Reporters, meanwhile, like to interview people in action, capturing color and a sense of place. A good reporter can take the most mundane murder, inject it with a heavy dose of human emotion, massage it with a rapid-fire series of verbs, and end up with what the average reader might be convinced is the crime of the century, at least until the next day's paper. Reporters are constantly looking at the whole at the expense of some of its parts, glossing over this angle or that aspect to play upon what editors call "the big picture." Good reporters move at breakneck speed, well aware of the competition from other newspapers or television stations. Best to have an incomplete story first than the entire tale last. And virtually everything, they believe, is appropriate in the public realm, allowing readers to decide what is right or wrong, whether the grammar school principal is really a child molester or if the accusations of decade-old misdeeds are a piece of sad whimsy on the part of a psychologically unfit former student.
So it is all the more fruitful and delicious when a reporter is able to strike up a relationship with a police detective, and I take no small amount of pride in saying that much of the success I've had in my career-and, since you're wondering, I've had my share-has been due to my ability to get along with cops. My grandfather was a Boston police sergeant. One of my uncles was a Boston police detective. I know how to communicate with them in a way that Troy Ellis, for instance, never would-when to cuss, when to talk big, when to be respectful, how to engage them in some back and forth and involve them in my needs.
None of this, though, seemed to have any direct bearing on my new relationship with Samantha Stevens.
She didn't spend a lot of time on niceties when she strode into my hospital room, just a moment after the doctor had left. "Why don't we start with the basics?" she said. "What is it you were doing playing golf with the president of the United States?"
Her partner, who briefly introduced himself as an assistant director of the FBI, no less, stood impassively against the wall.
"He invited me," I said, taken aback, but trying to maintain composure.
"Why's that?" she asked, aloof, almost clinical.
I didn't like where this was going, mostly because I wasn't particularly keen on word getting out already about this offer to be press secretary.
"Why don't you ask him?" I said, and I watched as her very becoming face flushed red.
"Why don't I decide how to conduct the investigation?" she replied, just as aloof, just as clinical.
This wasn't quite unpleasant, but it wasn't far from it. I expected a nice, collegial little discussion, maybe share a can of orange juice and rhapsodize about what had become of a society where a collection of country bumpkins would think it's meaningful, even laudable, to kill the president of the United States and overthrow our democratic form of government. Instead, I was being treated like a suspect in a purse snatching.
Stevens was standing a few feet from my bed. I was sitting up on some pillows. Not that she gave me any encouragement to think about such things, but she looked even better than the day before, her straight black hair cascading across her shoulders and over the top part of a smart navy blue work suit. She had tiny little bags under her blazing blue eyes, and little crow's feet beside them, betraying the only signs of her age. She gave no indication whether she was pleased or displeased with how our little chat was proceeding.
"We are conducting the most important investigation in the bureau right now, Mr. Flynn," she said. "Forgive my manner, if you are for some reason offended by it. But I have to dedicate myself to getting to the bottom of this case as quickly as humanly possible. And such a mission doesn't accord me much time for excessive civility."
"Apparently not," I said. "If it would help," I added, knowing what I was about to suggest would do anything but, "I could call my lawyer and have him come down and sit in."
That seemed to take Stevens by surprise, not to mention her colleague Drinker, who I caught furrowing his brow. Me, too, actually. What the hell was I thinking?
"That would be a mistake for all of us," she said.
She paused, standing there with her arms crossed, then added, "Look, we didn't get off on the very best foot here. I just want you to understand the gravity of this investigation. We have vastly different interests, and I didn't necessarily appreciate reading your eyewitness account in the newspaper before we had a chance to talk. This is first and foremost an FBI investigation of an assassination attempt on the president, not simply some sensational story to help you sell more papers. Why don't we revisit this tomorrow, and I'm sure we'll make some more progress."
"That would be fine," I said, not wanting to be any more disagreeable.
She turned around to leave, and Drinker followed silently without even so much as looking my way. At the door, Drinker turned back around.
"By the way, who was that who called you earlier, when everyone was in the room?" His tone was soft, even pleasant.
"Oh, just an old friend of mine," I said, fumbling for an answer in a way that might have been obvious.
"What's the friend's name?" he asked.
I'm sure he saw the uncertainty on my face or sensed the flustered tone of my voice. "That's personal," I said eventually, and Drinker simply nodded as the two of them headed out the door.
four
There is a saying about hospitals, except, of course, among hypochondriacs, that the longer you stay, the more things can go wrong.
As someone who had never been in a hospital before in his life, I had already been in far too long, and when the doctor told me I could head home the following morning, I prevailed on him to endorse my departure for that very night.
The press corps treated me as well as I could have hoped, given that a few of the network stars were a bit miffed about being on the sidelines while an ink-stained wretch from an out-of-town paper basked in the limelight. I spent half an hour before the cameras, concentrating on good eye contact-never look down, make pleasant facial expressions, and never stammer um or ah-and was on my way home with my good friend and former college roommate Harry Putnam.
"Now what do you do?" he asked as his Audi rolled down Wisconsin Avenue, past the fast food restaurants and specialty shops all lit up on this breezy autumn night.
What indeed? For starters, there was the matter of my interview with this somewhat obstinate FBI agent, probably in the morning. More important, there was an anonymous call coming my way in the afternoon.
Hutchins had been discharged from the hospital a few hours before me, telling reporters on the way out that danger be damned, he was heading back out on the campaign trail. I very much wanted to get back to work, despite these tight bandages wrapped around my aching ribs.
There was much to do on this story, and I was in a prime position to do it. Most important of all, it was time to come to terms with my new reality of being home. It was time to stop running.
"Where do I begin?" I said. "I deal with it. No, I try to get ahead of it, all of it."