D. C. problem dropped on their doorstep. In short, they’d donated to charity-don’t come knocking on their door. But of course, this was Boston, and in the event that that bullshit wasn’t taken seriously, a few oily fixers from City Hall had showed up to work the hallways and discreetly remind the FBI that the two very influential senators from Massachusetts sat on both the Appropriations and Judiciary Committees; and if the FBI wanted their next budget request to pass, or their next fuckup to get generous treatment, this might be a prudent moment to sort of shuffle this thing under a rug. And it sure would be in the spirit of good fellowship to add a few adulatory words about the Boston PD in their press releases. Truly, you have to marvel at the way these things work.
Spinelli’s line of defense was that I had contacted him and he’d taken every reasonable step and precaution to get this guy, including turning it over to the local authorities. That had the value of being true.
And Janet? Well, every story, especially a tragedy, needs a sexy, beautiful heroine, and she was made for the role, la femme fatale, the Beantown chick who kicked ass, the bereaved victim’s sister who had risked body and soul to terminate a public menace. And then… well, then she had had the fortitude to stand in the dark shadow of the salivating monster and pour lead at his putrid guts. Books and movie to follow.
So, everybody had a good defense, alibi, or claim to glory.
Right… not quite everybody.
What every good government tale requires is a token scapegoat, and once everybody had spun their sides of the tale, all the black arrows sort of pointed back at the guy who lacked either beauty or an institution to cover his butt. I began to figure this out as more and more sour-faced Fibbies trickled into my interrogation room. When it hit twenty, it became standing room only, and a guy was posted at the door to issue tickets and bathroom passes. George Meany, incidentally, was front and center, and in off moments, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I caught him smirking.
My interrogator, Special Agent Arnold, was at that moment saying to me, “… and because you had everybody jump the gun, we’ve lost our only chance to apprehend the killer, Drummond. This was amateur hour. God knows how far you set us back…” Blah blah blah.
This particular lecture wasn’t improving the third time around, but I was listening intently and hanging my head in shame. Also, I think I must have been unconsciously drumming my hands on the table to the beat to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” and carrying it really well. This was brought to my attention when he suddenly reached out and pinned both my hands to the table.
“Do I need to slap your ass in manacles?” he inquired.
“Does your wife enjoy that?”
“You leave my wife out of-”
“She liked it when I did her.” I smiled. He didn’t smile back.
Anyway, interrogators are never supposed to lose control of the situation, and he obviously had a large crowd, so after a few huffy breaths, he said, “Major, would you explain again, you know… how you decided the killer had left D. C. and come here?”
For the fourth time, I replied, “When I saw the names of two of the victims in Lisa Morrow’s e-mail, the implication struck me as clear. Lisa, Cuthburt, and Carrol were friends or acquaintances.”
“This would be J. and A., right? Isn’t that what you claimed?”
“No. That’s what I stated for a fact.” I added, “I then tried to get hold of Miss Morrow, was notified about the fire, and put two and two together.”
“You, uh… -Gee, I hope I’m not being repetitive here, but, boy, that’s speculative. Certainly, there’s a few things you’re not telling us.” He leaned back in his chair and straightened his lapels. “What are those things?”
“I had a hunch.”
“Did the killer call you? Leave a note? Somehow make contact?”
Of course, the FBI, filled as it is with lawyers and accountants, and backed up by the world’s best scientific labs, considers the whole notion of hunches and instincts silly. And I could hear a few murmurs from the gallery. Also a few derisory snickers. I was getting really annoyed.
He bent forward. “This Sherlock Holmes bullshit isn’t selling, Drummond. We’re the good guys here. Tell us.”
“Okay, okay… you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Wow… I can’t fool you guys, can I?”
“I’m glad you’re coming around.”
“The truth is…” He leaned toward me. “When I was with your wife, she said, well… she said you’ve got a tiny dick.”
He howled and slapped the table. I did hear a few distinct chuckles from the boys in the third bleacher, however. Trust me, it’s not easy when you’re playing to somebody else’s home crowd.
I said, “You’re pissed. I didn’t call you. I’m sorry, I lost my head.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“Army lawyers call CID.”
“Bullshit. Special Agent Meany informed us that he gave you his business card.” He added nastily, “Had you called us, this entire disaster would have been avoided. Think about that, wiseass.”
Okay, I thought about it. The two dead Boston PD detectives and the escaped felon were on my shoulders because I called the wrong kind of cop? Did I need this nonsense?
In truth, two hours of this bullshit had convinced me that had I gone to the Fibbies instead of Spinelli, Janet Morrow would be a chalk outline beside the Charles River. They wouldn’t have believed a word. Despite my arguments, and the corroborating physical descriptions of four witnesses, they continued to insist this guy was the L. A. Killer.
However I had surmised he would turn up in Boston, they were convinced I had reached the right conclusion from completely idiotic assumptions. Go a step further, and Spinelli and my theory about this guy being a copycat contradicted the very public assurances the FBI had given John Q. Public. Obviously, this was inconvenient, and nobody in that room, and Mr. Meany particularly, wanted egg on their face by admitting they fingered the wrong guy. But also, in a big bureaucracy like theirs, everything has to be run up the flagpole before anybody knows what they think.
Mysteriously, another gray suit slipped into the room, walked over to the interrogator, whispered something in his ear, and then stepped back. A lot of these guys had those earphone thingees, and suddenly a lot of hands were adjusting their volume or getting them better seated in their ears. It looked like a Twenty Stooges skit.
Special Agent Arnold stood and straightened his suit. He informed me, “This interrogation is over. You plan to return to D. C., correct?”
I indicated I did.
“We know how to reach you. We’ll pick this up there at a later time.”
And on that ominous note, bodies began racing for the door. What the…? I mean, one moment I’m the Man of the Hour, ticket scalpers are in the hallway making a fortune off me, and suddenly I’m in an empty room. I finally got up and walked out.
Janet and Danny Spinelli were waiting in the hallway, sipping from paper coffee cups and looking mildly anxious.
Janet pushed off the wall and said to me, “You were in there almost two hours. Is anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No, it just took a while for them to, you know, tell me how much they admired the brilliant way this was conceived and conducted, and how swell it all turned out for everybody.”
She rubbed her temples and groaned. “I’m sorry. I know you were right.” She then said, “They… well, they found another body.”
“Whose? Where?”
“Ten blocks from the two dead officers. A man named Harold Boticher. His throat was slashed, and his wallet and car keys were stolen. His body was found in a Dumpster, like Anne Carrol’s.”
The implication was obvious. “Did they get the make of his car?”
“Make, model, and tag numbers.” That explained why the room emptied.
Spinelli commented grumpily, “It’s a fuckin’waste of time. He’s already got himself another.”
He was right, of course. Perversely, Spinelli and I both appeared to be getting a bead on this guy. The FBI was still running everywhere he wanted them to go.