The Poet (1995)

  I will be hunted soon and I will be notorious. But they won't find me. Never. That's what they won't realize. That I have always been ready for them.

  I have decided it is time to tell my story. I want to tell it. I will input all that I have, all that I am. Through these windows you will see me live and die. My laptop Boswell makes no judgments, cringes not at a single word. Who better to hear my confession than Laptop Boswell? Who more accurate a biographer than Laptop Boswell? I will begin to tell you all now. Turn on your flashlights. I will live and die here in the dark.

  Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering.

  I didn't write that first but I wish that I had. But it doesn't matter because I believe it. My suffering is my passion, my religion. It never leaves me. It guides me. It is me. I can see that now. I think what is meant by those words is that our pain is the pathway upon which we make our life's travels and choices. It paves the way, so to speak, for all that we do and become. Therefore, we embrace it. We study it and, for all its harshness, we love it. We have no choice.

  I have a great feeling of clarity about this, of complete understanding. I can turn and look back on my path and see how the pain made all my choices. I look forward and can see where it will take me. I don't really walk along the path any more. It moves beneath me, carrying me, like a great ribbon through time. It carried me here.

  My pain is the rock upon which I make my stand. I am the perpetrator. The Eidolon. True identity is pain. My pain. Until death do we part.

  Drive safely, dear friends.

  _________________________

  He read it again and felt deeply moved by it. It touched his true heart.

  He went back to the main menu and switched into the Barter Board to see if there were any new customers. There weren't. He typed the G command for good-bye. He then turned off the computer and folded it closed.

  Gladden wished the cops hadn't taken his camera. He couldn't risk going to claim it and he could barely afford to buy another one with the money he had left. But he knew that without a camera he could not fill orders and there would be no more money. The anger building inside him felt like razors moving through his blood, cutting him from inside. He decided to wire money out from Florida, then go shopping for another camera.

  He went to the window and looked out at the cars slowly moving along Sunset. It was an endless moving parking lot. All that smoking steel, he thought. All that flesh. Where was it going? He wondered how many of them in those cars were like himself. How many had the urges and how many felt the razors? How many had the courage to follow through? Again the anger pushed through his thoughts. It was something palpable inside him now, a black flower spreading its petals in his throat, choking him.

  He went to the phone and dialed the number Krasner had given him. Sweetzer picked up after four rings.

  "Busy, Sweetzer?"

  "Who's this?"

  "It's me. How are the kids?"

  "What-who is this?"

  His instincts told Gladden to hang up right then. Don't deal with their kind. But he was so curious.

  "You have my camera," he said.

  There was a short moment of silence.

  "Mr. Brisbane, and how are you?"

  "Fine, Detective, thank you."

  "Yes, we have your camera and you are entitled to have that back since you require it to make a living. Do you want to make an appointment to pick it up?"

  Gladden closed his eyes and squeezed the phone until he thought he would crush it. They knew. If they didn't they would have told him to forget the camera. But they knew something. And they wanted him to come in. The question was how much did they know? Gladden wanted to scream but a higher thought was to keep cool with Sweetzer. No false moves, he told himself.

  "I'll have to think about that."

  "Well, it looks like a nice camera. I'm not sure how it works but I wouldn't mind having it. It's here if you want-"

  "Fuck you, Sweetzer."

  The anger overtook him. Gladden spoke the words through a clenched jaw.

  "Look, Brisbane, I was doing my job. If you got a problem with that come see me and we'll do something about that. If you want your fucking camera then you can come and get that, too. But I'm not going to stay on the line while you-"

  "You got kids, Sweetzer?"

  The line was silent for a long moment but Gladden knew the detective was there.

  "What did you say?"

  "You heard me."

  "Are you threatening my family, you motherfucking son of a bitch?"

  Now Gladden was silent for a moment. Then a low sound started deep in his throat and grew into a maniacal laugh. He let it out uncontrolled until it was all he could hear and think about. Then, suddenly, he slammed the receiver down on the phone and cut the laughter off like a knife in the throat. He had an ugly grimace across his face and he shouted to the empty room through clenched teeth.

  "Fuck you!"

  Gladden opened his laptop again and accessed the photo directory. The computer's screen was state of the art for a laptop model but the graphics chip still wasn't nearly the quality he'd have on a stationary PC. But the images were clear enough and he was able to make do. He went through the file photo by photo. It was a macabre collection of the dead and the living. Somehow, he was able to find solace in the photos, a sense that he had control over things in his life.

  Still, he was saddened by what he saw before him and what he had done. These little sacrifices. Offered up so that he could salve his wounds. He knew how selfish it was, how grotesquely warped it was. And the fact that he turned these sacrifices into money tore away his comfort, turned it into the self-loathing and disgust that always came. Sweetzer and the others were right. He deserved to be hunted.

  He rolled onto his back and looked at the water-stained ceiling. Tears filled his eyes. He closed them and tried to sleep, tried to forget. But his Best Pal was there in the darkness behind his eyelids. As always, he was there. His face set, a horrible slash for lips.

  Gladden opened his eyes and looked at the door. There had been a knock. He quickly sat up as he heard the metal scrape of a key going into the outside knob. He realized his mistake. Sweetzer had had a trace on the line. They knew he would call!

  The door to the room swung open. A small black woman in a white uniform stood in the doorway with two towels draped over her arm.

  "Housekeeping," she said. "I am sorry I'm so late today but it's been a busy day. Tomorrow I'll do your room first."

  Gladden exhaled and noticed that he had neglected to put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob.

  "It's okay," he said, quickly getting up to stop her entrance into the room. "Just the towels today, anyway."

  As he took the towels he noticed embroidered on her uniform the name Evangeline. She had a lovely face and he immediately felt sorry that this was her job, cleaning up after others.

  "Thank you, Evangeline."

  He noticed her eyes go past him into the room and fall down to the bed. It was still made. He hadn't pulled the covers down the night before. Then she looked back at him and nodded with what he guessed was a smile.

  "That'd be all you need?"

  "Yes, Evangeline."

  "Have a nice day."

  Gladden closed the door and turned around. There on the bed was the open laptop computer. On the screen was one of the photographs. He moved back to the door, opened it and stood under the door frame where she had been. He looked at the computer. He could tell. The boy on the ground and what else could that be against the perfect white canvas of snow but blood.

  He quickly went to the computer and hit the emergency kill button he had programmed himself. The door was still open. Gladden tried to think. Jesus, he thought, what a mistake.

  He walked to the door and stepped out. Evangeline was down the walkway standing next to a housekeeping cart.

  She looked back at him, her face revealing nothing. But Gladden knew he had to be sure.
He could not risk everything on reading this woman's face.

  "Evangeline," he said. "I changed my mind. The room could probably use a going-over. I need toilet paper and soap, anyway."

  She put down the clipboard she had been writing on and stooped to get toilet paper and soap out of the cart. As Gladden watched he put his hands in his pockets. He noticed she was chewing gum and clicking it. An insulting thing to do in front of someone else. It was like he was invisible. He was nothing.

  When Evangeline approached him with the items from the cart, he made no move to take his hands from his pockets. He took a step back to allow her to go into the room. After she stepped in, Gladden walked down to the cart and looked at the clipboard she had placed on top. After room 112 was the notation "Just Towels."

  Gladden looked around as he headed back to the room.

  The motel was a courtyard design with two floors of about twenty-four rooms each. He saw another housekeeping cart on the upper floor across the way. It was parked in front of an open door but there was no sign of the maid. The pool at the center of the courtyard was empty of guests. Too cold.

  He saw no one else anywhere.

  He stepped into the room and closed the door as Evangeline came out of the bathroom holding the bag from the trash can.

  "Sir, we have to keep the door open when we're working inside a room. Those are the rules."

  He blocked her way to the door.

  "Did you see the photograph?"

  "What? Sir, I have to open the-"

  "Did you see the photo on the computer? On the bed?"

  He pointed to the laptop and watched her eyes. She looked confused but didn't turn.

  "What photo?"

  She turned to look at the sagging bed and then back to him with a look of confusion and growing annoyance on her face.

  "I didn't take anything. You call Mr. Barrs right now if you think I took somethin'. I'm an honest lady. He can have one of the other girls search me. I don't got your photo. I don't even know what picture you mean."

  Gladden looked at her a moment and then smiled.

  "You know, Evangeline, I think maybe you are an honest lady. But I have to be sure. You understand."

  14

  The Law Enforcement Foundation was on Ninth Street

  in Washington, D.C., a few blocks from the Justice Department and FBI headquarters. It was a large building and I assumed other agencies and foundations funded from the public trough were housed here as well. Once I was in through the heavy doors I checked the directory and took the elevator to the third floor.

  It looked like the LEF had the entire third floor. From the elevator I was greeted by a large reception desk behind which sat a large woman. In the news business we call them deception desks because the women they hire to sit behind them rarely let you go where you want to go or see whom you want to see. I told her I wanted to speak to Dr. Ford, the foundation director quoted in the New York Times article about police suicides. Ford was the keeper of the database to which I had to get access.

  "He's at lunch. Do you have an appointment?"

  I told her I had no appointment and put one of my cards down in front of her. I looked at my watch. Quarter to one.

  "Oh, well, a reporter," she said as if the profession were synonymous with convict. "That's entirely different. You have to go through the public affairs office before it is even decided that you may speak to Dr. Ford."

  "I see. You think there's anybody in public affairs or are they out to lunch, too?"

  She picked up the phone and made a call.

  "Michael? Are you there or are you on lunch? I have a man here who says he is from the Rocky Mountain News in-No, he first asked to see Dr. Ford."

  She listened a few moments and then said okay and hung up.

  "Michael Warren will see you. He says he has a one-thirty appointment so you'd better hurry."

  "Hurry where?"

  "Room three oh three. Go down the hall behind me, take your first right and then it's the first door on the right."

  As I made the trek I kept thinking that the name Michael Warren was familiar but couldn't place it. The door to 303 opened as I was reaching for it. A man of about forty was about to step out when he saw me and stopped.

  "Are you the one from the Rocky?"

  "Yes."

  "I was beginning to wonder if you took a wrong turn. Come on in. I only have a few minutes. I'm Mike Warren. Michael if you use my name in print, though I prefer you don't use it and talk to the staff here instead. Hopefully I can help you with that."

  Once he was behind his cluttered desk I introduced myself and we shook hands. He told me to take a seat. There were newspapers stacked on one side of the desk. On the other side were photos of a wife and two children, angled so that Warren could see them as well as his visitors. There was a computer on a low table to his left and a photo of Warren shaking the president's hand on the wall above it. Warren was clean shaven and wore a white shirt with a maroon tie. The collar was frayed a bit where his afternoon whiskers rubbed against it. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. His skin was very pale and set off by dark sharp eyes and straight black hair.

  "So what's up? Are you in the Scripps D.C. bureau?"

  He was talking about the parent company. It maintained a bureau of reporters that fed Washington stories to all papers in the chain. It was the office Greg Glenn had suggested I go through earlier in the week.

  "No, I'm out from Denver."

  "Well, what can I do you for?"

  "I need to talk to Nathan Ford or maybe whoever is directly handling the police suicide study."

  "Police suicide. That's an FBI project. Oline Fredrick's the researcher handling that with them."

  "Yes, I know the FBI is involved."

  "Let's see." He picked up the desk phone but then put it back down. "You know, you didn't call ahead on this, did you? I don't recognize the name."

  "No, I just got into town. It's a breaking story, you could say."

  "Breaking story? Police suicide? That doesn't sound like deadline stuff. Why the hurry?"

  Then it struck me who he was.

  "Did you used to work for the L.A. Times? The Washington bureau? You that Michael Warren?"

  He smiled because he, or his name, had been recognized.

  "Yes, how'd you know?"

  "The Post-Times wire. I've been scrolling it for years. I recognized the name. You covered Justice, right? Did good stuff."

  "Until a year ago. I quit and came here."

  I nodded. There was always a moment of uneasy silence when I crossed paths with somebody who had left the life and was now on the other side of the line. Usually, they were burnouts, reporters who grew tired of the always-on-deadline and always-need-to-produce life. I once read a book about a reporter written by a reporter who described the life as always running in front of a thresher. I thought it was the most accurate description I'd read. Sometimes people got tired of running in front of the machine, sometimes they got pulled in and were left shredded. Sometimes they managed to get out from in front of it. They used their expertise in the business to seek the steadiness of a job as a person who handled the media rather than was part of it. This is what Warren had done and somehow I felt sorry for him. He had been damn good. I hoped he didn't feel the same regret.

  "You miss it?"

  I had to ask him, just to be polite.

  "Not yet. Every now and then a good story comes along and I wish I was in there with everybody else, looking for the odd angle. But it can run you ragged."

  He was lying and I think he knew I knew it. He wanted to go back.

  "Yeah, I'm beginning to feel it some myself."

  I returned the lie, just to make him feel better, if that was possible.

  "So what about police suicides? What's your angle?"

  He looked at his watch.

  "Well, it wasn't a breaking story until a couple days ago. Now it is. I know you only have a few minutes but I can explai
n it pretty quickly. I just . . . I don't want to be insulting but I'd like for you to promise me what I say here is in confidence. It's my story and when it's ready, I'm going to break it."

  He nodded.

  "Don't worry, I understand completely. I won't discuss whatever it is you are going to tell me with any other journalist unless that other journalist specifically asks about the same thing. I may have to talk about it with other people here at the foundation or in law enforcement, for that matter. I can't make any promise in that regard until I know what we are talking about."