walked away.
DeMarco hustled to catch up with her. “So you don’t think the bum did it,” DeMarco said to Emma.
“I think Mr. Conran’s only crime is being mentally ill,” Emma said.
“Who’d you call?” DeMarco asked.
“I noticed you talking to that young lady from the FBI,” Emma said. “Comparing case notes?”
“Funny thing,” DeMarco said. “She was raised in my old neighborhood. I knew her brother.”
“Yeah, funny thing,” Emma said. “Another funny thing is how she looks like your ex-wife.”
DeMarco’s wife had divorced him a few years ago. She’d had an affair with his cousin, and then stripped him of most of his assets. In spite of what she’d done, he still wasn’t completely over her and he had a tendency to be attracted to women who looked just like her. And Emma knew it.
“Aw, she does not,” DeMarco said.

E
mma had decided that she wanted to see the facility where Mulherin and Norton worked when they were inside the shipyard— the area where Whitfield had been just before his death. Richard Miller, the shipyard’s head of security who had been at the briefing, had already left the police chief’s office and was just getting into his car when Emma stopped him.
Miller had a head like a stubby cinder block: a square-shaped face topped by brush-cut gray hair. He had probably been a burly guy in his youth but at age fifty all the muscles had collapsed into a tire of fat around his waist. When Emma told Miller what she wanted, he told her that he had better things to do than walk her around the shipyard, at which point Emma took a card out of her purse and handed it to him.
“Call that number, Mr. Miller,” she said. “A phone will ring in the Pentagon and someone with stars on his shoulders will explain to you why you want to be nice to me. Now I’m going to get a cup of coffee but I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, Emma, DeMarco, and Miller were inside the shipyard, walking toward the training facility. As they walked, Miller kept glancing over at Emma; whatever he’d been told by the man in the Pentagon had made an impression.
To reach the training facility they had to traverse almost the entire length of the shipyard. The place was enormous and everything in it— the buildings, the equipment, the drydocks— was enormous. Miller said the shipyard’s machine shop was the biggest such facility west of the Mississippi River, and DeMarco believed him.
Four of the shipyard’s drydocks held submarines being overhauled and one drydock held two submarines that were being dismantled. The sixth drydock, the largest one, was empty, but big wooden blocks were laid out in a pattern for a ship to set down on. A big ship— a Nimitz class aircraft carrier.
Miller allowed them to look into a drydock holding a Trident submarine. A Trident submarine is five hundred and sixty feet long— almost the length of two football fields— and carries more weapons of mass destruction than most countries have in their entire arsenal. A Trident is a sleek, sinister-looking killing machine, and it wasn’t hard for DeMarco to imagine it sitting motionless beneath the waves, a missile hatch silently opening— and then the entire world being set on fire. But “Gee that thing’s big” was the only thing he said out loud and Emma just looked at him— like he was the first idiot to master understatement.
Miller introduced them to Dave Whitfield’s boss, the person in charge of training the shipyard’s nuclear engineers. She was a handsome, dark-haired woman in her forties named Jane Shipley and she was even taller than Emma. Shipley showed them her domain, which consisted of several classrooms, study areas for the trainees, and the ubiquitous corporate cubicles where instructors and other personnel pounded away on computers.
Shipley pointed out the cubicle where Mulherin and Norton worked. It was located on the front wall of the building and looked just like all the other cubicles: two desks, two chairs, two phones, two computers, one filing cabinet. DeMarco could tell that Emma wanted to yank open all the drawers, but she restrained herself.
There was also a large walk-in vault at the rear of the training area, the type of vault you would find in a bank. DeMarco could see blueprints and big books— books the size of Bibles or phone books— on shelves inside the vault. A woman— half guard, half librarian— was posted at a desk near the vault.
“What do you keep in there?” DeMarco asked Shipley.
“Drawings of ships’ systems and components. The big books are reactor and steam plant manuals.”
DeMarco remembered what Dave Whitfield had said: the reactor plant manuals told you how the ships’ reactors worked.
Emma looked at the vault, then did a slow turn to take in the rest of the training complex. To Shipley, she said, “You have a lot of classified information in this facility, don’t you?”
“Well, sure,” Shipley said. “Our engineers are trained primarily on three different classes of ships: Nimitz class aircraft carriers, Trident submarines, and Los Angeles class attack submarines. We can’t go running all around the shipyard every time we have to prepare a class or teach a course.”
“I know,” Emma said. “But there’s so
much
information here, all in one place.” Before Shipley could respond, Emma said, “Are the manuals, those reactor plant manuals, are they on CDs?”
Miller hesitated. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s the most efficient way to update them when they’re revised.”
“CREM,” Emma said.
It had sounded to DeMarco like Emma was either clearing her throat or uttering a heretofore unknown curse word.
“What did you say?” DeMarco said.
“CREM. They have CREM,” Emma said. Now the word sounded like a sexually transmitted disease. “Controlled removable electronic media. In other words, CDs and floppy discs that contain classified information. CDs that can be stolen and copied and e-mailed. CREM is a security officer’s nightmare, isn’t it, Mr. Miller?”
Miller’s mouth took a hard set, bristling at Emma’s comment. “We control our classified material tighter than anybody in the business, lady,” he said. “Particularly since Los Alamos.”
In July 2004, Emma explained to DeMarco later, two classified CDs were reported missing at the Los Alamos National Laboratory’s Weapons Physics Directorate— a place that designs and experiments with nuclear bombs. This was the same facility that the Chinese had supposedly infiltrated in the 1990s, making off with design information related to thermonuclear warheads. The CDs lost at Los Alamos in 2004 may simply have been misplaced— stuck in the wrong file drawer or safe— or accidentally destroyed. Subsequent investigations showed that the people at the laboratory, most of them egghead scientists with skyscraper IQs, were incredibly absentminded when it came to controlling classified material. Or maybe the CDs weren’t lost or destroyed— maybe they were mailed to North Korea or Iran or some other equally unfriendly party.
Because of what had happened at Los Alamos, the shipyard was ultracareful when it came to removable media. Miller explained that when an individual checked out a classified CD from the vault, the number of the CD was recorded— just like when you checked out a book from the library— and at the end of the day, the CD had to be returned to the vault. An inventory was done every day to make sure all the CDs had been returned— and if one was found missing, Miller’s security force went to high alert. The problem was CDs could be copied and their contents e-mailed. When Emma said this, both Miller and Shipley responded immediately.
“No way,” they said, simultaneously. They explained that the shipyard’s computers were designed to prevent copying classified CDs and the shipyard’s firewall prevented classified material from being e-mailed out of the yard.
“Humph,” was Emma’s response. “And Mulherin and Norton, I suppose they have access to these classified CDs?”
“Yes,” Shipley said.
“And do they use your computers or their own?”
“You can’t bring personal computers into the yard,” Shipley said. “So their contract specified that they be given a work space here in the training facility and computers and phones. You saw their office. They needed the computers because a lot of the training materials— class outlines, course materials, exams— are on CDs or a secure network. But like I said, you can’t burn copies of classified CDs on our computers.”
“I see,” Emma said.
Shipley shook her head and said, “Mulherin and Norton are a couple of eight balls. I wouldn’t hire them to clean my blackboards. Why anybody would pay these guys to review
my
training program is beyond me.”
“You know Dave Whitfield thought there was something, ah,
funny
about the work Mulherin and Norton were doing,” DeMarco said. He didn’t want to use the word “fraudulent.”
“Yeah, I know,” Shipley said. “He complained to me about it.” She hesitated, then added, “Look, I think this review Carmody’s doing is a waste of time, and I’ve already told you what I think of Mulherin and Norton, but there isn’t anything illegal going on like Dave seemed to think. He was upset because these guys were making more money than he was, but…well, that’s just the way Dave was.”
“What about Carmody?” Emma asked. “Does he spend much time here?”
“No,” Shipley said. “He comes up here once in a while— to check on Norton and Mulherin, I guess— but he spends most of his time on the subs.”
“Doing what?” Emma said.
“Part of the training is the book stuff,” Shipley said, “which we do here, and part is shipboard. Carmody is supposedly watching the shipboard training, but my guys say that he seems to spend most of his time just bullshitting with the sailors.”
“But he’s on board the submarines a lot,” Emma said. “On his own.”
“Yeah,” Shipley said. “Is there a problem with that?”