fingerprint index, and thus, in one sense, was the father of scientific crime investigation.
Heredity.
Believed passionately in the power of genes (obviously, eugenics and fingerprints) and that talent clusters could be associated with certain families, i.e., those of the “superior” English upper class, into which he was born.
Synesthesia. It was something he had been the first in the world to note clinically.
But it was another new word.
Bob Googled it.
Alek’s grubby face stared at me from the screen. Same surly demeanor, same anger, same radiant negativity and self-pity, undercut with toxic defiance. It made me sick.
I staggered to the TV set and changed channels, but no matter where I turned, there was Alek, with some demented commentator spewing out the sordid details of his life. Russia, Marine Corps, attempts to defect, poor employment record, marriage to a beautiful Russian girl, father of two baby daughters, known for temper and abusive, explosive behavior. There was a fuzzy film of him handing out pro-Cuba pamphlets in New Orleans: really, what did he think
Now and then they’d cut to film of his wife as she carried the two babies to a car amid a swarm of reporters and cameramen. I remember being struck with how pretty she seemed, but also how confused and vulnerable. I hoped she had somebody good to take care of her and was later gratified to discover the ministrations of the angelic Ruth Paine on Marina’s behalf. Thank God for the good people of the world, to somewhat ameliorate the pain caused by teams like Alek and Hugh.
It took a while, but I was more or less sober when I got around to assessing my position. Of Alek, even in police custody, I had little fear. What could he tell them, and when would he tell it? Listening carefully to the reports, I concluded he’d not yet made any wild charges about Russian agents guiding him. Rather, he’d been indicted only on the murder of Officer Tippit, for which he had no alibi and no defense and for which there were plenty of witnesses hungering to send him to fry in the chair. He was probably enjoying the attention and plotting how to spin it out for years and years and years. That he would die at the end was at this point meaningless; he was having too much fun being famous at last.
Every time the coverage shifted to Washington, to tracking the grief and shock of the capital city, to images of a weary LBJ arriving home, of Jackie returning alone to the White House, I changed channels, and by one had turned the damn thing off. I knew it was the beginning and that it would go on and on, and we’d have to get the reaction of each family member, each intimate, each acquaintance, we’d attend the funeral and the burial and the. . It was too much. So much for tough guy Hugh, the New Critic of politics and policy, not letting emotion or sentimentality get in his way.
When the tube was dark, that left me alone with my biggest fears, concerning Jimmy Costello. I checked my watch again. I stole down the hallway to knock on his door softly and got no answer. (I paused at Lon’s too and heard the regular breathing of merciful sleep, though now and again he’d stir uncomfortably.)
Back in my room, I tried to think things through. Suppose they’d nabbed Jimmy and the rifle? Suppose they’d offered him a deal, no execution if he rolled over fast. Though it was against his principles, maybe he’d seen that taking the rap alone was no bargain, so he’d talked.
It went on. Maybe even now, police raiders were assembling to swoop us up, men with tommy guns and shotguns, hell-bent on justice and retribution. I wished I’d brought my .45 with me. The best thing, under those circumstances – though tantamount to an admission of guilt – would have been the swift application of 230 grains of hardball suicide to the head. But that would leave Peggy and the boys and poor Lon to face alone the mess I’d made. I knew I couldn’t do that. If caught, I’d also have to absolve the Agency of any blame, make certain all knew it was my ploy and my ploy alone, that I’d coerced Lon into it against his will, that I had done it for what I believed were sound moral policy reasons, confess, take my sentence, and face my executioners with dignity and grace, leaving a legacy for my sons and the Agency.
There was nothing to be done. I called the desk to see if the bar was still open, and it was not, and inquired if I could have a bottle sent to my room and was told it was too late. So I just sat there, waiting for – Godot, I suppose. The knock on the door. The explosive entry of the raid team. Mr. Dulles, so disappointed? Cord, even more disappointed. I saw myself saying, “But Cord, it was your wife he was screwing,” and Cord answering, “He was the president of the United States, you fool!”
Then there was a knock on the door, soft but firm.
Oh, Jesus, I thought, for it was the climax to the day. Live or die would be decided upon the opening of the door. I glanced at my watch. Good Christ, it was nearly five.
I walked over.
Smiling sheepishly, Jimmy Costello, with something wrapped and bundled in his suit coat, was standing there. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Meachum,” he said. “Hope you wasn’t worried.”
“I only had three heart attacks and finished my bottle and tried to order another.”
“Very sorry.”
“No, no, God, man, not your fault, mine. I should have been tougher. The leader hangs together in the bleak moments, and I didn’t. Thank God for that Irish rascal Jimmy Costello. Bet you’ve got a story to tell.”
“No heroics. Just me sitting in the dark for twelve hours until the night became wee and I was able to make a dash.”
“Tell me.”
“Sure, but can I go to my own room first and get myself my own bottle?”
“Absolutely. Enough for a glass for the boss?”
“Count on it, Mr. Meachum.”
He laid the bundle down on the bed, where it fell open. I was happy to see the rifle, in parts, still in its odd canvas holster straps. The man himself returned in a few seconds, undid his tie, poured us each a couple of fingers, and commenced with the tale. I can’t capture the trace of Irish brogue that underlay his account because it was more a thing of rhythms and lightly alternative syllabic emphasis, so I won’t even try. It would be blarney. But here’s the gist of it, as I recall.
“You leave, I get the gun disassembled and holstered, I snatch up the coat and I’m out the door maybe thirty seconds after you. I hear it click and head down the hall when I remember the damned window. The window. I give it a second. Maybe the old man won’t notice his window open where it was closed before. But he’s a Jew, smart as a tack, with a gift for details if he’s in the garment trade, because that’s the biggest of big business games, so I duck back, pop the lock, flee across the outer office to the inner, and get the window down as it was. So I’m maybe a minute and a half behind you as I hit the hallway, and lo and behold, ahead of me, the elevators open and a couple of birds pop out. They’s all concerned about the president, but more so about not being able to leave the office because of that damn cop. What, did he think a haberdasher gunned down the president? They were so taken with it, I know they didn’t pay a hair’s attention to me, so I figured I was okay.
“But when I get to the elevator and push down, the doors didn’t open. I figure there’s been another call and check the indicator above the doors and see both cars are downstairs in the lobby and ain’t budging. I figure that means the cops have put the kibosh on them for a bit while they check out the real estate.
“I go to the stairwell and can hear commotion on the flights below. Not sure if it’s cops coming up or citizens going down, whatever, but it’s not good. I slip off my shoes and, in my stocking feet, head up a flight to the top, me with the death rifle hanging around my neck, heart beating like a drum.”
He took a pull of his bourbon, and I joined him.
“I make it up and then run out of building. I’m hard against the roof. Fortunately, the stairway does lead up to a door set horizontal in the roof. Using my picks, I pop the door in a second, roll to the roof, and let the door slip shut behind me, hearing it lock. I look about. The roof is empty, and no building stands taller to give vantage. The only structure would be the elevator machinery house twenty-five yards away. I ease my way to it, feeling naked as a jaybird and worried about helicopters or low-flying planes, but the sky is empty too. I’ve got my jimmy keys and I’m in in a flash. I squint and can see there’s not much but space for the greasy lifting and lowering machines. I get past the machinery to the far end of the house, where some quirk in design has left a platform in the wall so it forms a shelf or space or something.
