The Quiet Game (22 page)

As I drive through the gate of the Walls, passing the now silent crowd standing their candlelight vigil in the rain-swept darkness, one thing comes clear to me. This is the last trip I will make to this prison. The yellow glow of the candles grows smaller in my rearview mirror. Three more men pass their days on death row because I put them here.

They will die without me present.

When I reach the hotel, Caitlin is waiting for me with a cold can of Dr Pepper and a chicken sandwich. I'm starving. It took two hours to get back to Houston through the rain and traffic, but knowing that Annie might not go to sleep without me close kept me from stopping for food. I shouldn't have worried. She is sound asleep in one of the double beds, while the television plays CNN in muted tones. Caitlin is wearing silk pajamas that somehow look demure and sexy at the same time. I collapse at the table by the window and devour the sandwich, then drink the Dr Pepper in a few gulps. Her instincts are as accurate as always; she says nothing while I eat.

“Thank you,” I tell her, tossing the sandwich wrapper into the wastepaper can. “Really.”

“I saw a clip of you coming out of the prison. Was it bad?”

“Bad enough. That's the last one I go to.”

“Let's change the subject, then. Annie only woke up once, and I rubbed her back till she fell asleep again.”

“I really appreciate you staying with her.”

“No problem. She's great.” Caitlin reaches out and touches my knee. “You really look tired. You want me to go to my room so you can crash? Our flight to Gunnison leaves at eight-thirty.”

We're renting a Cherokee in Gunnison for the drive up to Crested Butte. “I don't think I can get to sleep yet.”

“Okay.” She scoots back in her chair and folds her legs beneath her. “Let's talk business, then. Your assistant called. Your ATF friend called her and confirmed that Payton's car was destroyed by C-4 plastic explosive. They found traces of something called RDX in the shrapnel. He said there should be plenty more embedded in the metal of Payton's car. No problem to prove in court.”

Half my fatigue disappears in the shot of adrenaline this produces. “So, Ray Presley planted the blasting caps and dynamite. And someone falsified the lab report.”

She nods. “I've been studying your copy of the police report. It's mostly
gossip, really. Wild theories. The interesting thing is that there were rumored suspects the detectives never talked to, local guys who had done other race crimes. Almost as if Creel and Temple knew those suspects weren't guilty.”

“Presley may well have planted that C-4 himself. He's killed before. But for money usually. If he killed Payton, it wasn't on his own hook.”

“You think he killed Payton for Leo Marston?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you first get the idea Marston was involved?”

“From the deputy who saved us the other night. Ike Ransom.”

“Well . . . I hope you can trust him. Because I've got to tell you, everything my people have found on Marston indicates that he's a liberal, as far as race goes, anyway.”

“I know. I think the murder might not have been about race at all.”

Her mouth opens slightly. “What else could it have been about?”

“I don't know yet. Have your people learned anything about Dwight Stone?”

“Yes. One of our reporters in Alexandria, Virginia, says Stone was dismissed from the FBI in 1972 for alcohol-related problems.”

“Anything else?”

“He was second-generation law enforcement. His father was a state trooper in Colorado. Stone himself served with the marines in Korea and won a handful of medals I don't know the significance of. He went to law school after he got out of the service, and joined the Bureau in 1956. He spent sixteen years in, and received several commendations before being dismissed.”

“Althea Payton told me Stone was sympathetic to her, that he really wanted to solve the case. I wonder if the fact that they both served in Korea was the root of that?”

“I guess it could be.”

“Something strange happened at the prison tonight, Caitlin.”

“What?”

“The director of the FBI showed up.”

“John Portman? Why would he show up at the Hanratty execution?”

“To warn me to stay out of the Del Payton case.”

“What?”

“Portman and I have a history. When you asked about the Hanratty case on the plane, I left out some details. When Hanratty committed that first murder in Compton, he was seen by a dozen witnesses before he fled the scene, and they ID'd him from photographs under his real name. An LAPD detective remembered that Hanratty had been the star witness in a federal hate-crime trial a while back. His testimony put a half dozen white supremacists in jail and made a star out of the U.S. attorney of Los Angeles.”

“Portman,” Caitlin says softly.

“Exactly. The LAPD went to Portman, who told them Hanratty was under witness protection and couldn't have committed the crime. Political pressure started building. The next day Hanratty ‘escaped' from the program and wound up in Houston with his brothers. The rumor was, Portman tried to cover up the murder to keep his reputation clean. I'm pretty sure now that it's true. Hanratty referred to it tonight in his deathbed statement. Anyway, Portman wanted to neutralize the rumor by throwing the book at Hanratty in the L.A. courts.”

“And you stopped him.”

“Exactly. The guy hates my guts.”

“But what does that have to do with the Del Payton case?”

“I'm not sure. But Portman just killed the career of an FBI agent who gave me a little help on the phone. He's transferring him to Fargo, North Dakota. I don't think there's even a field office there. Just a resident agency. Whatever's in the Del Payton file must be embarrassing as hell to the Bureau. I want you to get your people working on Portman immediately. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”

“I'll call our Alexandria guy before we fly out in the morning.”

“I'm going to call that FBI agent right now. I owe him an apology.”

“It's the middle of the night. And it's later in Washington.”

“I doubt he's sleeping.”

I pull the phone over from between the beds, dial directory assistance, then use my credit card to call Peter Lutjens at his home in Washington. His phone rings five times before he answers, but his voice is wide awake.

“Peter, this is Penn Cage.”

Silence.

“I had no idea this thing would boomerang on you like this. I am so sorry.”

“Shit. I don't blame you. I gave you the list, didn't I?”

“Peter, if there's anything I can do—”

“Can you get Portman fired?”

“I don't—” Suddenly an idea hits me. “Maybe I can.”

“What?”

“Peter, have you wondered why Portman would punish you so severely for what you did?”

“He hates you, that's why.”

“It's the Payton file. Portman flew to Huntsville, Texas, tonight to warn me off the Payton case. And asking about the Payton file is what got you into trouble. Right?”

“Yes.”

“I think Portman is concealing some illegality about that case. If he is, and you can find out
what
it is—”

“Stop right there. Are you suggesting that I go back and try to look at that file myself?”

“Have they barred you from the building?”

“No, but—”

“When do you leave for Fargo?”

“Don't even say that word, goddamn it. And I'm not losing my pension for you. Cowboy time is over.”

“Peter, if that file is damaging enough, it might get Portman thrown out of the directorship. It might buy your old job back.”

“I've got a wife and kids. And I'm not out to trash the Bureau.”

“I'll shut up, then. I really called to apologize anyway.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

The phone goes dead in my hand.

Caitlin puts the phone back between the beds for me. “He wouldn't try it?”

“No.”

“Let's just forget it all for tonight, then.”

She picks up the remote control and flips through the channels, finally settling on a showing of
To Catch a Thief
. Grace Kelly and Cary Grant zoom across the screen in a vintage sports car.

“Okay with you?”

Staring at Grace Kelly, the coolly luminous Princess Grace, I recall my earlier thought that she and Livy Marston look more than a little alike. The similarities go deeper than looks too, for despite her cool exterior, Grace Kelly had a dark and promiscuous sexual history.

“It's fine,” I say absently.

Caitlin turns up the sound, and we watch from our chairs while Annie snores away on the bed. My mind is so full I cannot think clearly, but one image is predominant: Livy Marston in the Baton Rouge airport, seemingly as beautiful and untouched as she looked at seventeen. But when is anything ever what it seems? As beautiful as Livy was, she was not untouched. No girl that radiant survives adolescence without attracting the attention of every male in the three grades above her. And nature being what it is (and the seventies what they were), sex usually follows. I didn't understand this so clearly then, of course. At sixteen, though I was as perpetually and mindlessly horny as the rest of my compatriots, I was also ready to place some lucky (or unlucky) girl on a pedestal of mythic proportions. When, after a showing of
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
, Livy tearfully confessed to me how she'd lost her virginity—a date rape by a senior with whom I played football—she installed herself on that pedestal with the permanence of a pietà.

Once she occupied this place of reverence in my psyche, it became impossible for me to see her clearly. Her public image was flawless. Queen of the
elite private school in a city with five high schools, she was wanted by every male student in the city—not merely lusted after, but actually worshiped—and thus floated above the usual tortured angst of high school life. What I didn't understand then was that, to a girl like that, the most exciting company would be guys who didn't care what she said or thought, and who treated her accordingly.

Everyone knew Livy Marston occasionally went out with boys from the public schools—rough, handsome guys who straddled the line between “hoods” and outright criminals—some of whom were so dumb as to boggle the mind. It was hard to imagine what Livy could find to talk about with these guys. What I didn't understand then—or was too afraid to admit—was that she was not interested in talking to them.

It was something of a tradition for St. Stephens boys to sleep with girls from the public schools, who we thought to be “looser” than the ones we saw in class every day. Whether this was true or not, I'm still not sure. Some public school girls defended their virtue like Roman vestals, while many St. Stephens girls led active romantic lives, to say the least. In any case, it was understood, according to a time-honored double standard, that boys slept around as a rite of passage into adulthood. When girls did it, they entered that unjustified but unforgiving territory known as sluthood. When Livy Marston did it, she confused everybody. To the point that no one really believed she was doing it. Everyone thought she was putting on a show. Acting wild. Driving her uptight father crazy. Now, of course, I understand it perfectly. In the time-honored tradition of Southern women of a certain class, Livy was taking her pleasures downward.

When she opened to me like a flower in the spring of our senior year, I accepted her attentions like a divine gift. For girls that age, having sex is usually so tied up in the desire to be accepted by peers that true motives are impossible to fathom. But for Livy Marston acceptance was not an issue. When she gave herself, it was because she wanted to, and that knowledge immeasurably dilated the experience. That her skills did not seem virginal I wrote off to her being as gifted sexually as she was in so many other ways. I submerged my self into hers, basked in the glow of being seen with her, of being known to be loved by her. I cared as little for what lay ahead of me as for what lay behind, and so set myself up for the fall of my life.

“Penn? Are you awake?”

I blink and look over at Caitlin. She's watching me from her chair, her face flickering in the television light.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

An enigmatic smile. “Livy Marston?”

“God, no,” I lie, thinking that Caitlin was absolutely right when she told me she had lethal instincts.

“I'm going to bed,” she says, rising from her chair. “Tomorrow's a big day.”

I get up to walk her to her room, amazed by how tired I feel. Witnessing death up close saps you like a day under the sun. It also stokes the sexual fires, urging toward procreation. As we stand outside her door, Caitlin looks up at me, her face tilted perfectly for a kiss, and I realize again how beautiful she is. But I no longer see her as I did last night in the restaurant. I'm looking through the distorting memory of Livy Marston. Caitlin lowers her chin, and the moment passes.

“What do you think Dwight Stone knows?” she asks.

“More than we do. Maybe he knows everything.”

She opens the door and slips through without looking back, leaving me alone with my ghosts.

Crested Butte, Colorado, is a tiny village nestled nine thousand feet in the Rocky Mountains, twenty-five miles from Aspen as the crow flies, three hours by car. The easiest way to get there is to fly into Gunnison and drive north up the valley for half an hour. But to get to former special agent Dwight Stone's cabin, you must leave the pastel storefronts of Crested Butte's old town behind and drive northwest into the mountains on a forest service road, past the summer homes of the rich, until the road turns into a jeep trail that follows the Slate River upstream between Anthracite Mesa and Schuylkill Mountain. A few hundred yards north of an eight-foot vertical drop in the river, situated in the thick fir and spruce between the jeep track and the narrow blue-black span of the Slate, stands a small but well-built cabin, facing southwest to catch the sun.

Dwight Stone likes his solitude.

When I called Stone from the Gunnison airport and asked if I could speak to him about the Payton case, he politely declined. I did not tell him where I was calling from.

That was an hour ago.

Now Caitlin and Annie and I approach his front porch like a lost family asking for directions. I'm glad we brought coats. When we left Natchez it was ninety degrees. Here it's less than fifty, and there are dark clouds glowering over the summit of Gothic Mountain to the east.

Before I can knock, a tall, fit-looking man in his late sixties clumps around the side of the cabin wearing hip waders, a Black Watch flannel shirt, and carrying a fly rod.

“You folks lost?” he asks in a deep, resonant voice.

“That depends on where we are.” I've already recognized the voice, but I say, “Are you former special agent Dwight Stone?”

Stone has the eyes of a combat veteran, and they narrow instantly, assessing threat. A man with a woman and a little girl can't seem like much danger, but I don't know what his anxieties are.

“You're on my property,” he points out, quite reasonably. “Why don't you introduce yourself first?”

“Fair enough. I'm Penn Cage.”

His eyes relax, but he sighs wearily. “You've wasted your time, son. Flying up here to get told no to your face instead of over the phone.”

“I hoped you might soften up a little when you saw us.”

He shakes his head, climbs onto the porch, and leans the fly rod against the cabin wall.

“I'm not a journalist. I have no interest in sensationalizing this story.”

“You're a writer, aren't you?”

“Yes, but that's not why I'm looking into this case.”

“Why are you?”

My gut feeling about Dwight Stone is that if you want to get anywhere with him, honesty is the best policy. “I could say it was to help the victim's family. Althea Payton and her mother-in-law. And I do want to help them. But I also have a selfish reason. I'm trying to nail a man who hurt my father a long time ago.”

Stone studies me for several seconds. “Who would that be?”

“Leo Marston. Judge Leo Marston. He was the district attorney back—”

“I know who he was.” Stone eyes Caitlin. “This your wife?”

“No, a friend. Caitlin Masters. But this is my daughter. Say hello, Annie.”

Annie waves her right hand while clinging to Caitlin's leg with her left.

“You bring her along for the sympathy factor?”

“I brought her to keep her out of harm's way. I've already been shot at. Not many people want the Payton case reopened.”

A flicker of something in Stone's eyes. “You convicted Arthur Lee Hanratty, didn't you?”

“That's right.”

“I saw you on CNN last night, at the Walls.”

I nod but say nothing.

“That'll buy you a half hour of my time, Mr. Penn Cage. How about some coffee?”

“Coffee would be wonderful,” Caitlin says, lifting Annie into her arms.

Stone takes a trout bag from his shoulder, then wipes his hands on his shirt and reaches for the cabin door. “I don't get much company up here, but I think maybe we could rustle up some hot chocolate too.”

Annie breaks into a wide grin.

 

Stone settles Caitlin and me on a sand-colored leather sofa with Annie between us. Before us is a huge fieldstone fireplace, and Stone quickly builds a
roaring blaze in it. The cabin is full of hunting and fishing gear, snowshoes hanging on the walls, rifles over the mantel, a fly-tying bench littered with bright feathers. A large double-paned window faces the Slate, which runs flat and smooth thirty yards from the cabin's back door. Only a large white propane tank mars the illusion of virgin wilderness, and when there's snow it's probably invisible.

After putting the trout in his sink, Stone brings us mugs of coffee and chocolate heated on an old woodstove, then sits opposite us in a rough handmade chair. His waders hang on a hook by the door, dripping into a brass bucket with the sound of men making use of a spittoon.

“You've got a nice place,” I tell him. “No neighbors at all. How'd you manage that?”

He smiles. “Everything you see around this place is government land. But this cabin sits on a mining claim that's been in my family for three generations. Grandfathered down to the present. The federal government can't do a thing about me.”

“I love it,” Caitlin says.

“Thank you. Now, I heard the story Mr. Cage told me on the telephone. Tell me what you really know about the Payton case. And why you care.”

“We've read the original police file,” I begin. “Informant reports, interviews, interrogations, theories.”

“What did you learn from that?”

“The report was wrong about the bomb that blew up Payton's Fairlane.”

If this rings a bell, Stone has one hell of a poker face. “Wrong how?”

“It said the bomb was made of dynamite, based on a patrolman discovering fragments of blasting caps, plus lab analysis.”

“So?”

“I located Payton's car. It's still in decent shape, believe it or not. The damage looked more characteristic of C-4 to me. A lot of metal shearing, small shrapnel. I sent a fragment of the engine to an expert for analysis. Last night he confirmed it. C-4.”

Stone nods thoughtfully. “C-4 was damn hard to come by in 1968. And your Klan boys didn't know shit about using it.”

He has not directly refuted my assertion. “You're saying the expert is wrong?”

“It's happened before. But that's not what I'm saying.”

“Then you're saying the Klan wasn't behind the murder.”

“I didn't say that either. What kind of theories were in the report?”

“Mostly rumors. I thought one story was plausible. Someone thought Payton's death was a mistake. That the real target was the president of the local NAACP. He apparently rode to and from work with Payton a good bit.”

Stone nods with familiarity. “What about the one where a black button man was hired from New Orleans to come up and pop Payton? Strictly a money hit.”

This scenario had been reported to the police by a Louisiana woman. Her story was given credence because she turned down the full fifteen-thousand-dollar reward rather than give more details. She claimed she'd never live to spend the money. No further information was recorded in the file.

“Is that what you think happened?” I ask.

Stone smiles. “It
could
have happened. How old are you, Mr. Cage? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Do you have any idea what things were like in 1968?”

“In Mississippi?”

“In America.”

“Well . . . the country was turning against Vietnam. LBJ was being ground down by the war. Civil rights hit its high-water mark, with Martin Luther King at his peak before he—”

“I'm glad you passed your civics course,” he interrupts. “I'm talking about reality, son. Behind the scenes. In 1968 a few powerful and paranoid men were trying to hold their vision of this country together in the face of social revolution. It was a tide they had no prayer of stopping, but they didn't understand that, and they used every method at their disposal to try.”

As Stone speaks, I glimpse a furnace of anger seething behind his eyes. He has tight control over it, but he's been holding in that anger for years.

“The Constitution meant nothing to these men. Richard Nixon was one of them, but he was bush league compared to them.”

“You're talking about J. Edgar Hoover?”

“Hoover was one of the more visible.”

“How does this tie in with Del Payton?”

Stone looks from my face to Caitlin's, as though deciding whether we have earned the right to any of his hard-won knowledge. Now that I think of it, he's probably seventy years old, but his tanned, weathered face and soldier's eyes convey the strength of a much younger man.

“A lot of blacks were killed in Mississippi in the nineteen-sixties,” he says in a deliberate voice. “Del Payton was one. But he was killed later than most. Have you thought about that? A lot of the race murders happened around sixty-four. Payton came later.”

“What's the significance of that?”

“Just something for you to think about.”

Everything's riddles with this guy. “Martin Luther King was assassinated in 1968,” I point out.

He shakes his head. “I'm talking about grassroots murders.”

Caitlin looks ready to pop; she obviously has a hundred questions, but I hope she won't ask them. The harder we push Stone, the more he'll resist us. From lawyerly instinct, I move away from Del Payton and ask a question to which I already know the answer.

“Did you serve your full term of service with the Bureau? That is to say, did you retire at full pension?”

He takes a deep breath, and a little more anger spills through his eyes. “I'm going to answer that because you're going to find it out anyway, if you don't already know. And because I'm not ashamed to answer. I was asked to resign in 1972. Officially for alcoholism.”

Caitlin nods with empathy. “Did your drinking have anything to do with the Del Payton case?”

“That I won't answer. But I'll tell you this. If every alcoholic in the Bureau in 1972 had been asked to resign, Hoover couldn't have mounted a raid on a cathouse. You had to drink just to stomach what was going on back then.”

“What kind of things are you talking about?” I ask.

“You ever read
American Tabloid
, by James Ellroy?”

“No.”

“Give it a look. Things weren't quite that crazy, but they were damn close.”

“How did you earn a living after leaving the Bureau?”

A sour look wrinkles his face. “Worked as a private dick for a while. Big firm. That was sleazier than Hoover's Bureau, so I quit. Worked as an insurance investigator. I drank professionally for a few years. I was close to dying when my daughter pulled me back up to the light. I finally hung out my shingle here and started helping the locals fight the government and the mining companies. That suited my temperament.”

“Were you in charge of the Payton investigation?”

“I was.”

“How did you like Natchez?”

“It wasn't much like the rest of Mississippi. Better in a lot of ways. More liberal, the people more educated. But in a way that made the things that happened there worse. You know? Because there were people there who knew better.”

Stone goes to the stove and returns with the coffeepot, talking as he refills our cups. “When I was assigned to that case, I was only a couple of years younger than Payton was when he died. I had a wife and two kids, and I still had a few illusions. That case knocked them right out of me.”

He sets the empty pot on the stone hearth of his fireplace and takes his chair. “Do you have any illusions left, Mr. Cage?”

“Not many.”

He studies me as if judging the truth of my statement.

Caitlin takes this chance to jump in. “How do you feel personally about J. Edgar Hoover?”

Stone examines his fingernails, a seemingly casual gesture calculated to hide inner turmoil. “I don't care if the man wore Frederick's of Hollywood to bed every night. I don't care if he wanted to
marry
Clyde Tolson, that pompous ground squirrel. But the man presented himself to this nation as a paragon of law and order. A champion of right. And the son of a—” Stone winces like Humphrey Bogart—“the
man
didn't know the meaning of the words. He stole from the government, misused agents for personal gain, colluded with mobsters, broke the securities laws. . . . Human beings just weren't meant to have that much power. Jesus, I need a drink.”

“Go right ahead.” It's barely two p.m., but I feel like I could use one too.

Stone shakes his head. “Four months sober. It's a daily battle.”

Watching him get control of his craving is like watching a man fight a malarial fever. As a younger man Dwight Stone did what most Americans never do—peered behind the curtain at the men running the machine—and he is a different man because of it. America isn't the same country now, of course. It's better in a lot of ways. But I can see how this wouldn't matter to Stone. We are, all of us, men of our own eras.

“You want to destroy Leo Marston?” he asks, his eyes hard.

The name flows easily from his lips. He has thought about Marston since 1968. “Do you think that's possible?”

“Put it this way. I think it's a noble goal.”

Caitlin presses her knee hard against mine. I can feel her excitement, but I don't look at her. It's suddenly as clear to me as the mountain air outside Stone's cabin: the man sitting across from us knows who killed Del Payton, and why, and probably why that knowledge was never made public.

“But it won't be easy,” he adds.

“That's what someone else told me.”

“Who?”

Stone is playing it so close to the vest that I decide to keep Ike Ransom's name to myself. “You wouldn't know him. He came along after your time. But he's interested in the case, and he hates Leo Marston. What can you tell us about Marston's involvement?”