TX2156191095HB05
URGENT/CYCIG EVENT REPORTED TO:
DUTY CHIEF.WX
COPY PHILADELPHIA.FX
FROM: WIREROOM SUPERVISOR.WX
T&D:2156 HOURS 21OCTOBER
MESSAGE: THE ASSOCIATED PRESS BUREAU OUT OF HARRISBURG RELEASED A STORY AT 9:53 P.M. THIS DATE REPORTING LOCAL PX RADIO DISPATCH OF A POSSIBLE FIND OF ADULTERATED CIGARETTE PACK IN BOB DINER [NOTE: CORRECT SPELLING OF ESTABLISHMENT IS “BOB DINER”], 4545 W. CAPITOL DRIVE, HARRISBURG. NO FLASH SUSPECT DESCRIPTION, NO VEHICLE DESCRIPTION, NO DIRECTION TAKEN. CONFIRMATION PENDING.
SA/D. EDMONDS.
END OF URGENT.
71
FBI Headquarters
The telephone rang at the duty officer’s desk. The officer spoke quietly for several minutes before making a note in the daybook. Then he called Franklin.
“Another copycat, sir,” the officer said. “Detained in West Hollywood. Tried a Virgil-type switch in a grocery store at the checkout counter. We have a team en route now to interrogate him.”
72
Sunday, October 22
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Just after dawn, a Harrisburg Police Department patrol car responded to the anonymous 9-1-1 call complaining about a bum making noise rummaging through a dumpster. The car stopped in front of a side street several blocks from Bob Diner. Two policemen got out and walked into the alley behind the Blue Note Cafe and approached the dumpster.
A pair of spindly, baggy-panted legs stuck out of the dented metal container, waving and kicking in the air. The left foot wore a white Nike, the right foot some sort of dirty sky-blue deck shoe. The two policemen stood watching with crossed arms and bored grins.
“Looks like Jeeter legs,” one of the cops said. “He must have struck pay dirt this time.”
“Looks like he’s drowning in there.”
“Yeah. I guess we ought to pull him out.”
Each policeman grabbed a leg and pulled hard. The rest of Lester Jeeter was jerked into the dim morning light and deposited, standing, on the cement. He was black, rail thin, wild-eyed. In his right hand, he held a briefcase, which he swung blindly at his attackers.
“Whoa, Jeeter!” the first cop said, ducking.
Knocked off balance by the swing of the briefcase, Jeeter fell to the ground. When he looked up and saw that he had swung at the police, he cowered and clutched at the briefcase.
“Don’t hit me, man! I thought you was that jitterbug again.”
The policemen ignored him. They stared at his shoes.
“Jeeter, who dressed you today? You dress like a fifty-year-old crack-head wino,” the first cop said. “Wait a second. You are a fifty-year-old crack-head wino.”
The other officer, a sergeant, straightened up. A no-nonsense expression lurched across his face.
“Hey, Keith? Wasn’t there a briefcase in the description of the cigarette guy last night?”
At that, Jeeter drew the briefcase tighter to his chest.
“Get away from that, Jeeter,” the sergeant said, holding out a hand. “Hand it over. Now.”
Jeeter ignored him. “Shit! This is my suitcase. I found it.”
The cop stepped forward and yanked the case out of Jeeter’s arms.
“Dang, man.”
“Cuff him,” the sergeant said. And then, into a hand-held radio, “Sixteen-two to dispatch. I’m at Westgrove in the alley, behind the Blue Note. I need the Virgil team back here. Might have something.”
“Now look what you’ve done, Jeeter,” the first cop said. All the excitement bewildered Jeeter.
“Don’t talk to him, jackweed, cuff him! I know you don’t pay attention to Donnelly in the shift briefing, but don’t you even watch the news? If this briefcase here has anything to with that Virgil guy, this place is going to be wall-to-wall white-shirts, wall-to-wall Feds, and wall-to-wall reporters in about eight seconds. We screw this up and they’ll be laughing at us coast to coast on Dan Rather tonight.”
“I was the one who spotted his legs, you know.”
Jeeter looked like he was going to cry. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about no damn Rather tonight. I want my $100 now! What about my $100?”
“What $100?” asked the first cop.
Jeeter paused, not knowing what to say. Then he thought of something. “Hey, it’s a nice case, man. It’s made out of eels. That’s worth a Ben at least! Ain’t there some kind of reward for the cigarette man?”
“Eels? You’re full of shit, Jeeter.”
“Damn, it, Keith. Will you cuff his ass and put him in the car! How many times do I have to tell you? And get the yellow tape out of the trunk.”
73
Ben Brandon called Rhoads at 10:00 a.m. and thoroughly enjoyed knowing he had woken him.
“The Deputy Director asked me to call you,” he said when Rhoads turned surly. “But I don’t know why.”
Brandon, who had been up almost four hours already, summarized the facts surrounding the possible recovery of Virgil’s briefcase in Harrisburg. He described the events the FBI and Pennsylvania State Police believed may have precipitated Virgil’s abandonment of the briefcase.
When Rhoads’s conversation with Brandon concluded, Rhoads called Dr. Trice and told her the story. While he spoke with her on his cordless telephone, he walked through the rooms of his apartment, water bottle in hand, misting his trees.
“Remember this, T.R.,” she said. “If you have something, if you have anything, you have it because Virgil gave it to you. Don’t ever think otherwise, or you’ll be sending yourself headlong down a primrose path.”
Rhoads nodded, then realized she couldn’t see the nod.
“T.R.? You there?”
“Yes.”
“You remember what Br’er Rabbit said to Br’er Fox, don’t you?”
“Refresh my memory, ma’am.”
“It’s an old story by Joel Chandler Harris. You see, Br’er Rabbit finds himself being held by the scruff of his neck by the nasty Br’er Fox who is trying to think of something unpleasant to do to Br’er Rabbit. So what Br’er Rabbit does is say, ‘Do anything you want, but please don’t throw me in the briar patch, it’s all stickers and thorns.’ So, Br’er Fox, not a deep thinker, but a very categorical thinker, throws Br’er Rabbit into the briar patch and laughs and laughs—until he gets the surprise of his life. Br’er Rabbit jumps up with nary a scratch and deftly makes his way out of the briar patch, dancing and singing. As he’s tearing away, Br’er Rabbit looks over his shoulder and with his own laugh shouts, ‘Born and bred in a briar patch, Br’er Fox. Born and bred.’”
Rhoads made a mental note to ask Mary if she knew what in the hell Dr. Trice was talking about and what the hell a Br’er Rabbit was.
74
The FBI’s Evidence Response Team flew into Harrisburg on a Learjet from Washington. In practically all investigations, crime-scene evidence collection is conducted by local police or the forensic specialists from the nearest FBI field office. Evidence is then shipped directly to the lab in Washington for analysis and often in nothing more secure than FedEx envelopes. In high-priority cases, a courier will hand-carry the material. Only in the rarest of cases would lab technicians come from FBIHQ to supervise evidence gathering. The Washington-based forensics team arrived two hours behind the one from the Philadelphia field office. Franklin instructed the Philadelphia team to do nothing more than protect the scenes at Bob Diner and the dumpster.
The parking lot entrance to the Harrisburg Central police station sat at the end of a peeling, gray corridor tiled with ancient gray linoleum.
With a loud slam, the double-doors of the parking lot entrance burst open. A half-dozen Harrisburg policemen strode in at a pace somewhere between marching and running. Two of them held a cuffed and frantic Jeeter.
From the station’s street entrance, at the oth
er end of a nearly identical corridor, another set of double doors burst open. Leaves blew in as a throng of trench-coated federal agents, led by Franklin, strode in. Rhoads’s lanky figure was among them.
The two columns of serious men met in the middle and stopped abruptly, face to face.
Franklin produced his badge. “Deputy Director Oakley Franklin, FBI. I need Captain Mulcahy.”
“Follow me,” one of the Harrisburg officers said.
In an observation area adjacent to the interrogation room, Franklin, Mulcahy, and Rhoads stood together holding coffee cups. They looked through the one-way glass at Jeeter being questioned by Brandon and a black plainclothes Harrisburg detective.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Director,” Captain Mulcahy said as he leaned against the smudged glass. “I can tell you right now this Q and A is kind of pointless.”
“I understand Lester Jeeter is well known to you,” Franklin said.
“Yes. The sector guys roust him out of that dumpster every couple of days. His mind is shot. Crack. And vino. A nice combo. Do you want to hear them?”
“Please.”
Mulcahy flicked a switch on a battered old speaker mounted on the wall.
Inside the interrogation room, Jeeter sat, now uncuffed, across a plain wooden table from the Harrisburg detective and Brandon.
Brandon was in the midst of speaking. “So, you admit you are now, and have been for many years, an alcoholic, Mr. Jeeter. Is that right?”
Jeeter turned to the detective, incredulous. “What’s he talking about? Can’t I just sit back in the cage like always?”
“Sure you can, Jeeter.” The detective offered him a cigarette and he accepted, nodding thank you. “But the briefcase you found is very important. Can you just tell us what you did this morning, beginning when… and where… you woke up.”
Brandon rolled his eyes, not approving of the detective’s approach.
While Jeeter thought about the question, Brandon grew increasingly impatient. Unable to contain himself any longer, Brandon butted in and pointed at Jeeter. “Yes or no, did you see the perpetrator?”
“Perp-a-what?” Jeeter asked, again looking at the Harrisburg detective. The detective looked toward the one-way mirror hoping the captain would come in and yank out the FBI jerk.
“He wants to know if you saw who put the briefcase in the dumpster,” the detective explained.
“I didn’t see nobody. Somebody just threw it away. You should see all the stuff you can get from a dumpster. Chairs, half a big bucket full of warm Colonel Sanders. Once I got a computer, and I took it to a guy who just plugged it in and it worked. He gave me a hundred. Now this case, I found it. I found it and if you want it, I want to get paid for it.”
“Are you aware, Mr. Jeeter,” Brandon said, “that if this is your briefcase, you could be charged with more than 370 counts of first degree murder?”
Jeeter’s eyes rolled, terrified. “I didn’t kill nobody, man. All I did is find a damn suitcase in the trash.” He appealed to the detective. “Bill. Just put me in the cage. Please.”
“It’s okay, Jeeter. We know you didn’t hurt anybody. We’re just trying to find the man who put it in the dumpster. The man who put it there is a dangerous killer.”
“I told you, I didn’t kill nobody, man,” Jeeter said and turned away.
From the other side of the one-way glass, Mulcahy, Franklin, and Rhoads watched. Mulcahy looked disgusted, Franklin wore a sour expression, and Rhoads smirked.
“Oh well. Every ‘no’ brings us closer to a ‘yes,’” Franklin said. “Let’s call an end to this. Let Mr. Jeeter go. Let him calm down. We can always talk to him later. Do you agree?”
“Yeah,” Mulcahy said. He spoke into the intercom. “Wrap it up, Bill.” He turned to Franklin. “I don’t think it would have gone any differently even if your man hadn’t interfered. We’ll keep our eye on Jeeter for you. If you ever need him again, just let us know. He won’t go far. He’s a creature of habit.”
“Well, thanks, Captain,” Franklin said. “I’m going back to Washington. My lab boys are prepping the evidence for transport to the FBI lab in D.C. First they need to X-ray it. The Pennsylvania State Police Bomb Unit’s doing that now. They’ll probably need another hour or so. If you don’t mind, an Investigative Support Unit crew will be working out of Bob Diner for another twenty-four hours or so. I’ve asked them to clear everything with you.”
The captain nodded.
“And please, thank your men for not giving in to the temptation to open that case,” Franklin said. “We won’t open it until we get it into a sterile room at the lab. The right speck of dust can speak volumes.”
“Every now and then, we get it right.”
“By the way,” Franklin said. “What’s with that name? Bob Diner?”
“Once owned by a man named Charles Avery Bob. It annoys everybody. Part of Harrisburg’s charm, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” Franklin said and turned to Rhoads. “You want to fly back with me?”
“Actually, I thought I’d stick around to see what I can learn from the officer in there,” he said, nodding to Brandon in the interrogation room.
“Suit yourself,” the Deputy Director said.
75
Rhoads had no intention of hanging around to talk to the cops. He wanted to stay in Harrisburg and nose around without chaperones. He had gotten the call soon after he had gotten the files from Mary. He had hidden the disks in his house, but he hadn’t had time to read through the paper copy still in his briefcase.
He was out of cigarettes and couldn’t find a vending machine in the station house. He walked down the main corridor and approached several policemen engaged in conversation by the processing desk.
“… by the dumpster behind the diner,” one of the officers was saying. “So Louie says ‘What do you want with all them cups of coleslaw you take out of the garbage, Jeeter?’ And Jeeter says, ‘What do you think? I’m having homeless folk over for a buffet, asswipe.’”
The police laughed.
“That don’t beat what we saw this morning. You should have seen them legs kicking around in that dumpster,” the sergeant said. “Looked like a cartoon.”
Imitating Jeeter’s voice, the junior officer said, “That’s my case, man. It made out of eels, man, eels!”
They all laughed again.
Rhoads jumped in. “Any of you guys tell me where I can get a pack of smokes?”
“If you don’t mind Easy Lights, try the diner,” a red-faced middle-aged cop said. “They got a fresh batch in last night.”
Another officer, embarrassed at his colleague’s rudeness to a well-dressed stranger, pointed down the hallway to the street entrance. “There’s a Seven-Eleven half a block away. Make a left when you get out front. The machine in the cafeteria here’s busted.”
Rhoads said thanks and walked toward the exit. He nodded to two special agents. They carried an evidence bag containing the briefcase on their way to Washington.
Rhoads stopped in his tracks, turned back toward the FBI men, and ran to catch up.
“Hey. Hold up.”
The men stopped.
“Can I take a peek at the briefcase for a second?” Rhoads asked.
“Who’s he?” one of the agents asked.
“Rhoads, the guy from Old Carolina,” the other agent said. He turned to Rhoads. “Sorry, it’s already sealed.”
“Shit,” he paused, thinking. Then, to the one who knew him, “You have an inventory sheet?”
“Rhoads, what do you want to know about it? We’re late.”
“Just a basic description.”
The agent closed his eyes to remember what he had written on the sheet. “It’s twenty-two inches by eighteen inches by four inches. Hard-side. Leather handle and a three-reel brass combo lock. Worn, brown eel
skin covering.”
“What kind of covering?”
“Worn. Brown. Eel skin.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Rhoads struggled to contain himself until he was out of sight of the FBI men and the Harrisburg cops.
Outside, he skipped down the stone steps and along the street toward the Seven-Eleven. He thought, this is it: seventy-five grand and the boat.
Rhoads knew a guy like Jeeter wouldn’t know eel skin from Sanskrit unless someone told him first. And Rhoads knew who that had to have been. Virgil. Making sure the briefcase was found.
Now Rhoads had something the FBI didn’t. It felt like a million bucks. He didn’t know how to make use of the information, but he was going to protect it with his life until he could figure out what it meant. The closer he got to Virgil, the closer he was getting to the Deep Blue. He could see the trawler drifting and bobbing gently out there on the Atlantic under a hot sun with a capacity crowd of rich New Yorkers fishing for yellowfin. Yeah, baby, I’m getting seasick already. Me and Teddy, trolling for wealthy fishermen.
He had talked to Teddy at rehab again, and it sounded like he was still doing well. Rhoads knew that rehab wasn’t the end of Teddy’s troubles, but he still believed that it could be managed if they were together every day. He had thought a lot about solutions to Teddy’s money problems, and the boat still seemed to be the best one.
As soon as he had a free minute, he’d dig further into the Midas files. He didn’t know exactly what he’d find, but he knew they would be gold. Pratt was careful, but no doubt there was enough there to put him away. Now all he had to do was catch the killer, get the bonus, and only then hand Franklin the files. He laughed to himself. Yeah, that’s all I have to do.
And he pictured Virgil in his mind’s eye. Come here, you dying son of a bitch. You’re the answer to all my problems.
76
Rhoads walked into the Seven-Eleven and got in line behind a heavy, flustered mother whose three noisy kids were tugging at her jacket. The youngest, a boy of about four, held up a popsicle.
Find Virgil (A Novel of Revenge) Page 20
