“In science,” I said, “the truth hurts sometimes. You wouldn’t want a doctor to lie to you, would you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I’m not going to lie to you. Nor am I going to kiss your ass. I’m going to level with you, and tell you how I see things.”
His face was deadpan for what seemed an eternity. I realized I may have crossed the line with Lindy; tomorrow at this time, I could be getting off the train back in Chicago. Which was fine, if the alternative was standing around making like a horse’s-ass yes-man.
But I wouldn’t have to, because Lindbergh smiled, big and natural.
“Do you mind if I call you ‘Nate’?”
“I’d be honored,” I said, and meant it. “Could I call you something besides ‘Colonel’? Every time I say that, eight heads turn.”
He laughed softly. He extended his hand to me, as if we hadn’t shaken before.
“My friends call me ‘Slim.’ I’d appreciate it if you called me that, at least when we’re more or less in private.”
We shook hands, loose and casual.
“Okay…Slim,” I said, trying it out. “I’ll be more formal when it seems appropriate.”
“Thanks.”
We headed back downstairs, where Schwarzkopf—looking like a hotel doorman in that fancy-ass uniform—met us halfway.
“Colonel,” he said, “agents Irey and Wilson are waiting to see you.”
5
Elmer Irey and Frank J. Wilson were waiting in Lindbergh’s study; neither had taken a seat. They stood there, hats in hand, both in black, like twin undertakers.
Irey and Wilson were the Ike and Mike of law enforcement—wearing different-color ties wasn’t enough to lessen the sameness. Both men were in their mid-forties and wore round-lensed black eyeglasses like Robert Woolsey of the Wheeler and Woolsey comedy team—a couple of solemn, long-faced, round-jawed, dark-haired, jug-eared feds as interchangeable as a pair of socks.
Irey was the boss; he was the chief of the Internal Revenue intelligence unit. Wilson—and if you had to tell them apart, Wilson was the balding one—was his chief agent.
The two men traded blank looks upon seeing me, but in that blankness was a wealth of contempt.
Then Irey stepped forward and, with a smile as thin as the ace of spades, offered his hand to Lindbergh, saying, “It’s a great honor meeting you, Colonel. I wish the circumstances were otherwise. This is Agent Wilson.”
Wilson stepped forward, shook hands with Lindbergh, saying, “An honor meeting you, Colonel.”
Lindbergh offered them chairs and, as Breckinridge had just hung up the phone, took his position behind the desk. Breckinridge stood behind him and to his left, like a field marshal. Schwarzkopf and I took chairs on the sidelines.
Irey, his hat in his lap, glanced around the study at what must have seemed to him an unnecessary crowd of observers.
“I think, Colonel,” Irey said, in a voice bread-and-butter bland, “that we might want some privacy.”
Lindbergh looked to his left, then to Irey and said, guilelessly, “The door is closed.”
Edgily, Wilson said, “Colonel, we really should speak to you confidentially.”
Lindbergh’s smile was a tad tired, “Gentlemen, I can’t tell you how pleased and grateful I am that you’ve taken your Sunday to make this trip. Your help, your counsel, is something we greatly need. But the men in this room are my closest advisers.”
Who, me?
“Colonel Breckinridge is my attorney and one of my closest friends,” he continued. “Colonel Schwarzkopf is in charge of the State Police in whose jurisdiction this matter lies.”
Irey said, “With all due respect to Colonel Schwarzkopf, there have already been numerous flaws in the methods employed by the state police.”
“Really?” Schwarzkopf said, icily. “Such as?”
“Your fingerprint man,” Irey said, turning to look at the frowning Schwarzkopf, “failed to find any latents on the ransom letter or envelope, the ladder, the chisel, the window, the crib or the boy’s toys.”
“It took an outsider,” Wilson chimed in, “to come in and take another try…and he found all sorts of prints, even after ruling out those of your own troopers. Thirty to forty on the ladder alone.”
“Have you sent those prints to Washington?” Irey asked Schwarzkopf. “The Bureau of Investigation has a vast collection of fingerprints of known criminals.”
“This is not a federal matter,” Schwarzkopf said stiffly.
Egos. A kid’s life at stake and they were playing at fucking egos.
“Colonel Schwarzkopf stays, gentlemen,” Lindbergh said. “You may disagree with his methods, but he is, after all, the man in charge.”
Said the man in charge.
