American Quartet

by Warren Adler

  “Who?”

  “That poor bastard. Nobody remembers.” Even Tippet, Temple’s counterpart, sparked mysteries. “Why was his car in the area of Oswald’s boarding house? Why did he try to make the arrest alone? Why didn’t he radio for help when he saw the suspect, supposedly a vicious desperate killer? Why? Why?”

  Her agitation alarmed him. “Take it easy. You’re all in a lather.”

  “See,” she said. “The secret of perpetual motion. That’s why so many people are hooked. Why couldn’t our Library of Congress Killer have been an ordinary sniper?”

  “So that’s it?”

  She avoided a direct answer. She had not wanted to tell him, but having got it out she suddenly felt better.

  “The fellow has got a delusional system that beats all . . . or . . .” She hesitated. “He’s screaming some kind of a message.”

  “Like what?” He was interested now.

  “You think I know?” She hesitated, feeling his hand on her arm. “We have here a nut using the same gun, the same basic scenario, the same timeframe, the same bullets. Even killing a police officer in the same sequence. See why I’m going bananas?”

  He let out a low whistle.

  “So that’s my competition?”

  “I know I’m overreacting. Worse, everything I’ve read only increases my suspicion.”

  “About what?”

  “About who killed Kennedy.”

  “You think this sniper . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. And yet I discount most of the theories. They’re all flawed. Seems to be strictly a money-making or notoriety-creating situation. In all this . . .” She waved her hand again over the reams of material. “There’s only two crazy things I’ve picked up. Only two . . .” She had not dared to tell them to Jefferson or Dr. Benton. They were already telling her to go easy. She knew she was straying from the bottom line. She caught Bruce’s frozen attention. See, she wanted to shout, how it hooks you. His silence made her rush on.

  “In the archives. This testimony. Oswald was a member of a hunting club outside Minsk where he lived. He was the worst shot of the group. Members who didn’t bag anything were ridiculed. It was simply bad form not to bag something. Oswald couldn’t hit the side of a barn, his sharpshooter status in the Marine Corps notwithstanding. Don’t forget: military equipment is better. And the conditions of the range are ideal for a fixed shot. Anyway, on one outing no member was allowed to go home unless he got a kill. It was getting late and one of Oswald’s companions was growing impatient with Oswald’s inefficiency. Finally, after Oswald missed shot after shot, the companion bagged a rabbit and gave it to Oswald. ‘Here, Oswald. You can go home now.’ Tell me, how can a man who can’t shoot that well put three bullets into a moving target from ninety yards with a $12.38 rifle, using a cheap telescopic sight? No way.”

  “Did your sniper do it, the fellow in the Library of Congress?”

  “Precisely the point.”

  “And the other?” Bruce asked.

  “Jack Ruby. Remember. Stay with it for a while. The cast of characters can get really real.” She laughed, breaking her own tension. “Really, real. Anyway, at the exact moment of the assassination, the exact moment, twelve-thirty P.M., Jack Ruby was sitting alone at the window of the Dallas Daily News office. Alone! He had gone there ostensibly to place an ad for his nightclubs, a business that could have been done in minutes. But he seemed to have stalled and lingered. For no apparent reason. The window afforded the only clear unobstructed view of the assassination.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what? Just two unrelated circumstances.” She felt too tired to continue, and slumped against his chest. He held her close and kissed her cheek.

  “What’s in it for you, Fi?”

  “I wish I knew. It’s the icing but not the cake.”

  “And what’s the cake?”

  “Finding this lunatic with a rifle.”

  She sighed and turned toward him, feeling the first real tingle of sensuality. Reaching out, she brought his head down and kissed him deeply on the lips. This time it was his response that was muted, his concentration elsewhere.

  “I’ve really had it, Fi. I think I’m a burned-out case. I better get home. The kids expect me tonight.” She was reluctant to let him go, but her touch confirmed his disinterest.

  “That, too,” she mumbled, thinking of Oswald again. “That night before the assassination, he couldn’t make it with his wife, Marina.” That allegation diminished the other theories. It was easy to scream sexual compensation. In fact, it was Marina’s most damning revelation.

  “It happens sometimes,” he said, moving her aside.

  “Are you going to shoot the President?” she asked facetiously.

  “I don’t even intend to think about him,” he said.

  She felt bad about spilling the story to Bruce. Even the eggplant’s tongue-whipping a week later could not chase her guilt. The son of a bitch had trusted her. The next day he had met her in the corridor, deliberately stalking her to a candy vending machine, a frequent meeting place, located in a setback of the corridor.

  “Ten weeks,” he scowled. “Sooner or later we have to fish or cut bait.”

  “You mean cut bait. Then let it sink to the bottom.” Up to then, she had withheld her suspicions. Finally, she tested them on Jefferson and Dr. Benton. Their reactions were harbingers of what she might expect from the eggplant. You’re getting in too deep, Fiona. Quicksand! Better keep all that under your hat. Catch the sniper. That’s all he gives a shit about.

  “You’re gonna put my ass in a sling.” The eggplant told her. “They’ll crap all over me if they know I’ve been doing this on my own.”

  “I need a little more time,” she lied. There was no end in sight.

  They had also not found any connection with the previous two killings. She had, perhaps deliberately, raised impossible expectations in the eggplant’s mind. Besides, there were only the two of them and all the old leads were ice cold. But the theory was still tantalizing, too tantalizing. The problem was that, so far, it had led nowhere.

  “It can’t go on forever,” he said.

  “We’re trying,” she said lamely.

  “The chief finds out, I’m dead as Kelsy’s.” His bloodshot eyes were pleading. “It’s one thing to hate my guts, FitzGerald. And another to cut my balls off. Somebody is going to find out about this.” He appeared on the edge of exasperation. The full force of her guilt surfaced. She had, she knew, betrayed him. She had talked too much to Bruce. We have no secrets, he had said.

  Oh, yes, we have, she thought angrily.

  “We’ve been careful,” she said, hoping to placate him.

  “People know you’ve been poking around,” he said. “It’s the Kennedy connection that’s got to be kept under wraps.”

  “I promise you. It’s separate.”

  “It better be.” He strode off unhappily. Poor bastard, she thought. As if for spite, she put money in the machine and pulled the lever on Milky Way. Nothing came out. She banged the machine. The eggplant turned around and shook his head sadly.

  She made a gesture of futility. It conveyed the meaning of both situations.

  It was also wearing down Jefferson. Essentially a man of action, he had left the research to her. But when it brought forth no new leads, he became rebellious.

  “But we’re no nearer to the dude,” he pointed out. Surprisingly, he had been gentle and cooperative as they went over all the old ground. Now he was getting antsy.

  “It’s there, somewhere,” she told him, flogging herself to continue.

  Her date with Bruce at Tiberio’s had all the trappings of an important “event.” It was, after all, the scene of their first date, and they had gone there only on their most festive occasions. Unlike then, he had begged her to come. “I need you to be there,” he had pleaded.

  She wondered about his urgency. Was the moment of truth at hand? Fish or cut bait? She wasn’t mentally prepared to make
any lifetime commitments at that moment. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

  His lips were cold when he kissed her. A blast of icy air had come surging out of Canada and the papers had begun to express concern for the cherry blossoms. She smelled his shaving lotion, the brand she liked. He had shaved at the office and changed his shirt. Please, Bruce, don’t force any decisions now, she wanted to cry out. She followed Julio to the table under the floral paintings, a burst of bright yellow and reds that matched the table flowers.

  Sitting beside him, he gripped her hand under the table, lifted it to his lips, kissed it, then continued to hold it. He ordered a double Scotch and she asked for a martini.

  “I’m living dangerously,” she said. “I’ll get smashed.”

  “Good. It will take the edge off.”

  “You think so?”

  “I hope so.”

  It was, of course, the banter of courtship, the bright repartee that had punctuated those early moments together. He was deliberately playing recall. Coming up, she was sure, was the moment she dreaded.

  Their drinks came and he lifted his glass.

  “To us,” he said, kissing her on her neck. His lips had warmed. His touch was soothing. She could not deny the feel of it, the sweetness of it. If only she could be more mindless, more instinctive.

  “When are we going to get off the merry-go-round?” The question seemed more teasing than imperative and she let herself drift along. Squeezing her hand, he moved it along his thigh, touching hers as well.

  “This is my woman,” he whispered.

  “Maybe my priorities are all screwed up,” she said.

  “The pot calls the kettle. What the hell is driving us, Fiona? Why don’t we give it up? Fifty years from now who will give a damn?”

  She sipped her martini. Her tongue was growing heavy.

  “Maybe we’re afraid to stop striving,” he continued. “Afraid of the boredom. Sometimes I think boredom is the real enemy, worse than defeat. I mean, what would I do with my life if I didn’t have this?” He shrugged, letting the question hang in the air. “I don’t know which is worse. Boredom or loneliness.

  “This business of politics. It takes you right up the road to meglomania. So I won’t make senator. So what? It’s not the end of the world. As much as I tell myself that it doesn’t make a difference . . . I want it so badly . . .”

  At least he knew what he was, she thought with growing irritation.

  “Like you, Fi. We’re driven people.”

  Like me! It was a view of herself she resented.

  They were interrupted by Julio, who rattled off pleasantries in his rapid Italian accent. He started to offer culinary suggestions.

  “Whatever you think,” Bruce said. Fiona nodded. With a courtly bow, he moved away, flashing hand signals like a traffic cop.

  “See,” she said, “everybody’s striving.”

  “I had an idea, Fi,” he said.

  She braced herself. Perhaps it was time for surrender. Don’t throw love away, she warned herself. When this obsession passed what would be left? Save yourself. Loneliness would come again. Who cared who killed whom? What was so important about Kennedy’s killer? Or Pringle’s? Or anybody’s? Let society fend for itself? Enough overbearing self-righteousness? Out moral flame? She was sick of dealing with death. The thought made her smile and she squeezed his hand. Ask me now, she begged in her heart. I’m ready.

  “I need something so big, so overpowering, that everyone will have to stand up and take notice.”

  “What?” she was confused.

  “They’re out there like jackals, Fi. Everyone is jockeying for position. I’ve got to outfox them now. Take the initiative.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This Kennedy thing. It has an infallible aura about it. A mystique. I doubt if I could get a budget for it. But it’s got a kind of pizzazz. This whole crime thing is heating up again. It hooks right in. And maybe you can make a breakthrough. Who knows?”

  The waiter brought pasta for starters and he quickly began to eat.

  “You mean publicity?”

  “It would play well, Fiona. It always has.”

  “I told you all that in confidence.”

  “I’m not betraying it. I trust my people.”

  “Your people?”

  “Crime sells, baby. And what’s going on in the Big Apple alone is scary. Murders up fifty percent. They’re really frightened out there. Don’t you see how the Kennedy thing ties in? It’s a springboard. A headline grabber. Not a year goes by that some publisher doesn’t try to set off an explosion. The idea is to use it with deftness.”

  He looked at her and held up his hand, as if to stem her growing anger.

  “Fiona, really! They’re not going to let you use it. They’ll take it away from you. Hell. I’ve got a shot at a Senate seat. And you can come along. That’s the whole point of the exercise.”

  “I can hook right in . . .” she mimicked.

  “Damned straight . . .” he hesitated.

  “I’m not saying you have to quit your job. Hell. Now that would be a plus . . .” His voice droned on, impervious, self-obsessed.

  “. . . the timing has to be perfect. Connected somehow with some terrible crime. Some humiliating travesty for all of us. What we’re looking for is something that engraves itself on the public mind. Clark says . . .”

  “You told him as well?”

  He looked at her strangely.

  “If I can’t trust Clark, then the ballgame’s over.”

  ‘Do you trust me, Bruce?” Her head had fully cleared now.

  “You, Fiona?”

  “Me.”

  “How could I love you if I didn’t trust you?” he said with indignation.

  “Don’t,” she said emphatically.

  He looked at her strangely. She barely missed a beat.

  “. . . because if I hear one single word about this from anybody . . . anybody . . . you included . . . I will personally, publicly, tell the world. Every outlet I can find. About our little cover-up at Remington’s house. The whole sordid little story. Grist for the mill, you called it. The mill would love it.”

  The blood drained from his face, “You’re serious?”

  “Dead. As dead as your career will be.”

  “What about yours?”

  “Mine? Since when does that matter?”

  “I think you’ve misinterpreted this. Fiona. I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt that . . .”

  She stood up and the plate of pasta splashed to the floor. Eyes turned toward them. Julio came running forward.

  “It’s nothing. Nothing.” He snapped an order to the waiter, who scurried off to the kitchen.

  Pushing the table aside, she slid out into the aisle and stormed out of the restaurant.

  25

  REMINGTON hefted the little brass Derringer in his palm. It felt smooth and cold and good. A gun dealer in Arizona had sold it to him, complete with balls and caps. All he would need was one of each. For years, he had kept the Derringer in its velvet-lined case in the drawer of his bedroom chest.

  For this mission, he knew, he would be allowed poetic license. He would not be jumping onto any stage, or wearing spurs, as Wilkes had. In his belt he would carry a long dagger, emulating Wilkes, although that would be more for historical accuracy than for action. If someone tried to thwart him, however, he would not hesitate to use it.

  He would carry the Derringer in the hip pocket of his tuxedo pants, the right pocket, ready for action at that crucial moment when laughter would be rolling through the theater. He would have ample time to aim and fire the ball into the President’s brain. To be certain that the message of similarity would sink in, he planned to shout out the words: Sic Semper Tyrannis! Someone would surely hear them.

  There would be other parallels to Wilkes’s act. He hoped the time of the shooting would match. Lincoln had been shot precisely at 10:15. Naturally, he hoped he would be appre
hended alive. It would give him a wider forum, a pulpit for a greater expression of his views. In the letter addressed to the editor of the Washington Post, he had laid out in clear terms the reasons ordained upon him by the cosmic force.

  “Right or wrong, God judge me, not man,” the letter began, just as Wilkes had done. Written in his own hand, Remington had set forth the simple caveat: “We can no longer suffer the consequences of less-than-great presidential leadership. Some way must be found to provide the conduit for the best qualified, absolutely the best, to step forward and stand for this high office. We no longer have the luxury to be led by second-rate men.” He had agonized over the addition of “women” and finally had succumbed. He needed the broadest possible base of empathy. “Men and women,” he had written finally.

  “What I have done, I have done solely to establish that point for all future generations. History, I know, will vindicate me.” In another paragraph, he confessed the three previous killings, although he did not attempt to offer reasons. The investigations would tell their own stories. Surely, his acts would set off a chain reaction that could easily span the entire millenium. Perhaps beyond that. The name of Thaddeus Remington III would forever be engraved on the public consciousness. Coming generations, once the enmity of the moment disappeared, would surely understand the divinely inspired logic of his acts.

  “Mama. You will be proud,” he said to the split mirror images. He knew she was watching. She had always been watching. Nothing could possibly go wrong now. Every detail would fall into place for the final climax, the crowning act. Hadn’t they done so in the past?

  His deep research into the history of Lincoln’s assassination had convinced him of this long before the signs had emerged, proving the existence of the grand design. Tiny details, like a routine mix-up in ticket sales at the Ford Theater, four weeks prior to the fatal day. It was the policy of the theater to move patrons to more favorable empty seats further forward at the end of the first act. Four ticket holders had arrived at the beginning of act two to discover that other patrons had taken their seats. The ticket seller, determined to placate the irate patrons, led them to the box seats above the stage. He discovered that the boxes were locked and with a swift kick broke the lock clasp and opened the door. The lock was never repaired, providing what could only be deemed divine access, assuring Wilkes’s success.