The laughter dried up quickly and I suspected that Thorson had taunted Hazelton with a barb that was more personal than witty.
"Okay, if I can continue," Thorson said, "FYI, tonight we'll be alerting all the FOs, particularly in the West, to be on watch for something like this. It would help us a lot if we could get an early notice on the next one and get our lab into one of the scenes. We'll have a go team ready. But right now we are relying on the locals for everything. Bob?"
Backus cleared his throat to continue the discussion.
"If nobody has anything else, we come to profiling. What can we say about this offender? I would like to put something on the alert Gordon sends out."
Then came a procession of throw-out observations, a lot of them free-form non sequiturs, some of them even bringing laughter. I could see there was a lot of camaraderie among the agents. There was also some strife, as exhibited by the play between Thorson and Walling and then Thorson and Hazelton. Nevertheless, I got the feeling that these people had sat around the table in this room doing this before. Sadly, many times before.
The profile that emerged would be of small use in catching the Poet. The generalities the agents threw into the ring were primarily interior descriptions. Anger. Isolation. Above-average education and intelligence. How do you identify these things among the masses, I thought. No chance.
Occasionally, Backus would step in and throw out a question to get the discussion back on course.
"If you subscribe to Brass's last theory, why homicide cops?"
"You answer that and you've got him in a box. That's the mystery. This poetry stuff is the diversion."
"Rich or poor?"
"He's got money. He has to. Wherever he goes, he's not staying long. No job-killing is his job."
"He's gotta have a bank account or rich parents, something. And he's got wheels and he needs money to put gas in the tank."
The session went on for another twenty minutes with Doran taking notes for the preliminary profile. Then Backus ended it and told everyone to take the rest of the night off before traveling in the morning.
As the meeting broke up, a few people came up to me and introduced themselves, expressed condolences for my brother and admiration for my investigation. But it was only a few and they included Hazelton and Doran. After a few minutes of this I was left alone and was looking about for Walling when Gordon Thorson approached. He held his hand out and after hesitating, I shook it.
"Didn't mean to give you a hard time," he said smiling warmly.
"That's okay. It was fine."
He had a tight grip and after the standard two-second shake I tried to pull away but he wouldn't let go. Instead, he pulled my hand toward him and leaned forward so that only I would hear what he had to say next.
"It's good that your brother isn't around to see this," he whispered. "If I did what you did to get on this case, I'd be ashamed. I couldn't live with myself."
He straightened up, always continuing the smile. I just looked at him and inexplicably nodded. He dropped my hand and stepped away. I felt humiliated in that I had not defended myself, I had stupidly just nodded my head.
"What was that about?"
I turned. It was Rachel Walling.
"Uh, nothing. He just… nothing."
"Whatever he said, forget it. He can be an asshole."
I nodded.
"Yeah, I was getting that idea."
"C'mon, let's go back to the Boardroom. I'm starved."
In the hallway she told me the travel plans.
"We're leaving early tomorrow. It's better if you stay here tonight instead of going all the way back to the Hilton. The visitor dorms mostly clear out on Fridays. We can put you in one of those and have the Hilton just clear your rooms and send your stuff to Denver. Will that be a problem?"
"Uh, no. I guess…"
I was still thinking about Thorson.
"Fuck him."
"What?"
"That guy, Thorson, he is an asshole."
"Forget about him. We're leaving tomorrow and he's staying here. What about the Hilton?"
"Yeah, fine. I've got my computer and everything else that's important already with me."
"I'll see about getting you a fresh shirt in the morning."
"Oh, my car. I've got a rental in the Hilton's garage."
"Where are the keys?"
I pulled them out of my pocket.
"Give them to me. We'll take care of it."
23
In the early hours, when dawn was still only a hint around the curtains, Gladden moved about Darlene's apartment, too nervous to sleep, too excited to want to. He paced through the small rooms, thinking, planning, waiting. He looked in on Darlene in the bedroom, watched her on the bed for a few moments and then returned to the living room.
Unframed posters from old porno movies were taped to the walls and the place was filled with bric-a-brac souvenirs of a worthless life. There was a nicotine veneer on everything. Gladden was a smoker but still found it disgusting. The place was a mess.
He paused in front of one of the posters, from a film called Inside Darlene. She had told him she'd been a star in the early eighties before video revolutionized the business and she started looking old, the wear and tear of the life showing around her eyes and mouth. She'd pointed with a wistful smile to the posters where the air-brushed photos showed her body and face smooth and unlined. She was billed simply as Darlene. No last name needed. He wondered what it was like living in a place where the images of your former glorious self mocked your present self from the walls.
He turned away and noticed her purse on the card table in the dining room and looked through it. It was full of makeup, mostly, and empty cigarette packages and matchbooks. There was a small spray can for repelling attackers and her wallet. She had seven dollars. He looked at her license and discovered for the first time what her full name was.
"Darlene Kugel," he said out loud. "Pleased to meet you."
He took the money and put everything else back in the purse. Seven dollars wasn't much but it was seven dollars. The man at the digiTime dealership had made him pay in advance to order the camera. Gladden was now down to a few hundred dollars and he figured seven more couldn't hurt.
He put his money worries aside and began to pace again. He had a problem of timing. The camera had to be shipped from New York. It wouldn't be in until Wednesday. Five more days. He knew that to be safe he'd have to wait it out right here in Darlene's apartment. And he knew he could do it.
He decided to make a list for the store. Darlene's shelves were almost empty except for tuna fish and he hated that shit. He'd have to go out, get supplies, and then dig in until Wednesday. He wouldn't need much. Spring water-Darlene apparently drank tap water. Also Fruit Loops, maybe some Chef Boyardee.
He heard a car drive by outside. He moved toward the door to listen and finally he heard the sound he had been waiting for. The newspaper hitting the ground. Darlene had told him the tenant in the apartment next door got the paper. Gladden was proud of himself for having thought to ask. He went to the window now and peered through the blinds to the street. Dawn was coming up gray and misty. He saw no activity outside.
After turning the two locks, Gladden opened the door and stepped out into the crisp morning air. He looked around and saw the folded newspaper on the sidewalk in front of the apartment next door. No lights were on behind the apartment's doors. Gladden quickly walked to the newspaper, picked it up and returned to the apartment he had come from.
On the couch he quickly went to the Metro section of the paper and flipped through the eight pages. There was no story. Nothing on the maid. He tossed the section aside and picked up the front section.
He turned the section over and there it was at last, his own photo at the bottom right corner of the front page. It was the mug shot from the Santa Monica arrest. He pulled his eyes away from his own image and started reading the story. He was overjoyed. He had made the front page again. After so many years. His face flushed as he read.