by Chris Mooney
62
+09.50
They brought Briggs in the APV, of course, not because the former mayor was in any danger but because the vehicle looked good on TV – a big, menacing, futuristic tank that could protect anyone or anything tucked inside its steel bulletproof and bombproof womb.
That or Briggs had insisted on being driven here in it because he was a pussy, Darby thought.
A Channel 5 news van came up the rear and parked behind the APV, snow dancing in the headlights, the power back on inside the lobby, lights everywhere except inside the patrol car she’d driven here. She sat behind the wheel and watched the APV and the van. She didn’t have to turn on the wipers because the patrol car was parked underneath a glass roof. She could see everything clearly.
Darby wasn’t worried about a bomb going off. She had spoken to the bomb commander, Ted Scott, over the police radio, the only frequency that wasn’t being jammed in the area. He’d told her that during the day his men, with help from the BPD and state police bomb squads, had conducted a thoroughly exhaustive and painstaking search, block by block, checking every parked car and city trash can. They’d even checked the nearby buildings, looking for some IED that might’ve come in today’s mail, dropped off by a mailman or someone from UPS or FedEx.
Using the radio, she’d asked to speak to Gelfand but was told he was unavailable. Same deal with Coop. She was sure they had already been pushed aside to make way for the big boys who were going to come in and clean up.
She needed to stretch. Get the blood flowing through her limbs, breathe in the cold air to clear her head and keep her awake and alert. She opened the door and stepped outside. She had already cleaned her face and her hair and got most of the blood off her jacket using a shirt she found in the small gym bag on the passenger’s seat.
In less than a minute her eyes were no longer dry and she didn’t feel exhausted, the cold air filling her lungs invigorating her, making her thoughts and everything in her vision feel sharp, laser-focused.
The APV and van still had their headlights on, their diesel engines chugging. No one had stepped out yet but, behind them, she spotted pinpoints of light, tiny beacons from TV cameras now situated in the small park directly across the street, landing on the APV, waiting for Briggs to emerge. Now that all the explosive devices had been removed, the media had gotten the all-clear to get closer to the station. When the storm took a moment to breathe, she could see blue uniforms working crowd control.
Darby didn’t want to be on TV, didn’t want to be seen pacing back and forth like she was nervous, even though she was. She pressed her back up against one of the squared marble columns holding up the roof and, hands deep in her jacket pockets, stared at the bevelled glass in front of her, wondering if Torres was going to try to kill Briggs on live TV.
The question kept bouncing through her head, searching for an answer.
She thought – okay – believed that Torres wouldn’t kill Briggs. Better to embarrass Briggs on TV and let him die a slow and painful death afterwards than to kill him. Better to let him go and try and live with his sins that he would have to make public.
But the thing Torres didn’t understand about politics was that politicians, by and large, didn’t care about what people thought of them. People were simply voters. You couldn’t care what people thought of you or you couldn’t be a politician, and every successful mayor, governor and president shared that psychopathic trait. Other people were nothing more than tools, a means to an end, animals manipulated through words and emotion. It didn’t mean he or she was a psychopath; it meant that they had the ability to shut off feelings, to be so self-absorbed that how he or she felt was the only thing that mattered. Guilt, shame and regret – those were crippling emotions. Feel them and you couldn’t get anything done, couldn’t make the hard decisions. Deep down, some of them believed they were above the law, but the real secret of their success was that they were hard to embarrass and had proved, time and time again, that they could explain away their actions through the sheer force of their charisma. Briggs fell squarely into that camp; a bona fide Bill Clinton type who would always rise above the fray and be forgiven.
Charisma and sincerity, whether it was real or manufactured: the two critical ingredients of a successful politician or CEO.
Or a psychopath.
Would Briggs deliver the goods, or would he choke and flame out on national TV?
Time to find out. The APV’s back doors opened, and when Darby turned around she saw Briggs step outside and bathed in the glow of TV lights.
63
+10.00
Edward Briggs seemed taller than Darby remembered. Younger and even more confident and sure of himself and his ability to bend people to his will. He wore a camelhair overcoat and a plaid scarf, and his presidential hair – thick and still a dark brown, unmovable in the wind – hadn’t receded at all since the last time she’d seen him.
Briggs had an aide with him, a well-dressed woman standing off to the side underneath a golf umbrella. She kept casting nervous glances at the front door. No one had left the news van.
Briggs turned to the nervous woman and said, ‘Give us a few minutes, Christine.’
Christine. Briggs’s personal assistant, the woman Darby had heard on the phone.
‘Sir,’ Christine said, ‘I think –’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Briggs flashed the woman his full-wattage smile, the same one he had used on TV thousands of times as mayor, to let the people of the city of Boston know that everything was under control, no reason to worry, trust me. ‘Five minutes. That’s all I’ll need. Thank you, Christine.’
The woman trotted away, trying to make a call on her smartphone when she remembered that all the signals here were being jammed.
Darby’s eyes were still on the woman when Briggs said, ‘So, the man inside.’
‘Karl Torres.’
‘I’m told he’s some sort of drug dealer and murderer.’
‘And federal informant. What can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know the man.’
‘But you recognize the name.’
‘Not beyond what the FBI told me. From my understanding, he seems to know you very well.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘What does he want?’
‘To talk to you.’
‘I already know that. I want to know what he wants – what he really wants, what this whole affair is about.’
‘I’m guessing it has something to do with the Sean Ellis case.’
Briggs said nothing. Waited.
‘You familiar with the case?’ Darby asked.
‘I was briefed back at the campus. I didn’t have anything to do with that.’
‘But Sean Ellis was released from jail while you were mayor. You put protective orders in place.’
‘Absolutely. My job was to protect the city.’
‘And now?’
‘Darby, you got your wish. I’m here. I’m here because I want to resolve this peacefully. What do you want?’
‘The FBI’s Boston office, along with the BPD, used Ellis as their scapegoat. Set him up to take the fall for Torres.’
‘What else?’
‘Torres confessed to me in there that he accidentally killed a four-year-old boy from Dorchester. His name was –’
‘Right, right, the Anita Barnes thing, they told me. But what does he want, what’s his purpose?’
‘Retribution.’
‘For what? What did I do to this guy?’
Darby shrugged. ‘I think it has something to do with that garage in Hyde Park. The one that’s practically down the street from the mayor’s home, where you once lived.’
‘Honestly, I’m as in the dark as you are.’
‘In my experience, people who start off a sentence saying honestly or quite honestly are usually lying.’
Briggs shot her a withering look. Then he turned to his right, to the doors leading into the station, and stud
ied them for a moment, his eyes flickering with nervous thought.
‘I feel like I’m about to step inside a confessional, only I’m about to be judged by a lunatic,’ Briggs said. Then he sighed. ‘The public doesn’t understand what people like you and I do, Darby, the sacrifices we have to make. Take Jackson Cooper, for example. You have a legal obligation to tell the authorities that he suffocated that woman.’
Darby felt the skin of her face stretch tightly across the bone.
‘We both know Frank Sullivan forced him into it,’ Briggs said, looking back at her. ‘A judge and a jury would see it that way, probably. His FBI career would be over, of course, but the silver lining is that he most likely wouldn’t go to prison. But the fact of the matter is that he never told anyone what he did, and neither did you, when you found out. You’re in possession of information on a crime. How do you think that woman’s poor family feels, not knowing what their daughter’s last moment of life was like?’
Darby felt like her entire midsection had been scooped away. Like a blade had entered through her temple and sliced its way through her brain. She was the only person who knew what had happened to Coop. But now Briggs knew, and the only way he knew was because … How? How did he know?
Briggs said, ‘You never know when someone could be listening in on your conversation. If you’re recording me now, you might want to shut off the tape.’
‘What do you want?’ Her heart was racing, trapped in her throat.
‘Are you recording me?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you mind if I pat you down?’
‘Do it and you’ll go inside the lobby with all your fingers broken.’
‘People make all sorts of sacrifices for love. You love Cooper – everyone knows that – and you chose to protect him. I love this city. More than my wife, more than my kids. Not a good thing to admit, but there you go. That’s who I am. And neither I nor Commissioner Donnelly want to see any harm come to Agent Cooper, which is why you’re going to be a good girl and accompany me inside the police lobby and protect me – at all costs. If something happens to me, then, well, I don’t have to spell out the rest for you.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Doctor. I take no joy from this. But I have to protect myself from angry and irrational people who wish to do me harm, and the city I love. Be nice and play along and keep that poisoned mouth of yours shut and maybe, just maybe, the conversation you had with Cooper in the trailer will remain private. Do you think you can do that?’
Darby gritted her teeth.
Said nothing.
‘Say it,’ Briggs said.
‘Say what?’
‘That you promise to be a good little girl.’ His voice was neutral, as if the two of them had been discussing what font to use on a spreadsheet. ‘Can you do that, Doctor? Can you be a good little girl?’
Darby made fists inside her jacket pockets, thinking of the satisfying crunch she heard and felt when she broke Murphy’s nose. How great would it be for Briggs to go on TV looking bloodied.
‘No one has to know Cooper is a murderer,’ Briggs said.
‘I promise.’
‘Then say it.’
‘I just did.’
‘No, I asked you to say you’ll be a good little girl.’ Briggs leaned in closer. ‘You want to make Daddy proud, don’t you?’
The back doors of the TV van opened. In the light she saw Dave Carlson, stocky and bald, heading their way.
‘Showtime,’ Darby said, and slapped Briggs so hard on the shoulder the man teetered and nearly fell.
64
+10.04
Dave Carlson, Darby thought, looked like a kid who had come down Christmas morning and discovered he had been given the present of his dreams – in his case, a shot at another Pulitzer. He was clearly anxious, though, his large brow shiny with sweat, and his voice trembled a bit when he spoke. The two cameramen, both in their early to mid-thirties, both black, wore heavy parkas and baseball caps with ‘Team Center 5 News’ on the brims and the back of their coats. The one with the wide shoulders, kneading a wad of gum between his front teeth, carried a small flat screen TV.
‘So Mr Torres can see himself on live TV,’ Briggs explained to her.
‘Everything in there’s being jammed.’
‘They’re going to cut that off. Don’t worry, we’re living up to our end of the bargain. I’m sure you will, too.’
Inside the station, Karl Torres was sitting in a rolling chair behind the pregnant woman who, Darby thought, had entered into that stage of shock she had seen in so many victims of violent crime; a complete and total detachment from self. Karl Torres, still wearing his mask, whispered something in Laura Levine’s ear, and when she didn’t move he whispered something again and dug the barrel of his handgun deeper into her stomach. Laura Levine still didn’t move or respond, so he lifted her up by the neck, the woman staring off into space, wondering where she was, praying to God for him to produce some magical escape hatch for her and the unborn baby she was carrying to disappear through, to put this nightmare behind them.
Walter Karl Torres moved the gun to Laura Levine’s head and looked only at Darby while the cameramen set up their equipment. The TV went on top of the reception desk. A cable was fed into one of the cameras. Torres didn’t ask any questions. Dave Carlson didn’t ask any questions. Only the big-shouldered cameraman spoke, explaining what he was doing, him and his partner moving with exaggerated slowness, not wanting to alarm the gunman.
Darby stood in the background, sitting on the end of the conveyor belt while the cameramen went about testing their equipment. Something about the absence of the bombs had taken away the stress of the past several hours and made her feel … it wasn’t that she didn’t care any more. Far from it. She didn’t have anything left. She felt hollowed to the core. Empty. A part of Darby wished she could close her eyes and go to sleep, wake up tomorrow and see it for the terrible but temporary dream it was.
Then she thought of Briggs and what she felt in that moment was a cold and blinding hatred.
Briggs remained outside with his assistant or aide or whatever she was. The jamming units must have been shut down because she could see and hear Briggs talking on his cell phone. His aide was using a makeup sponge to apply some cover-up to his eyes.
Big Shoulders said, ‘We’re ready.’
Darby looked to Torres and said, ‘The gun.’
‘Not until after the interview is over.’
Torres’s robotic voice made Carlson and the cameramen flinch in surprise.
‘We can’t let you on TV holding a loaded gun to a hostage’s head,’ Darby said.
‘If I don’t have the gun, you’ll try to trick me.’
‘And if you have the gun, you may decide to kill all of us.’
‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘There’s only one round chambered. Tell them.’
At first Darby thought he was speaking to her. Then Laura Levine said, ‘It’s true. He only chambered one round. I saw him do it.’
Her voice was just as robotic as his. She’s checked out, Darby thought. Gone.
‘I only have one round,’ the gunman said. ‘To shoot her in case any of you try to deceive me. If you don’t like it, back up and leave, and I’ll take my chances with Mr Carlson finding out the truth. You will find out the truth, won’t you, Mr Carlson?’
‘Yes,’ Carlson replied. ‘You have my word.’
‘It’s fine,’ Briggs said.
Darby hadn’t even heard the door open.
‘We agree to your terms, Mr Torres,’ Briggs said. ‘Dr McCormick, your job here is done. Thank you. The city of Boston owes you a great debt.’
The gunman said, ‘I want Dr McCormick on TV, standing next to me.’
‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ Briggs said. ‘She has blood on her.’
‘I want the public to see her.’
‘Fine. We’ll get her cleaned up.’ Briggs motioned Darby with his hand.
Torres said, �
��No. I like her just the way she is. The viewers will too.’
Briggs looked like he was about to counter. Then he smiled tightly and said, ‘As you wish. Let us know when you’re ready.’
‘Mr Carlson, I’ll let you ask your questions after I’ve spoken with the former mayor,’ Torres said. ‘Do you understand?’
Carlson nodded. Said, ‘May I ask one question now?’
‘Please.’
‘May I record this to augment my notes?’
‘Yes, by all means.’ Then, to Big Shoulders: ‘I’m ready.’
Torres ordered where everyone was to stand: Darby next to him, followed by Briggs.
The cameramen took their positions. Big Shoulders said, ‘Excuse me, but the … gun. Could you maybe put it somewhere else? Broadcasting regulations forbid me to show it.’
Darby didn’t know of any such regulation. But she said nothing.
Surprisingly, Torres complied. Moved the gun behind the woman’s back and pointed it at her heart.
‘We’re live in three … two … one,’ Big Shoulders said.
Torres glanced quickly to his left, to the TV set up on the reception counter. They were, in fact, live.
The gunman removed his balaclava.
Not Walter Karl Torres.
A woman.
65
+10.09
Get rid of the mannish haircut and take away the men’s suit and put her in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and she would be one of those women Darby saw at a Boston Bruins’ hockey game, those rough don’t you dare fuck with me townies who had long, fancy fingernails and smoked cigarettes and had absolutely no problem getting into a fistfight with another woman or man. They liked to throw down, these kind of women, and they liked to party and they all completed a semester or two at Bunker Hill Community College, the total sum of their ambition getting a state job or just one that would cover the bills because, like the old Loverboy song, they were simply working for the weekend.
The eyes were her most feminine feature. That and her voice – her natural speaking voice, which was soft and free of a Boston accent; and she didn’t seem or act nervous in the slightest way when she said, ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Briggs.’
