He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then replied, “Well, when that place was being built, about twenty years ago-ten years before I got here-I heard that no local contractors were used. And the rumor was that whoever was building this place was putting in a fallout shelter and sixteen miles of fence, which was true, and radio antennas and perimeter security devices, which was also true. And I guess the diesel generators were installed then, too. The word was that strange people were coming and going, delivery trucks were arriving in the middle of the night, and so forth.” He added, “You know, rural people have a lot of time on their hands and good imaginations. But some of this stuff was for real.”

“Right. So, what did people think was going on there?”

“Well, I only got this secondhand… but this was during the Cold War, so a lot of people assumed this was a secret government facility.” He added, “I guess that was a logical assumption given the scale of the project, and what was on people’s minds back then.”

“I guess. But didn’t anyone ask?”

“As I understand it, there wasn’t anyone to ask. It was pretty self-contained there. And it wouldn’t have mattered much if anyone from the project absolutely denied that it was a government installation. The locals tend to be patriotic, so as long as they thought that place was a secret government facility, they overcame their nosiness and stayed away.”

I nodded. Interesting observation. I guess if you’re a billionaire looking for security and privacy, you might want to promote the idea that this was a secret government installation disguised to look like a private club. That was as good as sixteen miles of fence. I said, “But now, I assume, everyone understands that this is a private hunting and fishing club.”

“There are still a few people who think it’s a secret government installation.”

I could see the advantage to Madox of keeping the mystique alive.

Major Schaeffer continued, “Look, it’s not illegal to surround your property with a fence and security devices, or to hire private guards, or even to hold a Roman orgy. Rich guys do weirder things than that. Paranoia and weirdness are not illegal.”

I informed Major Schaeffer, “Paranoia and weirdness are never the endgame.”

“I agree. But if Bain Madox is involved in some kind of criminal activity, I don’t know about it.” He stared at me. “If you know more than you’re telling me, now’s the time to tell me.”

“All I was told is that it has to do with oil-price rigging.”

He considered that for a moment, and I could see he was having the same problems with that bullshit that I’d had when I heard it from Walsh. “So,” he said, “you think Bain Madox, an oil billionaire, murdered a Federal agent who was doing a routine surveillance of arriving guests who might be involved in an oil-price-rigging conspiracy?” He pointed out, “That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Yeah… well, if you put it that way-”

“What other way is there? And what’s the national security angle?”

I was happy to see that he was paying attention, but I was not happy with that question. This guy was hungry and he needed something to chew on, but I certainly wasn’t going to offer up nuclear tidbits, so I dissembled a bit and said, “Look, Major, oil is more than black sticky stuff. I mean, Bain Madox is not in the garment business, you know? When oil is involved, anything and everything is possible. Including murder.”

He didn’t reply but kept looking at me.

I said, “Let’s concentrate on the homicide investigation. If we can implicate Madox, that might lead us to some other things.”

“All right. Anything else? I need to get to work on this.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “I’d like to go out to the crime scene now.”

“It’s too dark. I’ll take you out in the morning.”

“Can we light it up tonight?”

“I have the scene secured, and there aren’t any CSI people there, and there’s no rain or snow in the forecast. Call me here at seven A.M., and we’ll work out a visit.”

“Maybe just a quick look-”

“You’re on overdrive, Detective. Go take your wife to dinner. You got a place to stay?”

“Yeah. The Point.”

“You’re staying at The Point?”

“Well… yeah.”

“You guys having trouble spending Federal money? All I got out of Washington were some new radios and a bomb-sniffing dog with allergies.”

I smiled. “Well, I don’t think terrorism is a big issue here.”

“Maybe not Arab terrorism, but we have a few homegrown nuts up here.”

I didn’t respond.

“Is that what your friend was doing here? Checking out right-wing weirdos?”

“I can’t say.”

Schaeffer took that as a yes and belatedly informed me, “About ten years ago, when I first got assigned here, some FBI guys came around asking about Bain Madox.”

That was interesting. “What did they want to know?”

“They said they were doing a background investigation because Mr. Madox might be appointed to a government job.”

That was standard bullshit when you were investigating someone for criminal activity, but it could also be true. In the case of Mr. Bain Madox, I could believe he was being considered for a government appointment, and just as easily believe he was being investigated for criminal activity. These days, one did not necessarily preclude the other. I asked Schaeffer, “Did he get the job?”

“Not that I know of. I think they had something else on their minds.” He asked, “So, what’s this guy up to?”

“I think he’s looking for a presidential appointment to the U.N. commission on global warming.”

“Is he for it or against it?”

I smiled politely and said, “Whatever is good for Bain Madox is good for the planet.”

Major Schaeffer stood and suggested, “Let’s go find your wife.”

I stood, and we left the cafeteria and walked toward the lobby. I had a thought and asked him, “Regarding these old rumors, did anyone ever say exactly what kind of secret government facility was being built there?”

“Are we back to the Custer Hill Club?”

“Just for a moment.”

“And this will help with the murder investigation?”

“Possibly. You never know.”

He went along. “Well, there were lots of wild guesses about what the government was building.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let me think-survival training camp, safe house, missile silo, plus a commo school or listening station.” He added, “That’s because of all the electronics and antennas.”

“Do you get a lot of electronic interference around there?”

“Nope. Not a squawk. I think the electronics are dead or never used, or on a frequency that we can’t pick up.”

I wondered if the National Security Agency ever did an electronic scan on the Custer Hill Club. They should have if the Justice Department was suspicious of something.

Kate was sitting in the lobby, talking on her cell phone, and before we got to her, Schaeffer said, “I’m remembering now that there was a Navy veteran who lived around here, and he was telling everyone that he knew what was going on at the Custer Hill Club, but he wasn’t allowed to say.”

This sounded like baloney, but I inquired, “Do you remember this guy’s name?”

“No… but I’ll try to find out. Someone will remember.”

“Let me know.”

“Yeah… I think his name was Fred. Yeah, Fred. And he was saying that what was going on there had to do with submarines.”

“Submarines? Exactly how deep are these lakes around here?”

“I’m just telling you what I remember. Sounds like some old sea dog pumping himself up.”

Kate got off the phone and stood. “Sorry. I was waiting for that call.”

There were people in the lobby, including the desk sergeant, so Schaeffer said for public consumption, “Sorry again about Detective Muller. Please be assured we’re doing everything possible to get to the bottom of this tragedy.”