Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

"You ain't gonna believe this," he said, "but this ain't the first time Tottenham has been in the shits for something like this. The tattoo thing, the wife-swapping shit; he's been into some pretty creepy shit over the years. He supposedly likes, or used to, anyway, to rough-up girls."

"What about guys?"

"Guys? What do you mean?"

I told him about the murder scene this morning and he whistled again. "No shit, Woody?"

"That's a fact. No shit. But maybe a little piss, however."

"Crap. I can get a friend in Tacoma to run down the IP. Can you get a picture of Tottenham to show to the girl? Just to confirm things?"

"I dunno. Might be better to get someone outside the department. Maybe a reporter," I said, grinning.

"Are you kidding?" he said. "Then what? They'd want some inside angle or some other tit-for-tat, or fuck, they could get hold of something you'd missed and then what the hell would you do?!"

"Fuck, I don't know, Tate. I'm tired, been up too GD long."

"Alright, alright; I'll take care of it." He steepled his hands over his chest and sighed. "Shit, it's probably nothing anyway. No telling how many people have that tattoo."

I nodded. "Yeah. Who knows? It couldn't be that common, could it?"

+++++

I drove back to Central and went up to my office in CID, called dispatch, asked them to run-off the NCIC print-outs I'd called in earlier. I wanted to know more about the background of the victim, but turns out I wasn't ready for what came next.

"He's clean, Woody," Trisha Wickham told me. "You wouldn't believe how clean."

"What do you mean?"

"He's FBI. White-collar crime unit, computer crime. Talked to the SAC; he filled me in. The guy was as clean as they come, too; fifteen year veteran. Wife and two kids."

"Shit. Anyone told the family yet?"

"Nope. SAC wanted to talk to you first."

"Got a number handy?" She read it off to me. "Thanks, Trish. Appreciate it."

"Woody?"

"Yeah?"

"This doesn't feel right. Be careful, okay?"

She hung up before I could ask what she meant.

Just what the fuck was going on?

+++++

Peter Brennan was the Special Agent in Charge of SeaTac FBI; I'd known him for years and he was a straight-shooter, a no nonsense, old school kind of Irish-American cop. He was waiting for my call.

"Woody, what can you tell me? Any suspects?"

I gave him the basics but left out a bunch of details. "Hell, Pete, we haven't confirmed anything yet, don't even have the fingerprints processed yet. Was your boy supposed to come in this morning?"

"Yeah. He's a no show, his wife said he went out early last evening on a call and never came back. She called in about six-thirty this morning, worried."

"Sounds about right."

"Yeah. Anything else you can tell me, Woody?"

"Let me pull the prints and I'll run 'em over in a bit. Got any time this morning?"

"I'll make time."

"Okay, Pete. Seeya later." I hung up, walked down to the locker room and picked-up my mail, then dropped by dispatch to pick up the NCIC and DL print-outs that would have to be attached to my preliminary report. Trish was not there so I turned and walked back to the elevator. Tottenham walked into to the elevator right after I did.

"Hey Woody, how's it going?"

"Fine, Chief. You?"

"Can't complain. You still livin' on the boat?"

I laughed to avoid the question. "Well, it worked for a while but it got real small real quick."

"I can imagine. Brennan called me a while ago. You got the case?"

"Yessir."

"Any leads?"

"Not a thing, Chief." The elevator binged and the door opened.

"Well, keep me posted."

"Right, Chief."

"Seeya later."

"You bet."

The door closed and lurched up to the next floor; I walked to my office and got my coat, then called forensics and told them to fax a copy of the fingerprints to Brennan. My other line lit up and I took the call: it was Dick Tate.

"Hey Woody! Long time no see, amigo. Wondered if you'd like to have lunch and swap lies."

"Hey there yourself! What the hell have you been up to? You still chasin' lyin' husbands and cheatin' wives?"

"Only when I'm not screwing their wives!"

"Yeah. Ain't Viagra a wonderful thing?" We laughed. "Listen, I have to drop by and see Pete Brennan for a minute, but how 'bout I meet you for a bowl of chowder at Betty Lincoln's?"

"Be good; like old times. Say about noon?"

"That'll be fine."

"Okay, buddy. Can't wait. Be good to catch up on things." He hung up; I'd managed to tell him of FBI interest in the case and told him to meet me near Ballard Locks, and he'd told me he had something important to discuss. Hopefully, if anyone was monitoring the line they'd not get too suspicious.

I drove over to the main FBI office by the Wa-Mu building and talked with Brennan; he told me they'd handle the notification and I thanked him.

"Any leads?" he asked.

"Nothing solid yet. I'll let you know as soon as something breaks. I assume you'll start your own investigation?"

"Already have."

I nodded. "You got a private number?"

He squinted, sat down and wrote out two numbers: "The first is unlisted, anytime. The second is my home number."

"Understood."

"You got something?" he asked.

"I need to confirm a few things, probably know something in the morning."

He nodded. "You need me, just call."

"Pete, if I need you it'll be too goddamn late to call."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"You sure you don't want to fill me in?"

"In the morning."

"Okay."

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't put a tail on me, okay? I'm expecting someone to try and I don't want you to run 'em off."

"Fuck."

"Promise, Pete?"

He stood, held his hand out. "Scout's honor, Woody."

I smiled. Like I said, Pete was 'good cop'.

I drove down to my boat on Lake Union and put the Zodiac in the water, then took off toward the locks. So far I hadn't seen anyone on my tail, either on the ground or in the air.

Tate was standing on a dock about a hundred yards shy of the locks and I pulled over and he hopped on; if anyone had followed him they'd have to hustle to follow us now -- but he hadn't seen a thing either. I puttered over to the south side of the channel and we both watched the shore as we trolled along.

"Victim was an FBI agent, supposedly clean."

"His name Dan Harvey?" Tate asked.

"Yeah. How'd you find that out?"

"The IP for Mary-Jo's contact. It's Tottenham alright, and there's been a lot of activity between him and this Harvey fellow over the past few months. A lot of meets at a code name, some place they refer to as the Hole in the Wall."

"My. How original."

"So Harvey was FBI, huh?"

"Yeah, and supposedly clean. White collar crime."

"Think maybe he got onto someone, maybe Mark?"

"Possible, but I doubt it. Why all the contact?"

"Maybe they were working a joint task force? Undercover?"

"That's a stretch. Ran into Mark this morning; he didn't let on he knew the guy. Any luck on a photo?"

"Yeah. Pulled one off the net, from the Post-Intelligencer; about a year old, so it ought to do."

"Good deal."

"So Mark knew the guy and didn't own up to it? And the tattoo? You think the girl might know the name of the club?"

"It's a good bet. Yeah, I think she will, but she's a little weird."

"Say, you think we could grab a bowl while we're out?"

"Yeah. You know, that actually sounds pretty good." I upped the throttle and scooted up channel toward Fisherman's Terminal and tied-off below Chinook's. With any luck we'd missed the lunch crowd; we got lucky and sat way back from the entrance, looking out on the fishing boats; from here Tate covered the entrance and I watched the dock. We ordered clam chowder and coffee and had just begun to relax when Dick sat upright and coughed attention.

"Tottenham," he said under his breath. "At the desk, trying not to look this way."

"Fuck."

"What have you gotten into, Woody?"

"Your guess is as good as mine?"

"Well, here he comes..."

The waitress came by and dropped off two huge bowls of chowder and some Tabasco.

"Damn, that looks good!" Tottenham said when he got close. "Tate! What are you doing here? Where's your Nikon?"

I turned and looked up at Tottenham.

"Sheesh! Well, looky who's here!" Tate said

"Hey Chief," said yours truly, feigning surprise.

"Shit. This is like old times, huh?"

"You alone, Mark?" Dick asked. "Wanna join us?"

"Kind of you to ask, but no. I'm meeting Pete Brennan, should be here any minute."

My heart lurched.

"Well, good to see you Dick. Woody, check in with me this afternoon, would you?"

"Right Chief."

Brennan walked in and they took a table across the huge restaurant from us.

"I think I've lost my appetite," Tate said.

"At these prices? Better go find it, and fast."

He laughed. "Too bad you're on duty."

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth. Nothing like a cold one with chowder."

"So. What the fuck do you think's going on?"

"Damn, I have no idea. Maybe Harvey found something on Tottenham, or maybe they were just into the same shit and they met up with Cruella de Vil in that apartment. Anyway, I asked Pete not to throw a tail on me. I don't think he was lying when he said he wouldn't."

"Really? I wouldn't count on that. Well anyway, Woody, you're missing something. Something big. Why the hell would Tottenham and Brennan both be here? Right now? I hate to say it, but it sure feels like someone's following you."

"Us," I said.

"Right. Us." He coughed, looked over at Brennan. "Thanks, I think."

"Don't matter. Food's good, sun's out... what else is there?"

"I guess so, Woody." He shook his head at that, and I really couldn't blame him for feeling put-upon. "You'd better think about lining something up with the girl soon."

"Yeah. You working anything major right now?"

"Nope. Not even anything minor."

"Things that slow?"

"Slower. In a recession nobody gives a damn if their spouse is cheating 'cause nobody has any money. I'd sure hate to be a divorce lawyer these days."

"No, no you wouldn't. I can guarantee you they've made enough off me the last twenty years to keep themselves in Gucci loafers the rest of their goddamn lives." We laughed, but we'd both been there and done that. Most cops have, and I guess that's why most cops grow old by themselves. Bitter and cynical doesn't even begin to describe it.

We finished up and paid the bill, Dick went over to say 'bye to Tottenham and Brennan while I washed up, then we hopped into the Zodiac and continued up channel to the lake and my boat. The shore was lined with boat dealers and houseboats, and even Tate wanted to linger and look over the little floating shack where they filmed "Sleepless in Seattle."

Whoever it was tailing us was doing a good job, because neither of us picked up anything until I turned into the little marina where I kept my boat -- and even then he was hard to see. Standing up on the second deck of a parking garage overlooking the lake we saw a man with binoculars and a walkie-talkie watching us; he looked away when we looked at him.

"Dark suit," Tate said.

"Sunglasses," I said.

"FBI," we both said. It was an old joke.

"Yeah, but pretty good anyway," Tate said, then we laughed.

"Why would they be watching us?" I said, thinking out loud. "I mean, we're not suspects?"

"Wanna follow you, I guess; see where you lead 'em?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What else?"

"Keep us from getting too close to something."

"Woody? You're getting paranoid."

"Damn straight. I just hope I'm getting paranoid enough."

"Amen to that, Brother."

+++++

I dropped Tate off by the locks as the sun dropped behind some clouds; the plan was for him to fall way behind me on an agreed-upon route and see who was tailing me. I took my phone out and clipped it to my shirt pocket, hooked up a hands-free headset and took off down Market Street, then turned right on 15th Avenue and crossed Ballard Bridge.

The phone chirped and I looked at the screen. Dispatch.

"Woodward," I said when I answered.

"Detective, there's an urgent call for you from the Medical Examiner's office."

"Gimme the number." I scribbled the info on a pad and hung up. The phone chirped immediately.

"Yeah?"

"Two cars. Fed plates, and I'm pretty sure there's one on me too."

"Right. Go to the barn."

There was no way to beat this kind of operation; too many resources had been allotted -- and that, really, told me all I needed to know. The FBI had been running some kind of ops; Special Agent Harvey had been made and neutralized. Now, the question was: what role was Tottenham playing, and what did Brennan know, or not know?

I drove back to the lake along Mercer, wound around to Westlake and pulled into the MarinaMart lot and locked the car; I stopped at the pay phone outside the gate and called the MEs office. Mary-Jo picked up on the first ring:

"You alright?" I asked her.

"Yeah. You know the identity of the guy yet?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So do I."

"What about the stuff you found inside the back door?"

"His property."

"Right. Want some dinner?"

"Sure."

"Ray's Boathouse, Shilshole. Eight o'clock."

"Okay."

"And you'll be followed."

"Okay." She sounded pretty uncomfortable now. There was a little quiver in her voice when she continued: "You too?"

"All day. I'll fill you in at dinner." I hung up, took out my mag-key and held it up to the gate; it buzzed open and I walked though, then turned when I heard cars pulling in. Two black Fords slipped into the lot and parked near mine; I thought I might as well wait for Tate and he pulled in a few minutes later - trailing his own duo of Fords. Tate got out and surprisingly all the other feds did too -- Brennan in the lead. As Tate walked my way the entourage did as well. I stood by the gate and held it open, watched as they filed past silently -- and there was something almost comical in their uniformity -- like every black suit and all the Ray-Bans in the Pacific Northwest had been scooped up by FBI agents, and here they were now, my very own parade of Men in Black.

I walked past them and hopped on board the boat -- Brennan and one other agent I didn't know followed me on board, and Tate brought up the rear; we went down below and I put on coffee.

"Why'd you have to bring him in?" the unknown agent said, pointing at Tate.

I looked at the man and took in his smug swagger, his pompadour hair, then looked at Pete Brennan: "Don't y'all still administer a test that measures the stupidity of your applicants?"

Brennan laughed; Pompadour bristled.

"Look, Woodward," Pompadour said, "its hard enough keeping a lid on things without you, well, without you bringing in every broken down old cop in Seattle."

"I guess you don't plan on getting old?" I said. "Does that about sum it up, asshole?"

Pompadour huffed-up, stepped toward me. "Sit down, Rollins," Brennan commanded. Pompadour sat, just like any other well-trained Doberman, but he kept his eyes locked on mine.

"I thought you weren't going to throw a tail on me, Pete?"

"I didn't know you were bringing in reinforcements."

I nodded. "Hard to know who you can trust; I'm sure you understand."

Pete scowled. "Did you get the ME's report yet?"

"Nope." He handed me a copy.

"Read it."

I read it. The conclusions were pretty freaky. "Someone dosed him with Viagra?"

"Yeah. He might have been unconscious, by the time they killed him, anyway. Apparently some people can pop a woody, even in their sleep." Pompadour laughed at the pun, I flipped him the bird. "Best guess is they jacked him off, then shot him up with potassium, caused a massive heart attack."

"They didn't find any..."

"No, it doesn't hang around too long... not much of a half-life. But there are a couple of puncture wounds consistent with an injection site..."

"Insulin?"

"Fuck, are you kidding?" Brennan said.

"Had to ask."

"Anyway, I hope he was out. Before they did that to him. Would freak anyone out, you know?"

I shrugged. "Okay Pete, why were you with Tottenham this morning?"

"He called, wanted to meet."

"And?"

"And nothing. He didn't even mention the case. Wanted to talk about some Homeland Security shit."

"You know about the tattoo on his chest?"

"What... no?"

"Says 'Love Me', right there in red and blue, right across his heart."

"Fuck."

"No shit, Sherlock." Pompadour, on hearing that little tidbit, turned vivid white on us. "Know any people in your office with something similar?" Both men shook their head.

"So, there's no tail on Mark," Tate stated, a dour look on his face. "That's fucking great. A roman legion on our ass and not one on the prime suspect. Perfect."

"Hey, not our fault," Pompadour said. "You kept us out of the loop, remember?"

"I have a hunch," I interrupted, "that we're dealing with a club of some sort. There may well be a lot of guys with that tattoo. Anyway, I hate jumping to conclusions."

"Right," Brennan said. I could tell he was still holding back. Who the fuck was this clown he'd brought with him?

"So, what's your interest in the case, other than losing an agent?"

"Sorry," Pompadour said. "Need to know basis only."

"So, let me get this straight, so I'm crystal clear. You think I don't need to know?"

"No. Not yet, anyway."

I looked at Brennan. He shrugged, said not one word, and didn't even bother to look apologetic.

"Fine," I said. "That's just fucking fine."

"Your tax dollars at work," Tate said, shaking his head.

"When are you meeting the girl from the MEs office?" Pete said.

"What? Don't you know already?" Tate shot back.

"There's a limit to what we can do, Bucko. You know? Congress? Surveillance courts, all that shit?"

"Doesn't seem to have stopped you guys much lately," Dick fired back.

Brennan's face was a blank mask: "So anyway," he said, "we're not monitoring phones."

"You going to drop the tail?"

"No. Not unless you'll wear a wire and a locator."

"No way. Not yet."

"Then we'll be around."

"So, why this meet?"

"Just don't try to shake us, alright," Pompadour said. "Waste of time; anyway, your field-craft sucks."

"Bet you didn't know your mother gave me a blowjob after lunch," Tate chimed in. "She's coming back for seconds in a half hour."

Pompadour fumed, stomped up the companionway ladder and jumped off the boat.

"Nice, Tate. Real class," Brennan said sarcastically. "Alright, the low-down is this: we're going to be on you, that's the point of this meet. Don't try to drop the tail."

"Why, Pete? What are you saying?"

"Just listen to me, Woodward. Don't think. Just listen. Act like you don't know or don't care, your choice, but don't shake the guys on your six."

"I don't like it, Woody," Tate interjected. "Not one fucking bit."

"I don't care, Dick. I'm perfectly happy to lock you up for a few days if you won't play ball."

I got it then. Pete's reasoning was clear. "Okay, Pete. I got it."

He looked at me, relieved. "Be careful, Woody. I mean it."

"I hear you."

He tromped up the steps and all of the Feds trooped off behind him.

"Okay," Tate said, "what am I missing?"

"We're the bait, the tethered goat."

"Oh, shit."

"I couldn't have said it better."

+++++

I looked at my watch: a little after three.

"Better call Tottenham now," I said as I fished out my phone. I called dispatch, they transferred me.

"Chief? Woodward."

"Woody! How was ole Richard doing? Is he getting along well?"

"Not much business, he says. Barely making ends meet." Tate flipped me the bird.

"Oh really? Too bad. Well, pensions don't make up for sloppy retirement planning."

"No sir, they sure don't."

"Do you have the medical examiner's report on the FBI guy?"

"I've got to go over and pick it up, sir."

"Oh? Well, fine, fine. Keep me posted on this, would you? Pete seemed pretty bent about it at lunch."