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“So what do you think about this help we’re getting? The mad e-mailer? Foot Soldier?” Sampson asked. “I don’t like it, Alex. It’s too convenient, too pat. This whole case is about being set up.”
“You’re right, we don’t have any reason to trust the information we’re getting. So I don’t. On the other hand, we’re here. Why not talk to Professor Handler? It can’t hurt.”
Sampson shook his head. “I wish that was so, Alex.”
I had called the History Department immediately after I received the “helpful” e-mail from Foot Soldier. I was told that Professor Handler had a class that met from eleven until noon. We had twenty minutes to kill, so we took in a few sights: Washington Hall, a cavernous three-story building where the entire Corps of Cadets could sit simultaneously for meals; the Eisenhower and MacArthur Barracks; the Cadet Chapel; plus several incomparable river vistas.
Cadets flowed past us lickety-split on the sidewalk. They wore long-sleeved gray shirts with black ties, gray trousers with a black stripe, brass belt buckles shined to perfection.
Everybody was moving in double time. It was contagious.
Thayer Hall was a huge gray building that was virtually windowless. Inside, the classrooms all looked identical, each with desks arranged in a horseshoe so that everyone was in the front row.
Sampson and I waited in a deserted hallway until Handler’s class was finished and the cadets filed out.
They were incredibly orderly for college students, which didn’t surprise me, but it was still impressive to watch. Why aren’t students in all universities orderly? Because no one demands it? Well, hell, who cares? But it was a striking, impressive scene. All these young kids with so much purpose and resolve. On the surface anyway.
Professor Handler trailed his students out of the classroom. He was a burly man, about six-one with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. I already knew he’d served two tours of duty in Vietnam and had an M.A. from the University of Virginia and a doctorate from Penn State. That much was on the West Point website.
“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.”
