Pendergast led the way back out through the narrow streets with the same caution he'd shown in approaching Spezi's workshop. By the time they'd reached the café, however, he seemed to have satisfied himself on some point, and suggested they stop for another espresso. Standing at the bar, he turned to D'Agosta with a smile.
"And now, my dear Vincent-do you have a theory?"
D'Agosta nodded. "Most of one, anyway."
"Excellent! Don't tell me yet. Let us continue our investigations in silence just a little longer. The time will soon come when we need to share our conclusions."
"Fine by me."
D'Agosta sipped the bitter drink. He wondered if it was possible to get a cup of decent American coffee somewhere in Italy instead of this poisonous black stuff that stripped the inside of your throat and boiled in your stomach for hours afterward.
Pendergast tossed his off, then leaned against the bar. "Can you imagine, Vincent, what the Renaissance would have been like had Michelangelo’s David been carved in green marble?"
{ 63 }
Captain of Detectives Laura Hayward sat in the orange plastic chair, coffee going cold in its Styrofoam cup. She was acutely aware of being both the youngest person, and the only female, in this room full of high-ranking police officers. The walls of the conference room were painted the usual pale puce. A picture of Rudolph Giuliani decorated one wall, framed together with a picture of the Twin Towers and, below, a list of police officers killed in the attacks. No picture of the current mayor, president of the U.S., or anyone else.
Hayward liked that.
Commissioner of Police Henry Rocker sat at the head of the table, his large hand permanently closed around a huge mug of black coffee, his permanently tired face gazing down the middle of the table. To his right sat Milton Grable, captain of patrol for the precinct in which Cutforth had been murdered and the tent city erected.
Hayward checked her watch. It was 9A.M. sharp.
"Grable?" Rocker said, opening the meeting.
Grable cleared his throat, shuffled some papers. "As you know, Commissioner, this tent city is becoming a problem. A big problem."
The only acknowledgment of this, it seemed to Hayward, was that the dark circles under Rocker's eyes grew darker.
"We got a couple hundred people living across the street from the most exclusive neighborhood in my precinct-the whole city, in fact-and they're trashing the park, pissing in the bushes, shitting everywhere-" His eyes darted to Hayward. "Sorry, ma'am."
"It's all right, Captain," Hayward said crisply. "I'm acquainted with both the term and the bodily function."
"Right."
"Proceed," the commissioner said dryly. Hayward thought she noticed a subtle flicker of amusement in Rocker's tired eyes.
"We're getting calls up the wazoo"-another glance at Hayward-"from important people. You know who I'm referring to, sir. They're demanding, they’re screaming , for something to be done. And they're right. These people in the park have no permit."
Hayward shifted in her chair. Her job was on the Cutforth murder, not listening to some precinct captain talk about permits.
"It isn't a political protest, a question of freedom of speech," Grable went on. "It's a bunch of religious nuts, egged on by this so-called Reverend Buck. Who, by the way, did nine years in Joliet for murder two, shot some clerk over a pack of gum."
"Is that right?" Rocker murmured. "And why not murder one?"
"Plea-bargained it down. The point I'm making, Commissioner, is that we're not dealing with a simple fanatic here. Buck's a dangerous man. And the damn Post is beating the drum, doing all they can to keep things stirred up. It's getting worse by the day."
Hayward knew the facts already, and she half tuned Grable out, her mind turning to D'Agosta and Italy. She realized, with a twinge she didn't fully understand, that he was overdue for a phone update. Now, there was a real cop. And where did it get him? It was guys like Grable who got the promotions-desk jockeys.
"This isn't just a precinct situation. It's a problem for the whole city." Grable laid his hands on the table, palms-up. "I want a SWAT team to go in there and bring this man out before we have a riot on our hands."
When Rocker replied, his voice was gravelly and calm. "And that's just what we're here for, Captain: to figure out a way not to have a riot on our hands."
"Exactly, sir."
Rocker turned to a man sitting at his left. "Wentworth?"
Hayward had no idea who this was. She'd never seen him before, and there were no insignia on his suit to indicate rank. He didn't even look like a cop.
Wentworth turned, eyes half lidded, fingers tented, and took a long, slow breath before answering.
Psychologist, thought Hayward.
"As far as this, ah, Buck fellow is concerned," Wentworth drawled, "he's a common-enough personality type. Without an interview, of course, it's impossible to develop a firm diagnosis. But from what I've observed, he exhibits a marked psychopathology: possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. There's a good chance he suffers from a delusion of persecution. This is complicated by the fact that the man is prone to violence. I would definitely not recommend sending in a SWAT team." He paused thoughtfully. "The others are simply followers and will respond as Buck responds: with violence or with cooperation. They will follow his lead. The key here is getting Buck out of the picture. I would suggest that the movement will collapse of its own accord once Buck is removed."
"Right," said Grable. "But how do you get him out, if not with a SWAT team?"
"If you threaten a man like Buck, he'll lash out. Violence is the language of last resort for such a man. I would suggest sending an officer or two in there-unarmed, no threatening, preferably female and attractive-to take him out. A gentle and non provocative arrest. Do it quickly, surgically. Within a day, the tent city will be gone, his followers off to the next guru, or Grateful Dead concert, or whatever they were doing before they read those articles in the Post ." Another long exhalation. "That is my considered advice."
Hayward couldn't help rolling her eyes. Buck, a schizophrenic? His speeches, as lovingly quoted in the Post , showed none of the disorganized thought processes you'd expect from schizophrenia.
Rocker, who was about to pass over her, caught her expression. "Hayward? Do you have something to contribute?"
"Thank you, sir. While I agree with some of Mr. Wentworth's analysis of the situation, I disagree with his recommendation, with all due respect."
She found Wentworth's watery eyes on her, clearly pitying her ignorance. Too late, she realized she had called him "Mr." instead of "Dr." A cardinal sin among academics, and his antagonism was palpable. Well, screw him.
"There's no such thing as a nonprovocative arrest," she went on. "Any attempt to go in there and take Buck away by force-even gently-won't work. If he's crazy, then he's crazy like a fox. He'll refuse to come. As soon as the cuffs appear, your two 'preferably female and attractive' cops will find themselves in a nasty situation."
"Commissioner," Grable interrupted, "this man is openly flouting the law. I'm getting a thousand calls a day from businesses and residents on Fifth Avenue-the Sherry Netherland, the Metropolitan Club, the Plaza. The phone lines are jammed. And you can bet that if they're calling me, they're calling the mayor." He paused, letting this sink in.