“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 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 Chicag
o 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 hotel 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.
As a police reporter I was a tourist of the macabre. I moved from murder to murder, horror to horror without blinking an eye. Supposedly. As I walked back in through the lobby toward the bank of elevators I thought about what this said about me. Maybe something was wrong with me.
Why was the spot where Hinckley waited important to me?
“Jack?”
I turned around at the elevators. It was Michael Warren.
“Hey.”
“I called your room . . . I thought you might be around.”
“I was just taking a walk. I was beginning to give up on you.”
I said it with a smile and a lot of hope. This moment would determine a lot of things for me. He was no longer in the suit he had on at his office. It was blue jeans and a sweater. He had a long tweed coat over his arm. He was following the pattern of a confidential source, coming in person rather than leaving a possible phone record.
“You want to go up to the room or talk down here?”
He moved toward the elevator saying, “Your room.”
We didn’t speak in the elevator of anything of consequence. I looked at his clothes again and said, “You’ve already been home.”
“I live off Connecticut on the other side of the beltway. Maryland. Wasn’t that far.”
I knew that was a toll call and that was why he hadn’t called first. I also figured that the hotel was on the way from his house to the foundation. I was beginning to feel the small tick of excitement in my chest. Warren was going to turn.
There was a damp smell in the hallway that seemed to be the same in every hotel I had ever been in. I got out my card key and let him into my room. My computer was still open on the little desk and my long coat and the one tie I had brought with me were thrown across the bed. Otherwise, the room was neat. He threw his coat on the bed and we took the only chairs in the room.
“So what’s going on?” I asked.
“I did a search.”
He started to take a folded paper out of his back pocket.
“I have access to main computer files,” he said. “Before I left for the day, I went in and searched the field reports for victims who were homicide detectives. There were only thirteen. I have names, departments and dates of death here on a printout.”
He offered me the unfolded page and I took it from him as gently as if it were a sheet of gold.
“Thank you,” I said. “Will there be a record of your search?”
“I don’t really know. But I don’t think so. It’s a pretty wide-open system. I don’t know if there’s a security trace option or not.”
“Thank you,” I said again. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Anyway, that was the easy part,” he said. “Going through the protocols in file storage, that’s going to take some time . . . I wanted to know if you’d want to help. You’d probably know better than me which ones were important.”
“When?”
“Tonight. It’s the only time. The place will be closed up but I have a key to file storage because sometimes I have to dig out old things for media requests. If we don’t do it tonight the hard-copy files may be gone tomorrow. I have a feeling the FBI isn’t going to like them sitting up here, especially knowing you asked for them. They’ll come and grab them first thing tomorrow.”
“Is that what Ford said?”
“Not exactly. I heard it through Oline. He talked to Rachel Walling, not Backus. He said she’s—”
“Wait a minute. Rachel Walling?”
I knew the name. I took a moment but then I remembered she was the profiler who had signed the VICAP survey Sean had submitted on Theresa Lofton.
“Yes, Rachel Walling. She’s a profiler down there. Why?”
“Nothing. The name’s familiar.”
“She works for Backus. Sort of the liaison between the center and the foundation on the suicide project. Anyway, Oline says she told Ford she’s going to take a look at all of this. She might even want to talk to you.”
“If I don’t talk to her first.” I stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Listen, one thing.” He stood up. “I didn’t do this, okay? You use these files as an investigative tool only. You never publish a story that says you had access to foundation files. You never admit that you even saw a file. It could be my job. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then say it.”
“I agree. To all of it.”
We headed toward the door.
“It’s funny,” he said. “All those years procuring sources. I never really realized what they were risking for me. Now I do. It’s kind of scary.”
I just looked at him and nodded. I was afraid if I said anything he’d change his mind and go home.
On the way to the foundation in his car, he added a few more ground rules.
“I am not to be a named source in your story, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And any information from me cannot be attributed to a ‘foundation source,’ either. Just a ‘source familiar with the investigation,’ okay? That gives me some cover.”
“Okay.”
“What you’re looking for here are names that might be connected to your guy. If you find them, fine, but later on you don’t have to report on how you got them. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, we’ve been over this. You’re safe, Mike, I don’t give up sources. Ever. All I’ll do is use what we get here to get other confirmation. It’ll be the blueprint. It’s no problem.”
He was quiet for a few moments before doubts must have crept into his mind.
“He’s going to know it’s me, anyway.”
“Then why don’t we stop? I don’t want to jeopardize your job. I’ll just wait for the bureau.”
I didn’t want to do that but I had to give him the option. I wasn’t that far gone yet that I’d talk a guy into losing his job just to get information for a story. I didn’t want that on my conscience. There was enough there already.
“You can forget the FBI as long as it’s Walling’s case.”
“You know her? She tough?”
“Yeah, one of those as hard as nails with fingernail polish on. I tried shooting the shit with her once. She just shut me down. From what I hear from Oline, she got divorced or something a while back. I guess she’s still in her ‘men are pigs’ mode and it’s looking permanent to me.”
I held up saying anything. Warren had to make a decision and I couldn’t help.
“Don’t worry about Ford,” he finally said. “He may think it’s me but he won’t be able to do an
ything about it. I’ll deny. So, unless you break the agreement, he’ll have nothing but his suspicions.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about with me.”
He found a spot on Constitution a half block from the foundation and parked. Our breath was coming out in thick clouds when we got out. I was nervous, whether or not he thought his job was in danger. I think we both were.
There was no guard to be fooled. No staff members working overtime to surprise us. We got in the front door with Warren’s key and he knew right where we were going.
The file storage room was about the size of a double-wide garage and was taken up by rows of eight-foot steel shelves stacked with manila files with different colored tabs.
“How’re we going to do this?” I whispered.
He took the folded printout from his pocket.
“There’s a section on the suicide study. We look up these names, take the protocols to my office and copy the pages we need. I left the copier on when I left. Won’t even have to warm it up. And you don’t have to whisper. There’s nobody here.”
I noticed he said “we” one too many times but I didn’t say anything about it. He led me down one of the aisles, his finger out and pointing as he read the program headings printed on the shelves. Eventually, he found the heading for the suicide study. The files had red tabs on them.
“These here,” Warren said, raising his hand to point.
The files were thin, yet they took up three complete shelves. Oline Fredrick had been right, there were hundreds. Each red tag protruding from a file was a death. There was a lot of misery on the shelves. Now I had to hope that a few of them didn’t belong there. Warren handed me the printout and I scanned the thirteen names.
“Out of all of these files only thirteen were homicide cops?”
“Yeah. The project has accumulated data on over sixteen hundred suicides. About three hundred a year. But most are street cops. Homicide dicks see the bodies but I guess for them the misery is over by the time they get there. They’re usually the best and the brightest and the toughest. Seems like less of them eat the gun than the cops out on the beat. So I only came up with thirteen. Your brother and Brooks in Chicago also came up but I figured you have that stuff.”