Authors: Michael Connelly
“I can get you in. I need to fax a letter up to the prison that says you are an investigator working for me and that you are
entitled access to Brian. I then give you a to-whom-it-may-concern letter that you carry with you, and that identifies you
as working for me. If you work for an attorney, you don’t need a state license. You carry the letter with you and show it
at the gate. It will get you in.”
“Technically, I don’t work for you. My paper has rules about reporters misrepresenting themselves.”
Schifino reached into his pocket and pulled out his cash. He handed a dollar across the desk to me. I reached across the murder
scene photos to take it.
“There,” he said. “I just paid you a dollar. You work for me.”
That didn’t really cut it but I wasn’t too worried about it, considering my employment situation.
“I guess that will work,” I said. “How far is Ely?”
“Depending on your driving, it’s three to four hours north of here. It’s in the middle of nowhere and they call the road going
up there the loneliest road in America. I don’t know if it’s because it leads to the prison or if it’s the landscape you cross,
but it’s not called that without good reason. They have an airport. You could take a sand jumper up there.”
I assumed that a sand jumper was the same as a puddle jumper, a small prop plane. I shook my head. I had written too many
stories about little planes going down. I didn’t fly in them unless I absolutely had to.
“I’ll drive. Write the letters. And I’m going to need copies of everything in your files.”
“I’ll work on the letters and get Agnes to start making copies. I’ll need copies of what you have for the habeas petition.
We can say that’s what my dollar bought.”
I nodded and thought, Yeah, put officious Agnes to work for me. I would like that.
“Let me ask you something,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“Before I came in here and showed you all of this, did you think Brian Oglevy was guilty?”
Schifino cocked his head back as he thought it over.
“Not for publication?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t what I wanted but it was what I’d take.
“If that’s the only way you’ll answer.”
“Okay, for publication I can tell you that I knew Brian was innocent from day one. There was just no way he could’ve committed
this horrible crime.”
“And not for publication?”
“I thought he was guilty as sin. It was the only way I could live with losing the case.”
A
fter stopping at a 7-Eleven and buying a throwaway phone with a hundred minutes of call time on it, I headed north through
the desert on Highway 93 toward Ely State Prison.
Highway 93 took me past Nellis Air Force Base and then connected with 50 North. It wasn’t too long before I began to see why
it was known as the loneliest road in America. The empty desert ruled the horizon in every direction. Hard, chiseled mountain
ranges, barren of any vegetation, rose and fell away as I drove. The only signs of civilization were the two-lane blacktop
and the power lines carried over the ranges by iron stick figures that looked like they were giants from another planet.
The first calls I made with my new phone were to the credit-card companies, demanding to know why my cards were not working.
With each call I got the same answer: I had reported the card stolen the night before, thereby temporarily canceling use of
the account. I had gone online, answered all security questions correctly and reported the card stolen.
It didn’t matter that I told them I hadn’t reported the cards stolen. Someone else had, and that someone had known my account
numbers as well as my home address, birth date, mother’s maiden name and Social Security number. I demanded that the accounts
be reopened and the service reps gladly complied. The only catch was that new credit cards with new numbers had to be issued
and sent to my home. That would take days and in the meantime I had no credit. I was being fucked with on a level I had never
experienced before.
I next called my bank in Los Angeles and found a variation on the same scheme, but with a deeper impact. The good news was
that my debit card still worked. The bad news was that there was no money in my savings and checking account to draw from.
The night before, I had used the online banking service to combine all my money in the checking account and then did a debit
transfer of the full amount to the Make-A-Wish Foundation in the form of a general donation. I was now broke. But the Make-A-Wish
Foundation sure liked me.
I disconnected the call and screamed as loud as I could in the car. What was happening? There were stories in the paper all
the time about stolen identities. But this time the victim was me and I was having trouble believing it.
At eleven I called the city desk and learned that the intrusion and destruction had moved up yet another notch. I got hold
of Alan Prendergast and his voice was tight with nervous energy. I knew from experience that this made him repeat things.
“Where are you, where are you? We’ve got the ministers’ thing and I can’t find anybody.”
“I told you, I’m in Vegas. Where’s—”
“Vegas! Vegas? What are you doing in Vegas?”
“Didn’t you get my message? I sent you an e-mail yesterday before I left.”
“Didn’t get it. Yesterday you just disappeared, but I don’t care. I care about today. I care about right now. Tell me you
are at the airport, Jack, and that you’ll be back in L.A. in an hour.”
“Actually, I’m not at the airport and I’m technically not in Vegas anymore. I’m on the loneliest road in America heading to
the middle of nowhere. What are the ministers doing?”
“What else? They’re staging a big fucking rally in Rodia Gardens to protest the LAPD and the story is about to go national.
But I’ve got you in Vegas and I haven’t heard from Cook. What are you doing there, Jack? What are you doing?”
“I told you in the e-mail you haven’t read. The story is—”
“I check e-mail regularly,” Prendergast said curtly. “I’ve got no e-mail from you. No e-mail.”
I was about to tell him he was wrong but thought about my credit cards. If somebody was able to crash my credit and wipe out
my bank accounts, then maybe they crashed my e-mail as well.
“Listen, Prendo, something is going on. My credit cards are dead, my phone’s dead and now you’re telling me my e-mail never
made it. Something is not right here. I—”
“For the last time, Jack. What are you doing in Nevada?”
I blew out my breath and looked out the side window. I saw the hardscrabble landscape that hadn’t changed in all the time
mankind had ruled the planet, and which would remain unchanged long after mankind was gone.
“The story on Alonzo Winslow has changed,” I said. “I found out he didn’t do it.”
“He didn’t do it? He didn’t
do
it? You mean the murder of that girl? What are you talking about, Jack?”
“Yeah, the girl. He didn’t do it. He’s innocent, Alan, and I can prove it.”
“He confessed, Jack. I read it in
your
story.”
“Yeah, because that’s what the cops said. But I read the so-called confession and all he confessed to was stealing her car
and her money. He didn’t know her body was in the trunk when he stole it.”
“Jack…”
“Listen, Prendo, I connected the murder to another murder in Vegas. It was the same thing. A woman strangled and put in a
trunk. She was a dancer, too. There’s a guy in prison here for that one and he didn’t do it either. I’m heading up to see
him right now. I’m going to have to report and write this all by Thursday. We have to go with it on Friday because that’s
when it’s going to come out of the bag.”
There was a long silence.
“Prendo? You there?”
“I’m here, Jack. We need to talk about this.”
“I thought we were. Where is Angela? She should handle the ministers. She’s on the beat today.”
“If I knew where Angela was, I would have her going with a photographer to Rodia Gardens. She hasn’t come in yet. She told
me last night before she went home that she would stop by Parker Center and make the morning rounds before coming in. Only,
she hasn’t come in.”
“She’s probably out running down Denise Babbit. Did you call her?”
“Of course I called her. I
called
her. I’ve left messages but she hasn’t called in. She probably thinks you are here and is ignoring my calls.”
“Well, look, Prendo, this is bigger than Preacher Treacher’s rally, okay? Put a GA on that. This is huge. There’s a killer
out there who has flown completely below the radar of the cops and the FBI and everybody else. There’s a lawyer here in Vegas
who is going to file a motion by Friday that exposes the whole thing. We’ve got to beat him and everybody else to the punch.
I’m going to go talk to this guy in prison and then head back. I don’t know when I’ll get in. It’ll be a long drive back to
Vegas before I can catch the plane. Luckily, I think my return is still good. I bought it before somebody canceled my credit
cards.”
Again I was met with silence.
“Prendo?”
“Look, Jack,” he said, a calmness in his voice for the first time in the conversation. “We both know the situation and what
is going on here. You’re not going to be able to change anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“About the layoff. If you think you can come up with a story that’s going to save your job, I don’t think that’s going to
work.”
Now I was silent as the anger welled up in my throat.
“Jack, you there? You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here, Prendo, and my only response is, Fuck you. I’m not concocting this story, man. This is happening! And I’m
out here in the middle of nowhere and am not sure who is screwing with me or why.”
“Okay, okay, Jack. Calm down. Just calm it down, okay? I am not suggesting that you—”
“The fuck you’re not! You more than suggested it. You just said it.”
“Look, I’m not going to respond if you are going to direct that sort of language at me. Can we talk in a civil manner, please?
A civil manner.”
“You know, Prendo, I’ve got other calls to make. If you don’t want the story or you think this is a made-up story, then I’ll
find somebody who will print it, okay? The last thing I expected was for my own ace to try to cut me off at the knees while
I’m out here with my ass in the wind.”
“No, Jack, it’s not like that.”
“I think it is, Prendo. So fuck you, man. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up the phone and nearly threw it out the window. But then I remembered I didn’t have the replacement cash to spare.
I drove in silence for a few minutes so I could compose myself. I had one more call to make and I wanted to sound cool and
calm when I made it.
I looked out the windows and studied the bluish gray mountains. I found them to be beautiful in a primitive and stark way.
They had been stepped and broken by glaciers ten million years before but they had survived and would reach forever toward
the sun.
I pulled my inoperable phone from my pocket and opened up the contacts list. I got the number for the FBI in Los Angeles and
punched it into the throwaway. When the main operator answered I asked to speak to Agent Rachel Walling. I was transferred
and it took a while to go through, but once it rang it was answered immediately.
“Intelligence,” a male voice said.
“Let me speak to Rachel.”
I said it as calmly as possible. I didn’t ask for Agent Rachel Walling this time, because I didn’t want to be asked who I
was and possibly give her the opportunity to deflect my call. My hope was that I sounded like an agent and my call would be
put through.
“Agent Walling.”
It was her. It had been a few years since I had heard her voice over the phone but there was no doubt.
“Hello? This is Walling, can I help you?”
“Rachel, it’s me. Jack.”
Now it was her turn to be caught in silence.
“How are you doing?”
“Why are you calling me, Jack? We agreed that it would be better that we not talk.”
“I know… but I need your help. I’m in trouble, Rachel.”
“And you’re expecting me to help you? What kind of trouble?”
A passing car blew past me going a hundred, at least, and making me feel like I was standing still.
“It’s sort of a long story. I’m in Nevada. In the desert. I’m chasing a story and there’s a killer out there nobody knows
about. I need somebody to believe me and to help me.”
“Jack, I’m the wrong person and you know it. I can’t help you. And I’m in the middle of something here. I have to go.”
“Rachel, don’t hang up! Please…”
She didn’t answer at first, but she didn’t hang up. I waited.
“Jack… you sound frazzled. What is going on with you?”
“I don’t know. Somebody’s messing with me. My phone, my e-mail, my bank accounts—I’m driving through the middle of the desert
and I don’t even have a credit card that works.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Ely, to talk to somebody.”
“The prison?”
“That’s right.”
“What, somebody called you up and said he was innocent and you come running, hoping to prove the real cops are wrong again?”
“No, nothing like that. Look, Rachel, this guy is strangling women and stuffing them into the trunks of cars. He does horrible
things to them and he’s been getting away with it for at least two years.”
“Jack, I’ve read your stories about the girl in the trunk. It was a gangbanger and he confessed.”
I got an unexpected thrill from knowing she was reading my stories. But it wasn’t helping me to convince her.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the paper, Rachel. I’m getting to the truth now and I need someone—somebody in authority—to
step in and—”
“You know I’m not in Behavioral anymore. Why call me?”
“Because I can trust you.”
That brought a long moment of silence. I refused to break first.
“How can you say that?” she finally said. “We haven’t seen each other in a long, long time.”
“Doesn’t matter. After what we went through back then, I’ll always trust you, Rachel. And I know you could help me now… and
maybe make up for some things yourself.”