“No doubt it’s suicide?” Foltrigg asked.
“No doubt.”
“Where did he do it?”
“Somewhere in north Memphis. Drove into the woods in his big black Lincoln, and took care of himself.”
“I don’t suppose anyone saw it?”
“Evidently not. A couple of kids found the body in a remote area.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“Not long. They’ll do an autopsy in a few hours, and determine the time of death.”
“Why Memphis?”
“Not sure. If there’s a reason, we don’t know it yet.”
Foltrigg pondered these things and sipped his tomato juice. Fink took notes. Scherff scribbled furiously. Wally Boxx hung on every word.
“What about the note?” Foltrigg asked, looking out the window.
“Well, it could be interesting. Our guys in Memphis have a copy of it, not a very good copy, and they’ll try and fax it to us in a few minutes. Apparently the note was handwritten in black ink, and the writing is fairly legible. It’s a few paragraphs of instructions to his secretary about the funeral — he wants to be cremated — and what to do with his office furniture. The note tells the secretary where to find his will. Nothing about Boyette, of course. Nothing about Muldanno. Then, he apparently tried to add something to the note with a blue Bic pen, but it ran out of ink after he started his message. It’s badly scrawled, and hard to read.”
“What is it?”
“We don’t know. The Memphis police still have possession of the note, the gun, the pills, all the physical evidence removed from the car. McThune is trying to get it now. They found a Bic pen, no ink, in the car, and it appears to be the same pen he tried to use to add something to the note.”
“They’ll have it when we arrive, won’t they?” Foltrigg asked in a tone that left no doubt he expected to have it all as soon as he got to Memphis.
“They’re working on it,” Trumann answered. Foltrigg was not his boss, technically, but this case was a prosecution now, not an investigation, and the reverend was in control.
“So Jerome Clifford drives to Memphis and blows his brains out,” Foltrigg said to the window. “Four weeks before trial. Man oh man. What else can go crazy with this case?”
No answer was expected. They rode in silence, waiting for Roy to speak again.
“Where’s Muldanno?” he finally asked.
“New Orleans. We’re watching him.”
“He’ll have a new lawyer by midnight, and by noon tomorrow he’ll file a dozen motions for continuances claiming the tragic death of Jerome Clifford seriously undermines his constitutional right to a fair trial with assistance of counsel. We’ll oppose it of course, and the judge will order a hearing for next week, and we’ll have the hearing, and we’ll lose, and it’ll be six months before this case goes to trial. Six months! Can you believe it?”
Trumann shook his head in disgust. “At least it’ll give us more time to find the body.”
It certainly would, and of course Roy had thought of this. He needed more time, really, he just couldn’t admit it because he was the prosecutor, the people’s lawyer, the government fighting crime and corruption. He was right, justice was on his side, and he had to be ready to attack evil at any moment, anytime, anyplace. He had pushed hard for a speedy trial because he was right, and he would get a conviction. The United States of America would win! And Roy Foltrigg would deliver the victory. He could see the headlines. He could smell the ink.
He also needed to find the damned body of Boyd Boyette, or else there might be no conviction, no front-page pictures, no interviews on CNN, no speedy ascent to Capitol Hill. He had convinced those around him that a guilty verdict was possible with no corpse, and this was true. But he didn’t want to chance it. He wanted the body.
Fink looked at Agent Trumann. “We think Clifford knew where the body is. Did you know that?”
It was obvious Trumann did not know this. “What makes you think so?”
Fink placed his reading material on the seat. “Romey and I go way back. We were in law school together twenty years ago at Tulane. He was a little crazy back then, but very smart. About a week ago, he called me at home and said he wanted to talk about the Muldanno case. He was drunk, thick-tongued, out of his head, and kept saying he couldn’t go through with the trial, which was surprising given how much he loves these big cases. We talked for an hour. He rambled and stuttered—”
“He even cried,” Foltrigg interrupted.
“Yeah, cried like a child. I was surprised by all this at first, but then nothing Jerome Clifford did really surprised me anymore, you know. Not even suicide. He finally hung up. He called me at the office at nine the next morning scared to death he’d let something slip the night before. He was in a panic, kept hinting he might know where the body is and fishing to see whether he’d dropped off any clues during his drunken chitchat. Well, I played along, and thanked him for the information he gave me the night before, which was nothing. I thanked him twice, then three times, and I could feel Romey sweating on the other end of the phone. He called twice more that day, at the office, then called me at home that night, drunk again. It was almost comical, but I thought I could string him along and maybe he’d let something slip. I told him I had to tell Roy, and that Roy had told the FBI, and that the FBI was now trailing him around the clock.”
“This really freaked him out,” Foltrigg added helpfully.
“Yeah, he cussed me out pretty good, but called the next day at the office. We had lunch, and the guy was a nervous wreck. He was too scared to come right out and ask if we knew about the body, and I played it cool. I told him we were certain we’d have the body in plenty of time for the trial, and I thanked him again. He was cracking up before my eyes. He hadn’t slept or bathed. His eyes were puffy and red. He got drunk over lunch, and started accusing me of trickery and all sorts of sleazy, unethical behavior. It was an ugly scene. I paid the check and left, and he called me at home that night, remarkably sober. He apologized. I said no problem. I explained to him that Roy was seriously considering an indictment against him for obstruction of justice, and this set him off. He said we couldn’t prove it. I said maybe not, but he’d be indicted, arrested, and put on trial, and there would be no way he could represent Barry Muldanno. He screamed and cussed for fifteen minutes, then hung up. I never heard from him again.”
“He knows, or he knew, where Muldanno put the body,” Foltrigg added with certainty.
“Why weren’t we informed?” Trumann asked.
“We were about to tell you. In fact, Thomas and I discussed it this afternoon, just a short time before we got the call.” Foltrigg said this with an air of indifference, as if Trumann should not question him about such things. Trumann glanced at Scherff, who was glued to his legal pad, drawing pictures of handguns.
Foltrigg finished his tomato juice and tossed the can in the garbage. He crossed his feet. “You guys need to track Clifford’s movements from New Orleans to Memphis. Which route did he take? Are there friends along the way? Where did he stop? Who did he see in Memphis? Surely he must’ve talked to someone from the time he left New Orleans until he shot himself. Don’t you think so?”
Trumann nodded. “It’s a long drive. I’m sure he had to stop along the way.”