"Well, Dr. Ford," Warren began, "Jack has to-"
"No," Ford cut him off. "Let Mr. McEvoy tell me."
I tried to think in precise terms. Ford didn't want a lot of bullshit. He just wanted to know how he would benefit from this.
"I assume the suicide project is on a computer."
"That is correct," Ford said. "Most of our studies are collated on computer. We rely on the great number of police departments out there for our field research. Reports come in-the protocol Ms. Fredrick mentioned earlier. They are entered on the computer. But that means nothing. It is the skilled researcher who must digest these facts and tell us what they mean. On this study, the researcher is joined by FBI experts in reviewing the raw data."
"I understand all of that," I said. "What I am saying is that you have a huge data bank of incidents of police suicide."
"Going back five, six years, I believe. The work was started before Oline came on board."
"I need to go into your computer."
"Why?"
"If we're right-and I'm not just talking about me. The detectives in Chicago and in Denver are thinking this way, too. We've got two cases that are connected. The-"
"Seemingly connected."
"Right, seemingly connected. If they are, then the chances are that there are others. We're talking about a serial killer. Maybe there's a lot, maybe a few and maybe none. But I want to check and you've got the data right here. All the reported suicides in the last six years. I want to get inside your computer and look for the ones that might be the fakes, that might be our guy."
"How do you propose doing that?" Fredrick said. "We've got several hundred cases on file."
"The protocol that police departments fill out and send in, does it include the victim's rank and position in the department?"
"Yes."
"Then we first look at all homicide detectives who killed themselves. The theory I'm working with is that this person is killing homicide cops. Maybe it's a hunted-turns-on-the-hunter sort of thing. I don't know the psychology of it, but that's where I'd start. With homicide cops. Once we have that breakout, we look at each case. We need the notes. The suicide notes. From-"
"That's not on computer," Fredrick said. "In each incidence, if we even have a copy of the note, it's in the hard-copy protocols in file storage. The notes themselves aren't part of the study unless they have some allusion to the pathology of the victim."
"But you've kept the hard copies?"
"Yes, all of them. In file storage."
"Then we go to them," Warren chimed in excitedly.
His intrusion brought silence. Eventually, everyone's eyes were drawn to Ford's.
"One question," the director finally said. "Does the FBI know about this?"
"At the moment, I can't say for sure," I said. "I know it is the intention of the Chicago and Denver police to retrace my steps and then, once they are satisfied that I am on the right path, they are going to call in the bureau. It will go from there."
Ford nodded and said, "Mr. McEvoy, could you step out and wait in the reception area for me? I want to talk to Ms. Fredrick and Mr. Warren privately before making any decision on this matter."
"No problem." I stood up and headed to the door, where I hesitated and looked at Ford. "I hope… I mean… I hope we can do this. Anyway, thanks."
Michael Warren's face told the story before he said anything. I was sitting on a lumpy vinyl-covered couch in the reception area when he came down the hallway with downcast eyes. When he saw me he just shook his head.
"Let's go back to my office," he said.
I followed silently behind him and took the same seat I had before. He looked as dejected as I felt.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because he's an asshole," he whispered. "Because the Justice Department punches our ticket and the FBI is the Justice Department. It's their study-they commissioned it. He's not going to let you walk through it without telling them first. He's not ever going to do anything that might knock the gravy train off the tracks. You said the wrong thing in there, Jack. You should have said the FBI was made aware of this and took a pass."
"He wouldn't have believed that."
"The point is, he could've said he did. If it ever blew up on him that he was helping a reporter to information before the bureau, he could have just put it on you and said he thought the bureau passed."
"So what now? I can't just drop this."
I wasn't really asking him. I was asking myself.
"You got any sources in the bureau? Because I guarantee he's in his office calling the bureau right now. Probably going right to Bob Backus."
"Who's that?"
"One of the big shots down there. The suicide project belongs to his team."
"I think I know that name."
"You probably know Bob Backus Sr. His father. He was some kind of supercop the bureau brought in years ago to help set up the Behavioral Science Services and the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. I guess Bobby Jr. is trying to fill his shoes. The point is, as soon as Ford's off the phone with him, Backus will shut this thing down. Your only way in will be through the bureau."
I couldn't think. I was totally backed into a corner. I stood up and started pacing in the small office.
"Jesus Christ, I can't believe this. This is my story… and I'm getting pushed out of it by some dopey guy in a beard who thinks he's J. Edgar Hoover."
"Nah, Nat Ford doesn't wear dresses."
"It's not really that damn funny."
"I know. I'm sorry."
I sat back down. He made no move to dismiss me, even though our business was done. It finally occurred to me what it was he expected me to do. I just wasn't sure about how to ask. I'd never worked in Washington and didn't know how it worked. I decided to do it the Denver way. To be blunt.
"You can get into the computer anyway, right?"
I nodded at the terminal to his left. He looked over at me for a moment before responding.
"No fucking way. I'm no Deep Throat, Jack. This isn't about anything other than a crime story. That's the bottom line. You just want to get there ahead of the FBI."
"You're a reporter."
"Former reporter. I work here now and I'm not going to jeopardize my-"
"You know it's a story that has to be told. If Ford's in there on the phone with the FBI, they'll be out here by tomorrow and the story will be gone. You know how hard it was to get stuff from them. You were there. This ends completely right here or is published as some half-assed story in a year or maybe longer with more conjecture than facts. That's if you don't get me on that computer."
"I said no."
"Look, you're right. All it is a story that I want. The big scoop. But I deserve it. You know I do. The FBI wouldn't be coming around if it wasn't for me. But I'm getting shut out… Think about it. Think if it was you. Think if it was your brother that this happened to."
"I have and I just said no."
I stood up.
"Well, if you change your-"
"I won't."
"Look, when I leave here, I'm going to check in at the Hilton. The one where Reagan got shot."
That's all I said as I left him there and he didn't say another word.
15
Passing the time in my room at the Hilton I updated my computer files on what little I had learned at the foundation and then called Greg Glenn to fill him in on everything that had transpired in Chicago and Washington. When I was done, he whistled loudly and I pictured him leaning back in the chair, thinking of the possibilities.
It was a fact that I already had a good story, but I was unhappy. I wanted to stay on the leading edge of it. I didn't want to have to rely on the FBI and other investigators to tell me what they felt like telling me. I wanted to investigate. I had written countless stories about murder investigations but each time I was always an outsider looking in.
This time I was inside and wanted to stay there. I was riding the front of the wave. I realized that my excitement must be the same as Sean felt when he was on a case. In the hunt, as he called it.