“Okay, then go back to your witnesses. What did they see?”
“I don’t know, and neither do they. But I think, based on a hundred years of detective work, that they saw
I said to him, “Most, if not all, of the witnesses agreed on one thing-the CIA animation didn’t look like what they saw.”
“I see you’ve done some work since yesterday.” He leaned toward me and said, “Look, I think my interview techniques are very good… though the fucking CIA and fucking FBI put out some shit about bad interviewing techniques as the reason for these witnesses describing that streak of light. And they weren’t talking about themselves. So, it was like the NYPD’s fault that two hundred witnesses saw the same thing. Can you believe that shit?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Anyway, I got all I could out of those witnesses the first time around. By the second time around, they’d all been reading the papers and watching the news, so their stories went from, ‘Gee, it happened so fast, and I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing’ to, ‘Hey, I told you it was a guided missile’ followed by detailed descriptions of a reddish orange streak of fire and a white smoke plume, and zigging and zagging, and everything but the color of the fucking missile before it hit the aircraft.” He looked at me. “We’ve been there, John. We’ve done that. How many eyewitnesses have we had on the stand who totally forgot everything, or better yet, remembered all kinds of shit that never happened?”
“Point made.” But that made me think of something else. Too often we look at what’s in front of us and examine it to death. But sometimes, it’s what’s missing that can tell you something, like that dog that didn’t bark in the night. I said to Dick, “I always wondered why some kind of judicial inquest wasn’t held. You know, like a Justice Department court of inquiry with subpoena powers where all the eyewitnesses, government investigators, and forensic experts could be made to give sworn testimony, and where a panel of impartial judges could ask questions in open court. Why wasn’t that done?”
He shrugged. “How the hell do I know? Ask Janet Reno.”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “There were a few public hearings. Lots of press conferences.”
“But nothing judicial or congressional.”
He smirked. “You mean, like the Warren Commission? Shit, I still don’t know who killed JFK.”
“My ex-wife did. She talks in her sleep.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We shared a half-assed chuckle.
Dick chain-lit another cigarette and remarked, “I had to go to L.A. on business. You can’t smoke in restaurants or bars out there. You believe that? I mean, what the fuck is this country coming to? Assholes make laws, and people obey them. We’re all becoming sheep. Next is an anti-farting law. You know, like, ‘This is a fart- free establishment. Farting causes serious nose and throat ailments.’ I can see this warning sign with a guy in a circle bending over and a slash going through him. What’s next?”
I let him go on awhile, then asked, “Were you ever called to testify at one of these public hearings?”
“No. But-”
“Was any other interviewer or any eyewitness ever called to testify at a public hearing?”
“No, but-”
“Did the CIA interview any witnesses when they were making that tape?”
“No… but they said they did. Then a lot of eyewitnesses called them out on that, and the CIA then admitted that they used only written statements given by the eyewitnesses to make that animation.”
“Does that bother you?”
“From a professional standpoint… look, a lot of mistakes were made, which is why people like you are still nosing around and causing problems. Here’s my conclusion, which I really believe-it was a fucking accident. And here’s my advice to you-drop it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not part of a cover-up or conspiracy, John. I ask you to drop it for two very good reasons. One, there was no crime, no conspiracy, no cover-up, and nothing for you to discover, except stupidity. Two, we’re old buds, and I don’t want to see you in trouble for no good reason. You want to get yourself into trouble? Do something worth the trouble. Kick Koenig in the balls.”
“I already did that this morning.”
Dick laughed, then looked at his watch again, and said, “Gotta go. Say hello to Kate.”
“Yeah. And hello to Mo.”
He started to slide out of the booth, and I said, “Oh, one more thing. Bayview Hotel. Beach blanket bimbo. Ring any bells?”
He looked at me and said, “I heard something. But I gotta tell you-there were more fucking rumors going around than even the press could handle. You probably heard the same rumor I did.”
“Tell me the rumor.”
“About this couple banging on the beach with a videotape going, and maybe they filmed the explosion. Some local cops passed it on to some of our guys. That’s all I heard.”
“Did you hear that this couple might have stayed at the Bayview Hotel?”
“Sounds familiar. I gotta go.”
He stood, and I said, “I need a name.”
“What name?”
“Any name. Someone like you who worked the case and is out of the clutches of the Feds. Someone who you think has some information I can use. Like maybe about that rumor. You remember how this works. You give me a name, I talk to the guy, and he gives me another name. And so on.”
He stayed silent awhile, then said, “You never did listen to good advice. Okay, here’s a name. Marie Gubitosi. You know her?”
“Yeah… she used to work out of Manhattan South.”
“That’s her. She was on and off the task force before you got there. She’s happily married, two kids, and off the job. She’s got nothing to lose by talking to you, but nothing to gain either.”
“Where can I find her?”
“I don’t know. You’re a detective. You find her.”
“I will. Thanks for the name.”
“Don’t use my name.”
“Goes without saying.”
He started for the door, then came back to me. He said, “We talked about your interest in doing background checks. I’m going to make some calls for you, for the record. Send me your resume or something. You may get a call for an interview.”
“What if they offer me your job?”
“Take it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I walked to Ecco on Chambers Street. The maitre d’ recognized me, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mayfield. Your wife has arrived.”
“Which one?”
“This way, sir.” He escorted me to a table where Kate was sitting, sipping a sparkling water, and reading the
I gave Kate a kiss and took a seat opposite her. She said, “I ordered you a Budweiser.”
“Good.” It’s actually not bad being married. It’s comfortable.
My Bud arrived, and I clinked glasses with Kate.
