“How would he do it?”
Battles considered her for another long moment, then sat back. “Hypothetically, say a ship stops in Thailand. A box is put in the ship storeroom. Trejo, as the logistics specialist, logs everything in. But instead of eight boxes of bananas, he only logs in seven. The ship comes back and goes into the yard for repairs. People and cargo come off the ship, including seven boxes of bananas, which complies with the ship’s manifest. The eighth box never got recorded. The Navy had a problem not that long ago with guys stealing cargo from the storeroom and selling it on the street. They caught them by pulling all the manifests and comparing them to what was being logged in. Someone like Trejo, however, could manipulate the manifests so that something coming on board never did, and something going off never did.”
“So it’s possible.”
“It’s possible.” Battles gave Tracy a small, inquisitive smile. “Drugs?”
Tracy didn’t answer.
“Intriguing,” Battles said.
CHAPTER 38
After her conversation with Battles, Tracy debriefed Owens and left the building, but not to head back to Seattle, not right away. Battles had not known the name of the janitorial service, but she had been able to describe the uniforms and the trucks she’d seen in the DSO parking lot. She said both were embossed with the logo of a cartoonish man in a white suit and cap, his lower legs spinning like the brush of a vacuum cleaner, and his uniform impressed with the initials IJS. After a ten-minute search on her laptop, Tracy located Industrial Janitorial Services on West G Street, close to the naval base. She made a few phone calls, spoke with the owner, and made an appointment to meet the janitor working in the DSO building the night before the Article 32 hearing.
Tracy pulled into a parking space in front of a one-story brick building with a parking lot containing several white trucks with IJS on the door panels. The temperature remained cool but for the moment it was dry. A seagull strutted along the pavement, cawing in complaint when Tracy approached the building’s front door. She entered a dated lobby of wood paneling, black-and-white photographs, and lamps and furniture straight out of the 1950s. The building even held an old, musty smell.
She had an appointment with Gary Buchman, president of IJS. Tracy announced herself to the receptionist, and Buchman entered and greeted her. He fit with the décor, his salt-and-pepper hair combed into a modified pompadour. Tracy estimated Buchman to be mid-to late sixties. His white polo shirt protruded slightly at the waistline and bore the initials IJS on the left breast. When he shook Tracy’s hand, she noticed his fingers were adorned with several rings. A chain medical bracelet wrapped his wrist, the kind Tracy had seen worn by diabetics.
Buchman did not look or sound nervous greeting a detective, though she noted that his hand had a tremor. Buchman offered her coffee, which she declined, and led her down a long, narrow hallway cluttered with file cabinets and stacks of papers and files. Buchman’s office was at the rear of the building, and it too had the same dark wood paneling and dated furnishings. On one wall hung a black-and-white portrait of a man with a crew cut, black-framed glasses, and a passing resemblance to Buchman. A window with blinds afforded a slatted view of a gas station and car wash across the street.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice.” Tracy sat in an avocado-colored cloth chair across from Buchman’s large desk, which was adorned with three computer screens.
“Not a problem.” Buchman lowered himself into a leather chair.
“Is that your father?” Tracy asked, pointing to the portrait.
“It is,” Buchman said.
“You’ve been in business a long time,” she said.
“Since 1956,” he said. “My grandfather started the company and my dad expanded it with the Navy contract.” Buchman switched gears. “I called the janitor who worked that shift you were inquiring about. He should be in any minute.”
“I appreciate it,” Tracy said. “I hope I didn’t get him out of bed.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“How long have you had the naval contract?”
“Almost forty-five years. It’s a big contract for us, as I’m sure you can imagine. We’ve never had a problem before.”
“You’re a civilian contractor?”
Buchman nodded. “The naval base is the largest employer in the state. I’m not sure if you knew that.”
“I didn’t,” she said.
Buchman seemed to perk up. “The base employs more than 10,000 contractors and about the same number of Department of Defense civilian employees.”
“Impressive.”
“Like I said, we’ve never had a problem. We’re the longest tenured employer.”
“And I’m not trying to create any problems for you,” Tracy assured him. “As I said on the phone, I was meeting with detectives from Bremerton and thought I’d stop by before taking the ferry back to Seattle. I’m just running things down.”
“Is this about the missing videotape?”
“It is,” she said, though she hadn’t mentioned the tape specifically in their brief conversation on the phone to set up the meeting. “This isn’t the first you’ve heard of it?”
“No,” Buchman said. “I got a call from NCIS when this whole thing happened. They sent out an investigator to take my statement and my janitors’ statements.”
Tracy made a mental note to get copies of those statements. “Who would that be?”
“The janitor that night was Al Tulowitsky. Al’s been with me almost fifteen years,” he said, as if jumping to the man’s defense. “The last ten he’s worked on the base. We’ve never had a complaint. In fact that’s one of the reasons I put him there. All of our employees have to be vetted by the Navy. Al’s salt of the earth.”
A knock on the door drew their attention to a tall, thin man who stood, looking tentative.
“And right on time,” Buchman said, standing from behind his desk.
Perhaps midforties, Tulowitsky had a shock of prematurely white hair. He motioned vaguely behind him. “Debra said to just come in?”
Buchman moved to the door. “Al, this is Detective Crosswhite with the Seattle Police Department.” Tracy shook his hand. Tulowitsky wore several sterling silver bracelets and had the dark-red complexion of someone who lived in Arizona or maybe frequented tanning salons.
“Detective Crosswhite has some questions about the missing videocassette from the DSO.”
“NCIS took my statement.” Tulowitsky had a tattoo on his right forearm, a red heart with a scroll and the words “You Are Loved.”
“I haven’t seen those statements yet,” Tracy said. “I appreciate you coming in.” She motioned to the red heart tattoo and took a guess. “Did you serve?”
“I did,” Tulowitsky said.
“Navy?”
Tulowitsky gave a thin smile. “They were my ride,” he said. “I’m a Marine.”
“But no longer active, I presume.”
“You never retire from being a Marine,” he said.