THE BENNETT HOUSE was roped off and secured. Sampson and I identified ourselves to a nervous-looking MP at the perimeter of the crime scene. I could tell that he’d never seen anything like this before. Unfortunately, I had.
After we put on disposable paper boots, we were permitted to climb three stone steps that led into the house. Then we went looking for a CID officer named Pat Conte. The army was “cooperating” because of the other cases. They’d also let in a couple of FBI techies to show their good faith.
I found Captain Conte in the narrow hallway leading from the living room. The murders had apparently taken place in the kitchen. Techies were dusting for fingerprints and photographing the scene from every angle.
Conte shook hands and then told us what he knew, or thought that he knew at this point.
“All I can give you so far is the obvious. From the looks of things, Colonel Bennett and his wife were engaged in an argument that seems to have turned violent. For a while she must have given as good as she got. Then Bennett retrieved his service revolver. He shot her in the temple. Then Colonel Bennett shot himself. Friends say that he and his wife were close but that they fought a lot, sometimes violently. As you can see, the shooting took place in the kitchen. Sometime last night.”
“That’s what you think happened?” I asked Conte.
“At this point, that’s my statement.”
I shook my head and felt my anger rising. “I was told that because of the possible connection of these deaths with the others that we could expect cooperation here.”
Captain Conte nodded. “That’s what you just got, my full cooperation. Excuse me, I have work here.” He walked away.
Sampson shrugged as we watched the CID officer shuffle off. “Can’t say that I blame him too much. I wouldn’t want you and me messing around at my crime scene either.”
“So, let’s go mess around.”
I went over to see if I could get anything from the FBI people, the Evidence Response Team, also known as ERTs. They were being their usual thorough selves in the kitchen. Given the normal amount of dislike for the FBI, it’s remarkable how much respect is given to ERTs. The reason is, they’re very, very good.
Two members of the ERT were taking Polaroid shots in the kitchen. Another, wearing a white coverall called a “bunny suit,” was looking for fibers and hairs using an alternative light source. Everybody had on rubber gloves and paper booties over their shoes. The head man was named Michael Fescoe; I had already met him down on the Appalachian Trail, where he had supervised the crime scene investigation in the woods.
“CID giving you their full cooperation too?” I asked.
He scratched his light brown crew cut. “I can tell you my version, and it’s a little different from Captain Conte’s.”
“Please,” I said.
Fescoe began, “The killers, whoever they were, did a thorough job with both the setup and the cleanup. They’ve done this before. They’re professionals through and through. Just like the killers in West Virginia.”
“How many of them?” I asked.
Fescoe held up three fingers. “Three men. They surprised the Bennetts at dinner. And then they murdered them. These men, they bring force to bear without conscience. You can quote me on that.”