Authors: Stephen Hunter
“You can’t trace cash, not old, small bills. He had plenty of old small bills.”
“Cash isn’t a crime. At least it didn’t used to be. What have you got him on? A few minor car theft charges for which there’s really no proof, and no prosecutor would bring to court. The rest was self-defense. He never shot a man who wasn’t trying to kill him or someone else. He was green light all the way.”
“New Orleans.”
“New
Orleans!
I told you, it was a professional setup! They used a different rifle to shoot a bullet that had been already fired out of his rifle. They had a great shot, Lon Scott, in the steeple. It’s possible, you know it’s possible.”
“Okay, Memphis, this isn’t the time to argue. Now could we go back to—”
Then, finally, there were the scientific gentlemen. Nick took three polygraph tests, and volunteered to undergo
both hypnosis and sodium pentothal treatment. He was probed, drugged, pricked, psyched, drained and squeezed. He got through it all with only moderate testiness: old Nick, everybody’s helper, friend to all men, duty hound, stalwart and chum.
One day, late in the process, he was told he had a visitor. Blinking, he went outside to the porch, there to discover the nervous Sally Ellion awaiting him.
“Hi! God, Sally, hi, how are you, Jesus, you’re looking great!”
And Sally was looking great.
“Hi, Nick. How are you?” She still had that soft Southern accent, as if the Mississippi itself poured through her words.
“Oh, I’m okay, you know. I’m fine. I’m sorry I haven’t called you. They’ve got me pretty busy and I don’t think they’re going to spring me soon.”
“You’re not in any trouble, are you?”
“Nah. Nah, I’m fine. I want to work with the guys and get this all straightened out. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. I’m hoping that when this is over, we can go out to dinner again. That was great fun. How are you?”
She looked terrific to him.
“I’m okay. Nick, they came to me and wanted—”
“I know, I know. Just tell them the truth. You didn’t do anything wrong. Remember, you didn’t know I’d been suspended when you gave me that file. You’re okay, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried about myself, Nick. I’m worried about you. He said you might have broken some laws. He was very upset about what might happen to you.”
“Um. Howard?”
“Yes. Mr. Utey.”
“Yeah, I smell him all over this thing. Don’t worry. Howard’s an old pal. He’ll look out for me. What’s going on in the outside world?”
“Oh, the television and papers have made a big thing about Bob Lee Swagger. I think the government wants to settle it quickly. Get it off the front page.”
“What have they done with Bob?”
“He’s in a holding facility in—”
“A
prison?”
“Yes. He’s got a lawyer. But there’s so much publicity that I think they’re going to do something soon.”
This shook Nick greatly.
“He shouldn’t be in a prison. He’s a hero. He did great things for—”
But he saw a hurt look on her face and realized he’d begun to sound deranged.
“Well, anyway. Sally, I hope this hasn’t been hard on you.”
“No. It was a little scary at first, all the questions. But I think I’m out of it.”
“Great. I’ve tried to make them see it’s all my fault. I’m to blame, that’s all. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“I’m sure they will. Nick, are you sure you’re going to call me when all this is over? I’d like to see you.”
“Sure, of course.”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to call you.”
“I’ll call you. I swear. You know, old AB Nick. I want to hear more about the time when you ditched that quarterback. Tom, Terry—?”
“Ted.” She laughed. “God, what a horrible guy. I can’t believe I was engaged to him.”
The memory brought a smile to her face, a little one; then it was time for her to go.
They pretty much left Nick alone for a week after Sally’s visit, with only two incurious bodyguards who let him go for walks. They let him watch TV and he caught up on the events of the last month and the controversy surrounding Bob Lee Swagger, amazed to see what a
huge national story it had become, with all the networks camped outside the Louisiana State Reformatory where Bob was being kept in isolation, with visits only from his lawyer, a doughty-looking, sly old boy—operative word
old
—named Sam Vincent. Meanwhile a grand jury investigated the matter and all the Louisiana state prosecutors were lined up, waiting their turn.
“Looks like a carnival,” Nick said, and nobody answered.
Then finally, inevitably, Howard arrived, with a sharp young man along, who had Ambitious Federal Prosecutor written all over his feral little features. And an older man, twinkly, with an almost academic air about him, as he sucked on a pipe.
“Nick, Nick, Nick,” said Howard, expansive and embracing. “Nick, I want you to meet Phil Kelso, who works on a lot of cases with us. Phil’s a damned fine prosecutor, Nick. The best.”
“Um,” said Nick.
“And this is Hugh Meachum, of the State Department. Nick, he’s here to advise us on national security implications of the situation. The Salvadorans are very interested in the way this turns out.”
Nick shot a quick look at Hugh, smelled gin, felt his blood begin to roar in his head.
“We hear you’ve been extremely cooperative,” said Kelso. “That’s wonderful. That’s a big plus on your behalf. Right now, Nick, we’re in the zone of attitude. Attitude is everything, Nick. We need great attitude from you.”
“Well, I always try and do my best,” said Nick, swallowing hard, somehow not wanting to look at Meachum.
“That’s Nick,” said Howard. “Nick tries real hard. Nick’s a worker, a plugger, a scrapper. You could see it seven years ago in Tulsa and you can see it now.”
“An extraordinary young man,” said the elderly gentleman.
“Now, Nick, guess what day this is? Can you guess?”
Howard was effusive and charismatic today; Nick only saw him like this when he wanted something big.
“No, Howard.”
“Nick, it’s the first day of the rest of your life. Nick, it’s your lucky day. You can walk out of here in an hour. In ten minutes, a free man, Nick. No questions asked. Nick, the only thing you have to do is your duty, that’s all.”
But Nick was hardly listening. He could only think of Meachum on the cover letter that sent Annex B to the general and set the whole thing in motion.
He kept trying to keep his eyes off the old man, but he could not control himself. He saw some sort of benevolence on the pink face, pleasurable anticipation that Nick was turning into such a team player, such a smashing young man.
“Nick, you can have more than your life back,” Howard was saying when Nick tuned back in. “You can have it
all
. You can have your career. Nick, what do you want? Do you want Cointelpro? I don’t mind telling you, you impressed Dave and Tom. They thought you were a plenty sharp operator, and they are the best, Nick. You know Cointelpro is the elite squad. You can have it. Or do you want a Hostage Rescue Unit? We could get you on HRU in Miami or Dallas, Nick, a hot city where you’d see a lot of action. Those HRU boys pick up the medals and they get on the fast track to Washington, Nick. Nick, we may be starting up a squad to extradite suspects from foreign countries. Now that’ll be fast, exciting work, and some top people are coming aboard, Nick. I think that’s what I’d pick, if I were you and had my whole career ahead of me. But it’s up to you, Nick. You can have anything. No more dumpy little
Taco Circuit cities for you, Nick. No Tulsas or Buttes or Boises. You name it—San Francisco, New York and organized crime, Philadelphia, Washington, Chicago, Chicago’s a great town, Nick.”
Nick just watched Howard.
“Okay,” he finally said. “What’s the deal?”
Nick caught Kelso firing a little what-the-fuck? glance at Howard.
Howard sailed on.
“Nick, listen to me. It can play one of two ways.
Only
one of two ways. It’s to everybody’s benefit—yours, mine, most particularly the Bureau’s and the country’s—if it plays a certain way. Okay?”
“Sure,” said Nick. “What way?”
Now Kelso and Howard exchanged glances. They took a pause, then both looked back to Hugh, who smiled, his pale blue eyes aglitter.
Finally, Kelso spoke.
“Nick, it’s Murder One on Bob Lee Swagger. We’re going for the chair.”
“Are you all right?” Bob asked her.
“I’m fine.”
“You just answer their questions. You just tell the truth, that’s all.”
Behind the glass wall of the visiting room, he looked sallow and grim. His voice was reedy through the distorting sound of the telephone. She put her hand on the glass, aware that before her thousands of women had put their hands on the glass, and left a residue of wanting and sorrow as they peered at their men.
“Bob,” Julie said, “that’s just it. They haven’t asked me
any
questions. I was kidnapped. I was drugged and held at gunpoint for close to a month. I can’t get them to care about it. I even called the sheriff of Ajo County
and he said, ‘Julie, there’s no proof. We have to let the federal government decide what to do.’ ”
“Julie, he gave you good advice. We don’t have a thing to worry about. This is just some sort of preliminary investigation, and they can’t have me running around. It doesn’t matter. This is the FBI. They’re going to be fair.”
“Bob, I—”
“Once Sam gets it all explained to them, I’ll be out of here in seconds. All our troubles are over. I’m hoping we can get back to Arizona. I liked the feeling of that desert. Arkansas is getting too crowded. Think I’d like to settle down out there in the Southwest.”
“Bob, I—”
But he winked at her, still looking imposing in prison denims. He was manacled to the chair.
“Honey,” he said. “We don’t have a thing to worry about. We can trust the U.S. government.”
Nick swallowed. He had a little difficulty understanding.
“I—I—I don’t—”
“Nick, for one reason and one reason only. Nick, he’s guilty,” said Howard. “Nick, he took the shot that nailed Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez. He’s got to pay. He—”
“No!” said Nick. “Listen, I
explained
that. Howard, didn’t you read the interrogation reports? It was RamDyne. RamDyne set him up, Shreck, Payne, Dobbler, Lon Scott. They set him up. Lon Scott fired the bullet. It was a bullet that had already been through Bob’s gun so it was supposed to have Bob’s rifling on it. He was shooting from the St. Louis Cathedral, he—”
“Nick, the cathedral is fourteen hundred yards away. Fourteen hundred fifty-one yards, we measured,” said
Howard. “Nobody can hit a target at fourteen hundred yards with a .308.”
“It wasn’t a .308! It was a 200-grain Sierra bullet that Bob had already fired. They loaded it into a Holland and Holland .300 Magnum case with a ton of powder, saboted it in plastic or paper, and blew it down a barrel that had been bored out to .318 or so! Check! Check with the experts! You’ll see it’s possible. Also, I bet you could find that special barrel at Lon Scott’s house. Did you think of that? Did you check that?”
“Lon Scott died in 1965; we have his death certificate. That dead man on that mountain ridge was named James Thomas Albright, born Robert Parrish Albright.”
“No, we traced it back. The real Robert Parrish Albright died in 1939, when he was a child. That was—”
“Nick,” said Hugh Meachum calmly, “it’s not unusual for a young man who is interested in heroes to bond to an older man, particularly a man of Bob Swagger’s courage and cunning. But Nick, the bottom line is that Bob Lee Swagger took that shot. What happened later—well, maybe he was extraordinarily heroic in this war against RamDyne. Still, it was a war among gangsters. Bob took the shot, then Leon Timmons shot
him
. He escaped. That’s all. RamDyne no longer exists. The Agency won’t comment on any relationships it may have had with it and you’ll never get them into a court of law because of national interest. Colonel Raymond Shreck was a difficult, complex, charismatic man. Like Bob he was a great hero once; like Bob, he was seduced by the power of the guns he loved. He may have been involved in narcotics at the end of his life, as his empire collapsed and he needed to raise money to sustain his life-style.”
“He had millions—”
“Not that we can find,” said Howard. “What we find is a disgraced war hero who had a great run with Agency
contracts in the seventies who had lost his way and was facing financial ruin. That’s all. It was a narcotics war or something. The official explanation will be that he died in a hunting accident on the first day of deer season. It doesn’t concern us. What concerns us is the immediate: Bob Lee Swagger took that shot from four hundred yards at the president of the United States from the house on St. Ann Street in the Quarter outside Louis Armstrong Park. He missed and hit Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez, a great man who only wanted justice for the atrocities in his native country, and was mourned the world over. It’s Murder One for Swagger. It’s the chair. That’s all.”
“No,” said Nick, desperate in his urgency to explain the obvious to these idiots, “no, you see—”
“Nick, the evidence is simply overwhelming. His rifle, identifiable fragments of his bullet, his prints, his empty shell. He was there, he had motive, he had opportunity, he had—”
“That’s the frame-up. They
framed
him. The cassette. Dobbler had a cassette of atrocities. I had Annex B! I—”
“Nick, this Dobbler’s disappeared. We’ve had a nationwide alert out for him, and we haven’t come up with anything. He probably wandered off in the deep woods and died. Nick, we can’t even prove he was in the woods with you. There’s simply no proof. Only bizarre conspiracy theories.”
“No,” said Nick, “listen, just listen. It was a frame-up and Bob burned the Annex and the tape because he didn’t want the press twisting them. He’s a goddamned hero. He took out guys who killed kids in this country’s name and now he’s hanging himself rather than—”
“Nick, let’s get back to reality, okay?” said the prosecutor, Kelso. “We’ve got a real deal for you. It’s more than I would have offered, but your boss here and Mr.
Meachum insisted. Now you listen to it. It’s very generous, very forgiving. It’s a wonderful deal.”