Zero Day (3 page)

“
Y
OU’RE ON YOUR OWN
with this one, Puller.”

John Puller sat across the desk from Don White, his SAC, otherwise known as the special agent in charge at the Criminal Investigative Division’s headquarters in Quantico, Virginia. For years the headquarters had been farther north at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Then the base realignment and closure folks had decided to consolidate CID offices across all branches at Quantico, which was also home to the FBI Academy and the Marine Corps.

Puller had made a quick stop at his off-base apartment to pick up a few things and check on his cat, a fat orange-and-brown tabby he had named AWOL, since it was always going off without getting clearance from him. AWOL meowed and then snarled at him before brushing against his leg and letting Puller run his hand over its arched back.

“Case, AWOL. Be back sometime. Food, water, and litterbox in the usual places.”

AWOL meowed his understanding of this and then glided away. He had wandered into Puller’s life about two years ago, and Puller figured the cat would wander out of it at some point.

There had been several phone messages on his apartment hard line, which he only kept in case the power went out and his cell phone went dead. There was only one message that he listened to in full.

He had sat down on the floor and played it through two more times.

His father.

Lieutenant General “Fighting John” Puller was one of America’s greatest warriors and the past commander of the Screaming Eagles, the Army’s legendary 101st Airborne Division. He was no longer in the Army and he was no longer a leader of anything. But that did not mean the old man accepted either of those points of reality. In fact, he did not. Which of course meant he was not really living in reality.

He was still ordering his younger son around as though he was at the top of the stars-and-bars chain and his boy at the bottom. His father would probably not remember what he had said on the message. He might not even recall that he had phoned. Or the next time Puller saw him he might bring it up and chastise his son for not executing the given order. The old man was as unpredictable in civilian life as he had been on the battlefield. That made him the toughest of opponents. If there was anything a soldier feared, it was an adversary you could never read, a foe who might be more than willing to do whatever it took, however outrageous, to win. Fighting John Puller had been such a warrior. Consequently he had won far more than he had lost and his tactics were now a fixture in the Army training methodology. And future leaders learned about him at the War College and spread the Puller fighting tactics to all sectors of the Army universe.

Puller erased the message. His father would have to wait.

Next stop was CID headquarters.

The CID had been started by General “Black Jack” Pershing in France during World War I. It had become a major Army command in 1971 and was headed up by a one-star. Worldwide, nearly three thousand people were assigned to it, nine hundred of them special agents, like John Puller. It was a centralized stovepipe command structure with the Secretary of the Army at the top and special agents at the bottom, with three layers of bureaucracy in between. It was a lasagna dish with too many noodle beds, Puller thought.

He focused on the SAC. “With an off-post homicide we usually go heavier than a one-man team, sir.”

White said, “I’m trying to get you boots on the ground in West Virginia, but it’s not looking good at this point.”

Puller now asked the question that had been puzzling him ever since learning of the assignment. “The 3rd MP Group has the 1000th Battalion at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. West Virginia is their area of responsibility. They can investigate a colonel’s homicide as well as we can.”

“Murdered man was with the Defense Intelligence Agency. Sensitive slot calls for the ‘quiet professional’ of the 701st.” White smiled at the description often given to the highly trained field investigative personnel of the 701st CID.

Puller didn’t smile back.

White continued. “Fort Campbell. That’s where the 101st is stationed. Your father’s old division, the Screaming Eagles.”

“Long time ago, sir.”

“How’s the old man doing?”

“He’s doing, sir,” Puller replied tersely. He did not care to talk about his father with anyone other than his brother. And even with his brother it was usually only a few sentences at most.

“Right. Good. Anyway, the 701st’s FIUs are the best of the best, Puller. You weren’t assigned here like other MP groups. You were
nominated
.”

“Understood.” Puller just sat there wondering when the man would get around to telling him something he
didn’t
know.

White slid a file across the metal desk. “Here’s the prelim. Duty officer took down the initial info. Check with your team leader before you head out. An investigative plan has been formulated, but feel free to ad-lib based on conditions on the ground.”

Puller took the offered file but kept his gaze on the man. “Thumbnail, sir?”

“Dead man was Colonel Matthew Reynolds. As I said, he was with DIA. Stationed at the Pentagon. His local address is in Fairfax City, Virginia.”

“West Virginia connection?”

“Unknown as yet. But he’s been positively identified, so we know it’s him.”

“His duties at DIA? Anything that could connect to this?”

“DIA is notoriously tight-lipped about its people and what they
do. But we have learned that Reynolds was in the process of retiring and going into the private sector. If we need to get you read in for purposes of the investigation we’ll do so.”

If?
Puller thought.

“What were his official duties at DIA?”

The SAC wriggled a bit in his seat. “He reported directly to the J2’s vice chair.”

“The J2 is a two-star, right? Gives the daily intel briefing to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”

“That’s right.”

“Guy like that gets murdered, why isn’t DIA all over this? They have badged investigators?”

“All I can tell you is that the task has fallen to us. Namely, to you.”

“And if we catch the person, does DIA or more likely the FBI get to swoop in and do the perp walk?”

“Not my call.”

“So DIA is sitting this one out?”

“Again, I’m just telling you what I know.”

“Okay, do we know where he was heading to after he left the service?”

White shook his head. “Don’t know yet. You can check directly with Reynolds’s superior at DIA for specifics. A General Julie Carson.”

Puller decided to say it. “Looks like I’ll have to be read in to do the investigative work, sir.”

“We’ll wait and see.”

That answer was nonsensical and Puller noted his SAC didn’t look at him when he said it.

“Any other victims?” he asked.

“Wife, two kids. All dead.”

Puller sat back. “Okay, four dead, probably complicated crime scene in West Virginia with the investigation also extending to DIA. We would normally send out at least four to six people with major tech support on something like this. Even calling up some bodies from USACIL,” he added, referring to the Army’s Criminal
Investigation Lab at Fort Gillem in Georgia. “We’d need the manpower just to properly process the evidence. And then another team to hit the DIA angle.”

“I think you just hit on the operative word.”

“What’s that?”

“Normally.”

Puller sat back up. “And
normally
in an office as large as the 701st I’d be getting my assignment from my team leader, not the SAC, sir.”

“That’s right.” The man did not seem inclined to expand on that response.

Puller dropped his gaze to the file. He was obviously expected to figure this out on his own. “Phone call said slaughterhouse.”

White nodded. “That’s how it was described. Now, I don’t know how many homicides they have out there in West Virginia but I guess it was pretty bloody. Whatever it is, you’ll have seen far worse in the Middle East.”

Puller said nothing to this. Much like the subject of his father, he did not talk about his tours of duty in the desert.

White continued. “The local police are in charge of the investigation since it’s off-installation. It’s rural, and from what I understand they do not have an official homicide detective; uniforms will lead the investigation. Finesse will be called for. We don’t really have grounds for full involvement unless it’s determined the killer was military. And because of Reynolds’s position I want us involved at least on a collateral investigation basis. To do that we need to play nice with the locals.”

“Is there a secure facility in the area where I can store evidence?”

“Homeland Security has a secure site about thirty miles away. Second person stationed there to witness opening and closing the safe. I’ve gotten you authorization.”

“I assume that I can still have access to USACIL?”

“Yes, you can. We also did a quick phone call to West Virginia. They voiced no objection to CID involvement. The Army lawyers can paper it later.”

“Lawyers are good at paper, sir.”

White studied him. “But we’re the Army, so together with finesse the occasional hammer will also be necessary. And I understand that you are equally capable of providing either one.”

Puller said nothing. He’d spent his entire military career dealing with commissioned officers. Some were good, some were idiots. Puller had not made up his mind about this one.

White said, “I’ve only been here a month, got posted here after they moved the operation from Fort Belvoir. Still feeling my way. You’ve been doing this five years.”

“Going on six.”

“Everyone who counts tells me you’re the best we’ve got, if a little unorthodox.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that there’s a lot of interest from up top on this one, Puller. I’m talking past even the Secretary of the Army and on to the civilian corridors in D.C.”

“Understood. But I’ve investigated cases involving Defense Intelligence that were handled within normal parameters. If there is that much interest at those levels, Colonel Reynolds must’ve had some extra juice in his post at the Pentagon.” He paused. “Or maybe more dirt.”

White smiled. “Maybe you are as good as advertised.”

Puller stared back at the man. He thought,
And maybe I’d make an excellent fall guy if this all goes to hell
.

White said, “So you’ve been doing this nearly six years.”

Puller remained silent. He thought he knew where this was going, because others had gone there before. The man’s next words proved him correct.

White continued, “You’re college educated. You speak French and German and passable Italian. Your father and brother are officers.”

“
Were
officers,” corrected Puller. “And the only reason I speak those languages is because my father was stationed in Europe while I was a kid.”

White didn’t seem to be listening. “I know you were a star of your training class at USAMPS,” he began, referring to the United States Army’s Military Police School at Fort Leonard Wood in
Missouri. “As an MP you bounced the drunken heads of grunts all over the globe. You’ve cracked cases pretty much everywhere the Army has a footprint. And you’ve got your Top Secret and SCI clearances.” He paused. “Even though what your brother did nearly blew that for you.”

“I’m not my brother. And all my clearances were renewed.”

“I know that.” The man fell silent and tapped the arm of his chair.

Puller said nothing. He knew what was coming next. It always did.

“So why not West Point for you, Puller? And why CID? Your military service is solid gold. Top scores at Ranger School. Hell of a combat record. A leader in the field. Your father earned forty-nine major medals over three decades and he’s an Army legend. You garnered nearly half that in six tours of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Two Silvers, one of which landed you in rehab for three months, three Bronzes with V-devices, and a trio of Purples. And you bagged a guy on the fifty-two-card most wanted deck in Iraq, right?”

“Five of spades, sir,” said Puller.

“Right. So you’ve got more than enough stars and scars. Army loves that combo. You’re a stud with an impeccable military pedigree. If you’d stayed with the Rangers you’d be a shoo-in for the top enlisted spot. If you’d gone to West Point you’d be a major or maybe even a lieutenant colonel by now. And you could’ve earned at least two shoulder stars before you left the Army. Hell, maybe three like your old man if you played the political games right. At CID an enlisted man tops out at command sergeant major. And my predecessor told me the only reason you filed your warrant officer application was because sergeant first classes sit their butts behind desks at CID while WOs can still get out in the field.”

“I don’t much like desks, sir.”

“So here you are, at CID. On the low side of the bars and clusters. And I’m not the first to wonder about that, soldier.”

Puller let his gaze drop to the other man’s row of ribbons. White was dressed in the Army’s new blue Class Bs that were over time replacing the old greens. For anyone in the military the chest of ribbons and/or medals was the DNA of a person’s career. It told
all to the experienced eye; nothing of significance could be hidden. From a combat perspective there wasn’t anything in the SAC’s history worthy of note, not a Purple or valor device in sight. Certainly the ribbons were many in number and would look impressive to the layperson, but it told Puller that the man was basically a career desk-humper, who only fired a weapon for recertification.

Puller said, “Sir, I like where I am. I like the way I got there. And it’s a moot point now. It is what it is.”

“I guess it is, Puller. I guess it is. Some might call you an underachiever.”

“Maybe it’s a character flaw, but I’ve never cared about what people call me.”

“Heard that too about you.”

Puller eyed the man steadily. “Yes, sir. I guess the case is getting cold out there.”

The man glanced over at his computer screen. “Then get your gear and head out.”