'These stories are going to catch fire today,' he said, his mouth full.
'I've already got calls from the producers of Imus and the Gordon Liddy shows. When the boys over at CNN and Fox get in, they'll be all over us. This is officially hell day at the FBI.'
Though Havlicek had done the lion's share of the work on the story of Clawson, he had given me a co- byline, partly out of professional courtesy, partly out of a raw shrewdness that my name might inspire the anonymous source to provide more help. Either way, it was the generous act of a very secure reporter.
I said, 'Yeah, we have to start figuring out where we take this story next, though I suspect the reaction will give us a wild ride for the morning. What do you think the FBI is going to do?'
'They can't very well deny it,' Havlicek said, looking at some point beyond me as he thought. 'My bet is that they hole up over there at the Hoover Building and don't say a thing, or they simply say the investigation is continuing down many avenues.'
'And the White House? I mean, Hutchins has to say something about this. This was an attempt to kill the bastard. He's got to weigh in with something stronger than he has full faith in the FBI.'
'This will be a great day,' Havlicek said. 'Strap yourself in.'
'Well, I've got something that might make it even greater. I got a call this morning from the anonymous one. The bastard woke me up at home at four-thirty.'
Havlicek said, 'Jesus Christ, you're burying the lead again. What did he say?'
I told him. I wove together the conversation about Chelsea and this guy named Curtis Black, and the source's kind words about our work so far. I told him of the danger he said we would face, of the shocking truths waiting to be uncovered. Havlicek was sitting in his chair just staring at me, his mouth agape, with, actually, some chewed-up bagel inside.
'Mother of merciful God,' he said finally. He looked off across the room at nothing in particular, as if he were trying to fashion some thoughts in the dark space of the empty newsroom. 'This is either one elaborate hoax or one wonderful newspaper story we're onto. Right now, all we can do is assume and hope to holy hell it's real.'
I said, 'We're in a rush, but I think I ought to hold off on going up to Boston, just for the day. This town is going to flip over these stories, especially yours, and we both ought to be around to handle the fallout.'
Almost as if the scene were scripted, at that precise moment, on the small color television on Havlicek's desk, a photo of the front page of the day's Boston Record appeared behind a rookie anchorman still assigned to the early-morning shift on CNN. Havlicek saw me riveted to the television and grabbed for the remote control to turn up the volume.
'— The newspaper reports that the FBI has misidentified the attempted assassin in the shooting of President Clayton Hutchins last week-'
Havlicek hit the mute button, and I heard the ringing sound of my telephone on the other side of the room. I did my usual sprint and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring, barking, 'Flynn.'
'Why the hell didn't you tell me you had these stories?' It was the rather angry voice of Samantha Stevens.
'Excuse me?' I said, buying time, unsure of the right answer.
'I spill my fucking guts to you last night about not knowing about Wyoming, and you can't even tell me what the rest of the fucking world is going to be told in twelve hours?'
'Hey there, easy does it,' I said. 'Last I checked, you're not my editor. You're not even a subscriber, not that I know of, anyway. And if you'll think back, I did tell you to read the Record today. I told you that Clawson wasn't who you people say he is. As I recall, you told me, 'Case closed.''
She said, getting angrier, 'Look, I'm in a position to help you, but unless I know it goes two ways, you can go fuck yourself. Good luck.'
With that, she hung up. No matter. My telephone was ringing off the hook here. Next up was my close, personal friend Ron Hancock of the FBI.
'Well, you've stirred up quite a hornet's nest,' he said, flat, always flat, regardless of the words.
'Go ahead,' I told him.
'The director has his entire top staff in his office now. There's so much chatter between here and the White House this morning that they might as well just hook up two cans to a piece of string.'
I said, 'That's interesting, but what does it all mean? Who is this guy you have over in the morgue, why is the FBI fucking up a presidential assassination attempt, and is the FBI fucking up, or covering up?'
'To questions one through three, don't know,' he said, and I believed him.
I asked, 'Do you think they're going to admit they made a mistake?'
'No idea,' he said. 'Those decisions are made about ten pay grades above mine. And let me tell you one thing: the FBI doesn't admit it made mistakes. If they do admit they made a mistake, know that it wasn't a mistake. Take that to the bank.'
He paused, then added, 'I wanted to ask you, you have anything else coming? Anything else I should know about as I work this from within?'
'Shot our load today,' I said. 'But I suspect there's a lot more work to do. I'll be in touch.'
I hung up just in time to pick up another call.
'Sorry,' Samantha Stevens said, sounding anything but. 'I dropped the phone before.'
'Right onto the cradle?' I asked.
'Look,' she said. 'I still think we can help each other. Let's keep our options open.'
'Deal.'
'Good. I have to go. All hell is breaking loose over here, thank you very much. I'll talk to you later.'
When I turned around, Peter Martin was standing by my desk, almost levitating, he was so overjoyed, reading the latest wire service dispatch that recounted salient facts from the stories, with full attribution to the Boston Record. Thus far, no one, not the wires, not the networks, was able to obtain the photographs and autopsy reports that Havlicek had used to put our story together, so they had to repeatedly attribute all the information to the Record.
'We have this city by the balls today,' Martin said, making a little vise grip with his chalky palm that made me flinch back ever so slightly.
I didn't engage. It was time for me to fill him in. 'We have to talk,' I said. 'We have to talk about an anonymous source and a guy named Curtis Black.'
He said, 'The fuck are you talking about? We have a day of follows here on what may be the most important couple of stories this newspaper has ever broken.'
'Let's go into your office,' I said.
And we did. And after I was done with all the sordid details, from the first calls in the hospital to the uncertain encounter at the Newseum to the note on the airplane to the telephone tip in the dark of that very morning, Martin looked a shade lighter than Casper the ghost, only not as friendly. As I sat in one of his leather club chairs in front of his coffee table with my legs crossed and the weight of my upper body resting on one elbow, he paced around the office, silently, pushing his hair around so that it flew up at odd angles. At one point, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, throwing a few in his mouth without the benefit of water, as if they were Good 'n' Plenties.
He said, 'I understand why you didn't, and I am not going to hold it against you, but I wish you had told me earlier.'
I nodded.
He said, 'Tell me your gut feeling. Is this guy on the level?'
'Well, he had the Clawson part right at the same time Havlicek was getting it. He's sure urgent about all this. He sounds educated.
He's not spinning crazy conspiracy theories. He is going to considerable expense to make sure we take him seriously. I really don't know enough to draw a judgment, but I know just enough to know that we have to keep playing his game, or we're going to regret it for the rest of our careers.'
'Yeah, you're right,' Martin said, collapsing onto his couch, fading into the soft pillows.
