Free A Slow Walk to Hell by Patrick A. Davis Page A

guests might overhear—”
    “Screw easy. After all I’ve been through. After all it’s cost me. You think I would…that I actually could…” He struggled, trying to form the words.
    In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do so and slumped back into his chair. He sat there, panting like he’d run a race, eyes fixed blankly on his desk.
    “Sam,” I said quietly. “I had to ask. It’s my job.”
    No response. He wouldn’t look at me. His breathing rate slowed and he continued to sit like a mannequin. I knew better than to say anything else.
    His eyes crawled up and I saw his hurt. “We were good friends once, Marty.”
    “We still are.”
    He seemed about to respond, then reconsidered. In a thick voice, he said, “You’d better leave.”
    “I still need answers, Sam.”
    His jaw hardened again and I anticipated another explosion.
    Instead, he regained control with a deep breath. “I didn’t have anything to do with Talbot’s death.”
    I produced my notepad, saw him tense. “Relax. No one will see your comments but me.”
    He eyed me sullenly, unconvinced.
    “Where were you between four-thirty and five-thirty this afternoon?” I asked.
    “My office till four. I slipped out to the POAC for a workout. I was back before five. You can check with my exec, Major Tenpas.” The Pentagon Officer Athletic Club was located on the east side of the building.
    I made a note, feeling a twinge of hope. While this wasn’t an ironclad alibi, it was close. It would take Sam ten minutes to walk to his car and another ten to fifteen to drive to Talbot’s. Round trip, we’re talking forty to fifty minutes.
    And the killer took a lot more than twenty minutes, torturing and murdering Talbot.
    “Can anyone verify seeing you at the POAC?”
    He shrugged. “It’s not very crowded then. The guy who checks IDs might remember me. There were also a couple men in the locker room. I don’t know who they were.”
    “You got Major Tenpas’s home number?”
    He opened a desk drawer and produced a Palm Pilot. After I jotted down the number, I asked him when he last saw Major Talbot.
    “Hell, I don’t know. His office is only two doors down from mine. The last time he briefed me was over a week ago, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    It sorta was.
    I said, “And that’s the last time you spoke with him at any length?”
    He glowered in disgust.
    I took that as a yes and moved on, asking him if he’d ever visited Talbot at his home.
    “No.”
    “Did you ever call him at home?”
    “Never.” He paused. “He did phone me here on Tuesday evening. He had a question about a talking paper he was putting together on the POM. I’m using it to brief the Air Force Council next week.”
    The Program Objective Memorandum was the military’s budgetary wish list and the Air Force Council was a group of three-star generals who oversaw its formulation. The talking paper had been mentioned in one of the messages on Talbot’s answering machine.
    “Is that the only time he called you at home?”
    A nod.
    I jotted a note to check Talbot’s phone records and shut my notepad. “All right, Sam. We’ll need to question Talbot’s co-workers tomorrow.”
    “Call Major Tenpas. He’ll make the arrangements.”
    As I rose to leave, Sam remained seated. He was slumped back against his chair, staring at the photograph on his desk. I said, “I’m sorry about this, Sam. I really am.”
    He didn’t seem to hear me. I turned for the door.
    “Marty.”
    I glanced back.
    When Sam spoke, his voice was quiet, but contained an undercurrent of emotion. “It’s coincidence. That’s all. I wouldn’t jeopardize Ryan’s future or my family’s name. You know I wouldn’t.”
    “I know.”
    “This investigation. Who knows what might come out. If something does, I could lose everything.” His gaze hardened. “I trusted you. You gave me your word. Remember?”
    The guilt floated toward me. “I remember.”
    He eased forward, eyes fixated