The Mile Marker Murders

CHAPTER 2

Bannister slept fitfully and awoke before his alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. He decided to go for a run to clear his head. In the back of his mind he feared that Cal was dead. He imagined the approach of the somber official, heard the words informing him of the worst. It had been a long time since he’d been shocked with the loss of someone close.

As he trotted down his driveway and past the gate, he remembered that night. The call had come at 10:00 p.m. from Lieutenant Duffy, an Atlanta police officer he’d worked with on several cases. The lieutenant had said he needed to talk to him and was waiting in a car at the entrance gate. Bannister was already standing at his front turnaround when the patrol car came to a stop. Lieutenant Duffy got out slowly, and when Bannister saw a second officer exit from the passenger side, he knew it was something bad.

“Ty, there’s no easy way to tell you,” Lieutenant Duffy had said. “Your wife is dead. Erin was killed in a car accident an hour ago.”

Although it had been five years, he could still recall every minute of that night. He had followed the lieutenant to the morgue to identify Erin’s body. He remembered his mind flashing through hundreds of images of their brief life together. When he saw her beneath the sheet, he knew it was over, and all he would have of his wife from then on would be memories. She had been killed instantly when a speeding Suburban went through a red light and T-boned her Miata.

Bannister had never experienced that kind of grief before. He knew that how a person grieved, and for how long, was personal. You made adjustments and tried to move on. Still, every now and then he would take out his favorite picture of Erin and look at it. In the photo she was leaning against a giant oak tree with a mischievous smile on her face. She looked so happy. For a few private minutes he’d let his mind drift, thinking about what might have been.

On this morning, Bannister tried to steel his mind to Cal’s fate. Three of the five miles he covered went over the same route he had run with Cal. The air was thick but cool. The streetlights were on, and the only sounds were his breathing and the soles of his shoes hitting the asphalt. He thought about his conversation with Cal during that last run, and he tried to prepare himself with answers for the questions he’d be asked later that morning.

Both he and Cal enjoyed the solitude of running and agreed it was a time they often came up with solutions to problems. But all that was on his mind today were questions. Where was Cal? Was he alive? Had he been kidnapped? Who would take him? And why?

Bannister drove his usual route to the office down Century Parkway past the glass complex that was home to Atlanta’s FBI. He keyed the Bureau radio to the proper channel to open the security gate for the cage where FBI vehicles were parked. The cars parked there overnight were plastered with a layer of wet leaves blown about by last evening’s thunderstorm. Bannister walked to the back entrance of the mirror-like building. He stepped into the elevator and punched four, the floor for the main entrance. The reception area was impressive. Eight-foot carved wooden doors were flanked by floor-to-ceiling glass panels, each one four hundred pounds of inch-thick, blast-resistant glass emblazoned with the FBI seal. A white phone was mounted on the wall to the left, along with a simple sign stating the office opened to the public at 8:15 a.m. There was no one around.

Opposite the elevators was a door without markings. Bannister had to bend his knees and lean his 6’4” frame backwards to enter his code on the cipher pad, which was installed at a height sufficient for use by employees in wheelchairs. Two ceiling-mounted cameras recorded all his movements. Although assigned to the counterterrorism task force on the eighth floor, Bannister decided to check in on the fourth floor in case the guys from Washington had arrived.

As he walked past the intelligence squad area, Special Agent Mark Donovan looked up from his desk. Leaning forward, he said, “Hey, Ty. Something’s going on. Five minutes ago I hear the door’s buzzer. I look at the monitor and see three guys in suits in the hallway. I don’t recognize them. I open the door to tell them the office won’t be open for forty minutes, and they tell me they’ve got an appointment with Gary Witt. I call Witt and he comes straight out of his office and lets all three guys right in. Any idea what’s going on?”

“I heard some agents from Headquarters are here to do some interviews on a Washington, DC, case.” Not wanting to alienate Donovan if he happened to see him coming out of Witt’s office later, Bannister added, “I was told they wanted to interview me.”

“Well, don’t forget the advice you once gave me,” Donovan said.

“What’s that?”

He grinned. “Admit nothing. Deny everything. Make counter allegations.”

Bannister appreciated Donovan’s attempt at humor, but he wasn’t in the mood for laughs. As he passed Witt’s closed office, he heard voices and assumed the DC guys were in there. Obviously Witt would be meeting with them alone before his interview. Not that anything different would be covered, but it gave Witt the chance to hear everything at least twice. Bannister went up to the counterterrorism task force space on the eighth floor. He had thirty minutes to kill.

As Bannister was shown into Gary Witt’s office, the three visitors stood up and introductions were made.

“Good to meet you, Ty. I’m Special Agent Doug Gordon. This is Agent Steve Quattrone and Carl Holmquist who’s the deputy in charge of the CIA’s Office of Security. Thanks for coming in.”

Witt remained seated. “Pull up a chair,” he said to Bannister. “We’ll be here awhile.” Witt was short, about five foot seven, maybe a hundred fifty pounds. His complexion was white—chalk white—as if he hadn’t been outside in at least a year. In contrast with his complexion, his hair was black and looked wet. It was combed straight back from his forehead, drawing attention to his beak-like nose. He looked like a hawk dressed in a blazer and slacks. The cuffs of his shirt extended out two inches from the sleeves of his navy blazer and displayed dark red square cuff links. The color matched his red patterned suspenders.

“Nice suspenders,” Gordon remarked.

“Thanks,” said Witt. “I consider braces to be one of my trademarks.”

Bannister dragged a chair from the credenza and moved it next to Witt. He didn’t want to look at Witt during the interview.

Bannister wondered what the visitors thought of Witt’s office. It was tastefully decorated, but not due to any input from Witt. In a back corner, a standard walnut executive desk was placed diagonally so that anyone walking by could glance in and see how busy he was. He had the customary sofa, wing chairs, and coffee table with carefully arranged stacks of government magazines that nobody read. Destroying the ambience of the office decor was the one wall for which Witt did take credit. That was the “I love me” wall, with all his diplomas and photographs of himself posing with people he hoped others would recognize.

What stood out on Witt’s wall were photos of him with President Clinton. There were six individually framed photographs of the President, Witt, and a third man. The uninitiated would be told by Witt that the other man was an uncle associated with the Democratic Party. What the uninitiated would not be told was that the photo session at the White House had taken less than thirty seconds, and the White House photographer had snapped eight photographs as he walked in a semi-circle. Witt had framed six of the pictures, each showing a slightly different angle of the Blue Room. At quick glance, the effect was that he’d had his photograph taken with the President on numerous occasions. But if you took a minute to stare at the pictures, you quickly realized they were all the same. You just as quickly concluded that the short guy in the photos had delusions of grandeur.

Special Agent Gordon took the lead. “Your official name is listed as Tyler S. Bannister. What do you prefer to be called?”

“Those who know me well call me Ty.”

“Since I reviewed your personnel file before coming here, I’m assuming I know you well. I’ll call you Ty.”

Everyone laughed, except Bannister, who was feeling edgy.

Gordon quickly lost his grin, sensing Bannister’s mood. Special Agent Gordon had a square face with dark eyebrows and penetrating dark eyes. He was also completely bald. One day in law school Gordon had decided to shave his head. He liked the look. He liked not having to worry about haircuts or combs or brushes or shampoo.

“We’re here because we want your help,” Gordon said. “Caleb Williamson is missing. He hasn’t been seen in ten days. Other than his office staff, you were the last to see him. It’s our understanding you know him very well.”

“Besides being a professional colleague, I consider him a good friend,” Bannister said slowly. “If he’s been missing that long, I wish I’d been contacted sooner. Maybe there’s something I could have been doing.”

“The Bureau got the initial call last Tuesday.” Gordon hunched his shoulders and opened his hands.

“That’s right,” said Holmquist, reaching up to adjust his tie. Holmquist was trim in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit with banker’s stripes. He had wavy, steel-gray hair, an engaging smile, and the polished look of a TV news anchor. “I got the authorization and made the call myself to your Assistant Director. I asked if he could furnish some FBI resources for a police cooperation matter, or a possible Hobbs Act violation—”

“Hobbs Act? We only use that statute when there’s evidence of an extortion or kidnapping,” Bannister said. “Is there any indication that Cal was kidnapped?”

“Ty, how long have you known Williamson?” Gordon asked.

“Three years,” Bannister replied.

“When was the last time you saw or heard from him?”

“I saw him a week ago last Thursday when we met for a jog in Buckhead.”

Bannister wasn’t about to volunteer that he and Cal had a standing arrangement to meet at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday in the parking lot of the Presbyterian Church on Roswell Road. They would give each other until 6:05 a.m., and if one of them didn’t show, the other took off. They had followed that arrangement for two years. If Bannister told them all that, Holmquist would certainly make a note in Cal’s file that one of their case officers was violating the rule against following a set routine each week.

“We met at 6:00 a.m. in a church parking lot off Roswell Road and got in a good run,” Bannister said.

“So, what did you cover?”

“You mean in miles or topics?”

“You can answer for both.”

“We ran a five mile route through a residential area. In terms of what we talked about? Mostly current events. Cal mentioned a new restaurant he’d tried and recommended it to me. We talked a little about the Atlanta Braves and possible off-season trades.”

Bannister certainly wasn’t going to mention their discussions of Agency or Bureau politics. Nor was he going to volunteer information Cal had furnished about his colleagues. Bannister didn’t intend to say anything that might reflect badly on Cal.

“That last Thursday, how did he seem to you?” Gordon asked. “What was his frame of mind? Did he seem preoccupied? Depressed?”

“No, he seemed normal. Maybe a little excited about his new assignment. Let me save you guys some time. Cal isn’t depressed. He isn’t suicidal. I’m not aware of any enemies he might have. He doesn’t use drugs. He isn’t in financial trouble. He isn’t homosexual, and I don’t think he has any s****l deviations. He isn’t currently dating any particular woman, so I don’t believe there’s a jealous rival in the picture. Finally, he isn’t a spy. I’ll stake my reputation on that.”

“I think you understand why we have to ask these questions.”

Bannister unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. His irritation was beginning to show.

Holmquist furrowed his brow and massaged his forehead with his hand. He looked like he wanted to say something but was holding back. Witt was fiddling with his pen and looking bored, which was typical of his demeanor.

No one said anything for a few seconds. Then Gordon broke the silence. “Before we go on, I know you’re wondering why the Bureau is involved in this. You also want to know why counterespionage agents are handling the case.”

“You’re right.”

“For us, Williamson is a special case. But he’s just one of the thousands of people officially reported missing to the FBI across the country each day. Do you know how many people were reported missing last year in DC alone?” Gordon paused for effect.

“No idea,” Bannister said.

“Five thousand. About three-fourths of those reported missing are located within forty-eight hours. In our capital last year, all but a hundred and thirty were found. But some just vanish and stay missing for a long time.”

“Like Chandra Levy,” Witt blurted out, earning glances from the others in the office.

“Williamson’s been missing too long already,” Gordon went on. “Missing persons either disappear voluntarily or involuntarily. Some may be escaping some type of stress they can’t handle. They may want to start a new life—or end the one they’re in. Then there are your accident or amnesia victims, abductions, nervous breakdowns, homicides. But when you’re looking for someone in Williamson’s position, you have to consider another possibility—defection.”

Gordon paused, gazing at Bannister, obviously trying to evaluate his reaction. Bannister returned the stare.

Finally, Bannister said slowly and firmly, “Cal did not defect.”