“Are you going back to Denver?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“How bad was it?”
“It was bad. Last time he’ll ever listen to one of my promises.”
“I don’t understand how it could’ve happened. They would have had to call Bob Backus for comment.”
“Maybe they did.”
“No, he would have told you. He would have kept his deal. He’s second-generation bureau. I’ve never seen anyone toe the line like that man.”
“Well I hope he keeps the deal now. Because I’m writing today.”
“What did the story say?”
“I don’t know. I should have it as soon as I can hook up to a phone.”
We were at the courthouse. She pulled into the garage for federal employees.
Only Backus and Thorson were in the conference room.
The meeting began with Backus expressing his regret that the story had leaked before I could write it. It seemed legitimate to me and I regretted impugning his integrity with my comment earlier to Rachel.
“Do you have it? I can get it on my computer if I can use the phone line.”
“By all means. I’ve been waiting for someone from the L.A. field office to fax it. The only reason I know about it is because Brass tells me we’re already getting calls from other media into Quantico.”
I plugged in and turned on my computer and dialed into the Rocky system. I didn’t bother to read any of my messages. I went right to my personal basket and looked at the files. I noticed there were two new ones: POETCOPY and HYP- STORIES. I remembered then that I had asked Laurie Prine for stories on hypnosis and Horace the Hypnotist but I’d have to look at those files later. I called up POETCOPY and got a shock that I should have seen coming before I had even read the first line of the story.
“Damn it!”
“What?” Rachel asked.
“It was written by Warren. He resigns from the Law Enforcement Foundation and then turns around and uses my story to get back with the Times.”
“Reporters,” Thorson said with unhidden joy. “Just can’t trust them.”
I ignored him but it was hard. I was angry about what had happened. At Warren and at myself. I should have seen it coming.
“Read it, Jack,” Backus said.
I did.
FBI, POLICE SEEK SERIAL COP KILLER
The Hunted Turns on the Hunters
By Michael Warren
Special to the Times
The FBI has begun a manhunt for a serial killer who has claimed as many as seven homicide detectives as his victims in a nationwide rampage begun as long as three years ago.
Dubbed the “Poet” because he has left notes containing lines of poetry from the work of Edgar Allan Poe at each murder scene, the suspect has attempted to disguise the deaths of his victims as suicides.
And for as long as three years his victims were counted as such until the similarities of the crimes, including the quotes from Poe, were discovered last week, according to a source close to the investigation.
That discovery prompted the FBI to act quickly in its efforts to identify and capture the Poet. Dozens of FBI agents and police in seven cities are carrying out the investigation under the direction of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Services. The investigation currently has its most intense focus on Phoenix, where the latest death attributed to the Poet occurred, the source said.
The source, who talked to the Times on the condition of anonymity, declined to disclose how the activities of the Poet were discovered but said that a joint study by the FBI and the Law Enforcement Foundation of police suicides in the last six years provided key information.
The story went on to list the names of the victims and some of the details of each case. It then included a few paragraphs on the BSS unit as filler and ended with a wrapup quote from the unnamed source saying that the FBI had little to go on in terms of knowing who or where the Poet was.
By the time I was done reading it, my cheeks were hot with anger. There is nothing worse than living by the letter of an agreement when one of the people you made the deal with doesn’t. The story was weak, in my opinion, a lot of words around a few facts and all attributed to an anonymous source. Warren didn’t even mention the fax or, more importantly, the bait murders. I knew that what I would write that day would be the definitive piece on the Poet. But that didn’t move the anger back in my throat much. For whatever the shortcomings of the story were, it was still clear that Warren had talked to somebody in the bureau. And I couldn’t help but think that that person was sitting at the conference room table with me.
“We had a deal,” I said, looking up from the computer. “Somebody gave this to this guy. He knew what I had when I came in to him on Thursday, but he went to somebody in the bureau for the rest. Probably someone on the task force. Probably somebody—”
“That may be true, Jack, but—”
“He already had this because of you,” Thorson interrupted. “You only have yourself to blame.”
“Wrong,” I said, glaring back at him. “I gave him most of it but not the Poet. The offender wasn’t even called that when I was with Warren. That came from the task force. And that blows our deal. Somebody’s talking who shouldn’t be talking. The story’s out. I have to go write what I know today for tomorrow.”
A small measure of silence passed through the room.
“Jack,” Backus said, “I know this won’t do you much good now but I want you to know that when I get some time and space on this thing, I am going to find out who the leak was and that person won’t be working for me anymore, and maybe not even the bureau.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t do me much good.”
“I need to ask a favor, nonetheless.”
I looked at Backus, wondering if he was actually foolish enough to try again to persuade me to hold off on writing a story every TV station and paper in the country would be running anyway that night and the next day.
“What is it?”
“When you write this . . . I want you to please keep in mind that we still need to get this man. You have information that could irreparably harm our chances of doing that. I’m talking about specific things. Details of the profile. Details about the possible hypnosis, the condoms. If you print those, Jack, and they are repeated on TV or in a newspaper he has access to, then he will change his routine. See what I’m saying? It will only make it harder for us.”
I nodded but then looked at him with a hard stare.
“You’re not going to tell me what to write.”
“I know that. I’m asking you to think about your brother, about us, and be careful of what you write. I trust you, Jack. Implicitly.”
I thought about that for a long moment and then nodded again.
“Bob, I made a deal with you and came out on the short end. If you want me to protect you now, there’s got to be a new deal. You’re going to have reporters coming out of the woodwork today. But I want you to refer all calls to public affairs in Quantico. I talk to and quote from you exclusively. Also, I get the fax from the Poet exclusively. You give me that and I won’t mention the details of the profile or the hypnosis in my story.”
“That’s a deal,” Backus said.
He said it so quickly that I started to think he knew exactly what I had been going to say, that he had known all along that I was going to suggest the new deal.
“But one thing, Jack,” Backus said. “Let’s agree on holding back one line from the fax. If we start getting confessions, we’ll be able to use the hold-back line to weed out the phonies.”
“No problem,” I said.
“I’ll be here. I’ll tell the front that your calls can come through. No one else from the press.”
“There will be a lot of those calls.”
“My intention was to let public affairs handle it anyway.”
“If the statement they put out includes the origination of the case, tell them not to use my name. Just
say inquiries from the Rocky Mountain News started it rolling.”
Backus nodded.
“One last thing,” I said and then paused a moment. “I’m still concerned about the leak. If I find out the L.A. Times or any other media outlet also got the Poet fax today, then I’ll put everything I know into the next story. The profile, everything. Okay?”
“Understood.”
“You weasel,” Thorson said angrily. “You think you can just come in here and dictate what—”
“Fuck you, Thorson,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to say that to you since Quantico. Fuck you, okay? If I was betting, I’d say you were the leak, so don’t tell me anything about being a weas—”
“FUCK YOU!” Thorson roared as he stood up to challenge me.
But quickly Backus was up and putting a hand on his shoulder. He gently pushed him back down into his seat. Rachel watched the whole thing, a small, thin smile on her face.
“Easy, Gordon,” Backus soothed. “Easy. Nobody’s accusing anyone of anything. Let’s keep things cool. Everybody’s a little hot and bothered today but it’s no reason why we can’t cool down. Jack, that’s a dangerous accusation. If you have something to back it up, let’s hear it. If not, you’d best leave things like that unsaid.”
I said nothing. I only had my gut instinct that Thorson had leaked the story to fuck me over because of some paranoia about reporters in general and my relationship with Rachel in particular. It wasn’t the kind of thing to bring up for discussion. Everybody eventually took their seats and just stared at each other.
“That was entertaining as hell, fellas, but I’d like to do some work today,” Rachel finally said.
“And I have to go,” I said. “What line do you want to hold back on the fax?”
“The riddle,” Backus answered. “Don’t mention Best Pals.”
I thought a moment. It was one of the better lines.
“Fine. No problem.”
I stood up and so did Rachel.
“I’ll give you a ride back to the hotel.”
“Is it that bad, getting scooped like that?” she asked as we were headed back to the hotel.
“It’s bad. I guess it’s like with you guys, the ones that get away. I hope Backus busts Thorson for this. The asshole.”
“It will be hard for him to prove anything. It’s just going to be suspicion.”
“If you told Backus about us and told him that Thorson knew, then he’d believe it.”
“I can’t. If I told Backus about us I’d be the one who’d go down.”
After some silence she changed the subject back to the story.
“You’ll have so much more than he had.”
“What? Who?”
“I’m talking about Warren. You’ll have a better story.”
“First with the story, first with the glory. That’s an old newspaper saying. But it’s true. In most stories, the one that’s there first is always the one who gets the credit, even if the first story is full of holes and bullshit. Even if it’s a stolen story.”
“Is that what it’s about? Getting credit? Just being first, even if you don’t have it right?”
I looked over at her and tried to smile.
“Yeah, sometimes. Most times. Pretty noble job, huh?”
She didn’t answer. We drove in silence for a while. I wished that she would say something about us and what we had or didn’t have but she didn’t. We were getting close to the hotel now.
“What if I can’t convince him to let me stay here and I have to go back to Denver? What happens to us?”
She didn’t answer for a while.
“I don’t know, Jack. What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know but I don’t want it to just end like this. I thought . . .”
I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to tell her.
“I don’t want it to end like this, either.”
She drove to the front of the hotel to drop me off. She said she had to get back. A guy in a red jacket with gold braid on the shoulders opened the door for me, robbing us of any privacy. I wanted to kiss her but something about the situation and being in the G car made it seem inappropriate and awkward.
“I’ll see you when I can,” I said. “As soon as I can.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. “Good-bye, Jack. Good luck with the story. Call me at the field office and let me know if you are writing from here. Maybe we can get together tonight.”
That was a better reason than any I had come up with for staying in Phoenix. She reached over and touched my beard like she had done once before. And just before I got out of the car she told me to wait. She took a card out of her purse and wrote a number on the back of it, then she gave it to me.
“That’s my pager number in case something happens. It’s on the satellite, so you can beep me wherever I am.”
“In the whole world?”
“The whole world. Until the satellite falls.”
32
Gladden looked at the words on the screen. They were beautiful, as if written by the unseen hand of God. So right. So knowledgeable. He read them again.
* * *
They know about me now and I am ready. I await them. I am prepared to take my place in the pantheon of faces. I feel as I did as a child when I waited for the closet door to be opened so that I could receive him. The line of light at the bottom. My beacon. I watched the light and the shadows each of his footfalls made. Then I knew he was there and that I would have his love. The apple of his eye.
We are what they make us and yet they turn from us. We are cast off. We become nomads in the world of the moan. My rejection is my pain and motivation. I carry with me the vengeance of all the children. I am the Eidolon. I am called the predator, the one to watch for in your midst. I am the cucoloris, the blur of light and dark. My story is not one of deprivation and abuse. I welcomed the touch. I can admit it. Can you? I wanted, craved, welcomed the touch. It was only the rejection—when my bones grew too large—that cut me so deeply and forced on me the life of a wanderer. I am the cast off. And the children must stay forever young.
* * *
He looked up when the phone rang. It was on the counter in the kitchen and he stared at it as it rang. It was the first call she had gotten. The machine picked up after three rings and her taped message played. Gladden had written it out on a piece of paper and made her read it three times before it was recorded on the fourth. Stupid woman, he thought as he listened now. She wasn’t much of an actress—at least with her clothes on.
“Hello this is Darlene, I . . . I can’t take your call right now. I’ve had to go out of town because of an emergency. I will be checking messages—uh, messages and will call you as soon as I can.”
She sounded nervous and Gladden worried that because of the repeat of the one word that a caller would know she was reading. He listened as a male voice left an angry message after the beep.
“Darlene, goddamnit! You better call me as soon as you get this. You left me in a big lurch over here. You shoulda called and just might not have a job to come back to, girl, goddamnit!”
Gladden thought it had worked. He got up and erased the message. Her boss, he assumed. But he wouldn’t be getting a callback from Darlene.
He noticed the smell as he stood in the kitchen doorway. He grabbed his matches off his cigarettes on the living room coffee table and went into the bedroom. He studied the body for a few moments. The face was a pale green but darker since the last time he had checked. Bloody fluid was draining from the mouth and nose, as the body purged itself of decomposition fluids. He had read about these purges in one of the books he had successfully petitioned to receive before the warden at Raiford. Forensic Pathology. Gladden wished he had the camera so he could document the changes in Darlene.
He lit four more sticks of jasmine incense, placing them in ashtrays at the four corners of the bed.
This time, after he had left and closed the bedroom door, he laid a wet towel along
the threshold, hoping it would prevent the odor from spreading into the area of the apartment where he was living. He still had two days to go.
33
I talked Greg Glenn into letting me write from Phoenix. For the rest of the morning I stayed in my room making calls, gathering comments from players in the story ranging from Wexler in Denver to Bledsoe in Baltimore. I wrote for five straight hours after that and the only disturbances I had all day were calls from Glenn himself, nervously asking how I was doing. An hour before the five o’clock deadline in Denver, I filed two stories to the metro desk.
My nerves were jangling by the time I shipped the stories and I had a headache that was almost off the scale. I had been through a pot and a half of room service coffee and a full pack of Marlboros—the most I had smoked in one sitting in years. Pacing the room and waiting for Greg Glenn’s callback, I made a quick call to room service again, explained that I couldn’t leave my room because I was expecting an important call, and ordered a bottle of aspirin from the hotel’s lobby shop.
After it arrived I downed three tablets with mineral water from the minibar and almost immediately started feeling better. Next I called my mother and Riley and alerted them that my stories would be in the next day’s paper. I also told them there was a chance that reporters from other media outlets might try to contact them now that the story was out and to be prepared. Both said they didn’t want to talk to any reporters and I said that was fine, not missing the irony that I was one myself.
Lastly, I realized I had forgotten to call Rachel to tell her I was still in town. I called the Phoenix field office of the FBI but was told by the agent who answered that she was gone.
“What do you mean ‘gone’? Is she still in Phoenix?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Can I speak with Agent Backus then?”
“He’s gone, too. Who may I ask is calling?”
I hung up and dialed the hotel’s front desk and asked for her room. I was told she had checked out. So had Backus. So had Thorson, Carter and Thompson.