Sometime in late 1988, he had abruptly stopped paying in.
More keystrokes, more information. Social Security never paid out a death benefit to any Clawson survivors. Clawson didn't appear to have been drawing unemployment payments. There was no mortgage information, no credit activity, nothing. In 1988 Tony Clawson of Rosemont, Illinois, ceased to exist.
This was, of course, interesting because in 1979 Curtis Black had ceased to exist, the year Tony Clawson took shape. Best as I could tell, I felt fairly certain that Curtis Black became Tony Clawson in the witness protection program in 1979, and these records seemed to bear that out. Interesting, though, that Clawson himself then disappeared from sight in 1988. Drinker had implied in my dog park that it was this Clawson who had resurfaced out at Congressional with a gun and a mission. The cryptic words of Diego Rodriguez popped into my mind. Sometimes people change, and it's tough to keep up with them.
So this is what he meant. But one question still lingered, one very important question: Why?
I was still stuck in the realm of supposition, trying to peer over the wall into the world of actual facts, but with little luck. My gut feeling told me that the truth behind the assassination attempt would say something about this president, something we didn't already know, something he didn't want us to know. I now had just one day to get that into the newspaper, and I was starting to realize what an impossible feat that would be. Maybe Havlicek and I could do it together. But not me alone. Not alone.
The ringing phone crashed through my thoughts.
"I've got two engineers in the lobby," Martin told me, skipping anything in the way of an introduction. "They're going to set up separate phone and fax lines in your room that match your office phone, so you'll get all incoming calls. The phones will also be untraceable, so you can make calls.
"I've also got a pair of security guards standing by the elevator and the stairway on your floor, so no one will have access to your room.
I've put down an untraceable credit card to hold your room for as long as you need it."
Hats off to Martin. He was bringing order to chaos, and he didn't even question the rack rate.
"Now tell me what you know. What the hell is going on here?"
"Are you on a secure line?" I asked.
"Affirmative," he said, starting to talk like he really was in a movie.
"I've had the office phones swept for bugs every day for the last week."
So I walked him through the bombing scene and aftermath. I told him about making a tentative match between Clawson and Black on the computer. I finished with the part about finding Stemple dead in his bathtub and hearing his voice-the voice of my secret informant-greet callers on his answering tape.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "Havlicek's dead. You're in grave danger, and we don't even have a publishable story explaining why."
Someone knocked at my door. "Hold on a second," I told Martin.
I yelled out, "Who's there?"
"Phone engineers."
I opened it with the safety chain still fastened like they do in the movies and said, "You have ID?" The first man showed me a badge, and I let him in.
As they set up a telephone and fax, I asked Martin, "Did we get news of the explosion into the final edition?"
"No," he said. "It happened too late. We led with election stuff-the candidates making contrasting proposals on gun control. We had a poll on the front showing Hutchins up six points, just beyond the margin of error."
He paused, then added, "The FBI has called this morning, looking for you. They want to question you about last night. They said you left the scene of the bombing, and they were unable to find you."
Damned right I left the scene. My mind flashed again to Stevens at Kinkead's, to Drinker's inquisition about my source, and then to Stemple in the bathtub. "No way," I said.
"I already told them that," Martin replied. "I told them it was our responsibility now to assure your safety. They said something about filing criminal charges against you and me for suppressing evidence. I told them to go right ahead."
Give Martin credit. He was as far afield as a Washington bureau chief could be from the typical rigors of Supreme Court decisions, Senate committee votes, and election maneuverings. But here he was, handling it like a white-collar Clint Eastwood.
"I need some new clothes," I said.
"I'll be there within an hour," Martin said. "I just have to make sure I'm not followed. Stay put until then."
He hung up, the engineers left, and my office line immediately started ringing with requests for interviews, which I didn't grant.
My first call was to Stevens, and was something of a test. When she picked up the phone, I blurted out, "You'll live with Havlicek's blood on your soul for the rest of your life." I hung up before she could reply. It felt good, even if it didn't accomplish anything.
My next call was to Drinker. I took a softer, more pragmatic tack, recalling that he had been seeking to be my new ally. I also didn't want to give up the fact that I knew Stemple was dead. I assumed that he did.
"I'm sorry about your colleague," he said. "That's just awful. We have some agents here who are looking to collect some information from you."
"I'll get around to that," I said. "First, though, let me run something past you. It's my understanding that Tony Clawson used to go under the name of Curtis Black. Curtis Black used to be an armored car robber in Massachusetts, before he entered the federal witness protection program in the late 1970's. Is this something you can guide me on?"
There was a lengthy silence between us, except for the occasional sound of him snapping his tongue in that bothersome way that some people do.
In a very careful, measured tone, he said, "If this is what your information is telling you, I am unable to dispute what you've found."
I rolled my eyes to myself at his lapse into officialese. "Look, I need more than that right now. I need confidence that I'm doing the right thing. What you're saying, or the way you're saying it, doesn't help me get this into print."
Another long silence, though no tongue snapping.
Then, carefully, Drinker said, "If this is what you've found, then you understand the embarrassment of this agency. You understand why the director wanted to offer up a different photo of Tony Clawson as the suspect, to be honest yet vague at the same time. You understand that it wouldn't reflect well on the FBI to have a former federal witness who lived for a while with a government subsidy and government protection then become an attempted assassin, rather than spend a lengthy stretch of time in jail."
were the pieces falling into place at last? I asked, "And the motive for the shooting?"
Yet another long silence. "That, I truly don't know," he said. "And the only guy who can actually answer that is still in a Maryland morgue."
I said, "I need to use you as a source, identified only as an official familiar with the investigation. I need that official to say that Clawson and Black are the same guy."
I know that his word would probably not be enough on which to pin a story of this gravity, but it's always good to line up your options.
"Can't," he said, with less hesitation than before. "That'd cost me my job. But give me a while to think of another way."
"Well, that other way better come damned quick. My colleague is dead, and I'm turning into a loose fucking cannon. No telling what I may put into the paper."
"Where are you?" Drinker asked.
"No way," I said.
"You have a fax number?"
I gave it to him, and we hung up. For every question, there needs to be an answer, but for every answer, there always seems to be a new question. And sooner or later, sometimes you just run out of facts, and if not facts, then time.