by Mark Schorr
Hanson fought the urge to scream his rage as he bounded over. His arm encircled Dorsey’s neck. He put his lips near Dorsey’s ear and whispered, “Who else besides McFarlane does your dirty work?”
Gasping for air, Dorsey quickly realized who it was. “Just him.”
Hanson tightened. Dorsey’s erection was gone and his body deflated.
“Just him,” Dorsey squeaked. “That’s all I could afford. Me and him, that’s it.”
“Where’d the money come from?”
“Siphoned off a few thousand here and there. He didn’t want much. Believed in the cause.”
“Which was?”
“Safety for the community.” Dorsey had regained his breath and his confidence since Hanson hadn’t killed him instantly. “Sorry about your wife, but it’s a compliment. A sign of how great she is.”
“Tony? What’s going on?” Jeanie asked, unable to see or hear. Hanson ignored her and asked Dorsey, “Why’d you kill Tammy?”
“I didn’t. Wolf did.”
“McFarlane?”
“Yeah.”
Hanson tightened his hold. Dorsey struggled helplessly.
“I don’t believe he did it,” Hanson said.
“She was into more than you know. Blackmail,” Dorsey gasped out in a low whisper.
“She tried to blackmail you?”
“Not me. She was greedy.” Dorsey sagged, his eyes fluttering.
“I don’t believe you.” But Hanson let more air into Dorsey. After a few moments, the deputy mayor spoke again. “We can work this out. Your job, the money problems. Just the way I made it bad, I can fix it. Make it even better than before.”
“What would you want?”
“Let me go. Take your wife with you. All debts canceled, grudges dropped.”
Hanson had uncovered the spray with one hand. He held it, hesitating.
“Tony? Tony? What’re you waiting for?” Jeanie asked.
Jeanie Hanson assumed the delay was deliberate. He had never seriously hurt her and she hoped he wasn’t escalating. She thought she heard another male voice and had the feeling someone other than Tony was in the room. How many were there? What was going on?
The tape playing through the headphones was the sound of a woman pleading to be let go, then grunts of pain, and louder pleas. Dorsey’s smug, smutty voice was rattling off specific sex acts, and vowing that they would try them all. Dorsey had insisted they watch some pretty twisted pornography. She had a panicky feeling she had gotten deeper into his perversions than she wanted to be.
Hanson’s grip on Dorsey’s neck tightened again.
“Don’t do it,” Dorsey croaked. “You’re not a killer. You won’t get away with it. I can make life better for you. If you want to be head of your agency, it can happen.”
“What about Trixie?”
“I don’t know anything about her.”
Hanson pressed Dorsey’s rib cage where he had kicked his assailant at Trixie’s apartment. Dorsey yelped.
“That’s right where I got the guy in Trixie’s apartment. You think I’d have a problem with hurting you some more?”
“That was self-defense.”
Hanson pressed hard on the broken ribs and Dorsey yowled. “Okay, okay. She was a loose cannon. Tammy had told her about the blackmail. She was making noises like she wanted to take it over. It would’ve killed two birds if you were at her place when she turned up dead.” With each passing second, Dorsey was growing more assured that Hanson wouldn’t kill him. “Untie your wife, take her home, and we pretend this never happened. I never talk to your wife again. You get a call tomorrow asking you to come back to the agency. Good therapists don’t kill people.”
From the headphones on his wife’s head, a particularly loud scream could be heard. Jeanie responded by struggling against her bonds. “Tony? Stop. Let me loose.”
Hanson popped the lid of the steel tube and sprayed up Dorsey’s nose, holding his neck with the other hand.
“Wha…” Dorsey said as his body stiffened. Hanson held him momentarily, then dropped him to the floor. He bucked a few times, then was still.
Hanson dragged Dorsey’s body near the desk. Dorsey had a little white froth at the corner of his mouth, his sightless eyes wide open. Jeanie continued to buck violently against her bonds.
Brian grabbed Dorsey’s tape collection and left the way he had come.
TWENTY-TWO
Jeanie Hanson had sensed that someone had joined Dorsey in the room. She was scared but had been left untouched. Was it Tony’s thrill to leave her vulnerable, to be discovered by a late night cleaning crew or his secretary in the morning? That didn’t make sense. He’d be brought down in any scandal. Maybe he was called away on an emergency. The tape had stopped and there’d been nothing but a low audio hiss.
“Tony? Let me go! Tony! Tony!” Was he standing there watching her thrash around?
Her wrists and ankles chafed from her struggle against the bonds. Her voice had grown progressively louder but she hesitated to call for help, until her fear of uncertainty overcame her fear of humiliation.
“Tony! Dammit stop this! Help! Help!” Her voice was hoarse from screaming when a janitor finally discovered her.
Moments later fingers removed the headphones, peeled back the blindfold, and untied her wrists and ankles. She was draped in someone’s trench coat.
Jeanie was soon at the center of a buzz of activity—uniform police, paramedics, detectives. She saw the body on the floor under the sheet and leaned woozily against a chair. A detective took her arm firmly and led her into a small, sparsely furnished office in the basement at City Hall.
“My name’s Detective Quimby and I need to talk with you,” the cop said. She huddled in a rolling secretarial chair. There were no windows and the harsh fluorescent light made her squint.
“How often has this sort of thing happened with you and the Deputy Mayor?” Quimby asked. He stared at her flatly, which she found more intimidating than if he had been posturing.
“We had been intimate a few times.”
“Who else knew about it?” he asked quickly, barely giving her time to finish her sentence.
“No one as far as I know.”
“I see from your statement that Brian Hanson is your husband?”
“You know him?”
“We’ve met. Did he know about the affair?”
“No.”
“You answered that question without much thought, as if you anticipated it. You realize your husband is a prime suspect.”
“Was Tony murdered?”
“At this point, it appears to be a heart attack. Did you hear or see anything unusual?” he asked, continuing his staccato questioning.
“No.”
“But of course your ears were covered.”
“Correct.”
“We didn’t find any tapes in his office. There was a fairly elaborate recording set up and clearly he was going to play something for you. What was it?”
“I don’t know.”
Quimby studied Jeanie with skeptical eyes. “Have you called your husband?”
“No.”
“Won’t he worry about where you are?”
“Do you do marriage counseling as well as detective work?”
“Not many people could go through a night like you did and still have the juice to mouth off to a homicide investigator.”
“If that is a compliment, thanks,” she said warily. She glanced at her watch. It was close to 9 a.m. “When can I leave?”
“Will you go to work or go home?”
“Is it any of your business?”
“Until you’re clear, we have the right to keep you in custody. We also could have a detective periodically stop by the bank and question you and your associates. Notifying us of your whereabouts would probably be enough, however, if you are cooperative.”
Jeanie nodded wordlessly.
“This is a small, gossipy town,” Quimby warned. “It’s in everyone’s best
interest if the story of exactly what happened last night is not broadcast. No one would benefit. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your one word answers make me think you’re someone who has been coached in how to testify.”
“I’ve had a difficult night, detective,” she said, with a hint of sarcasm. “What story is being put out?”
“That he was working late, alone, and was claimed by a heart attack. We want to be discrete for the sake of his wife and children, as well as the city in general. That’s why I’m talking to you here informally rather than taking a statement at the Justice Center.”
“Can I go now?” she asked, and he nodded.
As she stood, Quimby said, “I’d advise you to keep your mouth shut.”
“Believe me, detective, the sooner this is history the better.”
When Jeanie entered the house, Brian was waiting for her downstairs, seated in the oversized chair, his face a mask she couldn’t read.
“I wondered where you were last night,” he said softly.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“With another man?”
She nodded.
“Is it serious?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s good.” Brian Hanson stood slowly and Jeanie wondered if he was about to give her a comforting hug. He walked away from her without looking back.
Jeanie Hanson sat in the warm chair her husband had just vacated. She knew it was as close to him as she would ever be getting. Her mind shifted to the fallout from Dorsey’s death. Had Dorsey recorded their past encounters or anything from that evening?
Betty invited Brian into the office early the next morning. “The complaint against you has been dropped. I want you back as soon as possible.”
He nodded. “I miss my clients. But I don’t know. One of the PTSD symptoms I never felt was apathy. Until now.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nah, I don’t believe in that therapy crap,” he said with a smile that made it unclear whether he was kidding.
“You’ve beat up on yourself long enough. I don’t think you’ve ever accepted that we’re all flawed, Brian.” He looked deep into her sad, wise eyes, and saw himself, accepted for who he was.
“You’re really great,” he said.
“Maybe,” she said. “You never thought I was so wonderful when I was nagging you about paperwork,” she said.
“I better go before we get maudlin.”
“Scared of your feelings?” she winked.
“No, scared you’ll remember a treatment plan I didn’t do.” As he stood, she came out from behind her desk and gave him a chaste but passionate hug.
Conversations stopped as Jeanie got into the elevator. There were hushed whispers when she entered the lunch room, sideways glances in the hall. Who had told? Dorsey’s secretary? A crime scene technician? One of the investigating officers? What tawdry story was going around? Could it be worse than the truth? She was too humiliated to look people in the eye. All the hours she had spent overtime reviewing deals, building relationships, shepherding difficult projects, would be forgotten. The blackballing would never have happened if she was a man.
She expected the summons to Lovejoy’s office, the offer that she could resign or be fired. She looked out her office window and could see her reflection in the steel and glass of the Standard Insurance Building across the street. A small face in the big stack of boxes that made up the Wells Fargo low-rise skyscraper.
When the cut would come, they would show no mercy, wanting a swift uncontested departure. She felt like a little girl, wishing she had her daddy to protect her and tell her what to do next.
Leslie Ford, the only other woman to have risen as high in the bank, knocked at Hanson’s door. Jeanie expected her to be gloating over Hanson’s imminent departure. Ford shut the door behind her and asked, “What’s your secret?”
“What do you mean?”
“The old boys are whispering to each other, trying to figure the best way to approach you.”
“What do you mean?” Jeanie repeated.
“You’re known as the woman who schtupped Tony Dorsey to death. You’re a bigger fantasy item right now than a Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover girl.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I’m not.” Ford laughed, dropped down into a chair, and shook her long perfectly coiffed blond hair. “Apparently the head honchos have gotten calls from all over town. You’re a celebrity, and people are dying to meet you.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Major players, you’d know the names. Quite an achievement. I wouldn’t mind knowing your secrets myself. I’ve got a sixty-year-old husband I wouldn’t mind trading in for two thirty-year-olds.”
“You’re wicked,” Jeannie said with a big smile.
“As if you’re one to talk.”
Hanson sat on a park bench where he’d once met with McFarlane, looking through The Oregonian’s apartments classified ads, trying to decide what neighborhood he could move to. No place seemed appealing, no area desirable. He shifted to the Metro section. The front page had a profile of Tony Dorsey’s replacement, a stocky woman with a hard set to her jaw who boasted twenty-years experience in city government. The article included platitudes from her and complimentary remarks from other officials.
He noticed a small article:
Hero Cop Disappears in Pacific
A veteran Portland detective’s boat was found abandoned near the mouth of the Columbia River, the Coast Guard said yesterday.
“Robert McFarlane is missing and presumed drowned,” said Coast Guard spokesperson Judy Watson. She said that preliminary indications showed no signs of foul play or suicide. “These are treacherous waters. We've had numerous people lean over the side of their boats, fall in, and drown. ”
There were ten-foot waves yesterday, Watson said, noting that the Coast Guard had a half dozen rescues. “The search will continue today although we are not optimistic.”
McFarlane, fifty-eight, was a decorated detective who had worked homicide, robbery, vice, and several other demanding assignments during his twenty-five with the Portland Police Bureau. He had shot and killed a bank robber in 1983, and an alleged rapist who attacked hint with a knife in 1997.
He had earned three medals for bravery for those incidents, as well as for a 1979 fire where he ran into a burning North Portland building to rescue a mother and her child. His only family is a sister in Ohio who he had not seen in a dozen years, friends said.
Colleagues described him as somewhat of a loner, and noted that he was active in local 12-Step communities. Chief Forester described his disappearance as a “tragic loss for the Bureau and the city.”
Hanson re-read the article twice, muttering, “Sonofabitch.” McFarlane was gone. Was he really dead, or had he used his covert skills to disappear? Hanson held his head in his hands and stifled a sob. His sponsor. The man who had saved his life. Hanson wished he could see McFarlane one more time, to say goodbye.
Hanson returned to his big, empty house, Jeanie had already begun removing her items. He sat in his favorite chair, brooding. McFarlane was gone and his original dilemma remained—who had killed Tammy? What did he know? That the man she went to Vic’s bar with was recognizable, needing to disguise himself with a ZZ top beard. He was wealthy enough to afford the Eagleton condos, and according to what Tammy had told her father, well-connected enough to clear up her legal problems. Dorsey? The deputy mayor seemed to have little problem with confessing to killing Trixie. With his arrogant narcissism, and fear for his life, he probably would have admitted Tammy’s murder if he’d done it. A rich attorney? But easily recognizable?
Hanson dug out the box of three dozen tapes from Dorsey’s office. He slipped one into the Panasonic cassette deck in the entertainment center. He listened to interminable hours of municipal business. Several of the tapes were recordings of Dorsey’s sessions with women, including a couple with Jeanie. He fast forwarded t
hrough them.
After fourteen hours of nearly nonstop listening, he found what he wanted.
Mayor Robinson’s receptionist relayed word that a Brian Hanson wanted to talk with him. She expected the Mayor to tell her to have him write a letter or arrange for Hanson to meet with a low-level functionary to see if there was a rudimentary constituent service that could appease him.
“I’ll see him,” Robinson said, pacing the room. “Send him in.”
As Hanson entered, Robinson extended his hand warmly. Hanson ignored the gesture. The Mayor knew something was desperately wrong. Normal citizens were eager for the handshake. The contact with the leader. Preserved in countless photographs.
“You know my wife was with your deputy mayor when he died.”
The Mayor nodded. “Very sad. Embarrassing for this whole administration, as well as your wife and his family. I’m sorry for any grief it caused.” He was casually perched on the edge of his desk, friendly but appropriately somber. “I hate to rush you after all you’ve been through, but I must make this brief. I’ve got a mid county community meeting in less than a half hour.” There was a tiny bead of sweat on his upper lip.
“I know about Tammy,” Hanson said bluntly.
The Mayor was about to say “Tammy, who?” then sighed deeply, walked to his chair, and sagged like he’d just finished running a marathon. “I thought of what I was going to say if this moment came.” Another sigh. “But I’m too tired. I’ve had nightmares every night.”
“Tell me what happened.” Hanson had instinctively shifted into a supportive therapy voice. “I had an affair with her. Stupid, but that sort of thing happens. I was introduced to her by
Tony at a one-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner. He said she was a big admirer. In thinking back, I believe he was setting me up. I knew about Tony's problem with women. Had talked with him about it.” The Mayor sighed again. “The affair lasted only a few weeks. I did stupid things, going out to bars with her, wearing a disguise. The risk was exciting. God, I was such an idiot. Then she began pressuring me for favors, money. After the first few thousand I saw where it was going. A never-ending bleed.”
