“Yes sir. You don’t believe me?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just a little strange, that’s all.”
Mark waited a few seconds, and when it was obvious Hardy was waiting for him, he asked, “What’s strange?”
“Several things. First, you made the call, but wouldn’t give your name. Why not? If you and Ricky just stumbled upon the dead man, why not give your name? Second, why did you sneak back to the scene and hide in the woods? People who hide are afraid. Why didn’t you simply return to the scene and tell us what you saw? Third, if you and Ricky saw the same thing, why has he freaked out and you’re in pretty good shape, know what I mean?”
Mark thought for a while, and realized he could think of nothing to say. So he said nothing. They were on the interstate headed for downtown. It was neat to watch the other cars get out of the way. The red ambulance lights were close behind.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Hardy finally said.
“Which question?”
“Why didn’t you give your name when you made the call?”
“I was scared, okay. That’s the first dead body I ever saw, and it scared me. I’m still scared.”
“Then why did you sneak back to the scene? Why were you trying to hide from us?”
“I was scared, you know, but I just wanted to see what was going on. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“Maybe not.”
They left the expressway, and were now darting through traffic. The tall buildings of downtown Memphis were in sight.
“I just hope you’re telling the truth,” Hardy said.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I’ve got my doubts.”
Mark swallowed hard and looked in the side mirror. “Why do you have doubts?”
“I’ll tell you what I think, kid. You want to hear it?”
“Sure,” Mark said slowly.
“Well, I think you kids were in the woods smoking. I found some fresh cigarette butts under that tree with the rope. I figure you were under there having a little smoke and you saw the whole thing.”
Mark’s heart stopped and his blood ran cold, but he knew the importance of trying to appear calm. Just shrug it off. Hardy wasn’t there. He didn’t see anything. He caught his hands shaking, so he sat on them. Hardy watched him.
“Do you arrest kids for smoking cigarettes?” Mark asked, his voice a shade weaker.
“No. But kids who lie to cops get in all sorts of trouble.”
“I’m not lying, okay. I’ve smoked cigarettes there before, but not today. We were just walking through the woods, thinking about maybe having a smoke, and we walked up on the car and Romey.”
Hardy hesitated slightly, then asked, “Who’s Romey?”
Mark braced himself and breathed deeply. In a flash, he knew it was over. He’d blown it. Said too much. Lied too much. He’d lasted less than an hour with his story. Keep thinking, he told himself.
“That’s the guy’s name, isn’t it?”
“Romey?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that what you called him?”
“No. I told your mother his name was Jerome Clifford, from New Orleans.”
“I thought you said it was Romey Clifford, from New Orleans.”
“Who ever heard of the name Romey?”
“Beats me.”
The car turned right, and Mark looked straight ahead. “Is this St. Peter’s?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
Hardy parked to the side, and they watched the ambulance back up to the emergency dock.
5
The honorable J. Roy Foltrigg, United States Attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana at New Orleans, and a Republican, sipped properly from a can of tomato juice and stretched his legs in the rear of his customized Chevrolet van as it raced smoothly along the expressway. Memphis was five hours to the north, straight up Interstate 55, and he could’ve caught a plane, but there were two reasons why he hadn’t. First, the paperwork. He could claim it was official business related to the Boyd Boyette case, and he could stretch things here and there and make it work. But it would take months to get reimbursed and there would be eighteen different forms. Second, and much more important, he didn’t like to fly. He could’ve waited three hours in New Orleans for a flight that would last for an hour and place him in Memphis around 11 P.M., but they would make it by midnight in the van. He didn’t confess this fear of flying, and he knew he would one day be forced to see a shrink to overcome it. For the meantime, he had purchased this fancy van with his own money and loaded it down with appliances and gadgets, two phones, a television, even a fax machine. He buzzed around the Southern District of Louisiana in it, always with Wally Boxx behind the wheel. It was much nicer and more comfortable than any limousine.
He slowly kicked off his loafers and watched the night fly by as Special Agent Trumann listened to the telephone stuck in his ear. On the other end of the heavily padded back bench sat Assistant U.S. Attorney Thomas Fink, a loyal Foltrigg subordinate who’d worked on the Boyette case eighty hours a week and would handle most of the trial, especially the nonglamorous grunt work, saving of course the easy and high-profile parts for his boss. Fink was reading a document, as always, and trying to listen to the mumblings of Agent Trumann, who was seated across from him in a heavy swivel seat. Trumann had Memphis FBI on the phone.
Next to Trumann, in an identical swivel recliner, was Special Agent Skipper Scherff, a rookie who’d worked little on the case but happened to be available for this joyride to Memphis. He scribbled on a legal pad, and would do so for the next five hours because in this tight circle of power he had absolutely nothing to say and no one wanted to hear him. He would obediently stare at his legal pad and record orders from his supervisor, Larry Trumann, and, of course, from the general himself, Reverend Roy. Scherff stared intently at his scribbling, avoiding with great diligence even the slightest eye contact with Foltrigg, and tried in vain to discern what Memphis was telling Trumann. The news of Clifford’s death had electrified their office only an hour earlier, and Scherff was still uncertain why and how he was sitting in Roy’s van speeding along the expressway. Trumann had told him to run home, pack a change of clothes, and go immediately to Foltrigg’s office. And this is what he’d done. And here he was, scribbling and listening.
The chauffeur, Wally Boxx, actually had a license to practice law, though he didn’t know how to use it. Officially, he was an assistant United States attorney, same as Fink, but in reality he was a fetch-and-catch boy for Foltrigg. He drove his van, carried his briefcase, wrote his speeches, and handled the media, which took fifty percent of his time because his boss was gravely concerned with his public image. Boxx was not stupid. He was deft at political maneuvering, quick to the defense of his boss, and thoroughly loyal to the man and his mission. Foltrigg had a great future, and Boxx knew he would be there one day whispering importantly with the great man as only the two of them strolled around Capitol Hill.
Boxx knew the importance of Boyette. It would be the biggest trial of Foltrigg’s illustrious career, the trial he’d been dreaming of, the trial to thrust him into the national spotlight. He knew Foltrigg was losing sleep over Barry the Blade Muldanno.
Larry Trumann finished the conversation and replaced the phone. He was a veteran agent, early forties, with ten years to go before retirement. Foltrigg waited for him to speak.
“They’re trying to convince Memphis PD to release the car so we can go over it. It’ll probably take an hour or so. They’re having a hard time explaining Clifford and Boyette and all this to Memphis, but they’re making progress. Head of our Memphis office is a guy named Jason McThune, very tough and persuasive, and he’s meeting with the Memphis chief right now. McThune’s called Washington and Washington’s called Memphis, and we should have the car within a couple of hours. Single gunshot wound to the head, obviously self-inflicted. Apparently he tried to do it first with a garden hose in the tail pipe, but for some reason it didn’t work. He was taking Dalmane and codeine, and washing it all down with Jack Daniel’s. No record on the gun, but it’s too early. Memphis is checking it. A cheap.38. Thought he could swallow a bullet.”