The Incumbent

by Brian McGrory

  were the pieces falling into place at last? I asked, "And the motive for the shooting?"

  Yet another long silence. "That, I truly don't know," he said. "And the only guy who can actually answer that is still in a Maryland morgue."

  I said, "I need to use you as a source, identified only as an official familiar with the investigation. I need that official to say that Clawson and Black are the same guy."

  I know that his word would probably not be enough on which to pin a story of this gravity, but it's always good to line up your options.

  "Can't," he said, with less hesitation than before. "That'd cost me my job. But give me a while to think of another way."

  "Well, that other way better come damned quick. My colleague is dead, and I'm turning into a loose fucking cannon. No telling what I may put into the paper."

  "Where are you?" Drinker asked.

  "No way," I said.

  "You have a fax number?"

  I gave it to him, and we hung up. For every question, there needs to be an answer, but for every answer, there always seems to be a new question. And sooner or later, sometimes you just run out of facts, and if not facts, then time.

  Five minutes later, my facsmile machine kicked to life. A one-page document rolled out, stamped "Top Secret" about two-thirds of the way up the page, just beneath a letterhead for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice. My eyes raced down the page to see the name Curtis Black, along with his last known address in 1979, in Chelsea, Massachusetts. Beneath Curtis Black was the name Tony Clawson, with an address in Springvale, Illinois, and the year 1979.

  At the bottom of the page were the words "Identity transition, csto US

  Marshals Service."

  Obviously Drinker had thought this through pretty damned quickly. I read the document over again. It was glorious in its simplicity. As a rule, you usually have to wade through cartons and sheaves of official papers to come across a jewel like this, and often you risk missing it.

  This time it was laid out on a platter, direct and easy to understand.

  Before I could even step inside, the telephone rang. It was Drinker.

  "That going to help you?" he asked.

  "It will help, but it doesn't give me everything I need," I answered, not wanting to betray too much appreciation. Never leave facts on the table when reporting a story.

  A familiar tone of frustration, even disdain, filled Drinker's voice.

  "This lays it right out for you. What the hell else is there?"

  I said, "Well, first of all, the last official statement from the FBI was an agreement that Tony Clawson was not, in fact, the shooter. I have no one from your agency saying he was, on the record or on background. Second, I have no motive. Third, I have a loose end left to tie up, a guy named Paul Stemple." I threw that last name out at him to gauge a reaction, to try to figure out just how strong an ally he might be.

  There was a long silence again before he spoke. "One, you ask the agency, they will have to tell you that Clawson is still a suspect.

  Two, you don't need a fucking"-his voice sounded especially tight here-"motive in court. You shouldn't need a fucking motive in the newspaper. Who the hell knows what Black was doing? He was probably doing this for the money. Third, I don't know who or what Paul Stemple is, but he doesn't have anything to do with our case."

  I looked over the document again as we talked. It was a beauty. Even the printing was all so neat and clean, the paper crisp. "I'll call you later," I said.

  "You either run with this, or I'll go to another paper with it," he seethed. "And this is the last damned bit of help you'll ever get out of me."

  The Stemple mention, I'll admit, seemed to shake him up. It may not have been the wisest strategy maneuver on my part-a fear that was fulfilled about forty minutes later. As I carefully tried to readjust the bandage on the cut on my head, my phone rang again. It was Martin, skipping any niceties, telling me in no uncertain words to turn the television to CNN. So I did.

  On the screen, a weekend anchor with pouty lips and eyes the size of footballs was just saying, "So we'll go live now to Washington and hear this surprising new development on that car bomb explosion this morning straight from the FBI." The picture flipped to a press conference at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Drinker was at the podium, looking frazzled. There were a couple of agents behind him wearing badges from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

  "I'll read a short statement, then take just a few questions," Drinker said, gruffly. "At approximately one A.m. today, a car carrying Steven Havlicek, a reporter with the Boston Record, exploded on the 1300 block of Twenty-eighth Street in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.c. Mr. Havlicek was killed in the explosion. The owner of the car, Jack Flynn, also a reporter with the Boston Record, was nearby at the time and sustained minor injuries in the explosion that were treated at the scene.

  "At this time, the FBI, in conjunction with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and the Washington, D.c. police, have determined that an explosive device was hooked up to the engine of Mr. Flynn's automobile, a Honda Accord, and was timed to ignite several minutes after the automobile's engine started running."

  Drinker paused for a while at the podium. Even on television, you could hear the constant flap of camera shutters and see the never-ending flashing of bulbs.

  Drinker continued, his face looking grim, "In answer to your anticipated questions on whether we have any suspects, at this time, we don't. But I would like to say that in light of this being Mr.

  Flynn's automobile that was specifically targeted in this explosion, we are reviewing our own investigation into the shooting on October 26 at Congressional Country Club. So far we have been investigating that shooting as an assassination attempt on the president of the United States. We are now going to review our investigation to determine if Mr. Flynn may have been the intended target in that shooting, as in this explosion, and President Hutchins an unintended victim."

  I could hear the audible, collective gasp of my reporter brethren in the room, and trust me when I tell you, reporters don't gasp easily.

  For that matter, from my hotel room, I could just about hear Peter Martin's jaw drop in our office several blocks away. I could hear Appleton's blood begin to boil in anger and fear that the paper was about to be humiliated on a national stage.

  A reporter asked, "Have you learned anything about Jack Flynn's private life that would make you suspicious of such an attack?"

  Drinker: "Not definitively, but we are pursuing leads and several lines of inquiry." Not with me, he wasn't. The jackass hadn't even given me the courtesy of a heads-up when we were on the telephone. One minute he was all over my case, the next minute he was leaking me sensitive documents. I didn't know what to think.

  A New York Times reporter asked what I regarded as the most obvious question of all: "Since Mr. Flynn"-that's how they talk at the Times-"was one of the most active reporters in Washington investigating the unsolved shooting of President Hutchins, might that not make him a natural target in this explosion for anyone who fears he is getting too close to the truth?"

  Drinker replied, "That is, of course, one explanation, and we are continuing to look at that possibility. However, I would caution that the attempted assassin is dead. And though we initially investigated the Congressional shooting as a possible conspiracy, we do not have definitive evidence that is the case. So the question remains, under that scenario, who alive would try to kill Mr. Flynn?"

  Sitting there on the edge of my bed in the Jefferson Hotel, I felt as if I was watching my life flash before my eyes, or more accurately, collapse beneath my feet. If Drinker had suddenly decided to render me obsolete because I wasn't buying whole hog into his Black/clawson scenario, this was a clever, almost brilliant maneuver to do just that.

  By making me part of the game, he was effectively excluding me from it, at least as far as my ability to investigate and report news was concerned.

&nbs
p; I looked at my telephone, anticipating that it was about to ring, but it stayed silent. In exasperation, I punched out Martin's number at the bureau but got no answer. Likewise, I got his voice mail at home.

  About two minutes later, there was a knock on my door. At least I knew it wasn't Drinker. He was killing me in different ways. I yelled out,

  "Who is it?"

  "It's Peter."

  I pulled the door open, and in the hallway before me stood Peter Martin and Bob Appleton, the editor in chief of the Boston Record. What, Appleton fly down from Boston on the Concorde? From the fact that they were here, rather than on the telephone, from the look on their faces, from the nasal sound of Martin's voice, I knew this conversation would not be one that I appreciated.

  "Boys," I said, as frazzled as I've ever been in my life, every one of my senses screaming for a break, "good to see you."

  They came in and settled in my sitting area. We made the appropriate small talk, discussing Havlicek and his wife and the explosion itself and the tidal wave of coverage that was following it.

  It was Martin who steered us to the point of their visit. "Jack," he began, "Bob and I have been discussing the events. Bob's worried, and I have to say I agree with him, that with the FBI'S theory that you may be a repeated target of some killer, you should not be putting yourself at personal risk any longer by staying on this story."

  I had figured this was on the cards. All you have to do is look at the undistinguished career of Bob Appleton, the very definition of a mediocre newspaperman who got to the top by playing it safe, to know this was coming.

  "Well," I said, slowly, letting it sink in, "suppose I wasn't the target of a killer at Congressional. Suppose we just side with logic and assume that was a presidential assassin at work. Then let's follow that line of logic and assume that since we were the lead newspaper in the nation covering that assassination attempt, that someone tried to kill us because they didn't like what we were reporting."

  I let that sit out there for a minute so even someone like Bob Appleton could understand it. He started to say something, but I cut him off.

  "This is the most logical scenario. Anyone with a brain knows that.

  You heard the New York Times reporter ask that question today. If this is the case, by pulling me off the story, you are in effect surrendering to whoever killed Havlicek out there today."

  Another pause, and then, in a daring tone, "That really what you want to do?"

  There was silence in the room. It should have felt clubby, three guys, successful newsmen, memorializing a colleague who had died and plotting their next move on the biggest story since Watergate. Instead, the feeling, within me, anyway, was one of desolation, a sense of utter loneliness that was on the brink of turning bitter.

  Martin said, "Look, Jack, I can only imagine how you feel. Steve is dead. We're all devastated. You've busted your ass on this story, and you've come a long way. Christ, I thought we were going to crack the thing. I really did. But now you've become a part of the story-a big part of the story. The FBI'S having press conferences about you, Jack.

  You're going to be on the front page of every major paper tomorrow.

  That doesn't work anymore. You know that. You know we can't continue like that."

  "Peter, none of our actions, none of my actions, have intentionally made us a part of this story. All we've done is covered it. And even in covering it, we've done everything by the book. It's whoever bombed my car early this morning that made us part of the story. And it's this FBI agent Drinker-and look at his record on this case-who made us part of the story. You want to give in to them now? They don't want me on this story. Don't you get it? Havlicek's dead. My anonymous source is dead. We're knocking on the door of some really serious answers, and you want to give in to them? For chrissakes, I've got valuable documents. We've got this thing all but cracked."

  Appleton, who had been watching Martin and I go back and forth as if he were attending a tennis match, spoke for the first time. He bridged his fingers to affect the posture of thought and said, "Jack, we're not giving in, not by any stretch." He spoke slowly, surely, as if every one of his words were some valuable jewel to be savored. This editorship had obviously gotten to his head. "I'm going to send people down to relieve you. For the time being, I know it's best, for your own safety and for the reputation and future of this newspaper, if you bow out for a while and stay in hiding."

  I simply sat there, my elbows on my knees, looking down at the blue carpet in the dark room. I felt like a boxer getting my brains beaten out, unable even to think, longing for relief, but knowing the only relief I would get is from conceding defeat, ending the match, going back to my corner the loser.

  "You're making the biggest mistake of your careers," I said, softly, almost as if I weren't even addressing them.

  That remark seemed to get under Appleton's thin, chalky skin.

  Ironically, on a day when they should have been consoling me, offering me any form of help, his tone now changed to that of overt attack.

  "We all make mistakes, young man," Appleton said, sternly. "Though this decision doesn't happen to be one of them. Just for the record, I want you to know that I know you were engaging in lengthy discussions with Hutchins about becoming his press secretary at the same time as you were covering this story. Based on that alone, the decision to pull you off the story was made. What happened today just makes it an easy one."

  He paused, still speaking slowly, looking me straight in the eye as I picked my head up to match his stare. He continued, "That I consider to be a firing offense. As I said, we all make mistakes, so I'm not going to fire you now."

  Appleton looked to Martin and started to stand up. My elbows still on my knees, my voice deflated, I said, "Hutchins pursued me, and he wouldn't take no for an answer, even when I said no. I just used his offer to get a couple of interviews for this newspaper."

  Appleton shook his head dismissively. He was on his feet now, leaning toward the door. Martin, still sitting, said, "Jack, you're still a reporter in good standing in my bureau, as far as I'm concerned. My only worry is for your safety. I ask that you not talk to other members of the news media. I ask that you not leave this room until the election is over. There will be no wake for Havlicek. The funeral service is in Boston tomorrow. I'm afraid I have to forbid you from attending. We cannot put your safety at any further risk. We'll continue to foot the bill for all of your protection as long as you don't endanger yourself by leaving. Sandlera and Bartson"-two remarkably ordinary reporters in Boston-"will fly in tomorrow. I'll send them over so they can debrief you. I expect you to tell them everything you know."

  Appleton was at the door now. He said to me, "We have your best interests at heart. I'm not sure you could say the same thing to us."

  Then he walked out.

  Martin rose slowly from the wing chair, pursed his lips, and said,

  "Things will turn out fine, Jack. I'll call you later tonight."

  And with that, they were gone. It made me think of the line from Pete Hamill, the journalism icon. Newspapers, he once said, will always break your heart. And now I find out, they can also rack your soul.

  Boston, Massachusetts February 20, 1979

  They led Curtis Black into the small, dingy conference room, a federal agent and a police detective, pushing him along from behind like he was a common criminal, a pimp, a drug dealer of some sort, someone not worth even a flickering moment of respect.

  Inside the room, another police detective sat at a scratched wooden table, smoking a cigarette and paging through a manila file filled with official documents. His smoke gathered in the air of the ventless room beneath the single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling above the table. The stained walls were bare but for one filmy mirror. The room seemed to cast a pall over anyone unfortunate enough to be in it.

  At first, Lieutenant Kevin Morrissey didn't even bother looking up, didn't deem his prisoner worth even that much dignity or interest.

&
nbsp; When he did, as the three men stood by the door, he said in a surprisingly soft voice, "Take his cuffs off."

  The detective behind Black pulled out a key, stuck it into the handcuffs, and freed Black's wrists. Black shook them for a moment, trying to regain his circulation.

  "Sit down, please," Morrissey said, nodding to the chair across from him, speaking in that same soft voice. He blew a mouthful of smoke out, and it floated into Black's face. It didn't seem intentional. In a room this small, there was no place else for the smoke to go.

  Morrissey nodded at the two standing men, prompting them to retreat quietly out into the hallway. Black heard the door click shut behind them.

  Morrissey looked typically Irish, typically Boston-bright blue eyes and a ruddy face, carefully combed graying hair, the build of a former athlete who had tried to care for himself but finally decided to surrender to the effects of time. He sat in his shirtsleeves with a shoulder holster holding his service revolver. He eyed Black from across the table, his gaze drifting from Black's face down to his chest, to his hands, then back up to his face.

  "Paul Boyle had two daughters," Morrissey said, his voice still low, easy, almost soothing. "One's sixteen, a junior out at Malden High.

  She wants to go to college. Smart kid, too, they tell me. Honor society and all that. Pretty girl. The other's thirteen. She's in seventh grade, a good athlete, kind of a daddy's girl type. Liked it a lot, I understand, when he went to her basketball games."

  Black gulped hard, knowing where Morrissey was leading him.

  "Here they are," Morrissey said, sliding a pair of pictures across the table-one of just two girls standing in the driveway of a modest suburban home, both girls gangly, all arms and legs in the way some teenagers are. They were smiling in an embarrassed kind of way, looking like they were biding time, waiting to do something else. The other picture was a more formal family portrait-a husband, presumably Paul Boyle, and his wife standing up, their two daughters sitting in chairs in front of them. "Take a look."