CHAPTER
28
JOHN PULLER HAD gone back and checked out of his motel. His plan was to spend the rest of the day following up leads, and then he was going to head back east, check in, and then report his findings to his new “bosses.” As he drove along the surface streets of Fort Leavenworth, to his left was the Missouri River, also known as “Big Muddy.” He knew that the currents were tricky and drownings all too frequent. And some of them were not accidental. A few years before, a platoon sergeant had dumped his unconscious wife’s body in the river late at night after she had discovered his affair with a subordinate. Whether the poor woman had regained consciousness before she drowned was unknown, but her body had eventually been recovered far downriver where it had snagged on a downed tree. Puller had been put on the case and kept on it for a month. The platoon sergeant was currently in the DB for the rest of his life and his two children would grow up without either parent.
That case he had solved. With this one he still seemed to be at the starting gate.
He pulled to the curb and put the sedan in park. About a half mile from here was the DB. The Castle—the old prison—had had its own farm and dairy cattle operation, where “installation trusty” inmates would work. That had all gone away with the demolition of large parts of the Castle and the completion and opening of the DB. No more milk cows were needed. And who said the DoD didn’t know how to cut costs?
Although there were no cow teats to pull or tractors to drive, the inmates at the DB could lift weights, play softball or soccer, or run on the track outside. They could play basketball in the indoor gym, which was named after a sergeant major who had collapsed on the court and later passed away. They could visit with family and friends. They could perform jobs and learn skills in the commercial laundry, the barbershop, sheet metal and welding facility, woodshop, textile repair section, graphic arts studio, and even an embroidery shop that made nametapes for various military purposes.
As an inmate in solitary confinement, however, Robert Puller could not lift weights or play basketball or softball or work in any of those shops. He was designated as maximum custody, at the top end of the restricted grade. His existence at the DB was a solitary one. And, truth be known, he probably preferred it that way. His intellect was so advanced that he might have found the conversation of other inmates and the rigidity of the routines at the prison more harmful than beneficial. Puller had no doubt that his brother could lose himself in his own mind. And that might be the best way for him to survive in prison.
When Puller had first visited his brother at the DB, it had been conducted in the noncontact visitors’ area, typically reserved for inmates on death row. There a wall of thick glass separated visitor and prisoner and a phone system was used to communicate. Robert Puller had largely been an exemplary prisoner, however, and the more recent visits had taken place in the general visitors’ area, which was open and pretty nice for a prison.
Puller knew that he would never again set foot in the DB’s general visitors’ area if his brother was caught and returned here. He might never be able to visit Bobby again at all, in fact.
He climbed out of the car and looked back in the direction he had left Knox. She was turning out to be a real problem. It had started off bad, gotten better, and after she had shown Puller her scars of war, he thought they had reached some level of détente. But then she’d pulled the “I can’t go there” BS with him, which had been the reason for the verbal drubbing he’d given her in the cemetery.
So right now he was going solo on this. He leaned against the hood of his car and went through some mental notes of where he stood now in the investigation.
He needed to follow up on the Croatian Ivo Mesic. He still had to interview the captain and first sergeant who had headed up the response team at the DB. He needed to make some inroads on the sources of the gun and explosion noises in pod three at the DB. If he didn’t hear back from Shireen Kirk, his JAG contact, by tonight, he would call her. This was despite her telling him that if he didn’t hear from her that was the end of it. Once Puller had a thread to follow he didn’t give up on it.
Then there was Daughtrey’s murder. And finally, at some point he would have to sit down with General Aaron Rinehart and James Schindler from NSC. It was clear that much was murky at both ends of this case, and he didn’t believe Rinehart’s and Schindler’s explanations for being interested in this case. For that matter, he didn’t really believe anyone connected to this case about anything.
And then there was the matter of who had kidnapped him. And who had fired the shots that had saved his life.
As he stared toward the DB in the distance he wondered if his brother would ever return there. He might never be found. Or he might be killed rather than captured.
And if I’m the one who runs him down? What do I do if he doesn’t want to go back to DB? What do I do if he puts up a fight?
Puller’s thoughts drifted back to the standoff in the alley behind the bar in Lawton, Oklahoma. The result was he had walked out alive and PFC Rogers had gone down with a ruined limb.
Could I pull the trigger on Bobby? Could he pull the trigger on me?
“No” and “hell no” were the answers that readily leapt to his mind. But on the other hand, his brother had been in prison for over two years. He had quite likely killed a man during his escape. If he were recaptured they might sentence him to death for the murder, even if there was evidence it was in self-defense. Under that scenario, his brother might want to go down fighting. Or he might just let his brother kill him. Puller didn’t know which one was worse.
Shaking his head clear of these numbing thoughts, Puller decided to do what he did best.
Move forward. Whether it was on the battlefield or during an investigation, if you weren’t moving forward then what good were you? He got back into the car and drove off.
He spent two hours with Captain Lewis and his first sergeant. Neither one had counted the soldiers as they formed the response team. The platoons had simply been called up and deployed to restore order at the DB. Both men seemed genuinely surprised that there was an extra man aboard. Once in the prison the MPs had fanned out to each pod, executing orders previously given.
Puller had asked about pod three, where his brother’s cell had been. Neither man could give a ready answer as to what had gone down in that pod. They had not known about the dead man until long after the fact. None of their men had reported seeing anything out of the ordinary and certainly did not know that Robert Puller might have left the prison in the uniform of an MP decked out in riot gear. In fact, they were astonished at the possibility. Yet when Puller explained how it could have happened, both men conceded that they could not prove that it hadn’t happened.
He examined the area where the staging had been for the response team. It was big, open, and on that stormy night probably totally chaotic. He searched the quarters where Mesic had stayed, but a cleaning team had come in to get it ready for the next occupant, so Puller couldn’t even find a usable fingerprint. He had already determined that the rental car the Croatian had used had been leased out and was currently somewhere in Montana. Another dead end.
Puller next moved on to the DB. He sat in his brother’s cell on the bed where his brother had been reading his book before the power had gone out. He looked around the small room where his brother had spent twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours of his life. Small room, big mind. It was a wonder that one could contain the other. He eyed the door, trying to imagine what his brother was thinking when the lights had been extinguished.
Did he know what was about to happen? Did he prepare for it when the door opened? He had only a few seconds to determine what was going on. How could he have been sure the soldier who came through that door was there to kill him? Maybe he hadn’t been sure. Maybe he saw it as an opportunity to make his escape. Maybe he would have tried to kill whoever had come through that opening that night.
Puller tried to meet with Captain Macri, but she was not on duty. Mike Cardarelli, the officer who was at the command desk, agreed to answer a few questions. There was nothing that was helpful until Puller asked one last query about Cardarelli’s whereabouts on the night Robert Puller had escaped.
Cardarelli said, “I was actually supposed to be on duty that night, but Captain Macri switched places with me.”
Puller came fully alert. “Why was that?”
“She was supposed to be on duty the next night but had a family commitment that had changed. So we switched nights. I guess I should consider myself lucky. Everyone here that night took a professional hit.”
“What was the family commitment?” asked Puller.
“What?” asked Cardarelli.
“Macri’s family commitment that changed? What was it?”
“I…I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t ask.”
“Does Captain Macri have family here?”
“I don’t believe so. I just assumed they were coming in from somewhere else.”
“Does she live on base?”
Cardarelli shook his head. “No. She has an off-base town home.”
“I’ll need that address.”
Cardarelli gave it to Puller. As he rose, Puller said, “Any developments on the device that made the gun and explosion sounds in pod three that night?”
“None that I’ve heard of. It was the damnedest thing.”
“Yeah,” said Puller. “The damnedest thing.”
A few minutes later he hurried back to his car and accessed a military database on his laptop.
Lenora H. Macri’s photo and service record came up along with her personal history. Puller quickly read through it. Nothing struck him. She had a good record, no blemishes. When he flipped to the screens concerning her personal history, though, things became clearer, or more muddled, depending on how you looked at it.
Her parents were dead and she was an only child. So what were the family commitments that had changed?
And Macri had told him that she had not ordered a search of the guards for the noisemaking device. He had thought that peculiar and perhaps a professional gaffe. But by not conducting a search she had actually accomplished something. She had left available hundreds of suspects who could have smuggled such a device into the prison, and there was no way to prove now which of them might have done it. And by doing so, Macri, if she had been the one to bring the device into the prison, was also lost among a sea of potential suspects. And she might have had enough skill and access to override the security system at the prison, resulting in the cell doors opening rather than locking when the power went out.
He started the car and piloted it toward the address the officer had given him. He had strongly cautioned Cardarelli against phoning Macri and discussing anything that they had talked about. The real reason for the admonition was to ensure that Macri not be forewarned and possibly try to make a run for it.
Energized by perhaps finally having a lead in the case, he gunned the engine and made it to the subdivision on the outskirts of Leavenworth in record time. He parked in a spot where he could see her end-unit town home. He killed the engine and waited. There was a car parked in front of her place. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from his duffel and trained them on the car. Sure enough, hanging from the rearview mirror was a parking tag for the DB. This was her ride, a late-model silver Honda Civic.
His plan was to give it some time and see if she came out, and then he would follow her. If she didn’t come out he was going to conduct another interview with the woman with the goal of making her as uncomfortable as possible.
He waited an hour, but Macri did not leave her unit. He was about to get out of the car when another vehicle pulled in and parked next to Macri’s ride.
Puller’s eyes widened when he saw the person get out of the car and head up the steps to Macri’s home.
Veronica Knox was obviously no longer cooling her heels at the cemetery.