by D. F. Bailey
“It was pretty straightforward,” he began, “I went to Henman’s place on Cesar Chavez and knocked on the door. There was no answer so —”
“Stop.” Staimer held up his hand as if he might be bringing a line of traffic to a halt. “What the hell did you think you were doing there?”
“My job. I’m covering this story for the Post.”
“What?” A flash of astonishment crossed Staimer’s face. “This morning you were an impoverished student at Berkeley. Now you work for the Post?”
Finch chuckled at that. He could imagine Staimer’s surprise. “Yeah. As of this morning.” He reached into his bag, retrieved the envelope containing his freelance contract and passed it to the detective.
Staimer pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the contract for a few seconds. “You mind if I make a copy of this?”
Finch pondered proposition. “To be honest, yes.” He knew he needed to be cautious. “Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m cooperating with your investigation. I’ll tell you whatever I can to help. What happened to Seamus Henman is sick and whoever knifed him has to be put away” — he waved a hand in the air — “but I’m not going to add to the file you already have on me.”
“No? I can arrest you for unlawful entry into Henman’s apartment right now.” Staimer’s voice grew more shrill with every word. “Then you can explain all this to a judge. Would you prefer that?”
Finch blinked. Point taken. “All right. But I want the original.”
Staimer frowned and left the interview room with the contract dangling from his hand. Less than five minutes later he returned.
“Here you go. The original is yours.” Staimer slipped his glasses into his pocket, folded the contract into its envelope and passed it back to Finch. “Let’s go on from where we left off. So how did you get Henman’s address?”
“From Jojo.”
“Jojo?” He tapped a fingernail on the metal table top that separated them. “This morning I asked what else you knew. And you neglected to tell me this? His address?”
“No.” Finch glanced away to diffuse the tension. “I didn’t know it then. She told me this afternoon.”
“You saw Jojo this afternoon?”
Finch wondered how to explain the brief meeting with Jojo and Biscombe. “Look, I helped her find a lawyer. I brought him down here to your meet-n-greet cage. After I introduced them, she told me about Henman and his address.”
“What was the lawyer’s name?”
“John Biscombe.”
“Spell it.”
Staimer put on his glasses again and wrote the name on a pad as Finch spelled it out. He also took down the lawyer’s phone number and slipped the pad back into his pocket. A moment of silence slipped between them, then Staimer’s demeanor changed. His face soured as if he’d been cheated. Finch knew that he would have spent hours trying to pry See-See’s address from her. Obviously, he’d failed.
“Shit, you are in so far over your head. You know that?” He pressed his lips together and glanced away as if he’d lost track of what to say next. “You don’t even know which way is up, do you?”
“I think so.” He pointed his index finger to the ceiling.
Staimer sneered with a pish of disgust. “All right, what else did she tell you?”
“She told me where he kept his apartment key.”
“Go on.”
“Which was on the door sill.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand above his head as if he were grabbing the key.
“Then what happened?”
Finch revealed the details of his exploration of Henman’s apartment beginning with hearing the music, the overflowing ashtrays, the stink of rotting meat. Then he described finding the corpse and everything that followed up to the moment when Staimer arrived at the apartment. The one detail he omitted to disclose was the series of photographs he’d taken with his camera. That was part of his reporting and none of Staimer’s business.
“All right, Finch. I’m going to have to talk to Jojo again and this lawyer of yours.” His attitude had returned to a more neutral, professional tone. He stood up. “I want you to stay here until I’m done with that, and then —”
He was interrupted by a heavy knock on the door. Staimer pulled it open and stepped into the corridor. With the door ajar, Finch could hear a brief, whispered conversation that ended with a curse. Then Staimer returned to the interview room, shrugged and said, “I could see this coming from a thousand miles away.
“Looks like your evening shift is only beginning, Finch. The feds just pulled this case from my hands. You’ve got another meeting about to take place down at FBI regional headquarters.”
“The FBI?”
A hint of sympathy emerged on the detective’s lips. “I wish you luck. I mean it.”
Finch felt a shudder roll through his belly. Where could this be headed?
“Do me a favor, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“Call the lawyer. Biscombe. And my editor at the Post,” he added. “Wally Gimbel. His number’s on the freelance contract.”
Staimer examined him with amusement.
“Tell them to meet me wherever the feds are taking me.” When Staimer failed to reply, Finch implored him. “Look, can you help me out with this?”
Staimer nodded once, a bare acknowledgment. “All right. I’ll do what I can.”
※
The FBI office in San Francisco was located above the courthouse in the Phillip Burton Building on Golden Gate Avenue. Like a lot of federal buildings, the tower — a twenty-one story hive constructed of concrete, steel, and glass — was devoid of personality. We might as well be in Moscow, Finch thought as he traveled up the elevator with Agents Busby and Albescu. Busby sported a brush cut and appeared to be in his early fifties. He had a thick body and the lumbering gait of a long-retired wrestler. Albescu was maybe forty-five, taller, leaner, and his face conveyed a worn, depleted energy.
By the time he stepped into the Bureau’s premises on the thirteenth floor, over two hours had passed since Detective Staimer had left Will on his own in Room 3 at SFPD’s Central Station. The delay extended past the dinner date he’d made with Cecily. No one provided an explanation or apology. However, Finch was grateful for the lapse because when he entered the FBI’s office complex, he discovered Wally Gimbel standing beside John Biscombe beneath the EXIT sign at the far end of the corridor. His detainment had provided enough time for his allies to assemble. The two men appeared to be engaged in a quiet conversation. As they spoke, Wally turned the brim of his gray Fedora hat in his hand.
Finch turned to Busby and Albescu and tipped his head toward his colleagues. “Give me a minute, will you. I’ve got to talk to my lawyer.”
“Bisk, good to see you!” Finch marched over to his friend and shook his hand. He turned to face his editor. “Wally, sorry to drag you in here. Especially at this time of night. I wasn’t —”
“I told you to keep me up to date,” Wally held up a hand as he interrupted Finch. “I just didn’t expect that we’d do the de-brief here.” He smiled with a reassuring grin that set Will at ease.
“Look,” Finch said. “This thing is now a double murder. Seamus Henman has been killed. It looks like some kind of psycho wack-job.”
“What?” Wally’s question came out in a whisper.
Finch knew he had to be succinct. “I’ll tell you everything later. For now, I want you to take my camera. I don’t know if they’re going to arrest me and I don’t want this to fall into their hands.”
Wally nodded mutely as Finch drew the camera from his pocket and placed it in Wally’s hand. The editor slipped it into his suit pocket and unbuttoned his jacket to ease the slight bulge.
“And Bisk, just keep me out of jail, all right.” He eyed his friend with an intense stare. “And if they do bust me, let Cecily know everything’s okay.”
Biscombe nodded. “Just don’t lie to them. They can lock you up for
that alone.”
The three men turned when Busby called Finch’s name.
“All right,” Finch said. “Don’t hesitate to step in whenever you can.”
The FBI interview room was much more comfortable than the SFPD’s Room 3. In fact, Finch soon realized that it was a staff meeting room furnished with swivel chairs that surrounded an oak table. A glass wall opened onto an wide space equipped with about twenty workstations, each endowed with computers, telephones, and more swivel chairs. Apart from three other agents typing on their keyboards, their war room was vacant. Given the hour, Finch was not surprised.
“All right, let’s start.” Busby sat at the head of the rectangular table. “I’m Agent Dan Busby. This is Agent Raymond Albescu.” Busby tipped his hand toward his colleague. “Now I understand that you two are here at the request of Mr. Finch. Please introduce yourselves.”
Will smiled at the overt formality. Busby spoke as if Miss Manners herself had raised him. However, beneath the polished veneer, Finch detected a no-nonsense rigor and discipline. He knew he had to be careful, or this meeting would destroy his career before it began.
Wally and Biscombe introduced themselves and their professional capacities. Then Busby nodded at Albescu, who spoke in an almost tender voice that belied the long-suffering expression in his face.
“I want to reassure you that, at present, no one here is currently under suspicion of any crime. However, we’ll be recording the meeting.” Albescu pointed to a voice recorder in the middle of the table. “We’re investigating the murder of Seamus Henman which was reported to us this evening.” He set his eyes on Will. “Apparently you called it into the SFPD sometime after six o’clock, is that correct?”
Aware that it was his turn to reply, Finch nodded.
“For the microphone, please,” Busby said and pointed to the recorder.
“Yes.” Finch felt his voice catch in his throat. “It was six-forty-seven.”
“How did you know the time?” Albescu asked.
“From the clock in the bedroom.”
“Do you know if the clock was accurate?”
“What?”
“Was it fast or slow?”
“No. I don’t know.” Finch shrugged. Fast or slow? He thought Albescu was attempting to discredit him with this question. His tone suggested he was pulling rank to let Finch know that he was a mere cog in the investigative wheel that was about to grind him to a pulp.
As he’d done with Detective Staimer, Will walked the two agents along with Biscombe and Wally through the details of the two murders. However, neither Busby or Albescu expressed any interest in the death of Gio Esposito. Perhaps they believed it was a suicide. But when he described the situation in Seamus Henman’s apartment, they forced Finch back and forth through the particulars three or four times.
Where did he find the key? What was the music playing on the stereo? Were windows open or closed? What did he touch besides the telephone? What food was left to rot in the kitchen?
After a pause, the agents exchanged a glance. Finch detected a change in their body language. A slight shift that suggested they were prepared to interrogate him about something more important.
“Let’s talk about Henman.” Albescu spoke in his foggy voice. “What did you notice about his body?”
“You mean the knives? That he was strapped into the chair?”
“Both. Tell us what you remember.”
“Well, he was strapped with duct tape to a wooden armchair by his ankles and wrists. And his mouth was taped shut, too.” That was the easy part. Finch blinked as he recalled the mental notes he’d made as he’d taken one picture after another. “I saw a serrated knife had penetrated his right ribs,” he continued. He drew a long breath and pressed on. “There was a wide blade, like a meat cleaver, in the stomach. Then a carving knife buried in his upper left ribs that probably went into his heart.” He blinked again as if he could dismiss each image in turn simply by shutting his eyes. “A filleting knife had cut across his throat from left to right. Then it was stuck in place below his right jaw.” He paused again to regain some composure. “Finally, I saw a short paring knife buried in the left ear.”
“Jeezus,” Biscombe whispered under his breath.
Busby exchanged a nod with Albescu. Finch had precisely recalled the types and the positions of the knives, and the demeanor of the body. Other than providing the clinical details, it was unlikely the forensics unit would add much more in their deposition about the corpse.
“Give us a minute,” Busby said and signaled Albescu to follow him outside the interview room. They stood and moved into the central office. Busby closed the door behind him, and the two agents turned to the left and walked out of Finch’s view.
“My God. I can’t believe you were there.” Biscombe folded his fingers into a fist and pressed them to his mouth.
Wally ignored the lawyer and turned to Finch. He tipped his head toward the digital recorder to remind him that they were still being monitored. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed his Fedora hat over the machine. It landed with a flop, completely covering the device. Then he shielded his mouth with a hand and leaned in towards Finch and Biscombe.
“Now listen, Will. Something’s gone south on these guys. I can tell they’ve been caught with their pants down on this. Right now, they’re trying to sort out a deal they can agree on. I don’t know what it is, but in any case, it will give us a bargaining position. I want you to let me handle that part, okay?”
Finch nodded.
“Does the camera have pictures of the body?”
“Yes. Everything.”
“Good. Unless they ask, don’t say a word about them.”
“Wait a sec.” Biscombe held up a hand. “If you conceal pictures you took, you could be charged with withholding evidence of a crime.”
“That’s debatable,” Wally said with a shake of his head. “The camera doesn’t hold any evidence the forensics teams won’t get on their own.”
Biscombe’s face bore some skepticism. “You asked me to keep you out of jail, Will. So, I’m cautioning you. It’s risky.”
Finch considered his options. He drew a breath and said, “I’ll keep the camera undisclosed. For now.”
“All right, my friend.”
“Okay.” Wally turned to the lawyer. “John, once we start negotiating I’m going to bring up our first amendment rights. When I do that, I want you to hammer them with some legal bafflegab. Got it?”
Biscombe nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m with you on this.”
“All right.” Wally pulled his hat from the recorder and set it back on the chair beside him.
When the two FBI agents returned to the meeting room, they both studied Finch with a determined glare. They sat in their chairs and set their forearms on the table. Busby, the veteran, spoke first.
“What are your intentions on reporting all this?”
Wally leaned forward, his expression calm and relaxed. He waved a hand to shift their attention to him. “I’ve told him I want the full story on my desk for tomorrow’s edition.”
Busby paused before he continued. “I’m sorry, but we can’t allow that.”
“Can’t allow it?” Wally laughed heartily. “Last I checked, we can print whatever we want.”
Busby shook his head. “Not in this case.”
“This case?” Wally’s eyebrows arched below his forehead in a gesture that said, tell me more.
“Until we’ve done a complete investigation, the details of Seamus Henman’s murder cannot be publicly disclosed.”
“So what is it about Henman that can’t be disclosed?” Wally said, his voice friendly, dismissive of their objections. “The actual fact of his murder?”
“No. You can report that.”
Wally smiled with a warmth that embraced this first, small concession. “Or, our belief that he’s tied to the death of Gio Esposito?”
“That’s a speculation you can make,” Busby allowe
d, “but unless you can prove it, you could soon be arguing that in court.”
Wally nodded. “Ah. So then it’s this business about the five knives, isn’t it?”
Busby waited before he responded. “Yeah. That’s off limits.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Wally continued, his voice growing firmer with every word, “but our first amendment rights allow us to inform the public of the details and circumstances of Seamus Henman’s murder.”
“And you know that,” Biscombe said with authority — and on cue. “You may be the FBI, but Thomas Jefferson and the founding fathers had no intention of ceding freedom of the press to anyone.”
“Oh, spare me.” Busby laughed with disbelief and then glared at Biscombe in silence. After a moment he looked at Albescu, who nodded and then turned to Wally. “Look — and this is all off the record — we have a national investigation underway that concerns public safety. Until we get the forensic reports on Henman and determine how it affects our on-going investigation, we ask you to hold back the details of the stabbing. The five knives as you call it.”
“For how long?”
Busby glanced at Albescu. “Three working days?”
Albescu said, “Yeah, that should do it. That’d take us to next Monday.”
“And what do we get in exchange?” Wally asked.
Busby shook his head in a fatigued manner. “What do you want?”
“An exclusive interview with the Post when the case is closing.” Wally spoke with the self-assurance of a pro. Now that they’d reached this point, it seemed as if he’d been steering toward a bargain since he’d entered the room. He was ready to close. “And one, or both of you, will do an exclusive interview with Will Finch at least one hour before the FBI goes public with this case.”
Again Busby and Albescu consulted with a single look followed by a nod of agreement.
“Deal.”
※
When they stepped onto the sidewalk outside the Burton building, Wally led Finch and Biscombe to the corner of Turk Street and Larkin. The night traffic shunted through the intersection in fits and starts. With the background noise no one would overhear them. Wally took command of the conversation.
