The Poet (26 page)

“Look,” I said. “We will talk about the story later. I’m not going to run off and start writing. My editor and I will calmly talk about it and I will let you know what we are going to do. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine, Jack. I hope you’re thinking about your brother when you have that discussion. I’m sure your editor won’t be.”

“Look, do me a favor. Don’t talk to me about my brother and my motives. Because you don’t know a thing about me or him or what I’m thinking about.”

“Fine.”

We drove a few miles in solid silence. My anger wore off a bit and I began wondering if I’d been too harsh. Her goal was to capture this person they now called the Poet. It was mine, too.

“Look, I’m sorry about the speech,” I said. “I still think we can help each other. We can cooperate and maybe catch this guy.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t see the point in cooperating when what I say is just going to show up in the newspapers and then the TV and then the tabloids. You’re right, I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know you and I don’t think I can trust you.”

She didn’t say another word until we got to the gatehouse at Quantico.

21

It was dark and I couldn’t see the grounds well as we drove in. The FBI Academy and the research center were located in the heart of a U.S. Marine base. It consisted of three sprawling brick buildings connected by glassed walkways and atriums. Agent Walling pulled into a lot marked for FBI agents only and parked.

She continued her silence as we got out. It was getting to me. I did not want her unhappy with me or thinking of me as self-serving.

“Look, my main priority is obviously to get this guy,” I tried. “Let me just use a phone. I’ll call my source and my editor and we’ll work something out. Okay?”

“Sure,” she said grudgingly.

One word and I was happy just to have finally leveraged something out of her. We went into the center building and took a series of hallways to a set of stairs which we took down to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It was the basement. She led me past a reception area into a large room that didn’t look much different from a newsroom. There were two rows of desks and work spaces with sound partitions between them and a row of private offices running down the right side. She stepped back and pointed me into one of the private offices. I assumed it was hers, though it was austere and impersonal. The only photo I saw anywhere was the one of the president on the rear wall.

“Why don’t you sit there and use the phone,” she said. “I’m going to find out where Bob is and see what’s been going on. And don’t worry, the phone’s not tapped.”

As I noted the sarcasm in her voice I saw her eyes scan the desk, making sure I would not be left alone with any important documents lying about. Satisfied there was nothing, she left. I sat behind the desk and opened my notebook to the numbers Dan Bledsoe had given me. I got him at home.

“It’s Jack McEvoy. From today.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Listen, I got picked up by the FBI after I got back into D.C. They’re doing a major deal on this guy and they’ve connected up five cases. But they don’t have McCafferty yet because of no note. I can give it to them and they’ll go from there. But I wanted to check with you first about it. They’ll probably come talk to you if I tell them. They’ll probably come even if I don’t.”

While he thought about this my eyes scanned the desk as Walling had done. It was very clean, taken up mostly by a monthly calendar that also served as a blotter. I noted that she has just come back from a vacation, the date blocks for the prior week having “vac” written in each one. There were abbreviated notations in the blocks for other dates of the month but they were indecipherable to me.

“Give it to ‘em,” Bledsoe said.

“You sure?”

“Sure. If the bureau comes out and says Johnny Mac was murdered, then his wife gets the bread. That’s all I wanted in the first place, so tell ‘em. They’re not going to do anything to me. They can’t. What’s done is done. I already heard from a friend that they were up here going through records today.”

“Okay, man, thanks.”

“You going to get a piece of it?”

“I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

“It’s your case. Hang in there. But don’t trust the G, Jack. They’ll use you and what you got and then leave you on the sidewalk like dog shit.”

I thanked him for the advice and as I hung up a man in the standard-issue gray FBI suit walked by the open door of the office, noticed me behind the desk and stopped. He stepped in, a curious look on his face.

“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Agent Walling.”

He was a large man with a sharp and ruddy face and short, black hair.

“And you are?”

“My name is Jack McEvoy. She-“

“Just don’t sit behind the desk.”

He made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating I should come around to the front of the desk and take one of the chairs there. Rather than argue the point I followed his instructions. He thanked me and left the office. The episode served as a reminder to me of why I never liked dealing with FBI agents. In general, they all carried anal-retentive genes. More than most.

After I was sure he was gone I reached across the desk to Walling’s phone and punched in Greg Glenn’s direct number. It was shortly after five in Denver and I knew he would be busy supervising deadline, but I had no choice of when I could call.

“Jack, can you call back?”

“No. I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Okay, hurry. We had another clinic shooting and we’re bending deadline.”

I quickly brought him up to date on what I had and what had happened with the FBI. He seemed to forget all about the clinic shooting and the deadline, repeatedly saying that what I had was fantastic and was going to be a fantastic story. I left out the part about Warren losing his job and Walling’s attempt to scam me. I told him where I was and what I wanted to do. He approved it.

“We’re probably going to need the whole news hole for this clinic stuff anyway,” he said. “At least the next couple of days. It’s going crazy here. I could use you on rewrite.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, you go ahead and play it out and see what you get, then let me know. This is going to be great, Jack.”

“I hope so.”

Glenn started talking about the possibilities again in terms of journalism awards and kicking the competition’s ass, breaking a national story. While I listened, Walling stepped into the office with a man I assumed was Bob Backus. He also wore a gray suit but had the air of the man in charge. He looked like he was in his mid- to late thirties and was still in good shape. He had a pleasant look on his face, short-cropped brown hair and piercing blue eyes. I held one finger up to signal I was almost done. I cut in on Glenn.

“Greg, I gotta go.”

“Okay, well let me know. And one thing, Jack.”

“What?”

“Get me some art.”

“Right.”

As I hung up, I thought that might be a little too hopeful on his part. Getting a photographer in on this would be a long shot. I had to worry about getting myself in first.

“Jack, this is Bob Backus, assistant special agent in charge. He leads my team. Bob, Jack McEvoy of the Rocky Mountain News.”

We shook hands and Backus had a vise for a grip. That was as standard FBI macho as the suit. As he spoke he reached down absentmindedly to the desk and straightened the calendar.

“Always glad to meet one of our friends in the Fourth Estate. Especially one that doesn’t come from inside the beltway.”

I just nodded. It was bullshit and everybody there knew it.

“Jack, why don’t we go over to the Boardroom and get a cup of coffee,” Backus said. “It’s been a long day. I’ll show you around a little on the way.”

As we went upstairs Backus said nothing of consequence other than to express condolences about my brother. After the three of us were seated with our coffee at one of the tables in the cafeteria called the Boardroom, he got down to business.

“Jack, we are off the record,” Backus said. “Everything that you see or hear while in Quantico is off the record. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes. For the time being.”

“Okay. If you want to talk about changing the agreement, talk to me or Rachel and we’ll hash it out. Would you be willing to sign an agreement to that effect?”

“Sure. But I’m going to be the one who writes it.”

Backus nodded as if I had scored a point in a debate final.

“Fair enough.” He moved his coffee cup to the side, brushed some unseen impurity off his palms and leaned across the table toward me. “Jack, we’ve got a status meeting in fifteen minutes. As I am sure Rachel has told you, we are going full speed. We’d be criminally negligent, in my opinion, if we proceeded with this investigation in any other way. I’ve got my entire team on it, eight other BSS agents on loan, two techs assigned full-time and six field offices involved. I can’t remember when we’ve had that kind of commitment to an investigation before.”

“I’m glad to hear that … Bob.”

He didn’t seem to flinch at my use of his first name. It had been a small test. He was seemingly treating me as an equal, calling me by my first name often. I decided to see what would happen if I did the same. So far, so good.

“You have done some very fine work,” Backus continued. “What you have done has given us a solid blueprint. It’s a start and I want to tell you we’re already more than twenty-four solid hours into it.”

Behind Backus I saw the agent who had spoken to me in Walling’s office sit down at another table with a cup of coffee and a sandwich. He watched us as he began to eat.

“We are talking about a tremendous amount of resources being committed to the investigation,” Backus said. “But right now our number one priority is one of containment.”

It was going exactly the way I had expected and I had to struggle to keep a look on my face that did not give away that I knew I held sway over the FBI and the investigation. I had leverage. I was an insider.

“You don’t want me to write about it,” I said quietly.

“Yes, that’s exactly right. Not yet, at least. We know that you have enough, even without what you’ve learned from us, to write a hell of a story. It’s an explosive story, Jack. If you write about it out there in Denver it is going to attract attention. Overnight it will be on the network and in every newspaper. Then “Hard Copy” and the rest of the TV tabloids. Anybody who doesn’t have his head in the sand is going to know about it. And, Jack, plain and simple, we can’t have that. Once the offender knows we know about him, he could disappear. If he is smart, and we already know he is damn smart, he will disappear. We’ll never get him then. You don’t want that. We’re talking about the person who killed your brother. You don’t want that, do you?”

I nodded that I understood the dilemma and was silent a moment as I composed my reply. I looked from Backus to Walling and then back to Backus.

“My paper has already invested a lot of time and money,” I said. “I’ve got the story down cold. Just so you understand, I could write a story tonight that says authorities are conducting a nationwide investigation into the likelihood that a serial killer of cops has been operating for as long as three years without detection.”

“As I said, you’ve done very good work and nobody’s arguing what kind of story this is.”

“So then what are you proposing? I just kill it and walk away, wait for you to hold a press conference one day when, and if, you get this guy?”

Backus cleared his throat and leaned back. I glanced over at Walling but her face showed nothing.

“I won’t sugarcoat it,” Backus said. “But, yes, I want you to sit on the story for a little while.”

“Until when? What’s ‘a little while’?”

Backus looked around the cafeteria as if he had never been there. He answered without looking at me.

“Until we get this person.”

I whistled low.

“And what would I get for sitting on the story? What would the Rocky Mountain News get?”

“First and foremost, you’d be helping us catch your brother’s killer. If that is not enough for you, I’m sure we could work out some sort of exclusivity agreement on the arrest of the suspect.”

No one spoke for a long moment because it was clear the ball was in my court. I weighed my words carefully before finally leaning forward across the table and speaking.

“Well, Bob, as I think you know, this is one of those rare occasions when you guys don’t hold all the cards and can’t call all of the shots. This is my investigation, you see? I started it and I’m not just going to drop out. I’m not going to go back to Denver and sit behind my desk and wait for the phone to ring. I’m in and if you don’t keep me in, then I go back to write the story. It will be in the paper Sunday morning. It’s our best circulation day.”

“You’d do that to your own brother?” Walling said, the words tight with anger. “Don’t you give a shit?”

“Rachel, please,” Backus said. “It’s a good point. What we-“

“I give a shit,” I said. “I was the only one who did. So don’t try to lay any guilt on me. My brother stays dead whether you find this guy or not and whether I write the story or not.”