Dick Slays the Dragons
Avery M. Dick III
The Larson Agency
Fairfax, Virginia
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1 Most Offensive Hang-Up
Chapter 2 Coffee Klatch at HQ
Chapter 3 Hazy Days at Foggy Bottom
Chapter 4 Body of Evidence
Chapter 5 Powwowing Under the Teepee
Chapter 6 Hide and Seek
Chapter 7 Spooky Things Go Bump
Chapter 8 Leaping Lizards
Chapter 9 California Dreaming
Chapter 10 Walk in the Dusky Park
Chapter 11 Mr. Illustrious Shows His True Colors
Chapter 12 Flying Not So Friendly Skies
Chapter 13 Dialing Very Wrong Numbers
Chapter 14 Stitching Things Together
Chapter 15 Full Court Press
Chapter 16 Gutsy Acting Out
Chapter 17 My World Soars and Then Collapses
Foreword
Sometimes those who protect and serve their nation are confronted with the most despicable acts imaginable. That’s the sordid story in this instance. A conspiracy by cynical, disloyal individuals working in and outside of the U.S. Department of State threatened to upset the fragile balance of military power in the Far East and trigger a nuclear conflict that America couldn’t avoid because an important ally’s very survival was at stake.
Both military zealots and corrupt government officials plotted to arm Japan with nuclear weapons to defend her soil and honor against potential aggressors in the region---namely the Peoples Republic of China. However, given the historic enmity between the countries, China might initiate a first-strike against Japan if it learned of its intentions. That act would invariably force the United States into a devastating conflict that could spiral out of control---another world conflagration and unimaginable Armageddon that would have no winners.
The cabal had operated in secrecy and with impunity until the death of a young special agent of the Diplomatic Security Service. But his untimely and unseemly death now caused a tremendous uproar in Main State and powerful people were asking embarrassing questions of the bureaucrats responsible for investigating the incident.
Retiree Avery Dick represented the best hope for tracking down those responsible for the diabolical scheme. His recall to active duty to investigate the agent’s death was simply the opening salvo in unraveling a nefarious plot involving murder, foreign intrigue and many mysterious twists and turns. His ensuing investigation would haunt his imagination and dreams until the case was solved and the world was again safe from those ruthless extremists who would do it harm.
Our nation’s own security and survival now rested in Special Agent Dick’s capable hands. No matter since duty, honor and country were the watchwords Avery lived by----and would die for to protect his beloved country!
Chapter 1
Most Offensive Hang-Up
The ringing of my alarm clock jarred me from my wine-induced slumber. By its glowing face, I saw it was 3:15 AM and wondered why I had set it for such an ungodly hour. I wasn’t employed anymore and didn’t have a schedule or life so I usually slept-in. I hit the snooze button but the damn thing wouldn’t shut up! I then realized it was the phone. The caller was Jersey Briggs, my moneyman and sometimes friend. It turned out that he didn’t want to chat---not a sociable call by any means. I’d later chide him for his rude manners. Of course, that would only be after I’d cleaned-up my own issues with life’s little civilities. Time was alarmingly on his side.
“Avery, get your sorry ass out of bed! I have some work to throw your way. Are you fairly sober? I hope so because I need you to get down to Main State as soon as possible. We have a little problem on our hands and the media will be all over this one like stink on shit. You’re good at cleaning up the stuff and I damn well know you need the money. So my man-child put on your hip boots---you’re going to need them this time.”
Jersey had such a colorful way with words if you were drawn to redundant shades of brown. With him, everything came down to PR concerns, bureaucratic spin and protecting his career and backside. His penchant for using scatological allusions came in a close second. He was the Director of Investigations for the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service; the same position I held until retiring some eight years ago. His overly dramatic statements translated into another plea for help---someone to bail him out of a bureaucratic jam. That also meant he needed a convenient scapegoat if things went to shit as he might say. Jeez, I’d just volunteered to step into the brown stuff again! Then again, I’d always had difficulty forcefully putting my foot down when it came to easy money.
Nonetheless, I was his erstwhile whipping and/or errand boy depending on circumstances. Both were painful, offensive experiences at my age. Fortunately, Butt Boy and Stud Bitch were politically incorrect terms and no longer used in the department’s lexicon of demeaning words describing those unlucky enough to carry Jersey’s water. My back now ached under the weight of the yoke of those many, large buckets filled to the brim. I was a thoroughly stooped figure at this point but I rarely conquered. Regardless, that was how things worked in this particular biz. There was simply no rest or respect for one very weary Gunga Din who just happened to be expendable to the organization he’d faithfully served for more than 25 years. Okay, so much for camaraderie and collegiality these days.
I lit up a Marlboro waiting for my mind to clear, managing to catch most of what Jersey was saying. By the way, I’d always smoked before being fucked-over hard. Yeah, I recognized it was a vicious habit---the rough sex part I meant.
“One of our guys is dead and he didn’t go out in style by the sounds of it. His name was Joey Hernandez, an agent assigned to DS’s Internal Affairs Unit. Jeez, the big turds are really going to hit the fan this time!” Jersey dramatically and distastefully asserted.
“His body was found in one of the men’s room stalls on the 7th floor of the building. Avery, it looks like he committed suicide. Get down there and tell me what happened so I can brief the big suits at the opening of business. We don’t have jurisdiction so you’ll serve in a liaison capacity with the locals---God forbid the FBI butts-in. They shouldn’t be involved in the case but they’re a nosey bunch and you can never be certain.”
“As of now, you’re back on the payroll and get the usual perks and accolades that go along with the position,” he snickered just to piss me off.
“Get going and meet me in my office no later than 7:30 AM. I’ve got to put together a press piece for the department’s spokesperson. The public affairs folks are going to be up my ass until I’ve thrown a bone to the feral newshounds from Hell. You remember how the drill works. If I don’t come up with some credible, edible pap, I’ll be the one getting boned by the big bosses. Unlike some Foreign Service types, I don’t enjoy the experience one damn bit! I’ve had my stool impolitely pushed in once too often, thank you very much.”
“Avery, are you awake and getting dressed? Get moving because we don’t have much time.”
“Yes sir, ten bags full and how much higher can I jump for you?” I sarcastically replied.
I would’ve too because Jersey was right. I needed the money since I hadn’t supped recently at the department’s trough. I admitted to being a needy, hungry whore with no sense of propriety---the perfect candidate for the shit jobs that Jersey tossed my way. By the way, that was how Jersey referred to his meager bits of largesse that I would call assignments. He liked to rub my nose in them from time-to-time.
Jersey responded to my little pimp by hanging-up on me. That was how colleagues and friends often bonded in a decidedly undiplomatic Diplomatic Security Service.
Traffic on route 66 was almost nonexistent at this hour and I quickly drove the 20 miles to DC. Luckily, the highway’s HOV restrictions weren’t in effect so I didn’t have to take the George Washington Parkway instead. Properly speaking, my destination wasn’t Main State---it was the Harry S. Truman Building, the headquarters for the U.S. Department of State. The name was conferred on the edifice in 2000 after I retired, and like Jersey, I still referred to the place as Main State out of old habit and just plain bullheadedness.
I easily entered the D Street garage entrance by flashing my retiree identification card to the security guard on duty. She looked tired and bored but still dutifully entered my name and tag number on her clipboard. Parking was also a breeze and I found a spot close to one of the several elevator banks. Next to the Pentagon and Ronald Reagan Building, Main State was the largest building in the Washington, DC region by square footage. Several wings had been added to the original structure over the years and one could easily get confused and lost. Maybe that was what happened to Joey Hernandez on some personal level. Some bread crumbs and antidepressants might have helped him find his way out of his emotional maze. In any case, investigating suicides was always sorely depressing for those who protect and serve.
I hit the button for the 7th floor and waited. The 7th floor was Valhalla where the U.S. Secretary of State, the deputy, the undersecretaries and other powerful foreign policy figures reigned during business hours. Appropriately, it was the top office floor in the building but there was a partial floor above that housed a magnificent ballroom and diplomatic reception rooms decorated and furnished with antique Americana donated by wealthy patrons over the years.
I exited and expected to be greeted by a mob of detectives, medical personnel and straphangers of various stripes---that wasn’t the case. I walked the corridors for several minutes before I saw the gaggle of people that I earlier expected. Outside the restroom were uniformed officers of both the State Department’s Protective Services Division and DC Metropolitan Police Department along with several, unidentified others wearing suits. The ubiquitous, yellow crime scene tape was draped across the hallway forcing me to stop and identify myself.
However, crime was a bit of a misnomer under the circumstances. Historically, suicide had been considered a felony offense in virtually every jurisdiction in the country. But with time and commonsense, the statutes had gradually been repealed. Assisted suicide by euthanasia or homicide was a different matter altogether. The authorities had no sense of humor when it came to such things.
“My name is Avery Dick and I’m a Special Agent with the Diplomatic Security Service. I’ve been assigned as the liaison officer for the State Department for the incident,” I spoke authoritatively while holding up my identification card for the uniformed officer to see.
“Wait here and I’ll check to see if you’re authorized admittance to the scene,” the officer gruffly ordered.
I didn’t have a set of DS Special Agent credentials with a gold shield because Jersey didn’t trust me. He thought I’d improperly use them to get out of speeding tickets and other youthful indiscretions. Of course, he was absolutely right.
“Okay, you’re good to go Mr. Dick. Someone high-up in the pecking order must’ve vouched for your bona fides.”
That someone must have been Jersey Briggs. It seemed I was now a bona fide agent in good standing for the moment---at least in someone’s eyes. His confidence in me and my investigative abilities would surely be tested at some point. If so, I’d likely never get those official box tops with the shiny badge that I coveted so much. Then again, maybe I could if I kept badgering him, I mentally and poorly punned. I was gamely and lamely trying to bolster my spirits for what I was about to see. By past events and experience, I knew it’d be a grim and gruesome scene. Moreover, it would be sad to see a colleague end-up his life in such a way. We all deserved a better outcome in this cosmic drama called life.
I was spot-on in my assumption---the death scene was indeed a painful, pathetic sight to absorb. Joey Hernandez’s body hadn’t yet been removed from the stall by the medical examiner’s staff. It hung limply from the coat hook affixed to the back of the metal door. The belt around Joey’s neck was attached to the hook and attested to the way he died. His trousers and boxer shorts were clumped at his ankles and his bare knees almost touched the floor. Joey’s pale face was contorted in agony and his eyes bulged from their sockets. The tongue grotesquely protruded from his slack, open mouth. Ecce Homo! I thought, jeez, what a horrible way to die.
I’d introduced myself to Fred Grant, a DC assistant medical examiner, and Barry McMullen, a DC homicide detective who ironically worked the graveyard shift.
“Poor bastard,” I spoke to no one in particular. “That’s a damn tough way to die. Most of us swallow our gun or accelerate the old minivan into a concrete barrier without bothering to latch the seat belt.”
“Yeah, it is, there’s no doubt about it. When people are down on life and severely depressed they’re not thinking clearly to begin with and do strange things to end their lives. I’ve seen plenty in the past 25 years,” Fred mentioned. “Sadder yet are the attempts that fail for one reason or another. Often, a person ends up in a vegetative state requiring lifetime care and that’s a double tragedy for the family.”
“Avery, I think your guy is married with a couple a young kids based on the photos I found in his wallet. This is going to go down hard on the family. I’ve got to make the notifications and I’m not looking forward to it. That’s the very worst thing about this job---dealing with the living,” Barry McMullen spoke for the first time since we shook hands.
“I know I’d find that task very difficult to do under the circumstances,” I responded. “A war death or fatal traffic accident is tough enough but telling someone that a loved one committed suicide really sucks. The doubts, questions and anguish, and perhaps guilt, must be overwhelming for the relatives of the deceased.”
I then turned to Fred and asked: “Okay doc, tell me what happened. It looks like a straightforward suicide to me, but I’m not the expert.”
“I think your medical and legal assumptions are correct in this instance. By all appearances, Mr. Hernandez asphyxiated or suffocated to death, if you prefer. The subconjunctival hemorrhaging or broken blood vessels in the eyes speak directly to the medical event. His skin coloration is wholly consistent with asphyxiation as well. My reading of the rectal thermometer suggests his approximate time of death to be 9 PM last night. The extent of rigor mortis supports that timeframe.”
“The means of death are obvious---he placed his belt around his neck and attached it to the coat hook. He then had to sit or squat down because of the short distance between the hook and floor. Before he hung himself, he puked his guts by the looks of the vomit in the toilet bowl. He must have been so distraught about what he was about to do that he upchucked. Extreme anxiety can do that and it seems to me he’d recently eaten given the amount of the stuff. We’ll obviously collect a sample and send it to the lab for testing.”
“I do find a couple of things unusual but not inconsistent with my tentative findings. First, his boxer shorts had fallen to his ankles along with the trousers. The trousers I understand because they weren’t any longer held up by his belt—it’s the underpants I don’t get. The second is the involuntary bowel movement he experienced. Such activity is certainly not rare but a bit unusual, statistically speaking. In the body’s death throes such things do happen. However, involuntary bladder release is much more common in these situations. But uncontrollable panic and extreme stress just before death may have been the cause. In any case, it doesn’t change my mind or opinion. Given the profile and circumstances of Mr. Hernandez’s death, I’m sure my boss will order a postmortem exam that will also include a full toxicology workup. We need to get him on the table for a proper autopsy and then we’ll have a definitive conclusion and official cause of death.”
Jeez, Jersey would love the detail about the BM in Joey’s pants since he was always eager to carry the latest poop to his superiors in DS. This event would only add to his credibility for such scoops. He was the outfit’s town crier for all things excremental, incidental or self-aggrandizing and he reveled in the role. For Christ’s sake, what an anally-obsessed asshole! Jeez, I was now beginning to talk like him! That was a scary and unnerving thought. Regardless, he was still my iffy friend, colleague and employer of last resort.
“Barry, what’s your take on this?” I asked.
I wanted the opinion of another professional investigator as well as the medical take. Both expert views were important to draw a solid conclusion as to what had transpired---or expired in this instance.
“I think it looks like a routine, run-of-the-mill suicide despite the deceased’s position with the federal government and where it took place. Those things do add to the mystique but don’t alter my opinion that it’s just another self-inflicted death by a badly depressed person. It’s sad, but true. There wasn’t a suicide note but that’s not significant. Roughly eighty percent of those who commit suicide don’t leave a note.”
“The other thing is the message on the restroom door that presumably Mr. Hernandez wrote so no one would interrupt him. It was hand printed in ink on a paper towel. Here it is.”
Barry held up the hand towel in his gloved hands for me to see. It read: Out of Order. In a sense, the message was ironic and fitting. Joey Hernandez was mentally out of order too---but now permanently and forever.
“It’s not particularly significant except he had the presence of mind to write it in the first place. Many suicides wouldn’t have bothered and might even have a subconscious desire to be stopped from carrying out the act. Regardless, their states of mind and judgments are hard to determine after the fact. The hand towel was wedged into the entrance door to dissuade anyone from entering. One of the building’s cleaners found it and the body during his regular rounds about 1:30 this morning and immediately called security.”
“Here’s one more thing that’s a little puzzling---the contusions on the small of the back. Avery, come take a look so you’ll understand what I’m talking about. The doc noticed them as well but forgot to mention them to you.”
Barry then pulled up the tail of Joey’s oxford shirt and white, cotton undershirt to show me the bruises. By the angle, I could see three purplish discolorations located over his kidneys.
“Okay, what are they exactly and what do they mean?” I asked. I noticed Joey’s suit jacket was rolled-up and residing behind the stall’s commode.
This time, the doc responded.
“The bruising may very well be consistent with the body thrashing around and hitting the back of the stall door as Joey involuntarily struggled just before he died. The postmortem lividity may play a role in the discolorations we see on the body as well. But I’m not sure because he died in a more-or-less upright position. As you can easily see, the blood has already pooled to his lower extremities---just gravity at work. Had he expired in a prone or supine position, it would be easier to make a determination. More likely, the death throe traumas probably caused the contusions but again I can’t be certain without a full examination of the deceased.”
“Are we all in tentative agreement that Joey’s death was a straightforward suicide? I need to report to my master in about an hour and I want to make sure we’re all on board with the cause of death---by his own hand and not foul play,” I asked Fred and Barry.
“Being a good bureaucrat, I would weasel-word that statement a bit and simply say that his death appears to be a suicide, pending the outcome of the autopsy for a definitive conclusion. Only my office can issue a death certificate stating the cause of a death in the District. Feds or no feds, it’s up to the DC Medical Examiner to make the official determination,” Fred spoke in his authoritative voice.
The turf card had just been played but no one argued the point since he was absolutely correct in what he’d just asserted---the ME was unquestionably the man in such matters.
“No argument here,” I replied for the sake of equanimity. “I just want to tell my boss the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.” I thought invoking God’s name might underscore my seriousness. But truthfully, I wasn’t so sure my new friends appreciated my quirky sense of humor so I quickly changed the subject.
“By the way, did you already check for personal belongings?” this time addressing Barry.
“Yeah, I sure did but there wasn’t anything unusual---a wallet with photos and the usual personal detritus, a State Department ID card, his DS credentials, some loose change, a comb and the ubiquitous pocket lint, that’s it. I’ll fax you a copy of the inventory if you want but I don’t think I missed anything. Oh, there’s something else you should know about. The techies did a thorough grid search of the entire restroom and came up empty-handed. They also did walkabouts of the surrounding rooms and corridors just for giggles. Again, zero, zilch, nada in terms of finding anything related to our incident.”
I thanked Barry and Fred and gave both my business card and they reciprocated by giving me theirs. Actually, I did want a copy of the personal effects inventory, the scene photos, autopsy report and everything else I could get my hands on. Hot damn, I could be so anal retentive at times---undoubtedly the result of Jersey’s strict potty training!
The morgue attendants were beginning to unhook Joey’s body as I left. Although I wasn’t particularly religious and didn’t know the guy, I still said a silent prayer for Joey Hernandez and his family.
Chapter 2
Coffee Klatch at HQ
By now Jersey would be pacing his office like a caged animal at feeding time. I was surprised he hadn’t called me on my cell since I was running a few minutes late. By gosh and by golly, I’d accidently turned the nuisance off---the phone I meant. I knew he would blast me for my lack of telephone etiquette. No matter, I was getting even for his untimely call earlier in the morning. Payback was never a bitch---it was always a Dick as far as I was concerned.
I was heading over the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge into Virginia where the Diplomatic Security Service had its world headquarters. The building itself was not particularly remarkable except for the fact it was located a distance from Main State. That was by devious design and conscious, cynical intent. The DS organizational hub would never be housed again in Main State if the department’s Black Dragons had their way. So far they had---in spades, as appropriate given their coloration.
The Black Dragons were senior careerists who ran and controlled everything in the U.S. Department of State. They were a cabal of old boys and girls that had existed from time immemorial to serve themselves first and Uncle Sam only incidentally when it suited their nefarious purposes. Unlike their nominal political bosses, the dragons were neither elected nor appointed to office. Moreover, they enjoyed the protection of federal employment rules that favored continued tenure in their morally corrupt sinecures. For them, it was all about power, perquisites and shaping U.S. foreign policy to their own ends. By the way, they were firmly entrenched in their bureaucratic bolt-holes either in perpetuity or eternity---whichever was longer.
The notion that the U.S. Secretary of State and his or her political appointees managed the department and the nation’s foreign affairs machinery was patently untrue and absurd. The dragons ran the place, plain and simple. They represented permanence and stability in an otherwise uncertain world. They believed they knew what was best for the nation and wouldn’t tolerate outsiders, such as those officials from one administration to the next, dictate how the State Department would represent the most powerful nation on the planet. In their collective wisdom, the public could sleep soundly knowing that America’s security was in the strong, good claws of jingoistic Black Dragons.
I and many others certainly didn’t agree but we were just small fish swimming in a sea of loathsome reptilians called dragons. God, where was Saint George when you really needed him?
But the animus existing between the dragons and the Diplomatic Security Service went back many years. The dragons firmly believed that a robust law enforcement and security agency in its bosom was anathema to a foreign affairs establishment that contended that the world’s problems could be solved by old-fashioned diplomacy alone---reasonable ladies and gentlemen dealing with their reasonable counterparts abroad.
The advent of international terrorism disabused the dragons of that outdated, quaint notion. The security of things and people overseas became highlighted with each passing terrorist event and the mission of the Diplomatic Security Service became more pressing and prominent as a result. The dragons dug in their heels and tried to stonewall the growth of the Service to fight the real threat as they saw it---DS itself. They viewed the terrorism phenomenon as a transitory one that would go away of its own volition. Rather than reducing the department’s vulnerabilities to terrorist acts as they should have done in the first place, they twiddled their thumbs waiting for the unpleasant nuisance to subside. Things got so bad that the White House and Congress stepped into the fray and, through several damning reviews of the department’s security programs and operations, ordered change, accountability and oversight. More to the point, laws were enacted to bolster DS roles and responsibilities---and, most importantly, authorities. More money to fund security enhancements for diplomatic facilities overseas followed. The dragons resented the interference and feared the loss of control and power.
To get around the problem, they placed their own people in charge of DS---sometimes a Black Dragon but more often a Gray who still needed to mature before fully turning to the dark side. Few of these leaders had any professional credentials or experience in the fields of law enforcement and security. Membership in the department’s exclusive dragons club conveniently and predictably overcame those pesky shortcomings. But their credibility, bona fides and true motives were always issues with the DS rank-and-file employees. In truth, the two sides hated each other’s guts!
Notwithstanding the Hatfield and McCoy relationship, things were now just hunky-dory between the two, old adversaries---good fences and standoff distance had made for good neighbors. Fortunately, for both parties, the Diplomatic Security Service headquarters was no longer within spitting distance of Main State. Otherwise, bilateral relations and diplomatic exchanges could have been downright spiteful and messy!
“Avery, do want a cup of Joe? I’ve got a fresh pot brewing if you’re interested.”
“No thanks Jersey, I’ll pass if you don’t mind. I’ve already had my fill of Joe this morning,” I replied to his uncharacteristically polite offer.
Jersey liked to say Joe for coffee. In his vocabulary and world there was no room for wimpy things or people. I couldn’t understand how his wife put up with him. But I had to be fairly respectful in his presence---he authorized my paychecks and periodically employed me to do his dirty work. I guessed those things should earn him some gratitude and latitude in my book.
“So fill me in on the details of Joey’s demise.”
It seemed the pleasantries were over and it was down to describing the deed and helping Jersey craft a puff piece for the department’s public affairs folks.
“Joey’s death was a suicide by all appearances. The ME’s office and the DC detective assigned to the case concur in that judgment. But the body will have to be autopsied before there is an official cause of death issued. I think we need to keep that point in mind when you draft the press release and brief the big suits upstairs.”
“Joey hung himself with his belt in one of the 7th floor restrooms. The time of death was pegged at 9 PM last night. He didn’t leave a suicide note but that’s not unusual according to the authorities. There were a couple of anomalies such as unexplained bruises on the body but nothing to suggest foul play at this point. The assistant ME said they could have been caused by the thrashing of the body against the stall door during its death throes. Joey also involuntarily pooped his pants.”
I watched Jersey’s reaction to that tidbit, but he didn’t react in one way or another. He must have been mentally composing his briefing to his bosses. It would undoubtedly accentuate the positive---Jersey’s management of the incident.
“I’ve asked the investigating authorities for copies of all their reports and findings. They agreed to do so as a professional courtesy to the department and DS---but all on the QT. I promised cover and plausible denial if anything leaks---I’ll take the fall as usual if things go sour. That’s why I get paid the big bucks, right?”
Jersey chuckled at my last statement but didn’t disagree since we both knew the proper order of things between us.
Jersey snapped out his reverie and asked how we could spin things to make Joey’s death seem more heroic and less a cowardly act of a desperate person. This was classic Jersey at work: play-down any negative connotations by stretching the truth, except sometimes he had a tendency to push the envelope too far in the wrong direction. An agent suicide wouldn’t reflect well on DS or the department---it was just too damn dreary and embarrassing. Moreover, DS didn’t like to acknowledge that its employees were human. That didn’t fit well with the outfit’s macho image that it tried its best to promote within the department and elsewhere. It often believed in its own propaganda at times like this.
“Okay, here are the takeaway points for my brief with the bosses. Let me know what you think---I know you will regardless.”
“I took decisive and immediate action when notified by the DS Command Center that one of our own was dead. Of course, I’ll use the bureaucratic we and not I. That way I can show I’m an inclusive team-player. I want to project to them that I think about the organization on a collective level and not just personal one. I need to keep my role and ego out of this, at least directly, because the big dogs really eat that stuff up. It will also subtly draw them into a stakeholder position in this drama. If things go bad, I didn’t fuck-up, we did. Yeah, I like that. That’ll minimize most of the possible blowback on me.”
I couldn’t help but silently laugh at Jersey’s thought process and chutzpah. I’d seen him spin bullshit into gold on more than one occasion and he was actually very good at it.
“Then I, I mean we, pushed-out calls and text messages throughout the DS chain-of- command so the seniors wouldn’t get caught flatfooted when they walked into the building this morning. They probably notified their masters in turn but that’s not my concern or worry. It’s their responsibility to pass things up the food chain and not mine.”
Jeez, Jersey was on a roll and doing what he knew best---surviving and avoiding any criticism of his performance. I especially liked his comment about the seniors not getting caught flatfooted though. That was terribly ironic since they were all federal cops or flatfoots---the organization also occasionally employed a Dick as well.
“We then assigned a seasoned, senior agent to act as liaison with the local authorities. We wanted to ensure that DS interests were being served and addressed in the matter. I won’t allude to the fact that we did it as a simple, reflexive act of CYA. Regardless, they’ll get the point and be pleased. Avery, you still have some credibility around here so I think your assignment will be seen as a smart, proactive move on my part. Don’t disappoint me my friend.”
“Now, I need to tell them what else needs to be done to wrap this thing up in a pretty ribbon---the damage control part.”
As he spoke, Jersey jotted down notes on a yellow, legal-size pad of paper. He always used a red Sharpie for some reason I couldn’t fathom. But we all had our little quirks and idiosyncrasies yet I wondered how the shrinks might interpret his choice of color and writing instrument.
“I’ll say that we should do some internal, due-diligence inquiries regarding Joey Hernandez’s death to look like we’re on top of things. Avery, interview his boss and coworkers in IA, they’d know him best in DS. Find out if he was having problems at home or work. See if there was anything out of the ordinary going on with the guy. Hell, I don’t need to tell you how to suck eggs!”
“Go do it and let me know what you find, if anything, before close-of-business. I still have to do a press release before the noon briefing. I’ve got more than enough information to put it together. I’ll emphasize our deep sorrow in Joey’s passing and what an excellent special agent and American patriot he was. He was a role model for others selflessly serving their nation. He’ll be greatly missed by his many friends and colleagues in DS and the department, etc., etc., ad nausea. I’ll probably leave out the part about shitting himself. In any case, it’ll be a slam-dunk piece of eyewash that will certainly fly with the public affairs weenies.”
“Now get out of my office! I’ve got to head upstairs in a few minutes to deliver my spiel. I also have to suggest the extent of DS’s involvement in Joey’s funeral arrangements. He didn’t die in the line-of-duty so there’ll be no military honor guard or 21-gun salute or etching his name on the wall of the fallen at Main State’s C Street diplomatic entrance. He doesn’t deserve those honors but maybe we can do something for the family.”
What a cold, calculating and cynical bastard, I thought as I left his office. Regardless, he was a good fit in the outfit’s Old Boy’s Club comprised of peers of the same ilk. However, Old Boys and Black Dragons shouldn’t be confused: the latter wielded real power; the former just banded together for self preservation in order to survive the wrath of vengeful dragons. Just for the record, I was never rushed by either fraternity. Besides, would I really join an organization that would have me as a member? Truthfully, I wasn’t sure.
For what it was worth, this time I didn’t let the door hit me on the way out. I still had some pride left---but not much.
I shook hands with Ken Brighton, Chief of DS’s Internal Affairs Unit. We’d know each other fairly well when I was Director of Investigations. Given its responsibilities and sensitivities, the unit reported directly to the Director of the Diplomatic Security Service and not Jersey Briggs. That fact had never bothered me but really irked the hell out of Jersey in his never-ending quest for more power and promotion. But I thought it was the right spot for the unit given the nature of its investigations and need for some independence from the bureaucratic pressures to conform to the party line above all else.
“I heard you’d been assigned to oversee the investigation of Joey Hernandez’s death. I guess that’s proper and prudent as he worked in IA and it wouldn’t look good if we did our own investigation. Okay, no problem, I understand the politics. Avery, how can I help?”
Ken was a real trooper and professional investigator to the core. He fully realized the consequences of his unit conducting any inquiries regarding Joey’s suicide---cover-up would be alleged or insinuated by those with an axe to grind, both inside and outside of the State Department. There were many current and former department employees waiting for a chance to get back at DS due to its many investigations over the years---security clearances had been revoked, people fired or suspended and some even had served time in prison for a variety of high crimes and misdemeanors.
“Ken, I’m terribly sorry for Joey and his family. I didn’t know him but these things are never pleasant even for those of us not directly involved.”
“I know---me too. I spoke to his wife, Vivien, just a couple of minutes ago but she was so distraught she could barely speak. I mumbled my condolences and offered any help we could. We’ve already put out the word that we’re collecting money for the kids’ educations. We’ll hit up the DS Special Agent Foundation for money too. With some fundraisers over the next few months, we should be able to come up with a tidy sum. With interest and compounding over the years, we hope the money will be sufficient to meet at least that burden. That’s the least we can do for Vivien.”
“What’s puzzling is that Joey didn’t evidence any outward signs he was depressed or having any particular emotional problems. The guys and I discussed this earlier and none of us saw this coming. He was just Joey---upbeat, outgoing and affable. We saw no change in his mood or behavior whatsoever. Moreover, Joey was a devout Catholic and understood that suicide was a mortal sin. Avery, his death just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sometimes those who are depressed bottle everything up inside and put on a good act and face for others. I don’t know what to say except it looks like Joey died by his own hand. I can’t see any evidence to suggest otherwise---ditto with the ME and DC detective. Jersey is simply covering his ass as usual by having me do the due diligence drill for the record. We both know he’s a stickler for detail when he feels his backside threatened by possible criticism from his bosses.”
Ken laughed because he knew what I was saying was true. Jersey was a first-class jerk at times---that was most of the time in my opinion but I never openly bit the hand that fed me. I simply couldn’t afford to.
“What was Joey working on these days? Was there anything of salacious interest?”
Ken chuckled at my question because we both knew that IA handled misconduct and malfeasance cases of every shade and stripe imaginable. Some of the stuff that cropped-up was over-the-top to put it mildly. Truth really was stranger than fiction in this business.
“Oh yeah, things haven’t changed much in terms of our caseload since you retired. I double-checked his open cases to see if there was anything unusual---as usual there was. He was working a couple of malfeasance cases involving possible voucher fraud, just the garden variety stuff and nothing special.”
“However, there are two investigations of interest or at least I find interesting. The first involves Harry Dubs, that old fart working in DS’s Protective Liaison Branch downstairs. As you know, Harry has been in the same position as a civil servant since Hector was a pup. I’m not sure how long that might be but he thinks he owns the place. He seems to do a decent job as he should given his tenure doing the same thing year after year---schmoozing with the embassies in town to make sure they’re safe and secure. He’s a bullshit artist, a hand-holder and little more as far as I’m concerned. Jeez, what a cushy gig! Given his position, he’s invited to virtually every diplomatic reception held in Washington. With all of the freebies, he probably hasn’t paid for a meal in decades. Hell, his overly generous paunch and buttocks attest to the fact!”
“But old Harry may now be in a little hot water---perhaps over his head this time. It seems that he obtained a federal firearms license to buy and sell firearms and other munitions a number of years ago. His federal paycheck wasn’t enough so he started his gunrunning business as a sideline to supplement his income. There’s certainly nothing wrong or illegal with that little enterprise although he had an obligation to advise his employer---DS. But as you know that’s certainly no big deal here. However, here’s the rub: Harry has built up a large clientele of federal and local law enforcement types over the years. He probably uses his DS position to tout sales and garner customers. That’s also a no-no but again nothing particularly damning. But his reputation for discreetly and anonymously selling firearms at reasonable cost has spread; so too has his sales territory. Apparently, he’s expanded his activity to overseas customers working within many of our embassies---other federal agents assigned to the missions.”
“That’s where we come into the picture. Someone tipped us to the fact that he’s using the diplomatic pouch to send his firearms to all corners of the world as best we can tell. That alone is a serious violation of regulation but there’s more. Avery, remember when we served as Regional Security Officers overseas? There are a large number of U.S. government security agents attached to the missions---FBI, CIA, DEA, Customs Service, Secret Service, INS, the Naval Investigative Service, etc. I’ve probably forgotten a few since there are many. Add the private security contractors working in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iraq for the embassies and the numbers grow. Each one of those agents typically has a liaison responsibility with their counterparts in the host government. That’s how things work. You can’t get much done unless you have some buds in the local bureaucracy. They’re invaluable assets in facilitating and conducting investigations for Uncle Sam. They often become drinking buddies and friends in order to cement relationships.”
“Of course, they’re co-opted and witting players in fighting terrorism or drugs or counterfeiting or you name it. That’s all well and good but when Harry’s guns end-up in their hands as gifts or payments for favors or whatever, it’s not so good. A number of the governments are on the State Department’s list of those nations engaged in gross violations of human rights. We believe some of these firearms are now in the hands of security agents of some of those countries. In one instance, we know that an M-4 assault rifle was pouched to one of the alphabet agents assigned to our embassy in Syria. In effect, an employee of DS and the U.S. Department of State may unknowingly be facilitating the arming of those who repress and torture innocent people. Can you imagine if the Washington Post were to dunce onto that bit of trivia? It wouldn’t be pretty and the Black Dragons would have another excuse to blame DS and point out that we need adult supervision---by adult dragons, of course.”
“As to Harry’s business model, it’s a solid one from strictly his perspective. He pays no shipping costs, avoids licensing requirements on both ends of the transaction and sidesteps inspection of the shipments at the receiving end because the pouches are inviolate under international law. It’s a real sweet deal.”
“Where was Joey at in terms of his investigation?”
“He wasn’t too far along as best I can tell but I do know he had a preliminary chat with Harry. It wasn’t confrontational and didn’t involve a Miranda warning upfront since Joey wanted to keep it low-key letting Harry know he was under investigation by IA. Joey thought that he might be spooked enough to make a statement against self-interest. Of course, he didn’t because he knows the system much too well to be so foolish. However, maybe it’ll be enough to stroke him out though---we can only hope! More to the point, he now realizes that if we can make a case against him, a self-righteous U.S. Attorney might make him an example and vigorously prosecute him for various violations of Title 18 of the U.S. code. He could draw a few years in the pokey if he faces a grumpy judge. The last thing Joey mentioned to me was he was heading to the department’s Office of Munitions Control to see if Harry was bold enough to file DSP-85s as required by the International Traffic in Arms Regulation to legally export the firearms. I doubt it, but you never know, so Joey was covering all of the usual bases. Sorry, but that’s all I can recall.”
“You mentioned there were two investigations of possible interest that Joey was working. What’s the second one?”
“Avery, you’re going to love this one! Jeez, I thought I’d seen it all but I was wrong. What an incredibly bizarre case! It involves a Gray Dragon by all accounts---a senior Consular Affairs official who got caught with his pants down, so to speak.”
“Joey caught a call from the Houston PD a few weeks ago so it ended up as his case---luck of the draw in this instance I guess. The detective told Joey that they were working a homicide involving a prominent business family in Houston. It was a nasty one by all accounts. The husband brutally bludgeoned his wife to death in a drunken rage. It was an open-and-shut case with the husband making a remorseful confession to the cops. But here’s where it gets interesting for one Mr. Gerard Lipinski, our consular official cum dragon. The cops found a huge cache of porn during the search of the couple’s home. Most of the stash consisted of fetish flicks and toys. According to the detective, the stuff was really gross and not the typical trash they come across. The videos were mostly amateur productions and included the most disgusting, perverted acts imaginable. The cops quickly concluded that both the victim and her husband had been engaged in such activity for years. They were trading videos of themselves with others performing decidedly triple X-rated acts of frisky sex. The couple’s particular kink was rubber-wear and sadomasochistic activity.”
“As the PD went through the goodies, they found a VHS mailing box addressed to the Houston couple with a return address from a Gerard Lipinski in Washington, DC. It didn’t take them long to determine that our man worked for the State Department. The cops express mailed the box and a couple of other things to Joey.”
“Avery, hang on a sec and let me load the tape we received. You’ll enjoy the show but keep a barf bag handy just in case since it’s pretty raw stuff.”
Ken retrieved a VHS tape from a file cabinet, loaded into the machine and hit the play button.
“The two people in the video are Gerard Lipinski and his spouse Monica, both consenting adults practicing their own brand of sex in the basement of their home on 33rd Street in Georgetown. By the way, the VHS format is so outdated I had to ask the AV people downstairs to find me a machine. They even had a tough time locating one.”
The scene opened with both individuals standing and facing the video camera. Since the film didn’t jiggle, I assumed it was stationary with no one holding it. Each actor was dressed from head to foot in black, rubber outfits. Only their faces showed from their hooded heads. The getups appeared to be standard dive suits and nothing more.
Monica played the role of dominatrix and Gerard her slave. As she chained Gerard’s hands to the basement wall, she told him that he was a bad, disrespectful boy who needed to be punished for his insolence and disobedience. She then applied a short-handle whip to his buttocks to get his attention. Her monologue and whipping continued for the next 10 minutes or so. Gerard said nothing but occasionally cried out in real or feigned pain. I suspected the latter because he seemed to be enjoying the experience.
The next role-play involved Gerard being forced to kneel in front of Mistress Monica. She removed her wetsuit and Gerard proceeded to eat her while she critiqued his performance. By her comments, her husband’s vigorous ministrations to her pussy never quite suited her taste. There likely would be more humiliation and punishment in store for Gerard as a result of his distasteful performance. Simply a matter of de gustibus non est disputandum from what I could tell by the looks of things.
The grand finale to their twisted tryst had Gerard seated on a stationary exercise bike that had been modified so his ass was positioned to receive the dildo that Monica was about to administer. I hadn’t noticed before that Gerard’s wetsuit had a zipper sewn into its back. Monica unzipped him and then went to work. From out of camera sight, she brought a large tripod into view. She positioned the tripod and its attached device about 18 inches from Gerard’s backside and the device came to life with a flip of a switch. I was utterly amazed and shocked at this piece of machinery---it was a pneumatic dildo that unmercifully pounded Gerard’s ass! It had a speed control and Monica would vary its effect to suit his and her needs. She’d also periodically spit on the business-end of the device to keep it well lubricated for her hubby. I’d seen more than enough and told Ken to shut-off the player.
“It’s nice, huh? We’ve dubbed this one The Strange Case of the Rubber Man. I’m sure Sherlock Holmes would be proud. But there’s something else I need to show you.”
Ken returned to the file and brought me a magazine to look at. It was a rubber fetish rag called Stiletto. From its cover, I saw it was published in London.
“Turn to page seven and take a look at the photo at the bottom.”
I did as told and saw Gerard in his wetsuit sans wife. There was nothing unusual or sexual in the portrayal---just a guy on a beach heading for a scuba dive by the looks of it.
“Joey was virtually finished with the case. There’s nothing illegal in what Gerard and his wife have done. We’re not the morals cop here and we’ll let others judge for themselves. But we both know there’s a big issue with Gerard holding onto his security clearance. If it’s suspended or revoked, his career’s basically over. He stepped over the line when he went public with his little kink. The security clearance adjudicators will likely find that he’s susceptible to blackmail. That susceptibility means he’s susceptible to being coerced into turning classified information over to the wrong people. You know the old rationale---we used the same argument for decades against the department’s gays.”
“Gerard Lipinski readily and tearfully copped out to what he’d been into and understands the consequences of his actions. HR has blocked his upcoming overseas assignment pending our investigation and a round of consultations with the department’s shrinks. His medical clearance for overseas duty is at risk too.”
“That’s it Avery, any other questions?”
“No, thanks Ken, that was interesting stuff but I don’t see what any of it might have to do with Joey’s state of mind and death. But could I take a look inside his desktop computer? I’m sure Jersey will thank you,” I quipped for both our sakes. I could be so damn passive-aggressive at times, especially involving my friend Jersey.
“Sure, no problem, I’ll get you logged-on but then you’re on your own. I’ve still got my own work to do.”
“Fair enough, by the way, do you know why Joey would have visited Main State last night?”
“No, I don’t have a clue as we say here. Jeez Avery, do you want me to do all of your grunt work?” Ken laughed as he headed to his office.
I spent the next two hours rummaging through Joey’s electric files for any indications of angst or depression. There were none and I was ready to head home and get some sleep. It’d been a long day and I was exhausted. I also looked forward to my good friend Mr. Zinfandel for some comfort before hitting the sack. I’d give Jersey an update on what I’d learned as I drove. The call would take all of 10 seconds by my guesstimate. He would appreciate my findings---no news was good news as some inane bureaucrat who I won’t name might quip.
As I pushed the computer’s keyboard forward, I noticed Joey’s calendar; the huge government-issued one that covered most of the desk. We all used them in my day before the advent of computers, BlackBerry’s and fire. It contained the usual scribbles of both a personal and business nature. But one cryptic note caught my eye: Jefferson, 8 sharp. It was underscored and written in yesterday’s date box.
Who the hell was Mr. Jefferson? I wondered. Was it a first or last name? Like Ken, I didn’t have a clue!
Chapter 3
Hazy Days at Foggy Bottom
I didn’t sleep well because visions of Joey Hernandez kept running through my dreams. Sometimes it wasn’t Joey but me hanging from the stall door. That said something about my insecurities and worrisome mortality. We were all going the way of Joey at some point---if not by our own hand then by disease, accident or just plain, old age. Regardless, it all ended up the same. I lit up a cigarette for a nicotine hit to pull me out of my funk while musing that my addiction might be my own, special way out.
As I drove along the Potomac on the GW Parkway, I could see Foggy Bottom in the distance, just beyond the Kennedy Center. Foggy Bottom was another name for the State Department’s headquarters. It earned that name because of its location close to the lowlands of the Potomac River. In earlier days, the land between Main State and the river was much lower and fog would accumulate over the bottomlands that were then farmed because of the rich soil created by the periodic overflows of the river. Now, not only Main State but its immediate surroundings as well, were tagged as Foggy Bottom. My fog was beginning to lift as well after my third cigarette. The old-time farmers probably grew tobacco along the banks of the Potomac so I didn’t feel particularly guilty. I was good at rationalizing things when it suited my purpose and vice.
Then my epiphany hit me like a ton of bricks and a bolt from the blue combined. Jeez Avery, how could you be so fucking stupid? I mentally asked myself. My mind was finally clear and asking embarrassing questions again. How could I have missed it? It was right there in front of me but I couldn’t get it right! Old age and not enough sleep, I suspected.
Where was it? It didn’t show up on Barry McMullen’s inventory of Joey’s personal effects and his team had thoroughly searched the restroom and didn’t find it either. Maybe Barry had simply forgotten to mention such a mundane item but he seemed to be meticulous in his work habits. He knew that little things could be important in an investigation and was a pro from what I could tell.
Damn it to Hell, it was the missing pen! If Joey had written the Out of Order note and stuck it on the restroom door, where was his pen? If Joey didn’t write it then who did and why?
I turned right instead of left at the Roosevelt Bridge and headed the short distance to the DS HQ in Arlington. My business at Main State would have to wait because I needed to urgently see an old bud and ask for his help.
Dick Felton and I had known each other since I started working for DS in the early seventies. My first assignment as an agent was in DS’s Division of Domestic Operations: the same place Dick had worked his entire career as a civil servant. Except then the outfit was known as the Office of Security. We hadn’t seen each other in many years but my grapevine informed me he was about to retire and move to North Carolina to be closer to his grandkids. He probably had more than 40 years with the outfit by now and had likely maxed-out his retirement benefits. If so, it was a good time to pack it in and enjoy life.
We greeted each other like long-lost brothers. He hadn’t changed much except he looked older for some reason, but he still sported his trademark crew-cut. Dick was a senior officer in DO as we called the division. It was responsible for the protection of all domestic buildings of the department among other things. That most certainly included Main State, the jewel in the crown.
We exchanged pleasantries and reminisced about the good old days that often weren’t so good. The dragons had made life difficult for us in trying to secure people and things. Fortunately, the exterior doors to Main State and other facilities were now locked and guarded---that was tremendous progress under the circumstances.
“Dick, Jersey’s thrown me a bone again and I really need your help on this one. You’ve obviously heard about the tragic death of Joey Hernandez the night before last.”
“Yeah, of course, it’s all over the building. I even got a call from the security commander on duty after his body was discovered.”
“I thought so. In any event, Jersey has me doing some routine inquiries to determine if there was anything amiss that might have caused Joey to take his life. Jersey wants to make sure DS’s hands are clean given the likely publicity. He doesn’t want any fingers pointed in the outfit’s direction---just more of the CYA stuff we’re all used to around here.”
“He’s also covering his own derriere as usual,” Dick commented. Having worked with him so many years, Dick understood Jersey’s MO down to a tee.