A Slow Walk to Hell Read Free

almost reminded Charlie about a similar killing where a colonel had lopped off the penis of his wife’s lover. But instead of placing the appendage in the dead man’s mouth, the colonel wrapped it in a box with a pretty bow and had it delivered to his wife.
    I said, “Relax, Charlie. It shouldn’t take long to determine if Talbot was straight. His housekeeper or friends will probably know. Hell, he might even have a subscription to Playboy or Pent—”
    “Call as soon as you know.” He rustled papers, getting impatient. “A couple of quick items. Congressman Harris is the reason we’re keeping a lid on the story until twenty-two hundred. He was campaigning in Pennsylvania when they told him about his nephew. He’s catching a charter flight back and doesn’t want to be swarmed by reporters when he lands. He’s scheduled into Reagan National at twenty-one thirty, give or take. He’ll have questions, so get your ass over to Talbot’s and find some answers. I got the address here someplace…” More papers rustling; Charlie wasn’t what you would call organized. “What was that, Marty?”
    “You order up a RIP?” I repeated. RIPs were computerized personnel printouts and would provide us Talbot’s complete assignment histories.
    “Chief Tisdale has a copy. He’s en route to the Pentagon, to secure Talbot’s office. You can swing by and pick it up from him. Anything else?”
    Charlie had already briefed me that Talbot had worked in Air Force manpower, the directorate responsible for tracking the personnel authorizations mandated by congress. It was essentially a high-tech bean counting job. I said, “Those people you identified who wrote threatening letters—”
    “Forget about them. There were only five and none live within five hundred miles of here. Captain Hilley’s trying to contact them now. So far, he’s spoken to three. A fourth is hospitalized and the fifth is working the night shift at a plant in Dallas. You got a pen handy?”
    As I jotted down Talbot’s address on the back of a business card, I was relieved to see that he lived in Arlington, Virginia.
    Location of a crime determined jurisdiction. Since an Air Force member had been killed off a military reservation, the appropriate civilian authority—the Arlington County PD—would take the lead and I, as the OSI representative, would assist.
    Don’t misunderstand me; I had no qualms about running a high-visibility investigation. I’m a solid homicide investigator and was confident I could solve the crime. My concern was whether I could do so quickly enough to satisfy the media talking heads and various military and political heavyweights.
    With luck, possibly.
    But a man had to know his limitations and I knew mine. If anyone could solve this case in a rapid fashion, it would be the man who almost certainly would handle this investigation for the Arlington County PD.
    Lieutenant Simon Santos was the department’s homicide chief and a brilliant, instinctual investigator. Over the past decade, his successes had elevated him into a local law enforcement legend. Simon rarely took more than a few days to wrap up a murder. Often, he’d make an arrest within hours. How he did this, no one knew. After working with him on numerous cases over the years, I concluded there was one reason for his success: The guy was a genius, an investigative savant.
    Of course, it didn’t hurt that Simon was also worth a few hundred million dollars and could afford to keep an army of informants on his payroll.
    “Yeah,” Charlie said, when I asked, “Santos is going to be in charge. I spoke to Chief Novak; he’s trying to hunt Santos down to break the news.” His voice became apologetic. “You won’t like this, but it comes straight from the SECDEF. Congressman Harris wants a daily update on the investigation—let me finish.” He talked over me as I tried to cut in. “Anything Harris wants, you play along. He tells you to kiss his ass, you plant a wet