Dream of a Falling Eagle m-14

by George C. Chesbro

  His head snapped back and he retreated a step, obviously startled. I made a shuffling motion as if I was coming around from behind my desk, and he scurried backward, almost tripping over his feet. When he had reached the open door, he turned back, his seamed, leathery face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. "I can destroy you, dwarf!"

  "There's the D word again! Get!"

  He got. I instructed Francisco not to even tell me the next time somebody showed up wanting an audience, and I went back to work.

  I worked through the lunch hour, then skipped downtown to pick up our Freedom of Information documents, which had finally arrived. About 80 percent of every single page was blacked out, which we had anticipated, and which was fine with me. Garth and I didn't have time to fully analyze the information anyway, and all those blacked-out pages were going to look good in an appendix; Congress could decide for itself how badly it wanted to find out what was hidden beneath all that inky darkness. I grabbed a hot dog and coffee from a Sabrett vendor, and had just finished eating when my beeper went off. It was Garth. I walked to a pay phone at the corner and called the office. Garth answered. "Yo."

  "Mongo," Garth said in a soft voice that was tinged with sadness. "Meet me at the southwest corner of the Sheep Meadow."

  "What's up?"

  "Moby's dead. Somebody blinded him, sliced off his tongue, and cut out his heart. Henry called me. The police found your card in his pocket, and they want to talk to us."

  Garth and I stood in silence at the edge of a copse of trees in Central Park, just inside a drooping band of yellow police tape, staring at the mutilated body of Moby Dickens. There was no blood on the grass, which, considering all the brutal surgery that had been performed on him, meant he had been slaughtered elsewhere and his body dumped here, where it was certain to be discovered at dawn by some birder, walker, or jogger. Moby Dickens wasn't Haitian, probably didn't know much of anything about Haiti, and couldn't have cared less about the CIA. His murder was apparently intended to send a personal message. To us.

  "Jesus, Garth," I said, my voice cracking as tears rolled down my cheeks. "I gave him up. I did exactly what he didn't want anybody to do, which was to identify and describe him. I gave up his name, race, and occupation. I betrayed a client, and I might as well have painted a target on his back."

  "You didn't kill him, Mongo," Garth said, putting an arm around my shoulders and drawing me closer to him.

  "Oh yes, I did," I sobbed.

  "What you did was a judgment call. You told Kranes about him in order to drive home a point. I'd have done exactly the same thing if I'd gone down there."

  "Garth, I'm going to find and kill the sons of bitches who did this."

  "What's going on, guys?"

  I quickly wiped my eyes and put on a pair of sunglasses I'd brought with me before I turned to Henry Stamp, the NYPD detective who'd called Garth. Stamp was a stubby man with a wrinkled face and expressive green eyes that had remained burnished with kindness despite twenty-five years with the police, and all the things he had seen during that time. He was a good man, and both Garth and I liked him very much.

  "His name is Thomas Dickens," I said to the detective in a voice that still cracked slightly. I cleared my throat. "He's a poet."

  Henry Stamp turned to look at the naked, mutilated, heavily tattooed body lying on the grass at the edge of the trees. "A poet," he repeated in a flat tone.

  "He also worked for the Sanitation Department. He's got an apartment down in the East Village."

  "We know his name and address, Mongo. It was in his wallet, along with seventy-three bucks in cash. Your business card was in his pocket, and we were hoping you could shed some light. Obviously, robbery wasn't the motive. Somebody really took their time and did a number on this guy, then dumped him here. We're still looking, but we haven't found his heart. Whoever took it out must have left it where they killed him."

  "They took it with them."

  "How do you know that?"

  "We've seen this kind of killing before. This is the seventh victim of a kind of voodoo hit squad that's been operating across the country for the past few months. I know how this will thrill you, hut the FBI is going to want to know about this right away. You should call them first chance you get."

  The detective had been writing in his notebook. Now he stopped, looked at me. "Jesus, I hate the FBIs."

  "Yeah, well," I said, choking back a sob, "into each life a little rain must fall. You'll be working with them on this."

  "You care to elaborate a bit for me, Mongo? There have been six other killings just like this one?"

  I nodded, swallowed hard. The sun was hot on the back of my neck, and my mouth was very dry. I looked away from the body. "Garth and I have been working for a Presidential Commission, investigating possible violations of U.S. law by the CIA in Haiti over the past few decades. The other victims were all Haitians who were potential informants or witnesses."

  Stamp grunted. "This Dickens was Haitian?"

  "No. He's American, born in the South. He spent most of his life in prison. I don't know how long he's been out. He was a member of the Fortune Society, so you can check with them for details. I suspect they'll want to make the funeral arrangements; if they don't, Garth and I will."

  "So what's the connection between this guy and the Haiti thing?"

  "There isn't any."

  "That makes the two of you the connection between the six other vies and this one."

  "I guess."

  "I take it he was a client of yours?"

  "Yes."

  "What was his problem?"

  "Nothing important-and nothing to explain this. Lou Skalin down at the Fortune Society referred him to us. I told you he was a poet, and he took his work very seriously. Somebody was plagiarizing his poetry-altering it slightly and submitting it to poetry journals under another name." I paused, glanced at Garth. He was staring at me impassively, watching and waiting to hear what I was going to say. "I told him we'd look into it sometime in the future, when we weren't so busy with this other thing."

  The detective thought about it, shook his head. "A man comes to you because somebody is plagiarizing his poetry, and he ends up being killed in the same manner as six other victims who were all Haitian and linked to an entirely different investigation. That doesn't make any sense, Mongo."

  "That's right," I said, again glancing at Garth. My brother was still staring at me, and he had raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "It doesn't make any sense."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it, Henry. Sorry we can't be of more help."

  Back in my office I stared down into my coffee cup, seeing Moby Dickens' face on the surface of the steaming black liquid. Rage had supplanted sorrow, and the strong coffee did nothing to wash away the taste of bile in my mouth.

  "You kind of caught me by surprise back there, Brother," Garth said quietly from where he was sitting on the couch. "Why didn't you tell Henry the whole story? Kranes is the connection."

  "Sure he is," I said to the black face floating in my coffee. "I want another crack at Kranes myself, and I don't want to have to stand in line."

  "Mongo, have you thought this through?"

  "Ah. A metaphysical query if ever I've heard one. You mean, do I appreciate the irony in the fact that I gave up Moby Dickens to a right-wing prick, and thus somehow marked Moby for death, but won't give up said right-wing prick to the police, who would then immediately move to apprehend the people responsible, all the way up the ladder?"

  "You've thought it through."

  "Now here's a poser for you. How many police, FBI agents, reporters, public relations spokesmen, and baying politicians does it take to change a lightbulb?"

  "So many that we'd never see the light. I get it, Mongo. This time I'm going with you."

  "For sure," I said, looking up at him and nodding. "I'll need your take on whether or not he's giving me straight answers. As far as the police and FBI are concerned, they're going to find Moby
's poems and Jefferson Kelly's imitations anyway, if and when they search his apartment, and they can do with them what they want." I paused and took a deep breath, but my rage still burned. I abruptly swept the computer printouts and other papers off the top of my desk with my forearm. "Fuck this report. I'll give them a report. I swear I'm going to find out who killed him, Garth."

  "And why he was killed."

  "Yes."

  "You think Kranes could be directly involved?"

  "Anything's possible, but I can't see it."

  "Maybe he whispered to his CIA buddies something to the effect, 'You've got a problem, and I've got a problem, and will nobody rid me of this potential embarrassment?'"

  "So the CIA says, 'Yes, sir, we'll send out our voodoo hit squad right away, and dump the body in the Fredericksons' backyard so they'll know you're not a man to mess with. Teach 'em a good lesson.' That's more stupid than even they're capable of-and Kranes himself may be a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. Kranes sits on the Intelligence Committee, so he pretty much knows what we're up to. He'd know about the voodoo ritual killings. He doesn't want to be embarrassed by having the fact that he's a plagiarist made public. So his solution to the problem is to arrange for an unbelievably brutal murder where we could immediately link him to the victim? I don't think so. In less than a dozen words to Henry, or to the press, I could have made sure that William P. Kranes did nothing else for the rest of his life but answer questions about plagiarism and murder."

  "Whatever the reason, it was unbelievably stupid, if for no other reason than they've made you seriously angry."

  "You've got that right."

  "But we're agreed it was our same voodoo boys who did the killing, not some copycat who may have read about the others?"

  "And who picked Moby as a random victim?"

  Garth nodded. "Just making sure we look at all the possibilities."

  "That surgery is bloody, but distinct. It was our boys."

  "Agreed."

  "Why?" I said, pounding my fist on the desk. "Even in the unlikely event that the CIA would do any kind of wet work to protect Kranes's little secret, why not just put a bullet in Moby's head and dump him off some pier? Why whack him in a way that immediately focuses our attention on them and Kranes?"

  "Good question. And yet we're agreed that the company is responsible, in the sense that they run these killers, and somebody ordered them out."

  "It is most seriously bewildering."

  Garth smiled thinly as he gestured toward the papers strewn over the floor at the side of my desk. "Maybe their intent was to distract us from our pressing work at hand."

  "If that's the case, they've certainly succeeded."

  "Could we be looking through the wrong end of the telescope? Maybe they intended to embarrass Kranes by linking him to a murder investigation and exposing his secret."

  "Kranes is not only the best friend the company has, but the most powerful. Why would they try to gut him in what promises to be their greatest hour of need?"

  "Just moving the ball around the court, Mongo."

  "There's no shot there."

  "Which brings us to your visitor this morning. From the way you described the conversation, Taylor Mackintosh is at the top of the stupid chart."

  "Deranged is a more accurate description."

  "A perfect match. Deranged is also a very accurate description for Moby Dickens' murder, and the manner in which it was done."

  "It would be a perfect match if not for the fact that Moby was already dead, and probably had been for hours, when Mackintosh came in here. He was ready to cut me a check for two hundred thousand dollars, which I could presumably have toted right down to the bank. He may be deranged, but he's not crazy enough to throw away two hundred thou and draw attention to himself if he knew Moby was dead, or even if he suspected that somebody planned to kill him. Besides, here's the bottom line: if you were the CIA, would you use a jerk like Mackintosh for anything?"

  "Come on, Mongo. They use people like Mackintosh all the time. You know that."

  "Yeah, you're right. But in this case, what would they have been using him for? To deliver a message to us about a black ex-convict and poet who's about to be offed by their own voodoo hit squad?"

  Garth grunted, nodded his head. "It's not only seriously bewildering, but surpassingly strange."

  "Well," I said, putting aside my coffee mug and pressing a button on my intercom, "it's time to begin getting unbewildered. We don't have a money trail to follow, so we'll set off down the stupids trail."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Francisco, get Margaret in here or hire a temp. You're about to become coauthor of our report to the Presidential Commission. It means you'll have to bring yourself up to speed on everything we've done to date, finish organizing it, and compose a first draft-which, incidentally, is probably going to be the final draft. You can use my office and files, but I'm afraid I've made a bit of a mess back here."

  "I have copies of everything on diskettes, sir, and I believe I am up to speed."

  "Bless you."

  "Thank you for the opportunity, sir."

  "Before you do anything else, call Mel over at the William Morris Agency. They may represent Taylor Mackintosh. If they don't, ask Mel who does. Then get a message to his agent that I want Mackintosh in my office at the earliest possible opportunity for an early Thanksgiving, and if he's not here within twenty-four hours it's his old turkey ass that's going to get basted." "Sir?"

  "Just make sure Mackintosh gets the message. He'll understand. Then call William Kranes's PR people. Tell them you're a reporter for some newspaper and see if you can't find out his schedule for the next few days. I want to know where to find him on short notice."

  "Yes, sir."

  I spent the rest of the afternoon resorting papers and preparing a detailed outline for Francisco to follow. I was on my way out of the office when the phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Mongo, it's Lucas Tremayne. I've been trying to get hold of Garth. He's not up in his apartment, and his answering machine isn't on."

  "Are you home?"

  "Yes."

  "If you look out your window in a little while, you'll probably see him cutting the grass. He's up in Spring Valley paying a courtesy call on Carl Beauvil, bringing him up to date on some of the things that have been happening around here. He's got some chores to do around the house, so he's staying there overnight. Or you can leave a message with me."

  "I'll go over to see him later, but I want you to know this too. I'm sorry it took so long for me to take care of this business, but it's not a subject Haitians-even those who know and trust me-like to talk about, even among themselves."

  "Uh, what business and subject are we talking about, Lucas? As I recall our last conversation-"

  "You'll recall I said I wanted to help. I memorized the photograph you showed me of the voodoo altar, and I had one of my storyboard artists do a rendering from my description. Then I started showing it around the Haitian community up here."

  I sighed. "Not a good idea, Lucas. Not a good idea at all."

  "I finally got some answers, Mongo. I found a voodoo priest who'd talk to me. I know what the symbols mean, and why the altar was set up that way."

  "So do we, Lucas. I talked to Fournier. He said the Spring Valley victim was using his picture as an icon, praying to him like he would to a saint. He was asking forgiveness for his sins, or something like that."

  There was a silence on the other end of the line that lasted for several seconds. Finally Lucas Tremayne said, "I don't know why Guy

  Fournier told you that, Mongo, but it's bullshit. I have absolute confidence in my source, and he tells me that the arrangement of the symbols and objects on that altar is what he calls a 'protection array.'"

  "The general was praying to Fournier for protection?"

  "No, Mongo. The victim was praying for protection from Fournier. I don't know what Fournier did to that man, or what the man thoug
ht Fournier was going to do to him, but the victim was absolutely terrified of him."

  Chapter 8

  Guy Fournier wasn't listed in the telephone directory, so it was back to Faul Hall. I'd set my alarm for 2:00 A.M. I rose, dressed, packed an appropriate computer diskette and some simple burglary tools in a duffel bag, then headed out and took the subway downtown. I got off near the university campus and spent a half hour casually strolling the perimeter, checking out security. There were a couple of guards on foot and two in a marked car, but all in all the security didn't look any tighter than it had been when I'd taught there years before. Finally I darted across the campus, keeping to the moon shadows under trees and beside buildings, until I reached Faul Hall. I used the weighted end of a rope to snare the bottom rung of the fire escape on the side of the building, then clambered up to the third floor and the window of Fournier's office. Using a penlight, shielding the glow with my body, I carefully checked around the edges of the frame for thin wires or a magnet that would indicate an alarm system that would have to be disabled. There wasn't any. The window was locked, but it took me less than half a minute to jimmy it open with a small crowbar. I climbed in over the windowsill, then closed the window behind me so as not to attract the attention of any passing security guard. Then I went directly to the computer console.

  Unlike the rest of the office, the workstation was uncluttered, without even a sheet of paper or a manual on the steel table that supported the IBM computer. Using my penlight, I searched through the three drawers in the table, but found no diskettes-not even blank ones. Whatever information there was might be on the computer's hard drive. I turned on the machine and executed a few keystrokes to see what kinds of programs and menus I was dealing with. On one list I found indications of several coded files, markers on the trail to what I was looking for. I inserted the blank diskette I had brought with me, then executed a command to copy Fournier's files. That would take a while. While the computer whirred away at its busy-work, I went over and sat down behind Fournier's desk.