The Poet (39 page)

When we held each other afterward, she whispered that this time she was going to stay until dawn.

31

The phone pulled me out of a sound sleep. I looked around the strange confines of the room, getting my bearings, and my eyes fell on Rachel’s.

“You better get it,” she said calmly. “It’s your room.”

She didn’t seem to have nearly the same difficulty I had coming awake. In fact, for a moment I had the feeling she had already been awake and was watching me when the phone rang. I lifted the receiver on what I guessed was the ninth or tenth ring. At the same time I saw that the clock on the bed table said it was seven-fifteen.

“Yes?”

“Put Walling on the line.”

I froze. There was something reminiscent about the voice but I didn’t place it in my jumbled mind. Then a thought occurred to me that Rachel shouldn’t be in my room.

“You got the wrong room. She’s in-“

“Don’t fuck with me, reporter. Put her on.”

I covered the phone with my hand and turned to Rachel.

“It’s Thorson. He says he knows you’re there-here.”

“Give it to me,” she said angrily and jerked the phone out of my hand.

“What do you want?”

There was a period of silence. He must’ve said two or three sentences to her.

“Where did it come from?”

More silence.

“Why are you calling me?” she asked, the anger back in her voice. “Go ahead and tell him, if that’s what you want. If you want him to know. It says as much about you as me. I’m sure he’d like to know that you’re some kind of Peeping Tom.”

She handed me the phone and I hung it up. She pulled a pillow over her face and moaned. I pulled it off her face.

“What is it?”

“I’ve got bad news for you, Jack.”

“What?”

“In this morning’s edition of the Los Angeles Times there was a story about the Poet. I’m sorry. I’ve got to bring you into the FO for a meeting with Bob.”

I was silent for a moment, confused.

“How’d they …”

“We don’t know. That’s what we’re going to talk about.”

“How much did they have, did he say?”

“No. But apparently it was enough.”

“I knew I should have written this yesterday. Damn it! Once it was clear that this guy knew about you people, there was no reason not to write it.”

“You made a deal and stuck to it. You had to, Jack. Look, let’s wait on this until we get to the office and talk about what they had.”

“I’ve got to call my editor.”

“You can do that later. Bob’s apparently already in and waiting for us. I guess he doesn’t sleep.”

The phone rang again. She jerked the phone out of the cradle.

“What is it?” she said in a voice painted with annoyance. Then in a softer tone, she said, “Hold on.”

She smiled sheepishly and handed me the phone. She then lightly kissed me on the cheek, whispered that she was going to her room to get ready and started to get dressed. I put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“It’s Greg Glenn. Who was that?”

“Uh, that was an FBI agent. We’ve got a meeting. I guess you’ve heard about the L.A. Times.”

“You’re damn right I have.”

The sinking sensation in my chest was growing. Glenn went on.

“They’ve got a story on the killer in the paper. Our killer, Jack. They’re calling him the Poet. You told me we had the exclusive on this and we were protected.”

“We were.”

It was all I could manage to say. As Rachel finished throwing her clothes on she watched me with sympathetic eyes.

“Not anymore. You’ve got to come back this morning and write ours for tomorrow. Whatever you’ve got. And you better have more than they’ve got. We could’ve had this in the paper, Jack, but you convinced me. Now we’re playing catch-up on our own story, goddamnit.”

“All right!” I said sharply just to shut him up.

“And I hope I don’t find that you’ve extended your stay in Phoenix just because you found some babe to bang down there.”

“Fuck you, Greg. Do you have the story there or not?”

“Of course I do. It’s a great story. A great read. But it’s in the wrong paper!”

“Just read it to me. No, wait a minute. I gotta go to this meeting. Have somebody in the library-“

“Don’t you listen, Jack? You aren’t going to any meeting. I want you on the next plane back here to write this for tomorrow.”

I watched Rachel blow a kiss at me and then go out the door.

“I understand. You’ll have it for tomorrow. But I can write it here and ship it.”

“No. This is a hands-on story. I want to work this one right here with you.”

“Let me go to this meeting and call you back.”

“Why?”

“There’s a new development,” I lied. “I don’t know what it is and I have to go and find out. Let me go and I’ll call you. Meantime, have the library take the Times story off their wire and ship it to my basket. I’ll call it up here. I gotta go.”

I hung up before he could protest. I quickly got dressed and headed out the door with my computer bag. I was in a daze. I didn’t know how this could have happened. But a thought was pushing through.

Thorson.

We each grabbed two cups to go from a hospitality stand in the lobby and then headed to the federal building. She had packed all her things again. I had forgotten.

We didn’t talk until we had finished our first cups. I imagined we had completely different dilemmas and different thoughts going through our mind.

“Are you going back to Denver?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“How bad was it?”

“It was bad. Last time he’ll ever listen to one of my promises.”

“I don’t understand how it could’ve happened. They would have had to call Bob Backus for comment.”

“Maybe they did.”

“No, he would have told you. He would have kept his deal. He’s second-generation bureau. I’ve never seen anyone toe the line like that man.”

“Well I hope he keeps the deal now. Because I’m writing today.”

“What did the story say?”

“I don’t know. I should have it as soon as I can hook up to a phone.”

We were at the courthouse. She pulled into the garage for federal employees.

Only Backus and Thorson were in the conference room.

The meeting began with Backus expressing his regret that the story had leaked before I could write it. It seemed legitimate to me and I regretted impugning his integrity with my comment earlier to Rachel.

“Do you have it? I can get it on my computer if I can use the phone line.”

“By all means. I’ve been waiting for someone from the L.A. field office to fax it. The only reason I know about it is because Brass tells me we’re already getting calls from other media into Quantico.”

I plugged in and turned on my computer and dialed into the Rocky system. I didn’t bother to read any of my messages. I went right to my personal basket and looked at the files. I noticed there were two new ones: POETCOPY and HYP- STORIES. I remembered then that I had asked Laurie Prine for stories on hypnosis and Horace the Hypnotist but I’d have to look at those files later. I called up POETCOPY and got a shock that I should have seen coming before I had even read the first line of the story.

“Damn it!”

“What?” Rachel asked.

“It was written by Warren. He resigns from the Law Enforcement Foundation and then turns around and uses my story to get back with the Times.”

“Reporters,” Thorson said with unhidden joy. “Just can’t trust them.”

I ignored him but it was hard. I was angry about what had happened. At Warren and at myself. I should have seen it coming.

“Read it, Jack,” Backus said.

I did.

FBI, POLICE SEEK SERIAL COP KILLER

The Hunted Turns on the Hunters By Michael Warren Special to the Times The FBI has begun a manhunt for a serial killer who has claimed as many as seven homicide detectives as his victims in a nationwide rampage begun as long as three years ago.

Dubbed the “Poet” because he has left notes containing lines of poetry from the work of Edgar Allan Poe at each murder scene, the suspect has attempted to disguise the deaths of his victims as suicides.

And for as long as three years his victims were counted as such until the similarities of the crimes, including the quotes from Poe, were discovered last week, according to a source close to the investigation.

That discovery prompted the FBI to act quickly in its efforts to identify and capture the Poet. Dozens of FBI agents and police in seven cities are carrying out the investigation under the direction of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Services. The investigation currently has its most intense focus on Phoenix, where the latest death attributed to the Poet occurred, the source said.

The source, who talked to the Times on the condition of anonymity, declined to disclose how the activities of the Poet were discovered but said that a joint study by the FBI and the Law Enforcement Foundation of police suicides in the last six years provided key information.

The story went on to list the names of the victims and some of the details of each case. It then included a few paragraphs on the BSS unit as filler and ended with a wrapup quote from the unnamed source saying that the FBI had little to go on in terms of knowing who or where the Poet was.

By the time I was done reading it, my cheeks were hot with anger. There is nothing worse than living by the letter of an agreement when one of the people you made the deal with doesn’t. The story was weak, in my opinion, a lot of words around a few facts and all attributed to an anonymous source. Warren didn’t even mention the fax or, more importantly, the bait murders. I knew that what I would write that day would be the definitive piece on the Poet. But that didn’t move the anger back in my throat much. For whatever the shortcomings of the story were, it was still clear that Warren had talked to somebody in the bureau. And I couldn’t help but think that that person was sitting at the conference room table with me.

“We had a deal,” I said, looking up from the computer. “Somebody gave this to this guy. He knew what I had when I came in to him on Thursday, but he went to somebody in the bureau for the rest. Probably someone on the task force. Probably somebody-“

“That may be true, Jack, but-“

“He already had this because of you,” Thorson interrupted. “You only have yourself to blame.”

“Wrong,” I said, glaring back at him. “I gave him most of it but not the Poet. The offender wasn’t even called that when I was with Warren. That came from the task force. And that blows our deal. Somebody’s talking who shouldn’t be talking. The story’s out. I have to go write what I know today for tomorrow.”

A small measure of silence passed through the room.

“Jack,” Backus said, “I know this won’t do you much good now but I want you to know that when I get some time and space on this thing, I am going to find out who the leak was and that person won’t be working for me anymore, and maybe not even the bureau.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t do me much good.”

“I need to ask a favor, nonetheless.”

I looked at Backus, wondering if he was actually foolish enough to try again to persuade me to hold off on writing a story every TV station and paper in the country would be running anyway that night and the next day.

“What is it?”

“When you write this … I want you to please keep in mind that we still need to get this man. You have information that could irreparably harm our chances of doing that. I’m talking about specific things. Details of the profile. Details about the possible hypnosis, the condoms. If you print those, Jack, and they are repeated on TV or in a newspaper he has access to, then he will change his routine. See what I’m saying? It will only make it harder for us.”

I nodded but then looked at him with a hard stare.

“You’re not going to tell me what to write.”

“I know that. I’m asking you to think about your brother, about us, and be careful of what you write. I trust you, Jack. Implicitly.”

I thought about that for a long moment and then nodded again.

“Bob, I made a deal with you and came out on the short end. If you want me to protect you now, there’s got to be a new deal. You’re going to have reporters coming out of the woodwork today. But I want you to refer all calls to public affairs in Quantico. I talk to and quote from you exclusively. Also, I get the fax from the Poet exclusively. You give me that and I won’t mention the details of the profile or the hypnosis in my story.”

“That’s a deal,” Backus said.

He said it so quickly that I started to think he knew exactly what I had been going to say, that he had known all along that I was going to suggest the new deal.

“But one thing, Jack,” Backus said. “Let’s agree on holding back one line from the fax. If we start getting confessions, we’ll be able to use the hold-back line to weed out the phonies.”