Five minutes later, my facsmile machine kicked to life. A one-page document rolled out, stamped "Top Secret" about two-thirds of the way up the page, just beneath a letterhead for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice. My eyes raced down the page to see the name Curtis Black, along with his last known address in 1979, in Chelsea, Massachusetts. Beneath Curtis Black was the name Tony Clawson, with an address in Springvale, Illinois, and the year 1979.
At the bottom of the page were the words "Identity transition, csto US
Marshals Service."
Obviously Drinker had thought this through pretty damned quickly. I read the document over again. It was glorious in its simplicity. As a rule, you usually have to wade through cartons and sheaves of official papers to come across a jewel like this, and often you risk missing it.
This time it was laid out on a platter, direct and easy to understand.
Before I could even step inside, the telephone rang. It was Drinker.
"That going to help you?" he asked.
"It will help, but it doesn't give me everything I need," I answered, not wanting to betray too much appreciation. Never leave facts on the table when reporting a story.
A familiar tone of frustration, even disdain, filled Drinker's voice.
"This lays it right out for you. What the hell else is there?"
I said, "Well, first of all, the last official statement from the FBI was an agreement that Tony Clawson was not, in fact, the shooter. I have no one from your agency saying he was, on the record or on background. Second, I have no motive. Third, I have a loose end left to tie up, a guy named Paul Stemple." I threw that last name out at him to gauge a reaction, to try to figure out just how strong an ally he might be.
There was a long silence again before he spoke. "One, you ask the agency, they will have to tell you that Clawson is still a suspect.
Two, you don't need a fucking"-his voice sounded especially tight here-"motive in court. You shouldn't need a fucking motive in the newspaper. Who the hell knows what Black was doing? He was probably doing this for the money. Third, I don't know who or what Paul Stemple is, but he doesn't have anything to do with our case."
I looked over the document again as we talked. It was a beauty. Even the printing was all so neat and clean, the paper crisp. "I'll call you later," I said.
"You either run with this, or I'll go to another paper with it," he seethed. "And this is the last damned bit of help you'll ever get out of me."
The Stemple mention, I'll admit, seemed to shake him up. It may not have been the wisest strategy maneuver on my part-a fear that was fulfilled about forty minutes later. As I carefully tried to readjust the bandage on the cut on my head, my phone rang again. It was Martin, skipping any niceties, telling me in no uncertain words to turn the television to CNN. So I did.
On the screen, a weekend anchor with pouty lips and eyes the size of footballs was just saying, "So we'll go live now to Washington and hear this surprising new development on that car bomb explosion this morning straight from the FBI." The picture flipped to a press conference at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Drinker was at the podium, looking frazzled. There were a couple of agents behind him wearing badges from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.
"I'll read a short statement, then take just a few questions," Drinker said, gruffly. "At approximately one A.m. today, a car carrying Steven Havlicek, a reporter with the Boston Record, exploded on the 1300 block of Twenty-eighth Street in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.c. Mr. Havlicek was killed in the explosion. The owner of the car, Jack Flynn, also a reporter with the Boston Record, was nearby at the time and sustained minor injuries in the explosion that were treated at the scene.
"At this time, the FBI, in conjunction with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and the Washington, D.c. police, have determined that an explosive device was hooked up to the engine of Mr. Flynn's automobile, a Honda Accord, and was timed to ignite several minutes after the automobile's engine started running."
Drinker paused for a while at the podium. Even on television, you could hear the constant flap of camera shutters and see the never-ending flashing of bulbs.
Drinker continued, his face looking grim, "In answer to your anticipated questions on whether we have any suspects, at this time, we don't. But I would like to say that in light of this being Mr.
Flynn's automobile that was specifically targeted in this explosion, we are reviewing our own investigation into the shooting on October 26 at Congressional Country Club. So far we have been investigating that shooting as an assassination attempt on the president of the United States. We are now going to review our investigation to determine if Mr. Flynn may have been the intended target in that shooting, as in this explosion, and President Hutchins an unintended victim."
I could hear the audible, collective gasp of my reporter brethren in the room, and trust me when I tell you, reporters don't gasp easily.
For that matter, from my hotel room, I could just about hear Peter Martin's jaw drop in our office several blocks away. I could hear Appleton's blood begin to boil in anger and fear that the paper was about to be humiliated on a national stage.
A reporter asked, "Have you learned anything about Jack Flynn's private life that would make you suspicious of such an attack?"
Drinker: "Not definitively, but we are pursuing leads and several lines of inquiry." Not with me, he wasn't. The jackass hadn't even given me the courtesy of a heads-up when we were on the telephone. One minute he was all over my case, the next minute he was leaking me sensitive documents. I didn't know what to think.
A New York Times reporter asked what I regarded as the most obvious question of alclass="underline" "Since Mr. Flynn"-that's how they talk at the Times-"was one of the most active reporters in Washington investigating the unsolved shooting of President Hutchins, might that not make him a natural target in this explosion for anyone who fears he is getting too close to the truth?"
Drinker replied, "That is, of course, one explanation, and we are continuing to look at that possibility. However, I would caution that the attempted assassin is dead. And though we initially investigated the Congressional shooting as a possible conspiracy, we do not have definitive evidence that is the case. So the question remains, under that scenario, who alive would try to kill Mr. Flynn?"
Sitting there on the edge of my bed in the Jefferson Hotel, I felt as if I was watching my life flash before my eyes, or more accurately, collapse beneath my feet. If Drinker had suddenly decided to render me obsolete because I wasn't buying whole hog into his Black/clawson scenario, this was a clever, almost brilliant maneuver to do just that.
By making me part of the game, he was effectively excluding me from it, at least as far as my ability to investigate and report news was concerned.
I looked at my telephone, anticipating that it was about to ring, but it stayed silent. In exasperation, I punched out Martin's number at the bureau but got no answer. Likewise, I got his voice mail at home.
About two minutes later, there was a knock on my door. At least I knew it wasn't Drinker. He was killing me in different ways. I yelled out,
"Who is it?"
"It's Peter."
I pulled the door open, and in the hallway before me stood Peter Martin and Bob Appleton, the editor in chief of the Boston Record. What, Appleton fly down from Boston on the Concorde? From the fact that they were here, rather than on the telephone, from the look on their faces, from the nasal sound of Martin's voice, I knew this conversation would not be one that I appreciated.