Strangled

by Brian McGrory

  I placed it on his desk and he read it. Afterward, he looked up and said, “This will certainly factor into a complex investigation, and when we empanel a grand jury, I’ll urge the district attorney to allow them to see this.”

  “That’s garbage,” I said, my voice thundering out louder than I expected. I knew his game. He was essentially trying to disqualify the Record from driving the story forward by making us a questionable part of it. I could see The New York Times headline now: “Record Reporter Ensnared in Serial Murder Case.” It might be the only time Vinny Mongillo would be called “Mr.” by his peers.

  Harrison seemed taken aback, probably not so much by my assertion but by the fact someone would speak to him like that. He said, confidingly again, “So let’s deal. You need me, and whether I like to believe it or not, I may need you at the moment. What else do you have?”

  And there we were, at the crux of this meeting, with Commissioner Hal Harrison following the age-old adage that you keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and at that moment, I might have been the biggest enemy to his mayoral ambitions — at least in the way he perceived the world.

  I ran a few scenarios through the reporting calculator that was my mind. Do I share? Do I withhold? I decided quickly, perhaps too quickly, that I was better off placing my suspicions of Mac Foley on the proverbial table, if only to see the chain of events that they might cause.

  So I said, “I have some concerns about Mac Foley.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me and leaned back again.

  I said, “You know from your underlings that I’ve received the driver’s license of New York Times reporter Elizabeth Riggs, for all practical purposes targeting her as the next victim. Take a look at who she was with earlier that day.”

  He nodded, still saying nothing, obviously intrigued by what I was telling him.

  I continued, “And you might try to ascertain how Mac Foley knew the apartment number of Lauren Hutchens over in the Fenway.”

  “What do you mean?” Harrison asked, his features scrunched up in thought and curiosity.

  I replied, “I never gave it to him. The cops he sent to the scene said Foley gave the apartment number to them.”

  Harrison nodded. He was about to ask something else when there was a knock on his door on the other side of the room. Harrison angrily called out, “What!”

  The same cadet who led me up walked in and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but Mayor Laird is on the line and said she needs to speak to you immediately.”

  Harrison snapped up the phone and barked, “Commissioner here.”

  Silence.

  He said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Why are they doing this now?”

  My own phone vibrated yet again. It was Martin trying to reach me yet again. This was a lot, even for him.

  Harrison stopped to listen to the mayor, his brow furrowed in frustration.

  “Well,” he said, “you know what this is? It’s fucking irresponsible. And it’s fucking war. They want to fuck with me, they’re making a big fucking mistake.”

  I stepped to the far side of the office, by the windows that held the gray hue of the dull day, and gave Martin a quick call. He picked up on the first ring and without so much as a greeting said, “Justine’s finally agreed with me. She’s running the Phantom’s warning tomorrow — verbatim. This Elizabeth Riggs thing pushed her over the edge. You’re going to write a story, and we’ll put the full text of the note as a sidebar on the front page.”

  “Finally, some sense,” I replied, then added, “I’ll call you shortly.”

  I hung up just in time to witness Hal Harrison slamming down the phone — on the mayor.

  He stared straight down at his desk for a long moment, his hands on either side of his broad head. I took a seat again in front of him. He slowly looked up at me, his eyes darker than they were before, the wrinkles of his face deeper, and he said, “You’re fucking with the wrong guy, Jack.”

  He said “Jack” like it was also a profanity, the word propelled from his lips like an arrow.

  I said, “Excuse me?”

  He stared at me, his eyes as black and distant and angry as any I’ve ever seen. A police commissioner is used to getting his or her own way, especially when the mayor is a weak one with plans to step down.

  He said, “You’re fucking with this investigation. You’re fucking with this city. You’re fucking with this commissioner.”

  He paused and looked at me. It seemed like he was almost looking through me. He said, his tone as flat as the line on a dead man’s cardiogram, “And if you put the contents of that bullshit note in the paper, you’re going to pay.”

  I said, “We’re going to do what we have to do, with our readers, not you, in mind.”

  “Bullshit!” he screamed. “Albert DeSalvo was the Boston Strangler. He admitted it. He confessed to every one of the crimes in minute detail. And now some joker comes along forty years later in the middle of my mayoral campaign, claiming to be the real Strangler, and you and your whole paper fall for it!”

  His voice was bouncing off the walls and windows of his cavernous office and rising toward the high ceilings. Without warning, he picked up a binder that said “Strangler Investigation” from the top of his desk and flung it sidearm across the room. It slammed against the far wall, knocking a bronze plaque to the floor — undoubtedly a commendation of some sort. Somewhere in that act there was symbolism, but it would take a much smarter man than me to be able to say what it was.

  “You’re messing with my future, Jack.” He was standing up now, hunched over his desk, his voice lower but no less intense. “You’re messing with every dream I’ve ever had. You’re messing with what’s rightfully mine. You’re digging up the past, and trying to bury me in the fucking hole. And you’re wrong. You’re just fucking wrong.”

  I stood up as well, partly in anticipation that he might come over the desk at me, partly because I realized that I wasn’t going to get any more than I needed out of him, so this interview was just about done.

  “Sorry you feel this way, Commissioner, but I’m going to keep doing my job as you go ahead and do yours.”

  I began to turn around and head toward the door. When I took a couple of strides, he said in a voice that was at once soft and hard as steel, “You better watch yourself.”

  I turned around and replied, “What did you just say to me?”

  “You heard me. You better watch yourself. You think some funny things have already happened? Your friend gets blown away in a CVS? Your life gets threatened?”

  He caught himself here, took a long swallow followed by a deep breath, and said, “Like I said, watch yourself. You run that note, be on your guard.”

  I stood near the door, staring at him, incredulous over being threatened by the commissioner of the Boston Police Department, and reasonably certain that his threat included an admission that he was behind the prior attempts on my life. Edgar Sullivan’s kind face popped momentarily into my mind.

  As I stared, trembling not out of fear but fury, he seemed to understand what he had just said, what he had just done, the import and gravity of it all. He said in a much different tone of voice, conciliatory, yet edging toward desperation, “What can I do to stop you, Jack? What can I do?”

  “Do what you’re paid to do. Be a cop. Solve the damned case.” And with that, I turned around and strode out the door.

  Outside, I flagged a cab, got into the first one that pulled up, and slid across the backseat to the far door, which I got out of. I flagged another passing cab and got in that one. It’s a little trick I once saw in a James Bond movie, or maybe it was one of the Naked Guns, just in case the first driver was a plant.

  My first call was to Hank Sweeney.

  “Everything all right with you guys?” I asked.

  “Jack, this is some woman,” he replied. “The hair, the eyes, the walk —”

  “Hank, all right, get a grip. I’m not looking for a recitation of tha
t which I no longer have. I’ll call you in a while. Keep her safe — and you as well.”

  Next call was to my cell phone voice mail. I deleted the progressively urgent messages from Peter Martin — “Jack, for fricking God’s sake, call me” — until I arrived at a woman’s voice sounding at first strained, and then shaken.

  “Jack, it’s Deirdre. Deirdre Hayes. Bob Walters’s daughter in Las Vegas. Listen, I was right, I found that other box I told you about.”

  I was nodding as if she was actually talking to me.

  She continued, “You need to see this stuff, Jack. You really do.”

  Now I was shaking my head. It was ten-forty a.m. Good God, by the time I finished with this story, I’d have enough frequent-flier miles to get me to Bali — which might be exactly where I’d need to go to escape Hal Harrison’s wrath.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said. “You’re not going to believe it.”

  Maybe I would. After that little session with Hal Harrison, after learning what I had about Mac Foley, there wasn’t a whole lot left in life that was unbelievable anymore.

  37

  The wind wasn’t so much blowing as howling off the ocean as I stepped out of my car and placed my hand in front of my eyes, trying to block the cold grains of sand that felt like little needles smacking against my face. I pulled a torn sheet of paper from my pocket to double-check the address, stared at the ramshackle single-story cottage with the flaking white paint and the cracked front step, and realized I was in the right place.

  It was a forlorn little structure, sitting in a yard of sand directly on the ocean’s edge, part of a cramped row of similarly forlorn little structures. The difference being, all the other cottages were still boarded up for the winter; this one was not only open, it had smoke drifting from the chimney and blowing against the slate-gray sky — a pretty solid clue that somebody was home.

  That somebody, I hoped, was H. Gordon Thomas, for a long while the most famous attorney in the United States, a household name, quite literally the epitome of the garrulous Perry Mason–style trial lawyer, portrayed in movies, studied in law schools, mimicked by every ambitious Young Turk who ever stepped in front of a jury trying to win a case.

  And here he was living in a falling-down bungalow with mismatched shutters barely adhered to the rotting frame. I had heard that his life had taken an unfortunate turn, but I had no idea — and I don’t think anyone had any idea — that the turn had been this bad.

  The most recent newspaper story I had found on him said that the famed lawyer who spent decades jetting around the nation winning acquittals for some of the most notorious suspects in American history had hit drastic times. First, he began drinking. Soon after, he was sued by a suspected European drug lord whom he had represented on a trafficking case, and had lost many millions in the suit. Then he was disbarred in two states, forcing him into a secluded retirement on what was described as family property on Boston’s South Shore.

  I walked tentatively across the sand toward the bare front door of that family property, leaned over the one cracked step, and rapped my fist against the thin wood. The wind continued pounding, penetrating my thin coat. Tempests of sand swirled against my body and stuck in my hair. I love all those faux romantics who say they love walking the beach on a winter’s day. It’s like walking along the edge of hell. How can a place so warm and welcoming in the summer be so cold and lonely at just about every other time of the year?

  I knocked again, and in turn heard someone moving around inside — the sound of a door shutting, unsteady footsteps, something dropping on the floor. And then the front door slowly opened, revealing a figure I had seen dozens if not hundreds of times in newspaper photographs and on television news clips.

  In some respects, H. Gordon Thomas looked very much how I would have imagined — big and barrel-chested, with crystal-clear blue eyes peering through his trademark enormous, owlish eyeglasses. He must have stood six feet four, must have weighed 240 pounds, all of which belied his age, which must have been at least seventy, and probably a few years beyond that.

  In other respects, he looked like his bedraggled brother, if he had one, which I’m not sure he did, but this is no time to get lost in needless detail. His long hair was scraggly, rather than slicked back in that polished way it used to be. He appeared unsteady on his feet. The buttons on his cardigan sweater were adhered to the wrong holes, and the shirt beneath it was untucked. His face, that famous face that juries used to trust so much, carried what must have been three days’ worth of growth.

  “Do I know you?” he asked. Not “Can I help you?” Not “Who are you?” But “Do I know you?” delivered slowly, in that famously deep voice of his that still made it seem he was performing before a judge and jury.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” I responded. “My name is Jack Flynn. I’m a reporter for the Boston Record. I was hoping to get a word with you, if you had the time.”

  He continued to look at me, his gaze as penetrating as the sand and the wind that still cut at my body and face. He said, more quietly this time, “The one in communication with the Boston Strangler.” It was an interesting choice of words — the Boston Strangler rather than the Phantom Fiend — given that he was Albert DeSalvo’s lawyer many years ago and had engineered his client’s confession to the stranglings.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied softly.

  “Come in,” he said as he quickly looked around the environs of his cottage, perhaps measuring its suitability for visitors. By the time he might have decided it wasn’t, I was already in, so he cleared a stack of legal books from an extremely old and worn couch, pounded the cushion once, and said, “Why don’t you sit here, young man.” So I did.

  The cottage was as threadbare inside as it was rickety outside, with just the couch I was on and a mismatched chair on which Thomas sat. Both of them were kitty-corner to a small brick fireplace, which at the moment held the last remnants of a sputtering fire. The carpet was gray, thin, stained, and old. The walls were made of cheap paneling. The ceiling had exposed beams, though not in the stylish way of an expensive downtown loft. The kitchen was nothing more than a sink, an ancient stove, and a small refrigerator pushed against a back wall. Above them, a window looking out at the churning ocean was caked in bird feces that was, in turn, covered with sand. All in all, this wasn’t exactly a visit to the Naples Ritz-Carlton.

  Thomas got up and tossed another log on the fire, saying, “I should have gotten this damned place winterized, but every summer I keep telling myself, ‘This is my last year here,’ so I never have.”

  He turned the volume down on the small television set that sat atop a folding table. The TV was turned to CNN. He settled heavily back in his chair in the way that old men do who carry too much weight on their tired frames.

  I stayed silent. I noticed for the first time an expensive-looking bottle of single-malt Scotch sitting on an upside-down cardboard box next to his chair, and beside the bottle was a half-full crystal tumbler that was completely incongruous with the rest of the room. It was as if he carried the glass and the Scotch from his prior life, and for all I knew, perhaps he had.

  He focused on me anew and said, “So you’ve found yourself in quite a maelstrom, young man. You’re undoubtedly a very busy guy. To what does a has-been old lawyer like me owe this particular visit?”

  I smiled at the way he spoke, but to myself, not to him. He was rubbing his hands together toward the fire. I kept my coat on because of the dank chill that permeated the thin walls. I said, “You better than anyone knows if the Boston Strangler is still alive today. I came to ask you if he is.”

  Thomas stared into the fire through those huge glasses without betraying even a hint or whisper of emotion. He stayed quiet for so long that I said, “You made reference to the Boston Strangler at your front door, as if you wouldn’t be surprised if he was still alive. Is that an accurate read?”

  His eyes still didn’t move from the fireplace, though I thought I saw his eye
brows raise. Finally, he looked over at me and asked, “Who do you think the Boston Strangler was, young man?”

  “Back then?”

  He nodded.

  I said, “Not Albert DeSalvo.”

  He laughed for the first time, looked at me more warmly, and replied, “No one with a brain in their head thought Albert DeSalvo was the Boston Strangler. Unfortunately, that includes the nice men and women of the jury who convicted him of those rapes rather than believe my argument that he was a ferocious, sociopathic serial killer who strangled so many women that they had to deem him innocent by reason of insanity.”

  He paused, stared straight ahead, and added, “Dumbest strategy I ever employed, and the biggest case I ever lost. I’ve regretted it every day since.”

  For the first time, he picked up his crystal tumbler of Scotch and took a long, savoring sip, almost as if it was coffee on a cold winter’s morning and he was contemplating a full day ahead. He put the glass down and continued to stare at something that I couldn’t see, would probably never see, that appeared somewhere above the flames.

  I kept silent, again employing that old adage that you never interrupt someone in the process of giving you news.

  Finally he added, softly now, “And look at what I’ve caused.”

  “How do you mean, sir?” I asked this softly, leaning toward him with my elbows on my knees, speaking in confidence, just two guys sharing some thoughts on a Sunday morn.

  He shook his head, not accepting the bait. I said, “The police believed DeSalvo’s story.”

  He laughed again, not necessarily a deep laugh but a full one, and he regarded me again with a glint in his eye, as if I was someone he could get to like. I had a gut feeling that he may not have had a visitor here in a long time, and might not have another again for a long time.

  “They believed exactly what they wanted to believe, what was easiest for them to believe,” Thomas said. “They had a suspected rapist who had never been within their wide orbit of suspects suddenly confessing to every one of the strangulations, sharing intimate details of the murder scenes.”