'Because of the charges and everything else,' Markowitz said.
He was cryptic, trying to tell me something without actually saying it, playing a game that wasn't intended to be any fun.
I asked, 'Is Black in jail?'
Markowitz said, 'No, he's not, and that's what you might want to talk to your federal government about.'
'Sammy, come on, I need you on this. What do you mean?'
To this, I got nothing. 'I've gone as far as I can go,' he said. And when Markowitz wants to shut down, he shuts down hard, and not even someone of my estimable interviewing skills will be able to sway him to the contrary. I knew I had pushed as far as I could.
'When I know more,' I said, 'you mind if I come back at you?'
He said, 'You know where to find me,' which was his way of saying I could. 'And you know how I work,' he added. 'I confirm, but I don't provide.'
And I headed for the door. Markowitz had told me to go check with the federal government, so that's exactly what I decided to do next.
Across the Mystic River from Chelsea, Diego Rodriguez looked resplendent in his Louis suit, standing in his small fifth-floor office in the U.s. district court with the perfect view of the harbor and the distant runways of Logan International Airport.
We exchanged the type of needling that only old battlefield friends can indulge. We had been involved in a lot of cases together over the years, a lot of good stories, and Rodriguez had proven himself a reliable and informed source.
'I have a hunch and a hope,' I said, cutting to the quick. 'My hunch is, you know a thing or two about a former armored car robber named Curtis Black. My hope is you can share it with me.'
No reaction whatsoever. Rodriguez was leaning back in his chair, behind his desk, his legs stretched out before him. I was sitting across his desk in a wing chair, overlooking his remarkable view.
Diego Rodriguez was a federal prosecutor assigned to many of the most glamorous cases in his office. The fact that he was Hispanic gave him opportunities. The fact that he was good brought him a remarkable track record of victory. For me, he had provided a constant flow of information on cases ranging from Irish gun running to mob surveillance. He never violated his own office, never put a case in jeopardy, but he respected and understood the role of the news media, and he respected and liked me. Ours was, in many ways, a good and beneficial relationship.
Which is why I was so surprised when he said, simply, 'I'm not sure I can help you with this one.' He sounded uncharacteristically stiff and slightly embarrassed at his refusal-not defiant, but apologetic. It was a tone that made me take stock before I forged ahead. Still, I had neither the time nor luxury to pull any punches.
I asked, 'Do you know who I'm talking about?'
Rodriguez reached for a can of Coca-Cola on his desk, took a pull from it, then nodded. Almost as an afterthought, he said, 'I know him.'
I told him, 'Look, Diego, I need you. This one is important to me.
This one could be important to a lot more people than just me. Help me out. Please.'
I fell silent. He was silent. There was nothing in the room but the gentle purr of warm air flowing through the vents.
'I wish I could,' he said.
'You can,' I said. 'Just like all those other times before. You help, I keep my mouth shut until the hereafter.'
He didn't smile at all. He looked at me and said, 'You know the case, right? That armored car hit in the North End. That's all public record, and I assume you've looked it up.'
I breathed a sigh of relief that he had opened up this much. I replied, 'I'm vaguely familiar with it, yes, but I haven't gone through the actual trial records or transcripts yet.'
In this business, a shard of information, used correctly, sometimes gets you the entire picture, or at least something reasonably close, so I added, 'My understanding is that Mr. Black didn't do any time.'
'This goes a lot deeper than that,' he said.
I was leaning over toward him so far that I could have toppled out of my chair. I was trying to will the information out of his head and into my ears. 'How deep?' I asked.
With that question hanging in the balance, we sat in silence for a stretch. The day outside became a pale glow and was turning the corner toward dark. The only light in Rodriguez's office was from a small lamp on his desk. Neither of us seemed to mind.
Rodriguez looked like he was about to say something, then hesitated.
He tapped his Coke can. Then he just shook his head.
'I can't,' he said. That was followed by another long pause. He added, 'I'm not trying to play games with you. I am truly sorry. But all I can tell you right now is that you really don't want to be mucking around in this.'
I asked, 'What the hell do you mean by that?'
He simply shook his head again. 'Sometimes people change,' he said.
He said that with an odd look on his face, his eyes boring into mine.
'Sometimes people change, and it's tough to keep up with them.'
Then he stood and added, 'I've got to run to court. Just take my word on this. You don't want to push this too far.'
The nice members of the Copley Plaza Hotel's management team saw fit to upgrade me to a suite overlooking Copley Square, specifically the St.
James Suite. Take my word on one thing only. When the hotel desk clerk assigns you to a room with a name rather than a number, you're going to like where you're going.
Once upstairs, I took a brief tour of the room, made myself familiar with the contents of the minibar, quickly perused the room service menu, and called down for a hamburger. Then I settled in at the desk and fired up my laptop.
The stories were sitting in my queue, as promised, the first one headlined 'Five North Shore Men Arrested in Fatal North End Wells Fargo Heist.' I quickly scanned through, seeing Black's name at the top of the second paragraph, then Rocco Manupelli, who the story described as a rising member of the New England mob. My eyes scanned through the rest of the list of suspects, from Marcio Sanchez to Joe Cox and then to the name that stopped my heart cold: Paul Stemple. Paul Stemple. I knew the name. It rang so familiar in my mind, but I couldn't place it. Paul Stemple. Paul Stemple. I had the feeling I was running down a barren hallway, opening doors into darkened rooms, frantically searching for something that I wasn't even sure was there.
And then, bang. It was as if someone had flicked the tines of a fork against a fine crystal glass. Paul Stemple. He was the same man who had received the presidential pardon, the man whom I initially intended to ask Hutchins about at Congressional Country Club the day of the assassination attempt. Paul Stemple connected to Curtis Black. Curtis Black connected to the shooting. These seemed to be answers, but the answers were only a prelude to another whole set of questions, this one so much more confusing. I stared at the computer screen until the letters turned fuzzy and seemed to evaporate. At that point, I stared at nothing at all.
Someone knocked at the door. At first I jumped in surprise, then recalled my call to room service, which now seemed like an eternity ago. Paul Stemple and Curtis Black. I cleared off a spot on the desk for the food tray, pulled the door open, and had begun to say, 'Bring it right in here, please,' when I saw that the person on my threshold wasn't the waiter, but was none other than my old friend Gus Fitzpatrick. He had a sheepish look on his face, a faint smile that seemed to express some embarrassment over an arrival without prior notice.
'They told me in the D.c. bureau that you were in Boston for the night.
I figured you'd be here,' he said, still standing in the hall.
'Gus,' I said, 'what a welcome sight. For God's sakes, come in.'
We shook hands, the shake turning into a soft embrace. On his way to the couch, he looked around in a mild state of awe at the resplendence of the suite, even whistling softly. 'Am I going to have to lay off half my overnight
