by Dave Conifer
“Speaking of interview, I better call him.”
“I took care of it. We’re meeting him at five o’clock in the restaurant at his hotel.”
“Wow. Nice work, Abby.”
“Yeah, I was guessing that you don’t drive like I do, so we better do dinner instead of lunch.”
“That gives us an hour or two. Let’s come up with a few questions.”
“Good idea. We can go up to my desk.” They got up and walked over to a bank of elevators. “Don’t you like my skirt?” she teased Jonas after catching him staring for the third time.
“I do,” he answered, feeling his face redden. “But aren’t you afraid of attracting too much attention?”
“Too much attention?” she asked. “What’s that?”
~~~
At five o’clock they took a table at the Carmelita Grill, where McBride had promised to meet them. It was decorated in a southwestern motif that looked artificial even to Jonas, who had never been west of the Mississippi before. “Reminds me of Taco Bell,” he commented. When a waitress stopped by they both ordered draft beer.
“If I remember correctly from last time,” Reno said, “He’s got his own agenda. He doesn’t want to answer any questions. He’ll tell us what he wants to talk about and that’ll be it. I’m warning you, this is going nowhere. I only came because I wanted to hang out with you.”
The thermometer on the bank across the street indicated that the temperature was ninety-two degrees and it felt just as warm inside the restaurant. Jonas yanked his tie off and stuffed it in a pocket. “I don’t think he’ll mind,” he said. “He’ll be looking at you anyway.”
They saw him immediately when he came in. He was a big man. Jonas guessed that he was about six foot three. “You’d think he’d remember what we look like,” Reno said. “We were right in the front and there was hardly anybody there.” They flagged him down as he squinted from table to table.
“Good evening,” he said stiffly when he reached them.
“Good evening, Mr. McBride,” Jonas answered. “Thanks for coming.”
A waitress came over when she saw McBride arrive. “I’ll have what they’re having,” he said, waving at the frosty mug of beer in front of each reporter.
“Glad to do it,” he drawled to Jonas as he nodded at Reno. “It’s important to me that this story be told. I didn’t really get too specific at the press conference. Mostly I wanted to build up some interest.”
“Have you been doing many follow ups?” Jonas asked.
“I talked with a couple guys last night,” he said. “They were just going through the motions, I think. You see, I tried to release this information about a year and a half ago but it didn’t go well. I hadn’t done my homework and I ended up looked like a fraud. This time will be better. I’m just getting started.” He looked Jonas in the eye as he said it, almost as if he knew he’d read the CIA denial. “Where are you two from anyway?”
“I’m from North Carolina and Abby is from right here in Austin,” Jonas answered.
“Okay,” McBride said approvingly.
Jonas was surprised at the poise of the man seated across the table. This was a different man than the countrified, down-home McBride that had been at the press conference.
“I’ve always suspected that my father was involved in the assassination. But when I spoke out last time I didn’t have any evidence. I had my father’s diary but I couldn’t make sense of it so I didn’t bring it up. Now I can. I did some checking of my own and I have a pretty good idea what happened.”
“What exactly did you find in the diary?” Reno asked, speaking for the first time.
“Well, there’s no doubt that the CIA was behind it,” McBride said. “You know, lots of folks think he had it coming. Kennedy, I mean. He fucked up the Bay of Pigs invasion single-handedly, but the CIA got the blame. After that he fired Allen Dulles. He was the CIA Director. But Dulles got mad and so did everybody at the CIA who knew it was Kennedy that blew it. It looks like they had the last laugh.”
“How long did your father work for the CIA?” Jonas asked. “How was he involved in the shooting?”
“In the diary he mentions cash payments. There were several small payments during September and October. Then, a few days after the killing, there was a big one. That was right after my father drove all the way to Veedersburg, Indiana, in a Dallas squad car to pick up some money. From that date on there’s no mention of the CIA anywhere.”
“Well, he didn’t live too much longer after that, did he?” Reno asked.
“No he didn’t. My father died when our house burned down in January 1964. Nobody ever said much about that fire, but I know. My father was a very careful man.”
“What’s in Veedersburg?” Jonas asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Are there any other clues in the diary?” Jonas asked.
“Sure there are,” McBride said, folding his arms across his chest.
“How many people were involved?” Reno asked.
“I don’t want to say.”
“It sounds like you’re still doing some investigating yourself,” Reno said. “Same as we are.”
“I guess you could say that. I keep meaning to get to P-burg to see R.J. Pomeroy. He was another cop that was in on it.”
Jonas had seen signs for Pittsburg on the interstate while driving to Austin. It wouldn’t have taken McBride long to get there and it seemed odd that he hadn’t already done this. “Did he work for the CIA, too?” he asked.
“There’s a lot more in the diary. I’m not ready to share it yet. Not until there are some understandings.”
“What kind of understandings?” Reno asked.
“Are you two in this together? You’re a Texas gal,” he allowed to Reno, “but you’re not from around here,” he said, looking over at Jonas.
“Yeah, we’re pairing up for this one,” Jonas answered before Reno could.
“You see, I think anybody in your profession who got hold of a story like this could cut themselves a pretty good deal on a book. Maybe even a movie. I want to be involved in that.”
“A book and movie deal?” Reno asked. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all, young lady. But of course, the important thing is that this story gets told,” he added quickly. “The people have a right to know.”
It was clear to Jonas that this wasn’t a case of somebody volunteering information about a nineteen-year-old mystery. McBride was out to make some money. That motive brought into question the issue of integrity. Was he making it all up?
“So how should we proceed?” Jonas asked.
“I’m getting to that. First, we have to keep the story quiet until we work out some kind of deal.”
“Mr. McBride, that’s not how journalism works,” Reno protested. “We’re in the business of breaking stories. Eventually somebody else will write it up and run it. If you’re so worried about getting this story out there before it gets distorted, we have to do it right now. We could still do a book later if there’s any interest.”
“If you print what I’ve already told you then we’re finished,” McBride snapped. “This is only the tip of the iceberg. This can be a blockbuster for you but it isn’t yet. I think you should approach some publishers with this and see what kind of advances they’ll offer.” He picked up his beer, gulped what was left, and put it back on the table with a thud.
“I’ll have to discuss this with my editor,” Jonas said. “I can’t bypass The Sentinel. It’s their story, not mine.”
“That sounds slow,” McBride said. “You might miss out.”
“I’m sure he’ll insist that we see the diary before committing,” Jonas continued. He didn’t know any such thing but he wanted to see how McBride would react.
“That isn’t going to happen,” McBride said. “But we can talk about that when the time comes. Now whenever the little lady gets back we can see about getting some supper.”
-- Chapter 4 --<
br />
Marino waited until ten-thirty for Bremer to come by even though he knew it wouldn’t happen. Then he picked up the phone. “Jerry, this is Frank,” he said when Bremer came on the line. “How about dropping by when you have a chance?” Fifteen minutes later Bremer was in his office.
“So?” Marino asked from behind his desk. “What happened in Texas? Pull that door closed, will you?”
Bremer settled into the chair facing his boss without bothering with the door. He considered propping a foot on the desk to irritate Marino, but crossed one leg over the other instead.
“Nothing,” he said. “It was just what we expected, a big waste of time. He had nothing. I brought Decker down with me. I figured why should I have all the fun?”
“McBride bombed out?” Marino asked after walking over and closing the door himself and returning to his desk.
Bremer smiled. “That’s giving the man too much credit,” he said. “It was a snooze. He didn’t even tell any good stories. It definitely wasn’t worth missing the Pirates for. Did you end up using those tickets?” He watched Marino scribble notes onto a yellow legal pad and wondered what he could possibly be writing. The report was pretty simple.
“No, I couldn’t go,” Marino answered. “I’d already promised to meet my wife at Heinz Hall.”
“Christ almighty! You picked opera over baseball?”
“It was the symphony,” Marino corrected. “So what happened with the diary?”
“He mentioned it over and over but he never said what was in it. He knows less about his own father than we do.”
“How many people showed up?”
“Ten, tops. They were all local press with nothing better to do.”
“Did you get a list of everyone who attended?”
“No, it wasn’t even that organized. There was no way to get a list.”
“Anybody at all take him seriously?” Marino asked.
“It didn’t look like it. We hunted him down later to see if he had anything else to say. We pretended to be reporters. He told us we were the only ones who came by.”
“He could be lying.”
“You’re giving him too much credit,” Bremer said again. “There’s nothing to worry about. If this guy had polaroids of you or me killing Kennedy he couldn’t make it stick. He thinks he’s got a book deal coming but nobody’s paying attention. What a loon.”
“Okay,” Marino said as he capped his pen and placed it in a canister next to a bin of paper clips. “I’d like to have seen the diary but I’m sure you’re right. Sorry you had to make the trip. We just had to be sure.”
-- Chapter 5 --
Jonas was back at his desk at The Sentinel by mid-afternoon the next day. Working from his notes he immediately began a memo to Burkhardt in which he would summarize all he’d learned about McBride and his claims. He wrote with the purpose of making Burkhardt realize there was nothing to the story except a down-on-his-luck schemer looking for an easy payoff. After two hours had passed he was only halfway through his notes. In need of a cup of coffee and some rest for his bleary eyes, he left his desk and headed in the direction of Michelle Griffin, Burkhardt’s executive assistant.
“Welcome back,” she said. “How was Texas?”
“A lot hotter than here,” Jonas said. “I was on a wild goose chase. The story’s a dud.”
“Mr. Burkhardt kept asking if you were back. Doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s a dud.”
“Yeah I know. I’m writing it up for him now. After he reads it he’ll agree. Is he even here today?”
“Not anymore. He’s gone for the day. He’ll be back in tomorrow.”
“Just as well,” Jonas said. “I’ll be done by then.”
He returned to his desk in the noisy newsroom and continued his work. He had to put it aside several times but by seven-thirty he’d put the finishing touches on his memo, all four pages of it, and dropped a copy into Burkhardt’s mail slot. Ten minutes later he was on his way back home, certain that Mark McBride and his father’s diary were out of his life.
~~~
Griffin intercepted Jonas the next morning even before he reached his desk. “Mr. Burkhardt read your memo thingamajig. He wants you to drop by this morning as soon as you can.”
“Okay,” Jonas said. “I better grab my notes first. How did he sound?”
“He liked it,” Michelle said.
Great, Jonas thought. Something tells me I’m not done with Mark McBride after all. He pulled his file of notes from a desk drawer and walked over to Burkhardt’s office. Before he had a chance to knock Burkhardt waved him in. “Come on in, Joe. This is good stuff you gave me here. I want to go over it with you.”
Jonas walked in and sat across the desk from Burkhardt. Stacks of paper covered every surface in the room but Jonas’s eyes were drawn to a copy of his own memo, which was spread out on the desk and marked up with red ink. It didn’t look like something that was about to go away. “Nice job on this,” Burkhardt said. “I’ve read through it. Now let me make sure I have it straight. The long and short of it is that McBride says he’s got the goods on the CIA but he won’t spill it until we get him paid somehow. Is that about the size of it?”
“That’s right, pretty much,” Jonas agreed. “I have to tell you, Mr. Burkhardt. I don’t believe this story. I don’t think he knows what he’s talking about when it comes to the CIA. My gut feeling is that there’s nothing in the diary that would prove anything at all.”
“Yeah, I can read between the lines.”
“Then he starts with the money talk, and threatening to go to a different reporter if we don’t move fast enough. Something about him just rubs me the wrong way.”
“Maybe I should talk to him,” Burkhardt said. “Maybe I could get him to open up more.”
“Be my guest. But he had his limits on how far he would go and that was it. No more information until we work out a book deal.”
“A book deal?” Burkhardt howled. “Maybe you’re right, he is crazy. He hasn’t brought anything to the table yet. Not even enough for a decent article.” He ripped his glasses off and sat back in his chair. “Damn it, Joe, I’ve just got to start writing about something real again. I’m so sick of the city politics bullshit we do in Metro. We were lucky to get this and goddamn, I want to make something of it.”
“I know what you mean,” Jonas said, “but I don’t think this is the one.”
Burkhardt put his glasses back on and hunched forward to pore over the memo again. “What about this other officer you mentioned? Did you try to track him down? How many days were you down there, anyway?”
“You’re probably talking about R.J. Pomeroy. Look, Mr. Burkhardt, I just found out about him about at the last minute. McBride barely mentioned him.”
“I know, Joe. You did great. Don’t get all steamed up. Now, the next thing we need to do is to see what this other fellow has to say.”
“Who, Pomeroy? We have to find him first. I don’t even know if I got his name right.”
“Any reason we shouldn’t be able to find him?”
“McBride told us he lived in Pittsburg, Texas. I don’t think he meant to give that to us. It kind of slipped out. Pittsburg’s a little town east of Dallas, halfway to Arkansas. We checked the phone books and didn’t come up with anything. That’s as far as it went.”
“We?” Burkhardt asked, looking over the top of his glasses at Jonas.
“I was working with a reporter from a paper in Austin. A lot of the background on McBride in that memo came from her.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Has she run any of this?”
Jonas smiled. “They had enough of McBride the last time he came out of the woodwork.”
“Well, anyway, try to find the friend. Maybe he’s a little more down-to-earth than McBride.”
~~~
Jonas spent the next several hours on the phone talking to people in and around Pittsburg, Texas. There just didn’t seem to be anybody in the area by the n
ame of R.J. Pomeroy. He called Reno, who did some checking on her own but was also unsuccessful. The last thing he did was to call Mark McBride himself, who was still in his Austin hotel room. That didn’t yield any information either.
“I could serve Pomeroy up to you,” McBride said. “But not until we firm up our arrangement. Did you talk with your editor?”
“I did. He said just what I told you he’d say. There can’t be a book deal yet because you haven’t given us anything to write a book about.”
“Well, not everybody feels that way. You better change his mind and talk to some publishers or you’ll miss out. I’m meeting with a writer later in the week but I’ll cancel if you come through. This is probably your last chance.”
He’s got to be bluffing, Jonas decided later. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sounded so desperate. If he was really meeting with a legitimate writer, why would he be so anxious to work with some unknown reporter from Charlotte?
~~~
Over the weekend Jonas surprised himself by thinking constantly about McBride and the faceless R.J. Pomeroy. Every time he replayed the conversation he was more certain that McBride had spoken about Pomeroy as if he was currently in Pittsburg. But if that was the case, why was he so hard to find? Maybe it was because he wasn’t there anymore. An experienced Texas reporter like Abby Reno should have been able to locate him, but so far she hadn’t come up with anything.
Monday morning he called Reno from his desk, hoping that she’d found Pomeroy. “So did you have any more luck than I did looking for our friend?” she asked when the small talk was out of the way.
“No,” Jonas answered. “I was hoping you had.”
“It shouldn’t be that hard to find somebody who isn’t hiding,” she said.
“Maybe he is hiding. Or maybe he doesn’t even exist.”
“I wouldn’t put it past McBride. What a shyster.”
“I’ve been replaying the conversation over and over. I’m sure we got it right. He said something like ‘I ought to take a ride over there to Pittsburg to see him.’ Is that how you remember it?”
