Chapter Twelve
Dave stared at the computer screen and felt nothing for the copy he had written. It was boiler plate stuff that everybody else was filing about the latest priest killing. Who, what, where, yakety yak, no suspects, police intensifying investigation, gruesome killing. The copy that stared back at him was nothing more than another layer of the background noise of daily journalism, another item that blew through like another leaf in the fall, leaving no impression. Such stories were forgotten even before they were finished. Who remembers last week’s murder? Yesterday’s?
In such moments he believed he was wasting each day he spent doing this work, but the moments didn’t last. The truth was he liked working the streets. He would have walked away from the whole thing if he had been stuck covering the quicksand that was Capitol Hill, where the currency of the day was deception and hypocrisy. When he was a cub reporter on the Hill an old hand walked away from a committee hearing at which very powerful members had grilled very powerful business leaders, putting an arm over Dave’s shoulders. “Just remember, kid, every word is bullshit. Once you get that, you’ll be fine up here.” And so it was.
He looked again at his copy. He stared at the ceiling and thought about all of the elements of the story that were missing. It was not just another local crime story. Three priests. Some weird religious group. Killings in other cities. Who was watching him? Why were items linked to the crimes delivered to him? That was an angle that had not made it to air, yet. O’Neil had demanded that no mention be made of the Rosary or the book and Sid had complied. But all embargoes have an end date and the news business is dynamic, so it was only a matter of time before another reporter got wind of the evidence that had been in Dave’s hands.
He inserted a plug into his phone jack and pressed the playback to listen to his surreptitious recording of O’Neil at the Shrine. Peppers was really Andrew Krieger. He had some kind of FBI connection. The profilers had determined that the killer of the priests was probably a self-flagellator. He was willing to impose pain upon himself, so, of course, he had no trouble imposing it upon others. He probably felt he was doing a good deed, a holy act. Dave listened several times and decided that O’Neil had given him a great deal of information, whether or not he knew he was being recorded.
He changed his copy to include a reference to FBI profilers, went into a studio to record it, and left. There was a note in the pocket of his coat. It was from Elena. “You’re a piece of shit,” it said, in her bold cursive handwriting. Under the word “shit” she had drawn a small heart. He looked around the newsroom but she was not at a work station. Her face appeared in the small window on a studio door. She gave him the finger and smiled. He thought she was beautiful.
He went to his apartment and laid out all of his notes. He wrote a long story that contained all that he had been told, including speculation, just to see how it went together. He had a source at the FBI who had proven to be semi-reliable in the past and he gave him a call. The man was an agent in the Washington field office and he gave Dave the creeps. His name was Milford “Bud” Ossening and he had the manner of a street hustler, an easy smile and a soft voice that contained no assurance of truth. He took to heart the Supreme Court’s ruling that law enforcement officers could lie to everyone about everything, and so he did. He also understood that well-placed leaks and assistance to reporters could reap benefits down the road, and so he offered occasional tidbits to people like Dave Haggard. He duly reported all contact with reporters to his superiors.
After a few preliminaries about the weather, Dave asked Ossening about Andrew Krieger. “He apparently did some work for you guys. Anything you can find out for me?”
“We don’t talk about our sources of information.”
“So, he was an informer for you guys?”
“I didn’t say that. I said we don’t talk about our sources just like you don’t talk about yours.” Ossening’s manner was friendly and to Dave it sounded like the product of training at Quantico.
“How about unofficially? I’m looking into some information that he did some work for you. He was the street guy who was killed in the fast food joint. You probably saw it in the paper.”
Ossening’s snicker had no warmth. “Yeah, I heard about it. It’s a local murder. We don’t have anything to do with the investigation.”
“You guys working on the priests killings?”
“I think I saw something about that in the paper.”
“Profile the killer?”
“You’ll have to get that from Public Affairs.”
“Anything you can tell me?”
“Dave, I can’t give you any information about ongoing FBI investigations. I can say that we are involved in interstate crimes and, technically, D.C. is FBI territory, although we try to stay out of the business of local departments. We cooperate when asked.”
“Have you been asked?”
“Officially, I can’t comment. Unofficially, we talk back and forth about a lot of cases.”
“Captain O’Neil says you’re not cooperating about Krieger and his background with you.”
“He tell you that?”
“It’s come to my attention.”
“They’ll get what they need.”
“Who decides what they need?”
“Like I said, we talk back and forth.”
“Well, I’d like to say something about how the FBI is trying to solve these murders. There’s a lot of interest in these priests and some of the good fathers are worrying if they’re next.”
“Serial killers are a specialty item, Dave.”
“So I can say you’re looking for a serial killer?”
“You can say what you want. It seems to me that the facts as known speak for themselves. You can say a source at the FBI confirms the Bureau is working with local departments to track down killer or killers involved in these heinous crimes.”
“Killers?”
“Take it for what it’s worth, Dave.”
The line went dead. Dave wrote the word “killers” on a legal pad and circled it. It made sense, but only if there was a conspiracy. The knife wielder appeared to be one person, at least from the evidence that the police were sharing. How to explain the deliveries to Dave and the selection of victims and the logistics of what was happening were other questions. He called O’Neil. “How about coffee in the morning?”
Butterfly Knife Page 12
