25
Michael worked through the afternoon, through dinner, through most of the evening at the Strangler Bureau, which was located in the state capitol building on Beacon Hill. He had set himself the task of combing through the murder books again, for details that DeSalvo had got wrong in his confession. DeSalvo’s confession was bogus. The more Michael thought about it, the more certain he became. It was not just that DeSalvo was wrong on the facts; his tone was wrong. Too eager, too quick to please. Too grandiose and expansive-the telltale exuberant falseness of a bullshitter. Wamsley had bought it, but maybe it was not too late. Maybe Michael could bring his boss around.
“Hey.”
Michael looked up to see Amy standing in his office doorway. She was still wearing her work dress. Her coat was draped over her arms. She slipped the heel of her foot out of her shoe and back in-tired, achy feet after a long day.
“Don’t you people lock your doors?”
“Don’t have to. We’re the cops. Who would steal from the cops?”
“Me. Some of those files out there…Imagine the headline: ‘From the Secret Files of the Strangler Bureau.’”
He groaned.
“No, no-‘From the Desk of Top Cop Michael Daley.’” She laughed.
“Alright, alright, I’ll lock the door. I didn’t know I was alone.”
“What are you working on?”
“I’d rather not say. You know, to a reporter.”
“Ah. Sounds fascinating. Well, I’m not just a reporter. I’m family too, right?”
“You’re shameless.”
“Can’t help it. It’s a job requirement.”
“Well, at the moment you can’t be both. If you’re a reporter, I have to keep my mouth shut.” Michael dropped a stack of photos on the desk. “I wish I could talk, believe me.”
“Okay, then. I’m not a reporter. What’s wrong, Michael?” Amy had to remind herself over and over that Michael was different from his brothers, easier to read, more exposed than Ricky, easier to wound than Joe.
“Amy, if I knew something, something that could maybe be dangerous…”
“Knew what?”
“Never mind. Forget it.”
“Tell me. What’s the big secret?”
He dodged the question. “I don’t know how you do this, look at this gore every day.”
“You keep your distance.”
“What if that doesn’t work?”
“You make it work. Michael, what is it?”
He shook his head.
“Come on, how bad can it be?”
A beat.
He regarded her. “DeSalvo’s not the Strangler.”
Another beat.
She said, “How could you know that for sure?”
“The confession was a travesty. Wamsley practically fed him the answers, and he still got half his facts wrong. If you’d been there, you’d understand. DeSalvo isn’t a murderer. He’s got a short record. No prior history of rape or assault, barely any violence at all until these new charges in Cambridge. And there’s no physical evidence linking him to any of the stranglings-blood, fingerprints, witnesses, nothing. I could make a stronger case against a half dozen other guys than I can against DeSalvo, confession or no confession.”
“What about the other people there? Did they believe him?”
“Not the cops. Just Wamsley. Unfortunately it’s his call to make. George has always thought there’s only one strangler. Now he thinks he’s found him. Probably he’s scared shitless of not solving the case or of trying it to a not-guilty. That’d be his epitaph, and he knows it: the man who let the Boston Strangler get away.”
“Could be yours, too, if you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong.”
Amy nodded.
“At least I don’t think I’m wrong.”
“So if DeSalvo’s not the Strangler, who is?”
“Nast maybe. Maybe someone we’ve never heard of. I don’t know.”
“Jesus. So what do you do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you say nothing, and some other girl gets killed while DeSalvo is still locked up, then what? Could you live with yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lot of I-don’t-knows.”
“I know.”
Amy smiled. “You know what your dad said to me once? A cop with a bad conscience is the worst kind of cop, because he knows better.”
“I don’t have a bad conscience.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
“What do you think I should do, Amy?”
“You’ll think I’m selfish.”
“Probably.”
“You have to tell. If the Strangler’s really still out there, if you really believe that, then you have to let people know. Otherwise, what will you say to the next girl’s mother when she asks why you knew about the danger but did nothing to stop it?”
“So who do I tell? The cops know already.”
“Keep telling them, I guess.”
“And what if no one listens?”
“Then what else can you do? Tell a reporter.”
“Hm. If only I knew one.”
“I could keep your name out of it. Call you a ‘highly placed, reliable source,’ something like that.”
“They’d know. I already told Wamsley to his face. He knows how I feel.”
“Well, you think about it, Michael. That’s a hell of a secret to have to carry around. I couldn’t do it.”
“No? Will you keep it secret, Amy? You’re not going to write this?”
She smiled again but did not answer. “Can I tell you something, Michael? Of the three of you boys, I like you best.”
“That’s not exactly what I asked you.”
“I mean it. I like you best.”
“Great. I’ll be sure to tell Ricky.”
“You’re the best one. You’ll make the right decision. I’m not so sure the other two would. But you? You’re good.”
“You’re manipulating me.”
“Maybe. But I’m not lying.”
He thought it over. “Fuck it. Go ahead and write it. What the hell. I liked it better in Eminent Domain anyway.”
