by Sydney Bauer
‘It was the bullet that killed her, Gus,’ said David, not wanting to place any heavier burden on the exhausted ME before him. ‘You should go home, take a load off,’ he added, standing from his lumpy fabric chair.
‘Yes, but I have a morgue full of patients to examine. I do believe that I need some rest, however,’ he said, standing to see David to the door, ‘. . . as lately I find myself talking to my horizontal subjects.’
‘They ever talk back, Gus?’
‘Unfortunately no. For if they did they would tell the world what happened to them,’ said a sad-eyed Svenson. ‘And we could all go home and get some much needed sleep.’
Five hundred and seventy-five thousand – that’s how many people live in Boston, MA. And if you double it, to nearly 1.2 million, that’s how many people are estimated to travel to Boston from neighbouring areas to work, shop, eat and play on any given day.
Now work out the odds, David thought to himself as he hit the ground with a thud, of my running into – literally – the man I currently despise most in the world, a good two blocks from where I was headed.
‘Jesus,’ said Logan, steadying himself on a street sign. He had obviously been distracted, walking while reading a sheet of white paper, which he now stowed quickly in his inside jacket pocket.
‘David, of all people I . . . I’m sorry. Gosh, are you okay? You are in a hurry! Is everything all right?’ He offered his hand to help David get to his feet. ‘I’ve just dropped Sara back at your offices and my car is parked in a garage on Tremont so . . . Here,’ he took a breath, ‘let me help you up.’
‘I’m fine,’ said David, using the pole to pull himself to standing. ‘I’m running late for a meeting. My cab got a flat and . . .’ This was half true. There was no meeting but David’s taxi had got a flat tyre. He had hailed a checker cab outside the ME’s Office and asked the driver to get him back to the city pronto. The cab hit a pothole and blew a tyre on Tremont, forcing David to help the cabbie push the vehicle to the side of the road before running north towards School Street where he had cut east on his way back to his offices on Congress. His cell was out of batteries and for some reason he felt an all-encompassing need to get back to Sara – the anxiety of it all resulting in him failing to look where he was going.
‘You look pale,’ said Logan.
‘I’ve just come from the ME’s Office,’ David offered as some form of explanation.
‘Ah – the autopsy report,’ said Logan, his eyes now narrowing just a fraction. ‘Nothing untoward, I hope . . . I mean, of course what happened to Stephanie was untoward, but nothing unexpected . . . ?’
‘No, Jeffrey,’ said David. ‘Nothing unexpected – if you are referring to our expectation that the shot from the big game rifle that blew your wife’s internal organs to smithereens would be listed as the official cause of death.’
He met Logan’s eye, a flicker of understanding between them.
‘Well,’ said Logan, breaking eye contact, ‘I suppose in the very least we know what we are up against.’
‘Sure,’ said David, unable to stop himself. ‘Another kick-ass rifle, but this time in the guise of a system we like to refer to as “justice”.’
Logan shook his head. ‘If my son had taken a gun to his suppressors some two hundred and thirty years ago, not far from the very spot we are standing,’ he said, gesturing at his feet for effect, ‘during the war that gave us independence – the same war that enabled us to build the very system of justice of which you speak, well . . . he would have been championed as a hero. But since his abuser was his mother, his freedom has been snatched by the very . . .’
‘How was lunch?’ asked David, unable to listen to another word of Logan’s bullshit.
‘Ah,’ said Logan – and David sensed the man was not used to being cut short mid-soliloquy. ‘It was fine, lovely. You have quite a lady there, David. A real catch. And now I understand why you hold on to her so desperately.’
‘Excuse me?’ said David, his blood starting to boil.
‘Oh, please. I am sorry. There was no offence intended. It is just that . . . as an expert in relationships, I could not help but notice that . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Really, it is nothing.’
David did not respond, Logan taking his silence as an indication to continue.
‘Well, forgive me for being frank but . . .’ Logan took David’s elbow, pulling him away from the sidewalk and towards the quieter alcove of an office building entryway. ‘Obviously recent events have led to my doing a lot of thinking – about me and my children, about my wife, and where it all went wrong. And I cannot help but think that it is partly my fault.’
‘Oh, really?’ said David. And if he was making any effort to conceal his distaste, he certainly could not hear it in the tone of sarcasm that accompanied his enquiry.
‘Yes,’ said Logan, continuing unperturbed. ‘You see, I think Stephanie was too young for a relationship as serious as ours became. And in hindsight, I think her decision to give up her career – a decision she made of her own free will, I might add – was the wrong one, at least for a bright young woman like her who thrived on the excitement that a career in the high-powered legal fraternity allowed.
‘She was beautiful, David – beautiful, smart, energetic and with enough bright ideas and determination to light up a city. And I think in some way I put an end to all those opportunities by falling in love with her, marrying her and impregnating her before she had a chance to . . .’
‘You think Sara regrets having this baby?’ said David, now barely able to control the burning inside. ‘Did she say that?’
‘Not in so many words, as I believe her devotion to you knows no bounds. But Sara, not unlike Stephanie, is a gorgeous woman, with a brilliant mind and a hell of a lot more to contribute. So I don’t think she has had her fill – no,’ said Logan, shaking his head as if commiserating over the tragedy placed before them. ‘But, as a wise man once said, we all make the most of the situation given us – which, I have no doubt, the pair of you will do with courage.’
David stared at him, the audacity of what he was saying, the daring, the impudence, the pure fucking cheek of it sending a new sensation of anger soaring determinably up his spine. And then a memory came rushing back of the last time he had spoken to Stephanie – at the ball, at their table, after he had asked her about her work: ‘Oh it was terrific, David, interesting, demanding – a real challenge. But I was only there a year when I met Jeffrey and got married and had kids and . . .’ David remembered the look of regret in her eyes, the look of self-disappointment and remorse and . . .
‘Goodness me, look at the time,’ said Logan, deflecting his eyes to his Rolex, his slight smile telling David that he had achieved exactly what he wanted and was ready to move on. ‘I am finally allowed an audience with my own son this afternoon. Can you believe it? Ridiculous, of course. But David,’ he said, taking David’s elbow once again, ‘if ever you need someone to talk to, if you ever need some professional advice . . .’
‘You are offering to counsel me on matters of relationship and family?’
‘Why yes – and free of charge.’ He smiled before slapping David on the shoulder and pushing past him to head quickly down the road.
David stood there shocked, speechless, literally unable to move, until he finally felt the fire explode inside of him, releasing itself in an almost primitive outburst that drew attention from all within earshot.
‘Fuck you,’ he shouted, realising that if Logan had heard him, he had decided a failure to respond would be more frustrating than any acknowledgement of David’s rebuke. ‘You’re a Goddamned son-of-bitch, Logan, and I will not rest until I bring you down.’
But Logan had already turned the corner, wearing – David was sure of it – the slightest trace of a smile.
38
Later that night
They were going head to head. The two of them. And Caroline Croft was barely maintaining her cool. Katherine de Castro was trying d
esperately to flex her ‘executive producer’ muscles, and Croft was slowly tiring of her tantrum.
‘I am sorry, Caroline,’ said the olive-skinned de Castro. ‘But this is a deal breaker.’
It was 9pm on Wednesday night and the air in de Castro’s office was warm despite the cool breeze now forcing its way through the wide eastern windows. Logan was sitting quietly, comfortably, on Katherine’s sofa, a vodka tonic in his right hand, Katherine’s five-sheet program run-down proposal in his left.
‘This is not your standard Newsline broadcast,’ Katherine went on. ‘It must be a variation of the usual Doctor Jeff Show format. Where Jeffrey is the key speaker, or at least on par with yourself who is introduced as a respected news journalist “guest”.’
‘Not going to happen,’ said Croft, who was now pacing the office like a caged tiger.
‘Then maybe we are wasting our time,’ said Katherine. ‘Maybe we should just . . .’
‘Now, now, ladies,’ said Logan, and Caroline could have sworn that his ‘partner’ stifled a cringe. ‘There has to be some way we can reach an agreement. Caroline,’ he said, turning to Croft, ‘I know we have spent our lives chasing, “owning”, that precious currency known as ratings, and that you, like Katherine, have built a career on being forthright, uncompromising and direct. But Katherine is right, people are going to tune in to hear what I have to say, and our priorities should be focused on what is best for J.T.’
‘But when you called, Jeffrey,’ said Caroline, having already formulated her argument, ‘you told me in no uncertain terms that this special would be under my control – a Newsline presentation on the Doctor Jeff set.’
‘Except this “special”,’ countered Katherine, her tone suggesting she found the commercialisation of the event distasteful, ‘. . . would not even exist if it weren’t for Jeffrey’s high profile and regard in the industry, and among the American public. You are being handed the exclusive of the year on a silver platter, Caroline, and therefore I suggest that you . . .’
‘I will not be given a list of questions to rattle off like some puppet,’ interrupted Croft. ‘I am a respected journalist, Katherine, not some two-bit dramatic actress who regurgitates her lines as frequently as she does her breakfast. Further, as I stressed to Jeffrey earlier, the matter we are discussing is sub judice, meaning any preparation of material or pre-setting of questions leaves us open to the charge of contempt.’
Croft was referring to the universal law that forbade counsel or media to speak of information regarding a matter under legal consideration, for fear it might unfairly influence the outcome of the case.
‘I mean, what does Cavanaugh have to say about all this?’
‘This has nothing to do with Cavanaugh,’ snapped Logan, and Caroline could not help but raise her eyebrows in surprise. ‘I have consulted with my family attorneys about the matter and proceed with their knowledge.’
This was interesting, thought the savvy Croft, Cavanaugh was obviously on the outer. There was a story there somewhere, she knew – but one she would have to put on the backburner, until she nailed down this exclusive on her terms.
‘Look,’ she said, now turning to de Castro. ‘I understand it is difficult for you to let go, Katherine. If I were you, I would be arguing to produce this as a variation of The Doctor Jeff Show as well. But don’t you see? If Jeffrey is the key speaker, or even on par with myself as the neutral conductor of the interview, the entire program will come off as contrived.
‘You’re right when you say your guy is famous . . . but he got a whole lot more so when his kid went and blew a . . .’ Croft hesitated, ‘. . . when his son shot his wife less than a week ago. If he does not play humble here, if he appears to be milking his own family’s misfortune for a shot at some super huge figures in prime-time sweeps, if he turns this into a “Logan Family Pity Party” he will not only risk Amanda Carmichael charging the lot of us with sub judice contempt but also risk the public deciding that maybe, maybe, this whole thing was not carried out with sincerity after all. And we do not want the American people thinking J.T. Logan was not sincere in his efforts to free himself and his family from the tyranny of his mother. Cute fucking kid or not.’
There was silence.
‘She’s right,’ said Logan at last, turning his attention to de Castro. ‘We’re looking at this the wrong way, Katherine, this cannot be about me. This special has to be about J.T. and Chelsea and the millions upon millions of other Americans out there – mothers, wives, husbands, kids – who are terrified of defying their emotional abuser and breaking the status quo for fear of the inevitable reprisals. We have to show ourselves as victims here, not leaders. We have to hand Caroline the reins and let her run with it.’
They waited for Katherine to respond.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘We go with the interview, but I would also suggest we have a second guest – an emotional abuse expert who will sit next to Jeffrey and speak freely of the true horrors that this domestic mal-treatment ensues.’
And Croft, who was quietly revelling in her ‘victory’, decided that a consolatory ‘gesture’ was in order. ‘That’s a good idea,’ she said.
Katherine nodded, a ‘neutral’ Logan now smiling at them both.
‘So Friday night it is,’ said Caroline after a time, her stilettos making tiny divots in the plush mocha carpet. ‘If we find our expert quickly we can tape tomorrow, promote for a full twenty-four hours and run the program as a special two-hour presentation in our regular Friday night slot.’
‘No,’ said Logan, finally throwing his own ‘deal breaker’ into the ring.
‘Excuse me?’ said Caroline, all of a sudden feeling like a little girl who had just been given a pony that refused to let her jump on.
‘No pre-tape. No promotion. We go on Friday night – but we do it live.’
‘You cannot be serious,’ Caroline said. ‘That is unheard of. The network will never go for it.’
‘We pre-tape and pre-promote and the ADA will slap us with an injunction which at best delays our telecast or at worst bogs it in legal argument for weeks.’
‘Jesus,’ said Croft. But as she absorbed Logan’s words, she could see that what the doctor was suggesting was true. In fact, she thought, her knotted brow now relaxing as she considered it, saw it, appreciated it even, pulling off such an almighty live broadcast could be nothing short of . . .
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Live it is.’ She walked across the room to shake Katherine’s hand. ‘You have a deal, Ms de Castro. I’ll talk to Allen Greenburg and make this happen.’
And then she moved beyond Katherine and towards the couch where she extended her hand once again, this time to the man that would be her subject in what no doubt would be the most talked about news event of the year.
‘Doctor, you know I was an acquaintance of your wife’s,’ she said, as he rose from his chair to take her hand. ‘Indeed, I even interviewed her once, years ago, fresh out of college with a hotshot career and a Fortune 500 company in her hands. But I need you to know – that while I knew her, I did not know her. I had no idea whatsoever, and I am extremely sorry for what has come to pass.’
‘Thank you, Caroline,’ said Jeffrey Logan at last. ‘And believe me when I tell you that you were not alone. For nobody knew what was going on in our family. And perhaps now, after all these years, it is finally time that they did.’
39
The following morning several phone calls were made simultaneously.
The first was a return call from a Calvin Garretson of Garretson Specialty Rifles in Bangor, Maine, to Joe Mannix at Boston PD Homicide. Calvin, a young man with a very loud voice, reintroduced himself as the company’s acting general manager (his father, Gareth Garretson, owned the company but was away at a gun traders’ conference in Iowa), before confirming that he had triple-checked the details on the purchase of the ‘Tyler’ Mark V Deluxe and could assure the lieutenant that the paperwork was ‘as straight as a Texas stal
lion’.
Garretson Jnr also confirmed that ‘the tall skinny red head’ in the pictures shown to him by local police earlier this week was most definitely the same woman who had contacted him on the internet, paid with her personalised Amex and picked up the rifle in person, before driving it back down to Massachusetts.
Having thanked Mr Garretson for his time and effort, Joe hung up the call and scratched his head before looking up at his fellow detective Frank McKay to say, ‘Shit.’
To which Frank replied, ‘Don’t worry, Chief. As Thomas Fuller once said: “All things are difficult before they are easy.” ’
‘Yeah, well,’ Mannix responded, ‘whoever the hell Fuller is, you can tell him to shove his easy up his ass.’
The next call was highly anticipated and came in the form of an apology from a man who had been impossible to find.
‘Mr Rigotti?’ said the caller when Rigotti picked up his direct line with his usual impatient manner. ‘I am so sorry it has taken me so long to return your call. You see, I have been in Africa, and I only just got your message from Carleton Blackmore and . . . my apologies again, Mr Rigotti, I am getting ahead of myself. My name is Jason . . .’
‘. . . Nagle,’ interrupted Rigotti as he felt his insides give an involuntary leap for joy.
And then, after Rigotti dismissed Nagle’s apologies and Nagle explained he had been on a hunting Safari in Kenya and they both spoke of Mr Blackmore’s diligence and Nagle expressed his sorrow at the Logan family’s loss, the Nevada rifleman finally stuck a sturdy thumbtack into Rigotti’s balloon of possibilities and deflated his potential headline within seconds.
‘It wasn’t my gun, Mr Rigotti, and I know this because Ben Hur has been in Kenya with me for the past fortnight. Took out an elephant with one fell swoop, he did, nailed the bastard right between the eyes.
‘Anyway,’ Nagle went on when Rigotti failed to find the words to respond, ‘Mr Blackmore made a very rare mistake, Mr Rigotti, and I am sorry if his information has caused you any inconvenience.’
