Four Blind Mice - James Patterson [59]
“We’re Detectives Cross and Sampson,” I said as I walked up to him. “Could we talk to you for a moment?”
Handler grimaced. “What’s this about, Detectives? One of our cadets in trouble?”
“No, no.” I shook my head. “The cadets seem beyond reproach.”
A smile broke across Handler’s face. “Oh, you’d be surprised. They only look blameless, Detective. So if it isn’t one of our charges, what is it you’d like to talk to me about? Robert and Barbara Bennett? I’ve already spoken to Captain Conte. I thought CID was handling that.”
“They are,” I told him. “But the murders might be a little more complicated than they appear. Just like the cadets here at West Point.”
As concisely as I could, I told Handler about the other murder cases that Sampson and I had been investigating. I didn’t tell him about the e-mail from Foot Soldier that had led us to him. As I spoke, I noticed a professor in the classroom next to Handler’s. He had a bucket of water and a sponge, and he was actually washing the blackboard before the next class. All the classrooms had identical buckets and sponges. Hell of a system.
“We think there’s a connection to something pretty bad that took place in Vietnam,” I said to Professor Handler. “Maybe the murders actually started there.”
“I served in Southeast Asia. Two tours,” Handler volunteered. “Vietnam and Cambodia.”
“So did I,” said Sampson. “Two tours.”
Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Colonel Handler seemed nervous. His eyes narrowed and darted around the hallway. The cadets were gone now, no doubt rushing off to Washington Hall for lunch.
“I’ll talk to you,” he finally said, “but not on the grounds. Pick me up at my place tonight. It’s Quarters Ninety-eight. We’ll go somewhere else. Come by at eight sharp.”
He looked at Sampson and me, and then Professor Handler turned and walked away.
In double time.
Chapter 69
I HAD THE feeling that we were close to something important, at West Point, and maybe with Colonel Handler. It was something indefinable that I’d seen in his eyes when the subject had turned to Vietnam. Maybe the murders started there.
The colonel had made reservations at what he called an “extraordinarily misplaced” northern Italian restaurant in Newburgh, Il Cenacolo. We were on our way there, riding the Storm King Highway, a winding roller coaster with incredible views of the Hudson, which stretched out hundreds of feet below.
“Why didn’t you want to talk to us closer to home?” I finally asked the colonel.
“Two of my best friends were just murdered there,” Handler said. He lit up a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. It was pitch black outside, and the mountainous road had no lights to guide our way.
“You believe the Bennetts were murdered?” I asked.
“I know they were.”
“Do you know why?”
“I might. You’ve heard of the blue wall of silence with the police. In the army, it’s the same, only the wall is gray. It’s higher, thicker, and has been here for a hell of a long time.”
I had to ask another question. I couldn’t hold back. “Are you Foot Soldier, Colonel? If you are, we need your help.”
Handler didn’t seem to understand. “What the hell is Foot Soldier? What are you talking about?”
I told him that a mysterious someone had been periodically slipping me information, including his name. “Maybe you thought it was time we met face-to-face,” I said.
“No, I may be a source for you now. But it’s only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I’m not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”
As convincing as he sounded, I didn’t know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few — some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.
Handler