"That's fair."
I felt myself trusting him. Maybe because it is always easy to trust somebody who has done what you have done. I also think I liked telling what I'd learned to somebody who would know its value as a story. It was a form of bragging and I wasn't above it. I started.
"At the start of this week I began working on a story about police suicide. I know, it's been done before. But I had a new angle. My brother was a cop and a month ago he supposedly committed suicide. I-"
"Oh, Jesus, I am sorry."
"Thank you, but I didn't bring it up for that reason. I decided to write about it because I wanted to understand what he had done, what the police in Denver said he had done. I went through the routine, pulled clips on a Nexis search and, naturally, I came up with a couple references to the foundation's study."
He tried to surreptitiously look at his watch and I decided to get his attention.
"To make a long story short, in trying to find out why he killed himself I found out he didn't."
I looked at him. I had his attention.
"What do you mean, he didn't?"
"My investigation has so far determined that my brother's suicide was a carefully disguised murder. Someone killed him. The case has been reopened. I have also linked it to a supposed cop suicide last year in Chicago. That one also has been reopened. I just came in from there this morning. The cops in Chicago and Denver and I think that somebody might be moving around the country killing cops and making it look like suicide. The key to finding the other cases may be in the information collected for the foundation's study. Don't you have all the records on cop suicides for the whole country over the last five years?"
We sat in silence for a few moments. Warren just stared at me.
"I think you better tell me the long story," he finally said. "No, wait."
He held up his hand like a crossing guard signaling stop, picked up the phone with the other and pushed a speed-dial number.
"Drex? Mike. Listen, I know this is late but I'm not going to make it. Something's come up over here . . . No . . . We'll have to reschedule. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks, bye."
He put down the phone and looked at me.
"It was just a lunch. Now tell me this story of yours."
A half hour later, after he had made some calls to set up a meeting, Warren led me through the labyrinth of the foundation's hallways to a room marked 383. It was a conference room and already seated there were Dr. Nathan Ford and Oline Fredrick. The introductions were quick and Warren and I sat down.
Fredrick looked like she was in her mid-twenties with curly blond hair and an uninterested air about her. I immediately paid more attention to Ford. Warren had prepped me. He said any decisions would be made by Ford. The foundation director was a small man in a dark suit but he had a presence that commanded the room. He wore glasses with thick black frames and rose-tinted lenses. He had a full beard of uniform gray that perfectly matched his hair. He didn't move his head as much as he did his eyes when he followed our movements as we entered and took seats around the large oval table. He had his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together in front of him.
"Why don't we get started," he said once the introductions were over.
"What I'd like to do is just have Jack tell you both what he told me a little while ago," Warren said. "And then we'll go from there. Jack, you mind going over it again?"
"Not at all."
"I'm going to take some notes this time."
I told the story in pretty much the same detail as I had with Warren. Every now and then I would remember something new and not necessarily significant but I would throw that in anyway. I knew I needed to impress Ford because he would be the one to decide whether or not I got Oline Fredrick's help.
The only interruption during the telling came from Fredrick. When I spoke of my brother's death, she mentioned that the protocol from the DPD on the case had been received the week before. I told her she could now toss it in the trash can. When I was finished reciting the story, I looked at Warren and raised my hands.
"Anything I missed?"
"I don't think so."
We both looked at Ford then and waited. He hadn't moved much during the telling. Now he raised his clasped hands and gently bumped them repeatedly against his chin as he thought. I wondered what kind of doctor he was. What do you have to be to run a foundation? More politician than doctor, I thought.
"It's a very interesting story," he said quietly. "I can see why you are excited. I can see why Mr. Warren is excited. He was a reporter for most of his adult life and I think the excitement of the story remains in his blood sometimes, possibly to the detriment of his current profession."
He didn't look at Warren as he delivered this blow. His eyes stayed on me.
"What I don't understand, and therefore the reason I don't seem to share the same excitement as you two, is what this has to do with the foundation. I'm not clear on that, Mr. McEvoy."
"Well, Dr. Ford," Warren began, "Jack has to-"
"No," Ford cut him off. "Let Mr. McEvoy tell me."
I tried to think in precise terms. Ford didn't want a lot of bullshit. He just wanted to know how he would benefit from this.
"I assume the suicide project is on a computer."
"That is correct," Ford said. "Most of our studies are collated on computer. We rely on the great number of police departments out there for our field research. Reports come in-the protocol Ms. Fredrick mentioned earlier. They are entered on the computer. But that means nothing. It is the skilled researcher who must digest these facts and tell us what they mean. On this study, the researcher is joined by FBI experts in reviewing the raw data."
"I understand all of that," I said. "What I am saying is that you have a huge data bank of incidents of police suicide."
"Going back five, six years, I believe. The work was started before Oline came on board."
"I need to go into your computer."
"Why?"
"If we're right-and I'm not just talking about me. The detectives in Chicago and in Denver are thinking this way, too. We've got two cases that are connected. The-"
"Seemingly connected."
"Right, seemingly connected. If they are, then the chances are that there are others. We're talking about a serial killer. Maybe there's a lot, maybe a few and maybe none. But I want to check and you've got the data right here. All the reported suicides in the last six years. I want to get inside your computer and look for the ones that might be the fakes, that might be our guy."
"How do you propose doing that?" Fredrick said. "We've got several hundred cases on file."
"The protocol that police departments fill out and send in, does it include the victim's rank and position in the department?"
"Yes."
"Then we first look at all homicide detectives who killed themselves. The theory I'm working with is that this person is killing homicide cops. Maybe it's a hunted-turns-on-the-hunter sort of thing. I don't know the psychology of it, but that's where I'd start. With homicide cops. Once we have that breakout, we look at each case. We need the notes. The suicide notes. From-"
"That's not on computer," Fredrick said. "In each incidence, if we even have a copy of the note, it's in the hard-copy protocols in file storage. The notes themselves aren't part of the study unless they have some allusion to the pathology of the victim."
"But you've kept the hard copies?"
"Yes, all of them. In file storage."
"Then we go to them," Warren chimed in excitedly.
His intrusion brought silence. Eventually, everyone's eyes were drawn to Ford's.
"One question," the director finally said. "Does the FBI know about this?"
"At the moment, I can't say for sure," I said. "I know it is the intention of the Chicago and Denver police to retrace my steps and then, once they are satisfied that I am on the right path, they are going to call in the bureau. It will go from there."
Ford nodded and said
, "Mr. McEvoy, could you step out and wait in the reception area for me? I want to talk to Ms. Fredrick and Mr. Warren privately before making any decision on this matter."
"No problem." I stood up and headed to the door, where I hesitated and looked at Ford. "I hope . . . I mean . . . I hope we can do this. Anyway, thanks."
Michael Warren's face told the story before he said anything. I was sitting on a lumpy vinyl-covered couch in the reception area when he came down the hallway with downcast eyes. When he saw me he just shook his head.
"Let's go back to my office," he said.
I followed silently behind him and took the same seat I had before. He looked as dejected as I felt.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because he's an asshole," he whispered. "Because the Justice Department punches our ticket and the FBI is the Justice Department. It's their study-they commissioned it. He's not going to let you walk through it without telling them first. He's not ever going to do anything that might knock the gravy train off the tracks. You said the wrong thing in there, Jack. You should have said the FBI was made aware of this and took a pass."
"He wouldn't have believed that."
"The point is, he could've said he did. If it ever blew up on him that he was helping a reporter to information before the bureau, he could have just put it on you and said he thought the bureau passed."
"So what now? I can't just drop this."
I wasn't really asking him. I was asking myself.
"You got any sources in the bureau? Because I guarantee he's in his office calling the bureau right now. Probably going right to Bob Backus."
"Who's that?"
"One of the big shots down there. The suicide project belongs to his team."
"I think I know that name."
"You probably know Bob Backus Sr. His father. He was some kind of supercop the bureau brought in years ago to help set up the Behavioral Science Services and the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. I guess Bobby Jr. is trying to fill his shoes. The point is, as soon as Ford's off the phone with him, Backus will shut this thing down. Your only way in will be through the bureau."
I couldn't think. I was totally backed into a corner. I stood up and started pacing in the small office.
"Jesus Christ, I can't believe this. This is my story . . . and I'm getting pushed out of it by some dopey guy in a beard who thinks he's J. Edgar Hoover."
"Nah, Nat Ford doesn't wear dresses."
"It's not really that damn funny."
"I know. I'm sorry."
I sat back down. He made no move to dismiss me, even though our business was done. It finally occurred to me what it was he expected me to do. I just wasn't sure about how to ask. I'd never worked in Washington and didn't know how it worked. I decided to do it the Denver way. To be blunt.
"You can get into the computer anyway, right?"
I nodded at the terminal to his left. He looked over at me for a moment before responding.
"No fucking way. I'm no Deep Throat, Jack. This isn't about anything other than a crime story. That's the bottom line. You just want to get there ahead of the FBI."
"You're a reporter."
"Former reporter. I work here now and I'm not going to jeopardize my-"
"You know it's a story that has to be told. If Ford's in there on the phone with the FBI, they'll be out here by tomorrow and the story will be gone. You know how hard it was to get stuff from them. You were there. This ends completely right here or is published as some half-assed story in a year or maybe longer with more conjecture than facts. That's if you don't get me on that computer."
"I said no."
"Look, you're right. All it is a story that I want. The big scoop. But I deserve it. You know I do. The FBI wouldn't be coming around if it wasn't for me. But I'm getting shut out . . . Think about it. Think if it was you. Think if it was your brother that this happened to."
"I have and I just said no."
I stood up.
"Well, if you change your-"
"I won't."
"Look, when I leave here, I'm going to check in at the Hilton. The one where Reagan got shot."
That's all I said as I left him there and he didn't say another word.
15
Passing the time in my room at the Hilton I updated my computer files on what little I had learned at the foundation and then called Greg Glenn to fill him in on everything that had transpired in Chicago and Washington. When I was done, he whistled loudly and I pictured him leaning back in the chair, thinking of the possibilities.
It was a fact that I already had a good story, but I was unhappy. I wanted to stay on the leading edge of it. I didn't want to have to rely on the FBI and other investigators to tell me what they felt like telling me. I wanted to investigate. I had written countless stories about murder investigations but each time I was always an outsider looking in.
This time I was inside and wanted to stay there. I was riding the front of the wave. I realized that my excitement must be the same as Sean felt when he was on a case. In the hunt, as he called it.
"You there, Jack?"
"What? Yeah, I was just thinking of something else."
"When can we do the story?"
"Depends. Tomorrow's Friday. Give me till tomorrow. I have this feeling about the foundation guy. But if I don't hear anything by mid-morning tomorrow I'll try the FBI. I've got a name of a guy. If that doesn't get me anywhere I'll come back and write the story Saturday for Sunday."
Sunday was the biggest circulation day. I knew Glenn would want to go big with it on a Sunday.
"Well," he said, "even if we have to settle for that, what you've got is a hell of a lot. You've got a nationwide investigation of a serial killer of cops who's been operating with impunity for who knows how long. This will-"
"It's not that strong. Nothing is confirmed. Right now it's a two-state investigation into the possibility of a cop killer."
"It's still damn good. And once the FBI is in, it's nationwide. We'll have the New York Times, the Post, all of them following our ass."
Following my ass, I felt like saying but didn't. Glenn's words revealed the real truth behind most journalism. There wasn't much that was altruistic about it anymore. It wasn't about public service and the people's right to know. It was about competition, kicking ass and taking names, what paper had the story and which one was left behind. And which one got the Pulitzer at the end of the year. It was a dim view but after as many years as I had been at it, my view pretty much wasn't anything else but cynical.
Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't savor the idea of busting out a national story and watching everybody follow. I just didn't like talking about it out loud like Glenn. And there was Sean, too. I was not losing sight of that. I wanted the man who did this to him. I wanted that more than anything.
I promised Glenn I'd call if anything developed and hung up. I paced around the room for a while and I have to admit I was thinking about the possibilities, too. I was thinking about the profile this story could give me. It could definitely get me out of Denver if I wanted it to. Maybe to one of the big three. L.A., New York, Washington. To Chicago or Miami, at the least. Then beyond that, I even began to think about a publishing deal. True crime was a major market.
I shook it off, embarrassed. It's lucky no one else knows what our most secret thoughts are. We'd all be seen for the cunning, self-aggrandizing fools we are.
I needed to get out of the room but couldn't leave because of the phone. I turned on the TV and it was just a bunch of competing talk shows serving up the usual daily selection of white trash stories. Children of strippers on one channel, porno stars whose spouses were jealous on another and men who thought women should be kept in line with occasional beatings on a third. I turned it off and thought of an idea. All I had to do was leave the room, I decided. It would guarantee that Warren would call because I wouldn't be there to take the call. It worked every time. I just hoped he would leave a message.
The hot
el was on Connecticut Avenue
near Dupont Circle
. I walked toward the circle and stopped into Mystery Books to buy a book called Multiple Wounds by Alan Russell. I'd read a good review of it somewhere and figured reading would take my mind off things.
Before going back into the Hilton I spent a few minutes walking around the outside of the hotel looking for the spot where Hinckley had waited with a gun for Reagan. I remembered the pictures of the chaos vividly but I couldn't find the spot. It made me think the hotel had made some renovations, maybe so that the spot didn't become a tourist destination.
The Poet (1995) Page 15
