Authors: Terry Brennan
One of the beneficiaries of Swinton’s largesse had too much ego, and not enough common
sense, and allowed several of his rotating girlfriends to hold the little goddess
he had purchased from Swinton. Unfortunately for all involved, one of the girls had
been the administrative assistant for the
Bulletin
’s editor-in-chief and part of Bohannon’s circle of friends at the paper. One phone
call to the newsroom, and the wheels of unrelenting discovery began to turn.
It wasn’t long after Bohannon’s first investigative blockbuster linking Swinton to
the theft of priceless treasures from the art museum that the buyers began turning
state’s evidence in droves. And not long after the pieces were recovered and revealed
as fakes, Swinton was found on the patio of his villa, sprawled on a lounge chair,
his throat sliced from ear to ear.
Buyers were relieved that they were not prosecuted and that Swinton had spent only
a portion of the millions he had swindled. Eventually, restitution was ordered by
the courts. And for most, the story went away.
But not for Bohannon.
He had made a mortal enemy in Dr. Richard Johnson, Swinton’s colleague and friend,
a man who believed passionately in his friend’s innocence.
Johnson, more than Swinton, went straight for Bohannon’s jugular. In a series of broadside
attacks—in professional journals, letters to the editor, and in follow-up stories
where other reporters were looking for colorful quotes—Johnson ridiculed Bohannon’s
ignorance on antiquities, questioned his motives, berated his sources, and defended
Swinton.
In the time between the first article and the ultimate discovery that the items were
frauds, Johnson dished out an amount of abuse equal to what he believed his friend
had received. Bohannon’s investigative reports on Swinton’s scheme led to journalistic
accolades while the vitriolic counterattacks by Johnson ultimately led to a quiet,
internal investigation at the British Museum and a conversation between Dr. Johnson
and the chancellor of Columbia University. Then Swinton was found, and Dr. Johnson
retreated from the public eye, behind the cloak of academia. But he and Bohannon continued
the battle, more intensely, outside the earshot of the rest of the world. Johnson
believed Bohannon was irresponsible in his journalism and responsible for the death
of his friend, in spite of Swinton’s crime, and Bohannon was seething at what he believed
were unfounded public attacks on his character and integrity.
After fifteen years of near quiet, Bohannon was surprised by just how much turbulence
he felt at the mere thought of coming face-to-face with Richard Johnson. Bohannon
tried to slow his heart rate and unclench his fists by concentrating on the tantalizing
breath of early May rolling up Lexington Avenue.
Might as well get it over with
, he thought, wondering whether, when he left the building, he would walk out or get
tossed out.
There was only one way to find out. And it appeared that Johnson was one of the few
men in the world who might be able to help them decipher the meaning of the Demotic
symbols. He had studied the Rosetta Stone almost exclusively during his many summers
of service at the British Museum and had written a few scholarly pamphlets about the
amazing complexities of the Demotic language.
In this country, he was their best chance at finding an answer.
Bohannon took a deep breath and walked up the marble steps of the Collector’s Club.
He had called ahead and made an appointment, noting the quizzical tone to the secretary’s
voice when she came back to the phone to acknowledge the meeting.
Bohannon’s trained observation noted the military carriage of the attendant behind
the desk in the foyer, and the slight bulge under his left armpit as the man reached
into the small elevator and unlocked access to the top floor. “Go right up, sir. Dr.
Johnson is expecting you.”
“There sure must be a lot of money in stamps,” Bohannon mumbled to himself as the
elevator strained to the top floor. The opening doors revealed an elderly, stooped
woman wearing a long black dress, her hair tightly pulled into a bun at the nape of
her neck. “This way, please,” she whispered. A flush of satisfaction warmed Bohannon
as he walked along the elegant corridor.
Serves him right
, Bohannon thought,
that he’s got an old hag for a secretary
.
Smiling inwardly, Bohannon stepped through the door the elderly woman opened and came
face-to-face with a wantonly beautiful blond whose breathtaking curves had been poured
into a shimmering, electric-blue dress. Before his heart could start beating again,
there was a voice from his left. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bohannon.”
Tearing his eyes from the heart attack in blue, Bohannon turned to see Dr. Johnson
standing in the doorway to his office. “Please come in,” he said, stepping aside as
he waved with his left arm. That suspicious part of Bohannon’s nature waited for the
knife thrust under his rib cage as he passed Johnson, but the smile Johnson shared
was disarming.
“Beth, no interruptions, please. I want to give Mr. Bohannon my full attention.”
Surprisingly, Johnson’s office reflected none of the Victorian opulence on view elsewhere
in the building. There was the obligatory oak wainscoting, hardwood floor covered
by an Oriental rug, and requisite bookcases. But the space was missing much of what
Bohannon had expected, those obvious symbols of wealth and power. Johnson’s wooden
desk was rather small, and there were no massive, matching pieces. Nor was there a
“wall of fame,” those ubiquitous collections of degrees, awards, and photos of the
famous that give so many in the corporate world the veneer of importance. No, in Johnson’s
office, the most prominent item was what looked like a sizable draftsman’s table over
which hovered a powerful lamp and a thick magnifying glass. Bins and drawers stuck
out from both sides. Tiny, elaborate mechanisms for securing stamps also hovered on
curved arms, waiting to be pulled into focus.
“Please be seated,” Johnson gestured toward a leather chair, and instead of taking
a position of dominance by sitting behind his desk, he lowered himself into a well-worn
leather sofa across from Bohannon. “I must say, you are the last person I dreamed
would be sitting in this office,” Johnson said, his words dripping with acid as his
body sank deeply into the soft cushions in the corner. “To what do I owe this . .
. pleasure?” His unflinching stare burned a hole in Bohannon’s brain.
Dr. Richard Johnson, educated at Oxford, trained by the British Museum, famous among
scientists for his revolutionary studies on Egyptian history, was about as far from
the frumpy, poorly dressed academic stereotype as you could find. Johnson was tall,
lean, crowned by a thick, silvery gray mane swept back from his considerable forehead
and curling around his ears and shirt collar. His suit was finely tailored and looked
very expensive, as did his colorful silk tie and gleaming leather shoes. He sat across
from Bohannon, appearing relaxed and at ease. But his gaze remained alert, riveted
on his past adversary.
Bohannon believed that he had only one chance to make this work. So he took the leap.
“Dr. Johnson,” he said, shifting forward in his chair, “I wouldn’t be sitting here
if I had any other option. For most of the last fifteen years I’ve hated your guts.
To be honest, I still do. And you don’t have any reason to listen to me or to listen
to the request I have.”
Johnson began to rise. “Well then, Mr. Bohannon—”
“But if you don’t listen, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
Bohannon watched Johnson waver, halfway between sitting and standing. A red flush
had risen from his neck and now engulfed his face, his eyes on fire. Resembling a
cobra raising its head and spreading its crown before striking, Johnson unfolded himself
to his full height, pushed back his shoulders, and glared down. Bohannon felt as if
he were lunch.
“You, sir,” Dr. Johnson spat at Bohannon, “you murdered my friend. Just as surely
as if you slit his throat, you murdered a man I had known and revered for twenty years.
You orphaned his children. You, sir, are a vicious lie-monger and truth-twister, with
no regard for decent human beings . . . and I despise you. That, sir, is the only
reason you have been received here. And you can die in that chair for all I care.”
There was a twitch in the muscle under his left eye. Bohannon slowly elevated himself
to Johnson’s height, meeting the enemy face-to-face. Unconsciously, he began to size
up Johnson, calculating how he was going to beat him into submission. Consciously,
he engaged words as his weapon.
“You despise me? You quack . . . what an infantile fool you are.” Bohannon took one
step toward Johnson and was gratified by the fear that flashed across Johnson’s countenance.
“You nearly destroyed me, my family, and my career defending a man who was a liar
and a swindler. You engaged in the most vicious public attack I ever experienced.
And once your revered
friend
, Swinton, was proven to be a liar and a cheat, you proved yourself a coward by retreating
behind ivy walls without a decent apology.”
Inadvertently, Bohannon took another step forward, sparking a reaction from Johnson,
who stepped back. Bohannon noticed Johnson vainly sweeping his hand behind him, trying
to find the telephone handset.
“I don’t regret anything I wrote about Randall Swinton. I do regret that he was killed.
He was your friend, and you defended him. I can understand loyalty, but I can’t understand
character assassination and blind defense of a liar who took advantage of everyone
with whom he came in contact. He took advantage of you, too. He took advantage of
your faith in him. He allowed you to stick your neck way out, even when he knew he
had been exposed and had no defense. Is that the friend you’re talking about?”
Bohannon felt his anger deflate.
“So, no, I don’t regret anything I wrote.” He took a deep breath and flexed his right
hand, easing the fist. “But I do regret that so many people were hurt. I believe where
we differed so passionately was in who should bear the responsibility for that pain.”
Johnson, both fear and loathing now removed from his face, stood his ground, his eyes
never leaving Bohannon’s.
“But Randall Swinton and the feud we engaged in are not the reasons I’m here today,”
Bohannon continued. He turned his back on Johnson, stepped to the chair, and wearily
lowered himself into its embrace. “Maybe, some other day, if you really want to continue
this fight—if you still feel compelled to defend a man who abused your good faith—then
we can go back and revisit that time. I did what I had to do, what I was trained to
do. Swinton deserved to be caught and convicted, judged, not murdered. You? I can’t
judge you. Only you can judge yourself, judge your motives. But I can’t judge you.”
Bohannon took a deep breath. The next move was Johnson’s. He could sit down, or he
could pick up the phone and call the muscle with the gun at the front door.
More ashen, less confident, Johnson edged himself back to the sofa. He fell into the
well-worn leather like a wet sack of sand.
Johnson folded his hands together, stared at his knuckles. “There were times I wanted
to kill you, have somebody kill you.” The voice was dark, a far distance from where
they sat. “And there were times when I thought I could have killed Randall myself.”
Surprisingly to Bohannon, he began to feel sorry for this man, publicly betrayed by
a friend he had trusted.
Johnson’s eyes didn’t move from his knuckles. “I wanted you to be wrong. God, how
I wanted you to be wrong. Randall kept assuring me these were vicious lies. Even after
his bogus sales had been revealed, he was passionate about his innocence and certain
of your ‘collusion,’ he called it, with these scalawags who were determined to swindle
him and send him to jail. You were the basest of scoundrels, Mr. Bohannon, so easy
to hate.”
Both of them jumped when the phone rang. Bohannon was trying to coax his heart from
his throat as Johnson reached for the handset. “Yes? . . . yes, Beth,” Johnson said,
looking across at Bohannon. “I’m fine. Yes, you may go home. Thank you . . . yes,
I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”
Stillness settled.
Finally, Johnson pushed himself up from the corner of the sofa to its edge. “I appreciate
your courage in coming here. And I even appreciate your candor about what was, at
that time, a very passionate topic for both of us. You were doing your job; I can
accept that. And Randall was a crook. I can accept that, too. But he had also been
a close, personal friend for many years,” Johnson said, sitting back again, wearily
draping one leg over the other. “He was wounded, and I was wounded for him. Once you
and I collided, I was not about to back down. Pride, I’m afraid.”
Once again, Johnson’s twisted hands absorbed his attention.
“Still, my friendship with Randall gave me no license to butcher your reputation or,
more accurately, to attempt to butcher your reputation in public. It was wrong of
me to descend into the realm of such vindictive persecution. And for that, I ask your
forgiveness.”
Momentarily, a silence separated them, a divide neither one of them could cross. Then
Bohannon finished building the bridge that Johnson had just started.
“I forgive you,” Bohannon said, standing and reaching out his right hand.