Chapter 23

Bowman answered Flint's knock at the door wearing a charcoal gray suit, yellow button-down shirt and a yellow tie, with a sailboat floating across it.

Flint stepped back and asked, "Are we goin' to a singles club or an interview?" Naturally, he wore a navy blue suit.

"Is this tie too much for you? I'll change it if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Naw, it's not that. I just got used to seeing you in jeans, that's all. Come on, let's go. We can talk on the way."

Bowman grabbed an envelope from a nearby table and deposited it inside his coat pocket.

On the ride over to Womack's apartment, Flint reported that he'd been able to get some information from the military school. "They located a transcript, but it didn't help much. There was no info on any deportment problems. His marks indicated that he'd been a good student overall, but was deficient in math, physics and chemistry. There was a notation that transcripts were mailed to West Point, VMI, The Citadel and the University of Florida."

"That's refreshing," Bowman answered. "Maybe there were some buttons even a general couldn't push."

He then turned in his seat and began to instruct Flint on his strategy for the interview. "I want you to let me take the lead with this guy. I need you to be there, but I want you to be a fly on the wall. We'll both be the good guy. I don't want to do anything to cause him to become defensive. Just humor me, I've got some things I want to try."

"Sure." Flint said, shrugging his shoulders. "Have at it. Say, you're really wired aren't you?"

"Yeah, I've been excited about this all afternoon."

Weird, Flint thought, but he drove without comment.

They rode about three blocks west of the park. The exterior of the brick apartment was painted white, its bright red door stood in sharp contrast to the rest. In response to Flint's ring of the doorbell, a buzzer sounded. He pushed open the door and they climbed metal winding stairs, painted black, to the second floor. The stairs opened directly to the living room of the apartment. Womack was standing in the middle of the room, wearing brown slacks and a long sleeve brown polished cotton sport shirt, buttoned at the neck and wrists. Womack was not at all what Bowman had expected. He had no preconceived notions about the man's appearance, but he was not prepared for what he faced. Red flags flashed in Bowman's mind as he walked toward the man to introduce himself, forcing himself to stare into the man's locked gaze.

Philip Terrence Womack was not physically imposing. About five foot eight to five ten inches tall with a slim build. Neither thin, nor muscular, but slim. He wouldn't represent a threat for either Bowman or Flint, physically, unless he was some kind of a black belt. No, he wouldn't be, Bowman thought. He would never compete physically. Too guarded to take the chance of losing.

Womack had a decided military bearing, evident in his carriage as well as his hair cut. Not a marine cut, not that extreme. More like Bowman would imagine the pre-World War II Prussian officers wore their hair. The thought occurred to him that the figure Womack was emulating was a character James Mason portrayed in the movie, "The Desert Fox". Womack didn't have a facial resemblance with either Mason or Gen. Erwin Rommel, but he had everything else down pat, except for the eyes -- they were an icy blue laser beaming through Bowman's eyes into his mind. He displayed few facial movements, but his eyes were active. His jaws were clenched.

Womack was spooky, Bowman thought. An emotional coiled spring, a total screwball, but a formidable one, he suspected. He suddenly was not nearly so cocksure as he had been on the ride over.

Flint moved his eyes from one man to the other and said nothing.

Womack did not invite them to be seated. He walked them through the living room and the one bedroom of the apartment, guiding their attention to pictures on a bookshelf with his eyes as he moved ahead of them. Womack often moved away for short distances and would then turn quickly, measuring their reaction with his eyes.

Bowman was aware that Womack was controlling them with his movement and directing them with his eyes. That was fine as far as he was concerned, but there was something more. There were things Womack wanted him to spot and to comment on. Whatever it was, Bowman hadn't spotted it. Nothing seemed remarkable about the furnishings. They were old, apparently of good quality, but didn't seem to fit the apartment and somehow didn't fit with Womack. But then what would fit with him, a campaign cot?

An old gun cabinet sat in a corner of the bedroom. It contained a double barreled shotgun, a small caliber rifle, probably a .22, an antique bolt action military rifle and a pistol, either a .38 or a .357. The wood on all the weapons was dark, heavily oiled and appeared to be quite old. No automatic weapons, Bowman thought, but then he would have moved them. No, he would never have stored them here in the first place. He's much too guarded for that, but I'll bet he owns an armory full and has fired them all.

As he looked at the gun cabinet and its contents, it occurred to Bowman that probably all the furniture belonged to Womack's parents. The thought seemed to fit. He noticed a military sword on the mantel of a fireplace in the bedroom. Womack watched as Bowman examined the sword with his eyes.

"Is this some famous sword?" Bowman asked.

Womack looked at the floor in front of him and came as close as possible to smiling. "Not very," he answered. "But it is a military ceremonial sword."

Bowman waited for him to tell more about the sword. He didn't take the bait. Finally, Bowman broke the silence. "I've noticed you have a military bearing. Did you wear this sword?"

"What you are reacting to is probably the residue of my military school experience as a youngster. I found that I did not have a military temperament," Womack answered. He offered no answer as to the ownership of the sword nor what it was about his temperament that was in conflict with a military career. Bowman made a mental note and waited while holding a knowing smile. Womack stared, now maintaining consistent eye contact, but did not take Bowman's bait or respond further.

Then Womack sprang a question on him, seemingly from the blue. "Do you know the name of Alexander the Great's war horse?" His face was expressionless as his eyes honed in.

Bowman paused trying to guess where Womack was going. He then responded: "As a matter of fact, I think I do. I don't know why I do. Aside from the fact that he cried when there were no more lands for him conquer, it's about all I do know about Alexander."

Flint piped in, "I know he was gay."

Bowman didn't catch Womack's reaction because he was grimacing at Flint. Flint got the message and stepped back.

"Homosexual liaisons were common with Greek officers of that period. I don't know that Alexander was considered to have a homosexual preference," Womack responded, looking at neither of them.

Bowman sensed an opening. "Can you tell me what Tartar was and to whom he belonged?" He grinned slightly.

"I assume you are referring to neither the spice nor the Cossacks," Womack replied carefully.

"Actually, I think cream of tartar is a chemical, not a spice, and the Tartar's were Mongolian warriors who invaded Russia." Bowman wasn't sure of himself on either score. Before he could be corrected, he added: "Tartar was a horse. The question is what kind of horse and to whom he belonged. I know and I would be very much surprised if Detective Flint doesn't know as well."

While Womack didn't counter, he also showed no visible reaction. Neither did Bowman, but he knew that he had scored a major point in what had now become "the game".

"What do you know of the Minutemen?" Womack asked.

Bowman quickly responded, "I assume you're not referring to the Revolutionary War soldiers." "No," Womack answered. His icy stare continued to dominate Bowman's perceptions.

"Then my knowledge is very limited. I believe it was an American paramilitary group active in the fifties and now defunct."

Womack responded only by seating himself on a sofa with crossed legs and arms. He briefly looked down at his hands. "Detective Flint mentioned that there was something you felt I might be able to help you with, Mr. Bowman," Womack said.

"Yes, I understand that you were an anthropology major, Mr. Womack. Does this mean anything to you at all?" Bowman asked as he handed him the sheet containing the artist's rendition of the carvings on the victims back.

"How did you know I was an anthropology major, Mr. Bowman?"

He stared into Womack's eyes, but otherwise did not respond to the direct question. Womack looked at the page briefly and attempted to hand it back to Bowman with the statement: "I have no idea what it is. Does this have something to do with the Porter boy?"

Bowman did not accept return of the page. He answered: "I'm not at liberty to say anything more than I have. I can say only this much more, I have no idea what it means or what it represents. I'd hoped you would know better where to look for an explanation than I would. Frankly, I'd hoped it might just trigger some recognition or perhaps remind you of something you may have seen before. If you would, how about keepin' the sheet. If you have time over the next couple of days give some thought to it. If you come up with something - anything at all - no matter how far fetched, give Flint a call and we'll set up another meet." He smiled.

Womack reacted only with a nod.

As Bowman and Flint were preparing to leave, Womack stopped them with a locked stare. "You never told me the name of Alexander's horse, Mr. Bowman," Womack challenged.

"It is Bucephalus, or somethin' close to that."

"That is precisely correct. And Tartar?"

"Flint?" Bowman said as he turned toward his associate.

"He was the Arabian mount of Jefferson Davis in the Mexican War."

Womack made no response by word or gesture.

"And now would you tell us about the Minutemen?" Bowman asked.

Womack neither smiled nor spoke. His reaction was no more than the raising of the inner corners of his eyebrows.

Driving back to the apartment, the two men said nothing until the car was stopped at a traffic light. Flint surprised Bowman by popping the top of the steering wheel with the palms of both hands. "That has to be craziest interview I ever saw. I don't pretend to know what was happenin', but there was electricity everywhere. I'm worn out. I feel like I've been watchin' a tennis match."

"What don't you understand. I understood exactly what was happenin' and I suspect he did too."

"Hell, I didn't understand any of it."

"You're cursing again, Flint. Man! you're just goin' to hell in a hand basket," Bowman blurted out with a grin. "When we first arrived he was in control. He was settin' traps and I didn't fall into them - not because I was so smart, but because I was so dumb. I couldn't figure out what the traps were. I took control out of pure luck when I remembered that damned horse's name. His cause went down hill from that point on."

A horn blew behind them. Flint looked up at the light and took off slowly, drifting over to the right lane. He glared over at the driver of the car passing him. Then he turned his head back to Bowman. "I don't feel like we know anymore than we did when we went there," he said in exasperation.

"Well, we don't know a lot, but we at least have a chance of learnin' somethin'. I set my trap and I think he took the bait. If he doesn't follow up, then he's all yours. Also, he's given you an excellent new direction to look."

"What's that?"

"Well, it was a gimme. He was just boastin', but it's that aspect of his personality that's goin' to give him to us, if we get him at all. I think you'll find that the Minutemen still exist and have merely gone underground, or reorganized. If so, he'll be an officer or have status in the group. If you ask the right questions of the right federal agency, I think you'll learn that they have quite a file on Mr. Womack and his friends."

"You think that group killed this kid?"

"Flint, how would I know that? I doubt it, though. I don't think he would've volunteered the information if that was the case."

"What trap did you set?" Flint asked, his face grimaced.

"People as suspicious and guarded and secretive as this guy won't divulge anything through interrogation. Like you said, he'd explode or deteriorate emotionally first. Let me hedge a little on that. It'd take someone much brighter and more patient than I am to get any admission out of him. I'm just usin' his weaknesses against him. He was baitin' me the entire time we were there to play mental games on his field, by his rules. I ended up baitin' him. Unless I'm all wet, he now has several choices. He could decide that we're too formidable and withdraw from the field. If he thinks there is a chance he'll lose, that's exactly what he'll do. Losin' face would be emotionally devastatin' to him. If that's his decision, we'll know in a couple of days. By then you'll know more about his background and can start closin' in on him."

"Won't he run?" Flint asked.

"He might, but I don't think so. Not until he starts feelin' more pressure. He could also save face by decidin' that we're okay guys - both on his level. In that event he would make a serious effort to help us with the art work. He wouldn't have to come up with anythin', just make the effort and loosen up a little. Maybe somethin' as small as pullin' out his readin' glasses."

"I didn't see any reading glasses," Flint said.

"I didn't either, but I'll bet he has some. He only glanced at the page. That could mean that he knew what the design was, or just wasn't interested, or maybe he knew he couldn't make out what he was lookin' at. How many folks his age don't need readin' glasses? For somebody as rigid as he is, there'd be a reluctance to put them on, an admission of an imperfection, of weakness."

"What'll you do if he decides not to play?"

"I'll start focusin' on someone else while you continue your investigation of him or possibly turn him over to the feds. He'd still be dangerous and up to no good."

"Okay, what if he decides to reject your bait and merely tries to play the mental games with you?"

"That would be the biggest mistake he could make."

"Are you that sure of yourself?"

"Do you mean am I that sure I would win one on one with him?"

"Yes."

"No, quite the contrary. He'd have all the odds in his favor. But I won't play by his rules. If he starts that, I'd just give him all the rope he wants while you're gettin' your ducks in a row. I'd begin to show signs of disinterest. He'd become more brazen. Maybe he'll make a mistake and go too far. If not, or if I blow it, we'll bring on the pressure from every possible direction. Then he'll either make a foolish error and we'll get him, or he'll explode and we'll get him, or he will deteriorate and at least be taken out of the action. Heads we win. Tails he loses.”

Flint pulled up to the front of the apartment. Bowman touched his shoulder and the overhead light came on as he opened the door. Flint said, "Wait a minute. There's one more question. Why did you zero in on Womack?"

"Once I considered the likelihood that the Porter child was sexually assaulted, Womack stood out like a sore thumb."

"Are you sayin' Womack is gay?"

"I'm saying he could be and, if so, it could explain a lot about his personality and his guardedness. Homosexuality is often present with paranoia. But the point is, if that's part of his make-up -- does he know it or not. If he knows it, has he given in to his urges? Is he into young kids? Why was he transferred so many times in California? Why did he leave there with so much retirement time built up? Was he forced to leave because of some incident? If so, he could very well be our man. If that wasn't the case and he's built up a very rigid and complex defense system against his urges, that could go a long way in explainin' his guardedness and why he thinks and acts the way he does. Anyway, it's all outrageous speculation. We should know a lot more about Mr. Womack in the next few days. You're not flyin' blind anymore and I had an excitin' evenin'. Talk to you tomorrow."

Flint looked through the windshield and pushed back in the seat. When the door shut and the overhead light went off, he drove from the curb without looking and almost hit a car turning the corner. It had been that kind of a day.