“I just took stock of the room.”
“Really? You touch anything? Take anything?”
“No.”
“Response time was sixteen minutes. Seems like a long time to keep a corpse company.”
“Journalistic curiosity.”
“Bull-fucking-shit, Gannon,” Mullen said. “Why were you interested in finding Harlee Shaw? What were you looking for in his apartment?”
Gannon’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. After assessing his situation, he decided to show his hand.
“All right. Whenever he called, he would call me sir. I pegged him for military, or ex-military. To me he sounded genuinely frightened about something. And when he agreed to meet, he said he would bring documents to prove his claim of a pending security threat. Now, all of this could have been part of a psychological problem. I’ve encountered my share of disturbed callers. I don’t know about this case. He was a no-show at our meeting. Three days later, the hit at Ramapo happened, a commando-style armed robbery.”
“So?”
“After that, I never heard from him again and I got thinking, what if his tip was related to the heist?”
“That’s a big-ass what-if, Gannon,” Mullen said.
“You never followed a hunch?”
“What was it you said? You get nut-job calls,” Mullen said.
“Did Shaw ever give you anything to support his claims?” Walsh asked.
“No, but I found out he was ex-military and worked in private security.”
“Private security?” Mullen snorted. “He was a mall cop, with a drinking problem. He talked to himself and was undergoing counseling. Did you know all that?”
“No.” Gannon swallowed hard. “Did he have a criminal record?”
“No record.”
“If he’s a psych case, then why are you guys so interested in my interest in him?”
“Because a suicide is a crime scene until we release it. You mucked around in our crime scene and we want to know why,” Mullen said.
“So it was definitely a suicide?”
“According to the Westchester County medical examiner’s preliminary report,” Walsh said.
“Did his counselor tell you what drove him to it?”
“He was despondent over losing some of his buddies in Iraq.”
“I found out he did a tour with the U.S. Army.”
“Two,” Walsh said. “After that he went back as a contractor, came home all messed up and decided to eat his gun.”
“I think we’re done here,” Mullen said.
“Are you going to pass this case to FBI agent Morrow?”
“Who?” Mullen asked.
“The case agent on the Ramapo homicides.”
“What for?”
“To look into a possible link between Shaw and the heist.”
Mullen threw a glance to Walsh that had the beginnings of eye rolling before Walsh said, “We’ll take that under advisement, Jack. Thank you.”
Walsh concluded the interview by closing his notebook.
After the detectives left, Lisker closed his office door and held up his thumb, keeping it a quarter inch from his forefinger.
“I am this close to firing you.”
“Why?”
“Insubordination, violation of newsroom policy, near-criminal behavior.”
“I was following a lead.”
“That’s why two detectives were here? You embarrassed the WPA.”
“I was doing my job. Most editors practiced in journalism support their reporters.”
“Shut up and listen. From this point on—”
A knock interrupted Lisker, and Beland Stone, the WPA executive editor—everyone’s boss—stuck his head in the office.
“Dolf, those revenue reports are in. I need to see you and Wallace in my office in two minutes.”
“Of course.” Lisker waited for the door to close then continued. “You’re off the heist story.”
“What?”
“Here.” He turned to his desk and passed Gannon a news release for a national dog show at Madison Square Garden. “While you are still employed here, you’ll be our new color writer. Start by covering this.”
“You’re joking.”
“Go with the photographer and get us a color story with art.”
“You’re serious?”
“Get out.”
Gannon returned to his desk with anger rippling through him.
Okay, I screwed up, big-time, but no way will I give up on this story.
He took several deep breaths and began scrolling through the newswire, struggling to think. He stared blankly at the screen waiting for his heart rate to level off as he clicked through story after story.
I’ve put in too much time, called in too many favors. I know there is something there. I’ll go rogue if that’s what it takes. I’ll bust this story. There is something there.
Gannon closed his window for the newswire, went to a hidden file on his computer’s hard drive and opened it. Images of Harlee Shaw’s decomposing body blossomed in vivid color on his monitor. Gannon studied them, unsure what he was looking for.
“What the hell is that?” Angelo startled him from behind.
Gannon’s first inclination was to hide the photos. But he had an idea. Checking the area to ensure he and Dixon were alone, Gannon explained the photos. Fresh eyes may find something.
“A typical suicide…” Dixon shrugged. “Now, when I was in Iraq, I saw some real damage, man. Come on, we have to go to the dog show. Photos of those mutts usually get good pick-up.”
“Wait, keep looking. Is there anything that strikes you as different?”
“Cripes, Jack.” Dixon took his mouse, clicked through, zooming in professionally on certain details. “It’s a suicide. The guy no longer wanted to breathe, it’s in his note.”
“But what else?”
“He no longer wanted that tattoo, either?”
“What?”
Dixon enlarged the area of Shaw’s wrist and pointed to the discoloration.
“See, he was fading a tattoo. Whatever he had there, he no longer wanted it. Looks like a snake or something. Come on, let’s go.”
“Hang on.”
Gannon drew his face close to his monitor, puzzling at the tattoo, not sure what to make of it. Was this something?”
Gannon’s cell phone rang.
“Gannon, WPA.”
“Jack, its Adell.”
The sound of his best source, Adell Clark, the ex-FBI agent from Buffalo, took his thoughts back to his hometown.
“Adell, it’s been so long.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been out of reach, I’m in Chicago on a case and it’s been time-consuming.”
“I understand. How’s your little girl?”
“Oh, she’s a handful.”
“Pretty soon the boys will be knocking on your door.” He smiled.
“Jack, I got your messages and I’ve been following your stories on the case. Listen, I just picked something up from a friend with the Chicago FBI that may help you.”
“In Chicago?”
“No. It’s a big break and it’s in Ogallala, Nebraska.”
36
North Platte, Nebraska
The man known as Dieter Windhorst drifted toward death.
He’d lost his struggle for State Trooper Duane Hanson’s gun when a bullet smashed through his jaw, shredded his optic nerve, then tore into the frontal lobe of his brain.
He’d been rushed from Ogallala, an hour east, to Great Plains, a regional trauma center in North Platte. After three hours of surgery, he lay shackled at the ankle to a hospital bed, his condition deteriorating. In the chair next to him, an FBI agent snapped through Field & Stream magazine, keeping a vigil punctuated by the squeak of soft-soled shoes on polished floors as the nurses checked on him at twenty-minute intervals.