The Matlock Paper

  Jason Greenberg looked at Matlock. “There’s an old Slovak proverb: ‘When the old men kill themselves, the cities are dying.’ ”

  The telephone bell suddenly pierced the air; its sound acted as a jolt to the three men. Matlock answered it, then turned to Greenberg. “It’s for you.”

  “Thanks.” The federal agent took the phone from Matlock. “Greenberg.… O.K. I understand. When will you know?… I’ll probably be on the road by then. I’ll call you back. Talk later.” He replaced the telephone and stood by the desk, his back to Matlock and Kressel. The dean of colleges couldn’t contain himself.

  “What was it? What happened?”

  Greenberg turned and faced them. Matlock thought his eyes seemed sadder than usual, which Matlock had learned was a sign of trouble in Greenberg.

  “We’re making a request of the police—the courts—for an autopsy.”

  “Why?!” Kressel shouted as he approached the agent. “For God’s sake, why?! The man killed himself! He was in pain!… Jesus Christ, you can’t do this! If news of it gets out …”

  “We’ll handle it quietly.”

  “That can’t be done and you know it! It’ll leak out and all hell’ll break loose around here! I won’t permit it!”

  “You can’t stop it. Even I couldn’t stop it. There’s sufficient evidence to indicate that Herron didn’t take his own life. That he was killed.” Greenberg smiled wryly at Matlock. “And not by words.”

  Kressel argued, threatened, made another call to Sealfont, and finally, when it was obvious that all were to no avail, he left Matlock’s apartment in fury.

  No sooner had Kressel slammed the door than the telephone rang again. Greenberg saw that the sound disturbed Matlock—not merely annoyed him, but disturbed him; perhaps frightened him.

  “I’m sorry.… I’m afraid this place has to be a kind of patrol base for a while. Not long … Maybe it’s the girl.”

  Matlock picked up the phone, listened, but did not say anything into it. Instead, he turned to Greenberg. He said only one word.

  “You.”

  Greenberg took the telephone, uttered his name softly, and then spent the next minute staring straight ahead. Matlock watched Greenberg for half the time and then wandered into his kitchen. He didn’t wish to stand awkwardly to one side while the agent listened to a superior’s instructions.

  The voice at the other end of the line had initially identified itself by saying, “Washington calling.”

  On the counter lay the empty envelope in which the brutally hypocritical statement had come from the Department of Justice. It had been one more sign that his worst fantasies were gradually becoming real. From that infinitesimal portion of the mind which concerns itself with the unthinkable, Matlock had begun to perceive that the land he had grown up in was changing into something ugly and destructive. It was far more than a political manifestation, it was a slow, all-embracing sense of morality by strategy. A corruption of intentions. Strong feelings were being replaced with surface anger, convictions and compromise. The land was becoming something other than its promise, its commitment. The grails were empty vessels of flat wine, impressive solely because they were possessed.

  “I’m off the phone now. Would you like to try reaching Miss Ballantyne?”

  Matlock looked up at Greenberg, standing in the frame of the kitchen door. Greenberg, the walking contradiction, the proverb-quoting agent deeply suspicious of the system for which he worked.

  “Yes. Yes, I’d like to.” He started into the living room as Greenberg stepped aside to let him pass. Matlock reached the center of the room and stopped. “That’s one hell of a quotation. What was it? ‘When the old men kill themselves, the cities are dying.’ ” He turned and looked at the agent. “I think that’s the saddest proverb I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re not Hassidic. Of course, neither am I, but the Hassidim wouldn’t think it sad.… Come to think of it, no true philosopher would.”

  “Why not? It is sad.”

  “It’s truth. Truth is neither joyful nor sad, neither good nor bad. It is simply truth.”

  “Someday let’s debate that, Jason.” Matlock picked up the telephone, dialed Pat’s number, and let it ring a dozen times. There was no answer. Matlock thought of several of Pat’s friends and wondered whether to call them or not. When angry or upset, Pat usually did one of two things. She either went off by herself for an hour or so, or, conversely, sought out one or two friends and drove off to a film in Hartford or an out-of-the-way bar. It was just over an hour. He’d give her another fifteen minutes before phoning around. It had, of course, occurred to him that she might have been taken involuntarily—that had been his first thought. But it wasn’t logical. The Cheshire Cat had been filled with people, the tables close together. Greenberg was right. Wherever she went, she went because she wanted to go.

  Greenberg stood by the kitchen door. He hadn’t moved. He’d been watching Matlock.

  “I’ll try in a quarter of an hour. Then, if there’s no answer, I’ll call some friends of hers. As you said, she’s one strong-willed young lady.”

  “I hope you’re not from the same cloth.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Greenberg took several steps into the living room. When he spoke, he looked directly into Matlock’s eyes.

  “You’re out. Finished. Forget the letter, forget Loring, forget me.… That’s the way it’s got to be. We understand you have reservations for St. Thomas on Pan Am for Saturday. Enjoy it, because that’s where you’re going. Much better this way.”

  Matlock returned the government man’s look. “Any decision like that will be made by me. I’ve got a gentle old man on my conscience; and you’ve got that stinkpot in your pocket. I signed it, remember?”

  “The stinkpot doesn’t count anymore. D.C. wants you out. You go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the gentle old man. If he was killed, you could be, too. If that happened, certain records might be subpoenaed, certain men who had reservations about recruiting you might voice those reservations to the press. You were maneuvered. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “So?”

  “The directors at Justice have no wish to be called executioners.”

  “I see.” Matlock took his eyes off Greenberg and wandered toward the coffee table. “Suppose I refuse?”

  “Then I remove you from the scene.”

  “How?”

  “I have you arrested on suspicion of murder one.”

  “What?”

  “You were the last person of record to see Lucas Herron alive. By your own admission, you went out to his house to threaten him.”

  “To warn him!”

  “That’s subject to interpretation, isn’t it?”

  When the thunderous crash came, it was so ear-shattering both men threw themselves to the floor. It was as if the whole side of the building had collapsed in rubble. Dust was everywhere, furniture toppled, glass shattered, splinters of wood and plaster flew through the air, and the terrible stench of burning sulfur settled over the room. Matlock knew the smell of that kind of bomb, and his reflexes knew how to operate. He clung to the base of his couch waiting, waiting for a second explosion—a delayed detonator which would kill any who rose in panic. Through the mist, he saw Greenberg start to get up, and he leaped forward, tackling the agent at his knees.

  “Get down! Stay.…”

  The second explosion came. Parts of the ceiling blackened. But Matlock knew it was not a killer explosive. It was something else, and he could not figure it out at the moment. It was an eyegrabber, a camouflage—not meant to kill, but to deflect all concentration. A huge firecracker.

  Screams of panic could now be heard mounting from all parts of the building. The sounds of rushing feet pounded on the floor above his apartment.

  And then a single screech of terror from outside Matlock’s front door. It would not stop. The horror of it caused Matlock and Greenberg to struggle to their feet
and race to the source. Matlock pulled the door open and looked down upon a sight no human being should ever see more than once in a lifetime, if his life must continue beyond that instant.

  On his front step was Patricia Ballantyne wrapped in a bloodsoaked sheet. Holes were cut in the areas of her naked breasts, blood flowing from gashes beneath the nipples. The front of her head was shaved; blood poured out of lacerations where once had been the soft brown hair. Blood, too, came from the half-open mouth, her lips bruised and split. The eyes were blackened into deep crevasses of sore flesh—but they moved! The eyes moved!

  Saliva began forming at the corners of her lips. The half-dead corpse was trying to speak.

  “Jamie …” was the only word she managed and then her head slipped to one side.

  Greenberg threw his whole weight against Matlock, sending him sprawling into the gathering crowd. He roared orders of “Police!” and “Ambulance!” until he saw enough people running to execute his commands. He put his mouth to the girl’s mouth, to force air into the collapsing lungs, but he knew it wasn’t really necessary. Patricia Ballantyne wasn’t dead; she’d been tortured by experts, and the experts knew their business well. Every slash, every crack, every bruise meant utmost pain but did not mean death.

  He started to pick the girl up but Matlock stopped him. The English professor’s eyes were swollen with tears of hate. He gently removed Greenberg’s hands and lifted Pat into his arms. He carried her inside and stretched her out on the half-destroyed sofa. Greenberg went into the bedroom and returned with a blanket. Then he brought a bowl of warm water from the kitchen and several towels. He lifted the blanket and held a towel beneath the bleeding breasts. Matlock, staring in horror at the brutally beaten face, then took the edge of another towel and began wiping away the blood around the shaven head and the mouth.

  “She’ll be all right, Jim. I’ve seen this before. She’ll be all right.”

  And as Greenberg heard the sounds of the sirens in the near distance, he wondered, really, if this girl would ever be right again.

  Matlock, helpless, continued to wipe the girl’s face, his tears now streaming down his cheeks, his eyes unblinking. He spoke through his controlled sobs.

  “You know what this means, don’t you? No one pulls me out now. They try, I’ll kill them.”

  “I won’t let them,” said Greenberg simply.

  The screeching of brakes could be heard outside and the flashing lights of the police cars and the ambulances whipped in circles through the windows.

  Matlock’s face fell into the cushion beside the unconscious girl and he wept.

  14

  Matlock awoke in the antiseptic whiteness of a hospital room. The shade was up, and the sun reflected harshly on the three walls he could see. At his feet a nurse was writing efficiently, emphatically, on top of a clipboard attached to the base of the bed by a thin keychain. He stretched his arms, then quickly brought his left back, aware of a sharp pain in his forearm.

  “You feel those the next morning, Mr. Matlock,” droned the nurse without looking up from the clipboard. “Heavy intravenous sedations are murder, I can tell you. Not that I’ve ever had one, but Lord knows, I’ve seen enough who have.”

  “Is Pat … Miss Ballantyne here?”

  “Well, not in the same room! Lord, you campus types!”

  “She’s here?”

  “Of course. Next room. Which I intend to keep locked! Lord, you people from the hill!… There! You’re all accounted for.” The nurse let the clipboard crash down and vibrate back and forth. “Now. You’ve got special privileges. You’re allowed breakfast even though it’s past breakfast time—way past! That’s probably because they want you to pay your bill.… You can be discharged any time after twelve.”

  “What time is it? Someone took my watch.”

  “It’s eight minutes to nine,” said the nurse, glancing at her wrist. “And no one took your watch. It’s with any other valuables you had when you were admitted.”

  “How is Miss Ballantyne?”

  “We don’t discuss other patients, Mr. Matlock.”

  “Where’s her doctor?”

  “He’s the same as yours, I understand. Not one of ours.” The nurse made sure the statement was hardly complimentary. “According to your chart, he’ll be here at nine thirty unless we phone for an emergency.”

  “Call him. I want him here as soon as possible.”

  “Now, really. There’s no emergency.…”

  “Goddamn it, get him here!”

  As Matlock raised his voice the door of his room opened. Jason Greenberg came in quickly. “I could hear you in the corridor. That’s a good sign.”

  “How’s Pat?!”

  “Just a minute, sir. We have regulations.…”

  Greenberg took out his identification and showed it to the nurse. “This man is in my custody, Miss. Check the front desk, if you like, but leave us alone.”

  The nurse, ever professional, scrutinized the identification and walked rapidly out the door.

  “How’s Pat?”

  “A mess, but with it. She had a bad night; she’s going to have a worse morning when she asks for a mirror.”

  “The hell with that! Is she all right?”

  “Twenty-seven stitches—body, head, mouth, and, for variety, one on her left foot. But she’s going to be fine. X-rays show only bone bruises. No fractures, no ruptures, no internal bleeding. The bastards did their usual professional job.”

  “Was she able to talk?”

  “Not really. And the doctor didn’t advise it. She needs sleep more than anything else.… You need a little rest, too. That’s why we put you here last night.”

  “Anyone hurt at the apartment?”

  “Nope. It was a crazy bombing. We don’t think it was intended to kill anyone. The first was a short two-inch stick taped below the window exterior; the second—activated by the first—wasn’t much more than a July Fourth rocket. You expected the second blast, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I guess I did.… Terror tactics, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what we figure.”

  “Can I see Pat?”

  “Rather you waited. The doctor thinks she’ll sleep into the afternoon. There’s a nurse in there with ice packs and stuff if localized pain bothers her. Let her rest.”

  Matlock cautiously sat up on the edge of the bed. He began flexing his legs, arms, neck, and hands, and found that he wasn’t much below par. “I feel sort of like a hangover without the headache.”

  “The doctor gave you a heavy dose. You were … understandably … very emotional.”

  “I remember everything. I’m calmer, but I don’t retract one goddamned word.… I have two classes today. One at ten and the other at two. I want to make them.”

  “You don’t have to. Sealfont wants to see you.”

  “I’ll talk to him after my last class.… Then I’ll see Pat.” Matlock stood on his feet and walked slowly to the large hospital window. It was a bright, sunlit morning; Connecticut had had a string of beautiful days. As he stared outside, Matlock remembered that he’d looked out another window five days ago when he’d first met Jason Greenberg. He’d made a decision then as he was making one now. “Last night you said you wouldn’t let them pull me out. I hope you haven’t changed your mind. I’m not going to be on that Pan Am flight tomorrow.”

  “You won’t be arrested. I promised you that.”

  “Can you prevent it? You also said you were going to be replaced.”

  “I can prevent it.… I can morally object, an enigmatic phrase which is translated to mean I can embarrass people. However, I don’t want to mislead you. If you create problems, you could be taken into protective custody.”

  “They can if they can find me.”

  “That’s a condition I don’t like.”

  “Forget you heard it. Where are my clothes?” Matlock walked to the single closet door and opened it. His slacks, jacket, and shirt were hung on hangers; his loafers were on
the floor with his socks carefully inserted. The lone bureau held his undershorts and a hospital-furnished toothbrush. “Will you go down and see whoever you’ve got to see to get me out of here? Also, I’ll need my wallet, cash, and watch. Will you do that, please?”

  “What do you mean—if they could find you? What are you going to do?” Greenberg made no move to leave.

  “Nothing earth-shattering. Merely continue making those inquiries … of a minor nature. That’s the way the statement from your employers phrased it, wasn’t it? Loring said it. Somewhere out there is the other half of that paper. I’m going to find it.”

  “You listen to me first! I don’t deny you have a right …”

  “You don’t deny!” Matlock turned on the federal agent. His voice was controlled but vicious. “That’s not good enough. That’s negative approval! I’ve got several big rights! They include a kid brother in a sailboat, a black son of a bitch named Dunois or whatever you call him, a man by the name of Lucas Herron, and that girl in there! I suspect you and the doctor know the rest of what happened to her last night, and I can guess! Don’t talk to me about a right!”

  “In principle, we agree. I just don’t want your ‘rights’ to land you next to your brother. This is a job for professionals. Not an amateur! If you work at all, I want you to work with whoever takes my place. That’s important. I want your word on it.”

  Matlock took off the top of his pajamas and gave Greenberg a short, embarrassed smile. “You have it. I don’t really see myself as a one-man ranger team. Do you know who’s taking your place?”

  “Not yet. Probably someone from D.C. They won’t take a chance on using a Hartford or a New Haven man.… The truth is … they don’t know who’s been bought. He’ll be in touch. I’ll have to brief him myself. No one else can. I’ll instruct him to identify himself with … what would you like?”

  “Tell him to use your proverb. ‘When the old men kill themselves, the cities are dying.’ ”

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t like it or dislike it. It’s simply the truth. Isn’t that the way it should be?”