"I need a cab company," I said to a nonexistent operator.
I dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed a number. I then read the address off the phone and asked for a cab.
When I hung up and turned around, Agent Walling was standing there very close. She reached past me and picked up the phone. After holding it to her ear for a second she smiled slightly and hung it back up. She pointed to the side of the box to where the receiver cable was attached. It was severed, the wires tied together in a knot.
"Your act could use some polish, too."
"Fine. Just leave me alone."
I turned away and started looking through the store windows to see if there was another phone inside. There wasn't.
"Look, what did you want me to do?" she asked my back. "I need to know what you know."
I whipped around on her.
"Then why didn't you just ask? Why'd you have to . . . try to humiliate me?"
"You are a reporter, Jack. Are you going to tell me you were just going to open your files and share with me?"
"Maybe."
"Yeah, right. That'll be the day, when one of you people do that. Look at Warren. He's not even a reporter anymore and he was acting like one. It's in the blood."
"Hey, you know, speaking of blood, there's more at stake here than a story, okay? You don't know what I would have done if you had approached me like a human being."
"Okay," she said softly. "Maybe I don't. I'll grant you that."
We did a little pacing in opposite directions until she spoke.
"So what do we do? Here we are, you found me out, and now you have a choice. I need to know what you know. Are you going to tell me or are you going to take your ball and go home? You do that and we both lose out. So does your brother."
She had skillfully backed me into a corner and I knew it. On principle I should have walked off. But I couldn't. Despite everything, I liked her. I silently walked to the car, got in and then looked at her through the windshield. She nodded once and came around to the driver's side. After getting in she turned to me and held out her hand.
"Rachel Walling."
I took it and shook it.
"Jack McEvoy."
"I know. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
20
As a show of good faith Rachel Walling went first-after extracting a promise from me that the conversation was off the record until her team supervisor decided how much cooperation, if any, the bureau would give me. I didn't mind making the promise because I knew I was holding the high hand. I already had a story and the bureau would likely not want a story published yet. I figured that gave me a lot of leverage, whether Agent Walling realized it yet or not.
For a half hour while we moved slowly south on the freeway toward Quantico she told me what the bureau had been doing for the last twenty-eight hours. Nathan Ford of the Law Enforcement Foundation had called her at three o'clock Thursday to inform her of my visit to the foundation, the findings of my own investigation to that point and my request to see the suicide files. Walling concurred with his decision to rebuff me and then consulted with Bob Backus, her immediate supervisor. Backus gave her the go-ahead to drop the profiling work she had been assigned and proceed with a priority investigation of the claims I had made in my meeting with Ford. At this time, the bureau had not yet heard from anyone from the Denver or Chicago police departments. Walling started her work on the Behavioral Science Service's computer, which had a direct tie to the foundation computer.
"Basically, I did the same search Michael Warren did for you," she said. "In fact, I was on-line in Quantico when he went in and did it. I just ID'ed the user and literally watched him do it on my laptop. I guessed right then that you had turned him as a source and he was doing the search for you. This became a problem of containment, as you can imagine. I didn't need to go up to the city today because we have hard copies of all the protocols at Quantico. But I had to see what you were doing. I got a second confirmation that Warren was leaking to you and that you had copies of the protocols when I found your notebook page left in the files."
I shook my head.
"What's going to happen to Warren?"
"After I told Ford, we confronted him this morning. He admitted what he had done, even told me what hotel you were at. Ford asked for his resignation and Warren gave it."
"Shit."
I felt a pang of guilt, yet I was not overwrought by what had happened. For I wasn't sure if Warren hadn't somehow engineered his own dismissal. Maybe it was a self-derailment. At least, that's what I told myself. It was easier to handle that way.
"By the way," she said, "where did I go wrong with my act?"
"My editor didn't know where I was staying. Only Warren knew."
She was quiet for a few moments until I prompted her to continue the chronology of her investigation. She told me that on Thursday afternoon when she ran the computer search she'd come up with the same thirteen names of dead homicide detectives that Warren had gotten from me, plus my brother and John Brooks of Chicago. She then pulled the hard copies of the protocols and looked for ties, keying on the suicide notes as I had told Ford I wanted to do. She had the aid of a bureau cryptologist and the FBI cipher computer, which had a database that made the Rocky's look like a comic book.
"Including your brother and Brooks, we came up with a total of five direct connections through the notes," she said.
"So in about three hours you did what it took me all week to do. How'd you get McCafferty without the note in the file?"
She took her foot off the gas and looked over at me. Only for a moment, then she took the car back up to speed.
"We didn't count McCafferty. There are agents from the Baltimore field office on that now."
This was puzzling because I had five cases, including McCafferty.
"Then what five have you got?"
"Uh, let me think . . ."
"Okay, my brother and Brooks, that's two."
I was opening my notebook as I said this.
"Right."
Reading my notes, I said, "You got Kotite in Albuquerque? 'Haunted by ill angels'?"
"Right. We have him. There was one in-"
"Dallas. Garland Petry. 'Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength.' From 'For Annie.' "
"Yeah, got that."
"And then I had McCafferty. Who'd you have?"
"Uh, something or other from Florida. It was an old one. He was a sheriff's deputy. I need my notes."
"Wait a minute." I flipped through a few pages of my notebook and found it. "Clifford Beltran, Sarasota County Sheriff's Department. He-"
"That's it."
"But wait a minute. I've got his note as 'Lord help my poor soul.' I read all the poems. That wasn't in any of them."
"You're right. We found it somewhere else."
"Where? One of the short stories?"
"No. They were his last words. Poe's last words, 'Lord help my poor soul.' "
I nodded. It wasn't a poem but it fit. So now there were six. I was quiet a moment, almost in respect to the new man added to the list. I looked down at my notes. Beltran had been dead three years. A long time for a murder to go unnoticed.
"Was Poe a suicide?"
"No, though I suppose his lifestyle might be considered a long suicide. He was a womanizer and a heavy drinker. He died at forty, apparently after a lengthy drinking bout in Baltimore."
I nodded, thinking about the killer, the phantom, and wondering if he drew corollaries to Poe's life.
"Jack, what about McCafferty?" she asked. "We had him as a possible but no note according to the protocol. What did you get?"
Now I had another problem. Bledsoe. He had revealed something to me that he had not revealed to anyone before. I didn't feel I could just turn around and give it to the FBI.
"I've gotta make a call first before I can tell you."
"Oh, Jesus, Jack. You're going to pull that shit after all I just told you? I thought we had a deal."
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"We do. I just have to make a call first and clear something with a source. Get me to a phone and I'll do it right then. I don't think it will be a problem. Anyway, the bottom line is McCafferty is on the list. There was a note."
I looked through my notebook again and then read from it.
" 'The fever called living is conquered at last.' That was the note. It's from 'For Annie.' Just like Petry in Dallas."
I looked over at her and could tell she was still upset.
"Look Rachel-can I call you that?-I'm not going to hold back on you. I'll make the call. Your agents from the field office probably already got this anyway."
"Probably," she said, in a voice that seemed to say, Anything you can get we can get better.
"Okay, so go on, then. What happened after you came up with the list of five?"
She told me that six o'clock Thursday evening she and Backus had convened a meeting of BSS and Critical Incident Unit agents to discuss her preliminary findings. After she trotted out the five names she had and explained the connections, her boss, Backus, became agitated and ordered a full-scale priority investigation. Walling was named lead agent, reporting to him. Other BSS and CIU agents were assigned to victimology and profiling tasks, and VICAP liaison agents from local field offices in the five cities where the deaths occurred were scrambled to immediately begin gathering and shipping data on the deaths involved. The team had literally worked through the night.
"The Poet."
"What?"
"We're calling him the Poet. Every task force investigation gets a code name."
"Jesus," I said. "The tabloids are going to love that. I can see the headlines. 'The Poet Kills without Rhyme or Reason.' You guys are asking for it."
"The tabs will never know about it. Backus is determined to get this guy before he's spooked by any press leaks."
There was silence while I thought of how to answer that.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I finally asked.
"Jack, I know you're a reporter and you're the one who started this whole thing. But you've got to understand, if you start a media firestorm about this guy, we'll never get him. He'll get spooked and go back underneath his rock. We'll lose our chance."
"Well, I'm not on the public payroll. What I am, though is paid to report and write stories . . . The FBI cannot tell me what and when to write."
"You can't use anything I just told you."
"I know it. I agreed and I'll keep my word. I don't need to use it. I already had it. Most of it. All except for Beltran and all I have to do is read the bio section of this book and I'll find his last words . . . I don't need the FBI's information or permission for this story."
That brought the silence back. I could tell she was steaming but I had to stand my ground. I had to play my cards as shrewdly as I could. In this kind of game you don't get a second deal. After a few minutes of this I started seeing the freeway signs for Quantico. We were close.
"Look," I said. "We will talk about the story later. I'm not going to run off and start writing. My editor and I will calmly talk about it and I will let you know what we are going to do. Is that okay?"
"That's fine, Jack. I hope you're thinking about your brother when you have that discussion. I'm sure your editor won't be."
"Look, do me a favor. Don't talk to me about my brother and my motives. Because you don't know a thing about me or him or what I'm thinking about."
"Fine."
We drove a few miles in solid silence. My anger wore off a bit and I began wondering if I'd been too harsh. Her goal was to capture this person they now called the Poet. It was mine, too.
"Look, I'm sorry about the speech," I said. "I still think we can help each other. We can cooperate and maybe catch this guy."
"I don't know," she replied. "I don't see the point in cooperating when what I say is just going to show up in the newspapers and then the TV and then the tabloids. You're right, I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know you and I don't think I can trust you."
She didn't say another word until we got to the gatehouse at Quantico.
21
It was dark and I couldn't see the grounds well as we drove in. The FBI Academy and the research center were located in the heart of a U.S. Marine base. It consisted of three sprawling brick buildings connected by glassed walkways and atriums. Agent Walling pulled into a lot marked for FBI agents only and parked.
She continued her silence as we got out. It was getting to me. I did not want her unhappy with me or thinking of me as self-serving.
"Look, my main priority is obviously to get this guy," I tried. "Let me just use a phone. I'll call my source and my editor and we'll work something out. Okay?"
"Sure," she said grudgingly.
One word and I was happy just to have finally leveraged something out of her. We went into the center building and took a series of hallways to a set of stairs which we took down to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It was the basement. She led me past a reception area into a large room that didn't look much different from a newsroom. There were two rows of desks and work spaces with sound partitions between them and a row of private offices running down the right side. She stepped back and pointed me into one of the private offices. I assumed it was hers, though it was austere and impersonal. The only photo I saw anywhere was the one of the president on the rear wall.
"Why don't you sit there and use the phone," she said. "I'm going to find out where Bob is and see what's been going on. And don't worry, the phone's not tapped."
As I noted the sarcasm in her voice I saw her eyes scan the desk, making sure I would not be left alone with any important documents lying about. Satisfied there was nothing, she left. I sat behind the desk and opened my notebook to the numbers Dan Bledsoe had given me. I got him at home.
"It's Jack McEvoy. From today."
"Right, yeah."
"Listen, I got picked up by the FBI after I got back into D.C. They're doing a major deal on this guy and they've connected up five cases. But they don't have McCafferty yet because of no note. I can give it to them and they'll go from there. But I wanted to check with you first about it. They'll probably come talk to you if I tell them. They'll probably come even if I don't."
While he thought about this my eyes scanned the desk as Walling had done. It was very clean, taken up mostly by a monthly calendar that also served as a blotter. I noted that she has just come back from a vacation, the date blocks for the prior week having "vac" written in each one. There were abbreviated notations in the blocks for other dates of the month but they were indecipherable to me.
"Give it to 'em," Bledsoe said.
"You sure?"
"Sure. If the bureau comes out and says Johnny Mac was murdered, then his wife gets the bread. That's all I wanted in the first place, so tell 'em. They're not going to do anything to me. They can't. What's done is done. I already heard from a friend that they were up here going through records today."
"Okay, man, thanks."
"You going to get a piece of it?"
"I don't know. I'm working on it."
"It's your case. Hang in there. But don't trust the G, Jack. They'll use you and what you got and then leave you on the sidewalk like dog shit."
I thanked him for the advice and as I hung up a man in the standard-issue gray FBI suit walked by the open door of the office, noticed me behind the desk and stopped. He stepped in, a curious look on his face.
"Excuse me, what are you doing here?"
"Waiting for Agent Walling."
He was a large man with a sharp and ruddy face and short, black hair.
"And you are?"
"My name is Jack McEvoy. She-"
"Just don't sit behind the desk."
He made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating I should come around to the front of the desk and take one of the chairs there. Rather than argue the point I followed his instructions. He thanked me and left the office. The episode served as a
reminder to me of why I never liked dealing with FBI agents. In general, they all carried anal-retentive genes. More than most.
After I was sure he was gone I reached across the desk to Walling's phone and punched in Greg Glenn's direct number. It was shortly after five in Denver and I knew he would be busy supervising deadline, but I had no choice of when I could call.
"Jack, can you call back?"
"No. I've got to talk to you."