Read Faces of the Gone: A Mystery Online
Authors: Brad Parks
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Murder, #Organized Crime, #Crime Fiction
ith Tynesha having captured every bit of available attention, I slipped away unnoticed and began walking toward my car. About five blocks later, it occurred to me I should go back and offer the TV morons some kind of explanation for the bizarre thing they had just witnessed. After all, that’s the first rule of public relations: if you’ve got a side of the story to tell, get it out quickly and in an attractive manner.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized a psychopathic, pyromaniac drug kingpin was on the loose, and it was at least partly my fault. For as awful as the TV news was going to make me look, I should leave bad enough alone. After all, there’s also the second rule of public relations: if you’re in the wrong, shut the hell up, take your beating like a man, and hope everyone forgets about it by the next news cycle.
So I completed my walk down Springfield Avenue to my trusty Malibu, which soon delivered me to the relative safety (I hoped) of the
Eagle-Examiner
offices. By the time I arrived, the morning editor’s meeting was already under way, so I was able to settle into my desk without worrying about immediate ambush from Tina or Szanto.
Reassuringly, my e-mail in-box had the usual mix of worthless press releases and urgent reminders from Human Resources, one of which was about making sure the batteries in my home’s carbon monoxide detector were working properly. Oh, irony.
There were also some messages from colleagues who heard’d about the kindling box my house had become. And over the next half hour, as I called my insurance company and began filing my claim, a number of them stopped by and offered condolences and iftheresanythingicandos. Even Buster Hays dropped his usual persona and offered some kind words.
You wouldn’t necessarily think of newsrooms as dens of altruism, but in times of personal crises, the
Eagle-Examiner
staff was known for going above and beyond to help its own. I had a half- dozen offers for free lodging by the time Szanto and Tina appeared from the morning meeting.
Tina didn’t bother with words. She came straight for me and hugged me before I could even get out of my chair. It was a bit awkward, having my face mashed into her chest. And I’m sure it was noted by the newsroom gossips, who undoubtedly knew why I hadn’t been at home to be blown up along with the rest of my belongings. But it felt so nice I didn’t care.
“When you’re done molesting him, send him into my office,” Szanto said as he walked by.
Unembarrassed, Tina kept clinging to me. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she said, kissing the top of my head fiercely. “Now stop scaring the crap out of me.”
I offered my best winsome smile. “Don’t worry,” I said. “If what Billy Joel says is true and only the good die young, I got a long way to go before I check out.”
“You’re staying with me until this is over,” she said. “No arguments. We’re locking the doors and putting on the security system.”
“Okay, but no eggs for breakfast.”
“Deal,” she said, releasing me and exhaling sharply. “Okay. I’m done.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went into Szanto’s office before anyone could get a full look at just how much I was blushing.
“I hope you don’t expect me to hug you like that,” he said. It was as close as Szanto came to a joke.
“Probably for the best,” I said. “I have a pet peeve about hairy backs anyway.”
He almost grinned, but I knew what was coming: the Sal Szanto I’m-a-gruff-bastard-but-I-care- about-my-people speech.
“Hell of a thing this morning,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“No, really. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, boss,” I said. “Honest. I had my happy-to- be-alive epiphany. I’ve talked with my insurance company. The only thing I can’t replace is my own wonderfully unique DNA sequence, and that managed to come out unscathed.”
Szanto bent forward for a moment to grab his coffee, then returned to a recline, sipping thoughtfully.
“Sometimes these things take a little bit of time to sink in, you know,” he said. “I want you to take some time off. Get away somewhere until this cools down. I talked to Brodie about it and he agreed the paper will handle the tab, so pick yourself a nice island and get lost for a couple of weeks. Drink some fruity drinks. Meet some local girls. Whatever works for you. Hays and Hernandez can pick up the story from here.”
“Like hell they will,” I said.
“Carter, I’m offering you a free vacation.”
“And I’m telling you thanks but no thanks. This is my story and I couldn’t live with myself if I quit on it. At least one woman—and who knows how many Booker T vagrants—may die because of something I put in the damn newspaper. You think a few banana daiquiris will make me feel better about that?”
Szanto moved forward in his chair and placed his coffee back on the desk.
“Yeah, I thought you were going to say that,” he said. “If you wake up tomorrow and change your mind, no one here will think less of you.”
“
I’ll
think less of me.”
That seemed to settle matters. Szanto asked about my morning and I gave him the full narrative. Then he caught me up on the latest from inside the nest of Mother Eagle. Apparently, the county prosecutor had called up and asked us to be a little more careful about what we put in the paper. Brodie, God bless him, had politely told the prosecutor to shove it up his ass.
Such bravado aside, we all knew that as long as we had a homicidal maniac receiving home delivery, the rules about what we did and did not print needed to change. We had to hold our cards closer to the chest.
“. . . and the Newark police want a statement from you,” Szanto finished.
“Can’t you just tell them to buy the newspaper like everyone else?”
“Don’t know if that’s going to work this time,” Szanto said. “We’ve had some success stalling them in the past when these sorts of things came up. But, ultimately, you’re going to have to cooperate. You might as well get it out of the way.”
• • •
hat was how, in short order, I ended up taking a walk down the hill, across Broad Street, and onto Green Street for a visit with my good friends at the Newark Police Department. Tina had insisted on accompanying me, which gave me some small comfort: at least if the man in the white van suddenly appeared and decided my brain would look better decorating the sidewalk, there would be a witness.
Otherwise, I doubted Tina’s yoga classes, for as shapely as
they made her arms, were going to do much to help in the event of an attack. Fact was, if the guy still wanted me dead, I was going to be dead one way or another.
“Whatchya thinking about, Mr. Stare Off in the Distance Man?” Tina asked.
I looked at her and thought about telling the truth: death, Tina. I’m thinking about death. I’m wondering whether I’ll be reunited with my harp-strumming grandparents atop cottoncandy clouds or whether I’ll have all the afterlife of a junked television. I’m wondering if this lunatic is done for the moment or if he’s merely having a Rooty Tooty Fresh N’ Fruity at a local I-HOP and will be back to finish me after he’s done with the funnel cake he ordered for dessert. I’m wondering how my blood would look as it poured out of me and spread in a nice circle on the pavement, which is probably the last thing I’d ever see.
Which means I’m also wondering whether I should really just save my own ass and hop on a plane for St. Thomas, taking Tina with me so we can spend the next two weeks finding creative and entertaining ways to start a family.
Tina was still waiting for my answer.
“Oh, nothing,” I said instead. “I was just realizing that I’ve spent my entire career interviewing cops and never once had the tables turned on me. Funny, isn’t it?”
“You’re lying,” she said. “That wasn’t what you were thinking about at all.”
“I wasn’t?”
“I
know
when you’re lying. I hope you don’t play poker. Your tells are as obvious as turnpike billboards.”
The implication—that I couldn’t tell a lie to a woman I might end up sleeping with—was too immense for my head to process at a time like this. So we walked in silence the rest of the way to police headquarters. I went up to the desk sergeant on duty, announced myself, then was asked to take a seat in a lounge area that reminded me of a hospital waiting room except that it had Wanted posters for wall hangings.
A battered television was bolted into the ceiling in the corner, and we arrived just in time for the
News at Noon
update. The TV was muted—as all TV news should be—and I was going to keep it that way until I saw they were leading their broadcast with the Stop-In Go-Go fire. I walked over and pumped up the volume in time to catch the words “Let’s go live to Irvington.”
The scene cut directly to the Channel 7 Smurf, who no longer looked so small now that he was appearing alone on camera with nothing to set his diminutiveness in perspective. The word “LIVE” appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the screen, and the blackened remains of the Stop- In Go-Go were framed perfectly in the background.
“Thanks, Tom,” the Smurf said. “A bizarre story here, where police say an unknown arsonist has torched this and several other buildings, apparently in revenge for something written in a
newspaper
article.”
The next scene was a quick scan of the top of that day’s
Eagle-Examiner,
then footage of Miss B’s place, then of the heap of rubble that remained of Booker T. The Smurf was talking over it the entire time and I was mostly ignoring him until he said, “. . . and we have this footage of a dramatic confrontation between one of the dancers and the man who wrote the article,
Eagle-Examiner
reporter Carter Ross.”
I cringed. Other than Van Man, this was the last thing in the world I wanted to see: Tynesha raving at me, and me pleading in return.
Even having participated in the original event, it was hard to follow the clip they had chosen. They used a special effect to strategically blur her wardrobe malfunctions. They used a bleeping sound every time she swore. The net effect was that most of the clip was either blurred or bleeped.
“That was entertaining,” Tina said when it was over. “Did you really just try to engender sympathy with a source by telling her about your dead cat?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I played the cat card.”
“Interesting,” she said. “At least we don’t have to worry about losing you to network news.”
“Be honest,” I said. “How bad was it?”
“Remember that movie with Winona Rider and Richard Gere?”
“Ouch.”
Just then, Hakeem Rogers, the Newark Police Department’s spokesman, appeared. Actually, calling Hakeem Rogers a spokesman was a bit of a stretch, since most of the time he was paid to say nothing. We had a relationship based on sarcasm and mutual irritation.
“Hi, Carter,” he said, pretending he was happy to see me.
“Hello, Officer Rogers,” I said.
“Gee, it really breaks my heart you wasted your time coming down here. We don’t need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not our case anymore.”
“So whose case is it?”
“We turned it over to the feds,” Rogers said, like I should have somehow known this already.
“Which feds?”
“The Newark Field Office of the National Drug Bureau,” he said. “They told us they had reason to believe the crime involved international drug smuggling and they claimed jurisdiction over it.”
“Huh,” was all I could say.
“Yeah, so you can go bother them now,” Rogers said. “I’m glad we’re rid of it. We got enough murders we can’t solve. If you ask me, they’re not going to do any better with it than we did.”
The Director wasted little time pondering his morning’s work. There was another job to do, and he knew it was going to take several hours: he had a lot of pictures to print out, and ink-jet printers were simply not built for speed. The Director didn’t like using his own printer—in addition to the printer being slow, it meant fussing with those annoying ink cartridges—but he had no choice in the matter. These were not the kind of pictures he could take to the local Fotomat.
They were the snapshots the Director had ordered Monty to take of Wanda Bass, Tyrone Scott, Shareef Thomas, and Devin Whitehead in the moments after their deaths. They were postmortem portraits. Faces of the gone.
And now that the news of the four dealers’ deaths was in every newspaper and on every television—and had no doubt captured his employees’ attention—the time was right to deliver the high-impact message the Director wanted to impart.
He made forty-two packets, one for each of his remaining dealers, to be delivered along with their weekly shipment. Each packet included a set of the photos and a memo:
TO: All Employees
FROM: The Director
RE: Reminder about cutting
It has recently come to my attention that four of our employees were cutting The Stuff as a way of stretching out supply. The pictures enclosed can be considered the consequences of that decision. A similar penalty will await any other employees who make a similar mistake. We have put strict quality control measures in place and we will continue to perform spot checks in the field to ensure compliance on the part of all employees. Only with 100 percent purity can we achieve our goals.
The Director read the memo over three times to make sure it struck the right tone. Then, because he liked how it looked, he found “The Stuff” stamp on his desk and imprinted its logo at the top of each memo—one last sign of authenticity.
In a rare display of initiative, Monty tried to convince the Director it was madness to send out the packets. Mathematically, weren’t there good odds one of them could slip into the wrong hands? Couldn’t this be used as evidence against them?
But the Director only laughed at Monty’s anxiousness. Even if one of his dealers took the package directly to the chief of police and spilled everything, it would have no impact on the Director’s operation. The Director had the local police under control. Besides, each level of his or ga niza tion was essentially blind to the level above it.
Now that Van Man had Uncle Sam on his ass, my chances of celebrating my thirty-second birthday had improved slightly. A smart bad guy could screw around with the Newark cops, who had never been accused of being the world’s sharpest crimesolving unit. The feds were a different matter. The feds had resources, know-how, and a certain no-nonsense attitude about things. And if they decided a case was a priority, they had a much longer attention span, as well.
Hopefully it was enough to convince Van Man to go underground and not risk emerging to, say, grease a local newspaper reporter.
Yet while these were all good developments for my personal life, it was not as promising for me professionally. Prying information out of local law enforcement was like playing with an old fire hydrant: if you kept taking whacks at it, you could eventually get it to leak. Feds were made of different material, stuff that was sealed a lot tighter.
Especially since I already had some inkling of who I was dealing with. My first experience with L. Peter Sampson, the NDB’s press guy, had set a world record for Fastest Flak Blow-off (Federal Division). The guy couldn’t wait to get me off the phone.
I quickly concluded there was only one way to solve that problem: pay him a visit. Maybe that personal touch would convince poor, frightened L. Pete that I wasn’t one of those scary reporters who was going to get him fired.
I walked Tina back to the newsroom and promised her I would spend the afternoon safely at my desk, doing my expense report. Then I went to my computer for three minutes—just long enough to get an address for the National Drug Bureau’s Newark Field Office—and scooted across town.
The NDB was housed in an appropriately stern federal building, a solidly built rectangular edifice without much in the way of architectural imagination. Upon entering, I was met by a metal detector and three square-jawed U.S. marshals.
“I’m a reporter with the
Eagle-Examiner,
” I said. “I’m here to see L. Peter Sampson at the National Drug Bureau.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
He nodded, went to a nearby phone, and immediately started talking in a voice that was inaudible from twenty feet away. One of his partners, meanwhile, eyed me like I was something that had crawled out of the sewer.
As a general rule, making unannounced visits to federal agencies was not a very efficient use of a reporter’s time. Bureaucracies abhorred such displays of spontaneity from the Fourth Estate. And they discouraged them by assuring that such attempts would be met with minimum cooperation and maximum fuss.
“Can I see some identification?” the marshal asked me after he got off the phone, and I obliged him with a business card and my New Jersey State Police Press ID.
“Driver’s license, please,” he said.
“I came here on foot,” I said pleasantly. I hadn’t, of course. But I didn’t like the idea of giving Big Brother more information about myself than absolutely necessary. Plus, the guy was being a dick. The marshal frowned and returned to low-talking at the telephone. The partner was now staring at me even more contemptuously. I gave him an exaggerated smile—merely because I felt sticking out my tongue would be too juvenile.
Meanwhile, I considered how I might approach L. Pete differently this time. I had exactly zero leverage on the guy. One of the reasons the feds were so much harder to crack than the locals was that, in short, feds didn’t really need good publicity. The local police chief knows his boss, the mayor, is eventually going to have to win an election and that friendly relations with the newspaper will help him do that.
A place like the NDB doesn’t have nearly that level of local accountability. Its money comes from faraway Washington committee meetings and its employees enjoy the kind of job security only the world’s most powerful government can offer. Sure, it doesn’t mind good pub. But, more than anything, it looks to avoid
bad
pub.
And that, I realized, was my only recourse with L. Pete. If the carrot didn’t work, I’d have to make him think I had a big stick. Somewhere.
The marshal eventually hung up the phone and instructed me to go through the metal detector. Then the second marshal passed a wand over me. The third one patted me down.
Having been sufficiently probed, I was led across a polished floor to a small padded bench near an elevator, where I was instructed to wait. The elevator soon produced a cheerless man in a suit, who relieved the marshal and took over his job: making sure I didn’t cause trouble.
“Nice day today, huh?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said, his expression unchanging.
“Any big plans for the weekend?” I asked.
“No, sir,” he said, and I decided to stop antagonizing the poor guy.
Fifteen minutes passed, during which time suit guy remained grim-faced and I grew bored. I’m sure, somewhere in the building, L. Pete was simply hoping I’d leave. But I wasn’t going to give him that pleasure. After a half hour passed, I took a quarter out of my pocket and began flipping it, gangster style. I thought I noticed a slight change in the suit’s face, like he was a little jealous I was getting to have all the fun.
Finally—prompted by nothing I could discern—the suit said, “Come with me.”
He slid a card into the control panel, punched the up button, then took me to the fifteenth floor. The top floor. I was escorted to an office next to a corner office, whose name plate announced it belonged to L. Peter Sampson.
“Wait here,” the suit told me. “Agent Sampson will see you shortly.”