after the Secret Service put six bullets into my prime suspect and rendered him useless to me. And I have you and your paper staring over my shoulder second-guessing me every step of the way, getting in the way of a good investigation.'
He paused for just long enough that I thought he was done, then added,
'I need some room. I need some time. And I need some help.'
This was curious. I considered his words, then said, 'I give you some time and space and whatever help it is you're talking about, what do I get in return?'
'I can help you on this case, just like I helped that reporter out in L.a.' only I'm hoping you're a little more loyal, or at least reliable to your sources.'
I said, 'I think Benedict Arnold was slightly more loyal than the last reporter you dealt with.'
He almost smiled in spite of himself. I looked him over for a moment.
Despite my finely honed abilities in the area of character judgment, I couldn't get a full handle yet on Kent Drinker. I wasn't sure if he was driving events in this case, or if the events were driving him, whether he was mishandling the investigation or deftly trying to conceal some larger truth. Not knowing hurt. It left me unsure whether he was friend or foe. I wanted to believe the former. My natural tendencies always caused me to suspect the latter, especially from public officials.
The raw facts were these: he had misidentified the presidential assassin. He had showed an inordinate amount of interest in who had called my hospital room. He had apparently consorted with a militia leader to concoct a story about motive, and then lied to me about it.
About an hour ago, I had learned that he might have lied to me about that militia leader being a paid informant. He had a direct line to the president of the United States. He had iced out even his top subordinate, Stevens, and was seemingly a one-man show in trying to solve the case.
Or trying not to solve it. I didn't know, and thus, my dilemma. And this thought popped into the front of my mind from one of the deep recesses: had he really iced out Stevens, or was I being played for a moron? Wouldn't be the first time, though that's not really the point here.
He kicked softly at a small stone in the field and said, 'You drew too hasty a conclusion on Tony Clawson.'
'Yeah?' I replied, my tone ranging from disbelief toward the incredulous.
Drinker ignored that and said, 'You were right about some parts, wrong about others.'
I played this through the journalistic calculator that was my mind.
'Let's see,' I began. 'Essentially, you publicly named a suspect who didn't even have the same eye color as the guy the Secret Service shot dead at Congressional. Help me out here with what we might have gotten wrong.'
He asked, 'Can I talk to you off the record?'
This again. I said, 'I'd rather talk on the record and keep things on the up and up.'
Drinker stayed silent for a moment.
'Once more, I'd like to, but I can't,' he said. 'I'd be fired in an hour, especially with my history. I want to stress, I have some information that's important for you to know.'
Well, I didn't know whether to believe him, believe Stevens, or believe my own instincts, which told me not to believe anyone. The worst he could be doing was lying, so I told him, 'Okay, on background, attributable to a law enforcement official.'
'No way. There are only about three people who know what I know. I'd be fingered immediately.' He paused and added, 'My advice would be to take what I have and try to confirm it on your own.'
There was a lengthy silence between us as I mulled my options, which were limited in number and scope. The last thing I expected on this night was for Drinker, who I regarded with little more than suspicion, to offer an enduring alliance and perhaps give me my biggest break on the case. Obviously I was wary for every good reason, but it wouldn't serve me well just then to shut him off.
In the quiet, Baker settled down in front of us and chewed on a stick.
I looked up briefly and saw that the sky was now a solid sheet of black.
'All right, off the record,' I said.
Without much hesitation, Drinker started talking as if I had just turned on a spout. 'We have a fucked-up situation. I'll admit up front, this shooting has nothing to do with the militia. You have us cold on that. And the dead shooter is not the Tony Clawson we offered up in that Home Depot ID, the California drifter. Good work on that, by the way. Sometimes I wish my people were as thorough.'
'So you were lying last time when you told me Nathaniel was a paid informant?'
'I was protecting the truth.'
I wasn't quite sure how to respond. So I didn't.
He continued, 'It's a different Tony Clawson. And it's his background that's so interesting and so potentially devastating, especially to my agency.'
Okay, so this was getting better by the syllable. I stayed silent, hoping the dead air would prod him to continue.
He stayed silent too. FBI agents must learn reporter tricks up at Quantico or something. I finally said, 'Devastating, how?'
He shook his head purposefully. 'Can't go that far,' he said. He paused, then added, 'Find out who Tony Clawson is, or was, and you'll know exactly what I mean.'
Everyone had a suggestion. I thought of the words of the anonymous caller early that morning. Learn about Curtis Black, and you will have dug to the core of this case.
Baker came swaggering over and dropped the tennis ball at Drinker's feet. Drinker looked at me, then picked up the ball, gave it an underhand toss, and said to the dog, 'Go get it,' as if he needed instruction.
In the momentary silence, the voice of my anonymous source filled my mind again. Nothing is as it seems. A good warning, it increasingly seemed. So the obvious question now, beyond the obvious questions about Clawson, was what in God's name Curtis Black had to do with Tony Clawson.
Drinker turned his attention from the dog to me. 'I need to ask you one more time, and I'm hoping you'll decide to cooperate. Who was that on the telephone in your hospital room that day?'
I didn't utter a word. In the void, Drinker added, 'Look, I'll admit, we have a full-court press on you in trying to find the identity of your caller. I tried the hard approach. Stevens is trying the soft approach. You've been more than resistant. Here's the truth: I think I know who called you that day. That person's been in touch with you since. That person can screw up this entire investigation and, in effect, screw up the entire story that I'm more than ready to help you with. You help me, I help you, and you'll in fact be helping yourself.'
Well, note especially his reference to Stevens, because that's the last clear sentence I heard him say. After that, it was as if I had just been kneed in the gut. So perhaps my first instincts were right: Stevens and Drinker really were in this together, trying to play with my mind. Or perhaps not. My head was starting to hurt. So much for the mind-clearing benefits of my evening dog walk.
I said, 'Truth is, I really don't know who was on the phone, and that's all I'm saying about it right now.' I regarded this as my best strategy. If I gave up any more details, my value to Drinker would likely lessen, and I'd receive less help. Simple journalist survival skills.
Drinker looked me over carefully. 'There's a lot at stake for both of us,' he said. With that, he turned around silently and walked back across the field from whence he came, his tan raincoat fading and then melding into the dark of the night. He left behind a couple of questions: Who the hell is this Tony Clawson, and is Drinker as good a friend as he wants me to believe? I knew then that the answer to the former would probably reap the answer to the latter. Now it was just a matter of doing the work.
Boston, Massachusetts February 13, 1979
Curtis Black sat in the front of the van as if he were watching a movie, transfixed by the developments unfolding on the screen. And just like a movie, everything was proceeding as if it were all part of a tightly written script.
The driver stood casually beside the armored Wells Fargo truck as if he didn't have a worry in the world, oblivious to everything going on around him, including Black's attention. He even pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it, took a few puffs, let it fall to the pavement, and stubbed it out under his black shoe. His cohort
