“It gets easier all the time,” Spinney sighed. “Well, at least let’s start with Gorman.” “Jesus, we should have booked ahead.” Cars and pickups lined both sides of 114, and several television trucks filled North Street, across from the Rocky River. We made the corner down Atlantic Boulevard and were damn near back out of town before Spinney said, “Fuck it,” and parked in someone’s yard.
It had begun to snow as we made our way back up the street, returning to the Inn on foot. “What the hell’s going on? I thought this was supposed to be a small interview,” Spinney said, looking at the trucks.
“It’s a big story; everybody’s had enough time to send in the hotshots.
My guess is that Gorman’s been working the phone like a regular P.T.
Barnum.” “The only crew missing is MTV.” As we rounded the corner into North Street, we found a throng of people milling about the menagerie of electronic equipment. I saw Buster standing by the side of the road, looking like the bear rousted from his cave. “What d’ya think?” He shook his head. “Damnedest thing. They come all the way up here from cities where they get thirty killings in a week, just to jabber about how the country’s going to the dogs. Beats the hell out of me.”
“Anything happen yet?” “Hell, no. The fancy boys with the hairdos are talking to each other, the local guys are taking pictures of the fancy boys, and the rest of ‘em are taking pictures of each other just to prove they were here. Now I know for sure why we end up with the politicians we get.” He stumped off into the falling snow, presumably to sit in contemplation amid the isolated splendor of his filling station. Spinney and I climbed the steps to the front door, stepping over a nest of tangled wires and cables leading to trucks with dish antennas on top. Inside, on the left, the Library glowed with an eerie blue-white %215 light. People jammed the entrance way, balanced on top of radiators, and challenged the strength of the staircase, all craning to see over or through the forest of lights, reflector umbrellas, cameras, and sound equipment that had been crowded into Buster’s favorite evening den.
We ucled 0UE way through to tee double doors, where we found a man with a headset around his neck uard1n the entrance.
“Greta Lynn and Paul Gorman in there?” Spinney asked in his best G-man tone. The man looked at us like we’d just wandered out of the woods.
“Yeah, they’re the show.” “We need to talk to them now.” “We’re about to tape.” Spinney pulled out his badge. “Now.” The man caught his breath for a moment, apparently fighting down a hysterical reaction. “Wait here.” He returned a minute later with a flabby-looking man with blowdried hair, a gold chain around his neck, and tinted aviator glasses, a look I thought had faded years ago. “What’s going on?” he asked with thinly veiled hostility.
Spinney smiled~arely and introduced us, complete with lofty titles.
“We’re conducting a criminal investigation. We need to talk to Mrs.
Lynn and Mr. Gorrnan.” “Is this going to take long?” “I don’t know.”
“You know, we’ll be out of here in an hour. Maybe you could wait. I’ll give you a ringside seat.” “No.” The man, presumably a producer or director, pursed his lips. “Since what we’re both doing ties in with your case, why don’t you let us film your talk with them, and then we’ll do the interview right after? Kind of like “Sixty Minutes,” you know?”
Spinney just looked at him.
“You may be missing the boat here. People open up when a camera’s rolling-we might be able to help you get more out of them. It’ll make you look good. Your boss’ll be happy and your family can see you on TV.” That explained the tinted glasses and neck hardware, I thought.
The network put this guy out to pasture years ago, at least I hoped so.
Again Spinney said, “No.” Finally, the producer caved in. “Kill the lights. We’ll hold for a while.” The other man checked his watch. “We can’t hold forever.” %216 “I’m aware of that fact, Charlie. If it takes too long, we’ll fold our tents; this is hardly a summit conference.” I was grateful Greta wasn’t within earshot. They might have been suddenly covering a live homicide.
Several reporters had caught wind something was up and began to cluster around the doorway.
“Aren’t you Joe Gunther?” one of them asked. “Oh, for Christ sake,”
Spinney muttered and grabbed my arm. “Don’t let anyone past,” he told headset-Charlie as we plowed into the electronic jungle littering the Library.
Greta and Gorman were on the other side, sitting in director’s chairs, having their noses dusted. Spinney stepped up in front of Gorman.
Show’s over. We need to talk.” Greta looked around at the dying lights.
“What the hell’s going on?” “Actually, Greta,” I said, “unless Sergeant Spinney objects, I’d like you to hear this.” The makeup man was standing awkwardly to one side. I waved him away. Spinney shrugged.
“Fine with me.” He reached forward and took Gorman’s arm. “Come on, let’s go find a quiet corner.” Gorman shook the hand off. “Am I under arrest?” “You might be, depending on what you’ve got to say.” Several technicians and hangers-on discreetly gathered within earshot, straining to hear. “On what charge?” Spinney looked around. “You know and we know what the charges might be, Mr. Gorman. If you want to have this conversation in front of the network crews, that’s fine with me.” Greta crossed her arms. “Fine, let’s do it.” Gorman hesitated. “No, I think maybe a little privacy is called for.” Greta stared at him, her mouth half open.
He quickly covered himself. “I’m sure what they’ve got to say is totally ridiculous. But there’s no point feeding it directly into the pipeline.” He stood up. “Where to?” Spinney shot me a questioning look. I turned to Greta. “The stairs are blocked. Is there some place on the ground floor we can go? The kitchen, maybe?” Reluctantly, her face mirroring her suspicions, she got up and began to lead the way. I noticed she kept looking back at Gorman as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. Deceit was not something she handled with grace, especially from those for whom she’d let down the drawbridge.
%217 The side door to the kitchen was off a short hallway around the corner from the Library’s entrance; our wade through the crowd was short and without comment, at least from any of us.
Once in the kitchen, Spinney locked the door behind us. Gorman strolled into the middle of the room, seemingly interested in the pots and pans hanging from hooks overhead, the numerous large, deep metal sinks, and the long wooden work tables, their surfaces scarred and eroded by years of slicing and hacking. Glancing around, I wondered if the place would survive even a cursory glance from the Health Department. The accumulated grime of thousands of greasy meals was parked in every nook and cranny, and the walls looked painted with a thin, dark sheen of old, rancid oil.
Gorman turned theatrically on one heel to face us, a great show of forced indifference, belied by his watchful eyes. His hands remained in his pockets. “So, what’s this all about?” “You checked in at the White Horse Motel thirty-six hours before you said you did,” I said. He stared at us with mock surprise.
“Checked into the motel?” Greta laughed. “You got to be kidding. Is that what this is about?” Spinney took over. “I have to inform you you don’t have to talk to us, and that if you have a lawyer, you might want to call him.” Gorman waved it away. “Such melodrama.” “It’s your choice. You told us you arrived on Thursday morning after receiving a call from Ellie Wingate about an hour earlier. That was a lie-we’ve got the motel records to prove it.” Gorman held up his hands. “A lie?