Pilcher was talking rapidly into his microphone, and listening to his earpiece, saying, “… yeah… nah, she’s okay.” He listened for a moment, then said, “She says she pumped two rounds into him.. . uh-huh… ah, shit. Okay, lemme know.”
He scowled.
Janet said, “What?”
“He just killed two of our guys five blocks from here. Came up from behind ’em, cut one guy’s throat, and butchered the other one. This is one bad motherfucker.”
I asked, “And did he get away?”
“Not yet. But he’s out of the cordon. We got an all-points on him, and cops are converging from all over the city. We’ll get this bastard.”
Spinelli was staring at the ground, and commented to no one in particular, “Not a prayer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Good news was in short supply at the Federal Building in Boston.
After murdering Detective Sergeants Phillip Janson and Horace O’Donnell, the perp had vanished. A thorough investigation by the forensics crew at the running path revealed that he wore size 12 shoes, and chose New Balance 715s for his morning jog. It further revealed no trace of blood, hair, or other bodily fluids, which was unfortunate, because a DNA trace would’ve been invaluable to tie him to one attempted and two successful murders.
A statewide manhunt was in full swing. Roadblocks were erected at various state border crossing points. Airports and bus stations had been faxed a copy of the facial composite constructed from Janet’s description and ordered to detain anybody who bore the slightest resemblance. Hospitals in a two-hundred-mile radius were staked out for a big white man with one or possibly two bullet holes.
Still I think we all knew he was too smart for any of those steps to work. Of course the police and Feds had to go through the motions-to use a football analogy, the way a football team down 77-6 late in the fourth quarter kicks a field goal. Also, this guy had now added two cops to his ledger, and the blue brotherhood looks dimly upon that.
Four hours had passed since the screwup by the river. A plane-load of puffy, red-faced FBI agents had flown up from Washington to interrogate all involved. Understand that FBI people, once they’re drawn into a case, treat it as sort of a feudal setup, where they own the castles and playgrounds, and expect everybody else to grow their potatoes and kiss their asses. They felt jilted and mistreated. Their general mood was pissed.
Given that the FBI’s public affairs office was handling the press releases regarding this case, everybody felt like it was time to play round-robin cover-your-ass.
The potentially embarrassing problem for the Boston PD was they had had the baddest motherfucker in the land in their sights. I overheard some of their conversations in the hallways and their line of bullshit was that they’d lost two brave men in the pursuit of this badass, who wasn’t really their killer in the first place but a
D. C. problem dropped on their doorstep. In short, they’d donated to charity-don’t come knocking on their door. But of course, this was Boston, and in the event that that bullshit wasn’t taken seriously, a few oily fixers from City Hall had showed up to work the hallways and discreetly remind the FBI that the two very influential senators from Massachusetts sat on both the Appropriations and Judiciary Committees; and if the FBI wanted their next budget request to pass, or their next fuckup to get generous treatment, this might be a prudent moment to sort of shuffle this thing under a rug. And it sure would be in the spirit of good fellowship to add a few adulatory words about the Boston PD in their press releases. Truly, you have to marvel at the way these things work.
Spinelli’s line of defense was that I had contacted him and he’d taken every reasonable step and precaution to get this guy, including turning it over to the local authorities. That had the value of being true.
And Janet? Well, every story, especially a tragedy, needs a sexy, beautiful heroine, and she was made for the role, la femme fatale, the Beantown chick who kicked ass, the bereaved victim’s sister who had risked body and soul to terminate a public menace. And then… well, then she had had the fortitude to stand in the dark shadow of the salivating monster and pour lead at his putrid guts. Books and movie to follow.
So, everybody had a good defense, alibi, or claim to glory.
Right… not quite everybody.
What every good government tale requires is a token scapegoat, and once everybody had spun their sides of the tale, all the black arrows sort of pointed back at the guy who lacked either beauty or an institution to cover his butt. I began to figure this out as more and more sour-faced Fibbies trickled into my interrogation room. When it hit twenty, it became standing room only, and a guy was posted at the door to issue tickets and bathroom passes. George Meany, incidentally, was front and center, and in off moments, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I caught him smirking.
My interrogator, Special Agent Arnold, was at that moment saying to me, “… and because you had everybody jump the gun, we’ve lost our only chance to apprehend the killer, Drummond. This was amateur hour. God knows how far you set us back…” Blah blah blah.
This particular lecture wasn’t improving the third time around, but I was listening intently and hanging my head in shame. Also, I think I must have been unconsciously drumming my hands on the table to the beat to “In- A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” and carrying it really well. This was brought to my attention when he suddenly reached out and pinned both my hands to the table.
“Do I need to slap your ass in manacles?” he inquired.
“Does your wife enjoy that?”
“You leave my wife out of-”
“She liked it when I did her.” I smiled. He didn’t smile back.
Anyway, interrogators are never supposed to lose control of the situation, and he obviously had a large crowd, so after a few huffy breaths, he said, “Major, would you explain again, you know… how you decided the killer had left D. C. and come here?”
For the fourth time, I replied, “When I saw the names of two of the victims in Lisa Morrow’s e-mail, the implication struck me as clear. Lisa, Cuthburt, and Carrol were friends or acquaintances.”
“This would be J. and A., right? Isn’t that what you claimed?”
“No. That’s what I stated for a fact.” I added, “I then tried to get hold of Miss Morrow, was notified about the fire, and put two and two together.”
“You, uh… -Gee, I hope I’m not being repetitive here, but, boy, that’s speculative. Certainly, there’s a few things you’re not telling us.” He leaned back in his chair and straightened his lapels. “What are those things?”
“I had a hunch.”
“Did the killer call you? Leave a note? Somehow make contact?”
Of course, the FBI, filled as it is with lawyers and accountants, and backed up by the world’s best scientific labs, considers the whole notion of hunches and instincts silly. And I could hear a few murmurs from the gallery. Also a few derisory snickers. I was getting really annoyed.
He bent forward. “This Sherlock Holmes bullshit isn’t selling, Drummond. We’re the good guys here. Tell us.”
“Okay, okay… you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Wow… I can’t fool you guys, can I?”
“I’m glad you’re coming around.”
“The truth is…” He leaned toward me. “When I was with your wife, she said, well… she said you’ve got a tiny dick.”
He howled and slapped the table. I did hear a few distinct chuckles from the boys in the third bleacher, however. Trust me, it’s not easy when you’re playing to somebody else’s home crowd.
I said, “You’re pissed. I didn’t call you. I’m sorry, I lost my head.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“Army lawyers call CID.”
