The Language Of Cannibals

'We exchanged a few unpleasantries at the art exhibit.'

'Mmm. Culhane has sort of taken Gregory Trex under his wing, in a manner of speaking.'

'That's a pretty big hawk wing, Chief.'

'Yeah, well, Culhane seems to think that he can straighten the boy out by acting as the sort of strong father figure he thinks the boy needs.'

'A father who's a war hero and who lost his leg in Vietnam isn't a strong enough figure?'

Mosely averted his gaze and once more seemed embarrassed. 'Culhane saw you get in the squad car, and he thinks maybe you don't quite understand the situation here and what happened back at the gallery. I told him I was filling you in on some background-'

'Chief, I don't have the slightest interest any longer in what happened earlier or in town gossip. That's not what I'm here to talk about.'

Now he returned his gaze to my face. He looked surprised and perhaps a little relieved. 'Huh? But I thought. .'

'I came to talk about a friend of mine who died here on Monday. Michael Burana.'

Mosely again leaned back in his chair and again stared up at the ceiling as he ran the fingers of both hands through his thick, curly hair. He seemed to be trying to collect his thoughts. 'The

FBI agent,' he said at last. 'The one who let the CIA defector slip away to the Russians.'

'He didn't let anyone slip away to Russia. That escape took split-second timing, with help from someone who knew a whole lot about FBI surveillance procedures. Maybe Michael should have been on the scene, but he wasn't; even he had to sleep once in a while. He was the man in charge of the surveillance team, so he was the one who took the fall and all the bad publicity. But that's neither here nor there. He's dead now. Like I said, he was a close friend of mine.'

'And you have questions about his death?'

'Uh-huh.'

He took his gaze from the ceiling, leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands on top of his desk, and looked at me with a puzzled expression. 'You read the news reports?'

'That's how I found out about it. Because of the defector business, his death made all the news reports. Lousy obituary for a fine man.'

'I'm sorry about your friend's death, Frederickson, but the circumstances surrounding it certainly seemed straightforward enough. He drowned. They found the canoe he must have been using smashed up on the rocks over on the Westchester side. It looks like he went out Sunday night and never made it back. It happens in the riverfront towns; people go out on the Hudson in some light craft like a canoe or a kayak without realizing just how powerful and tricky that river is. The tide changes, or a wind whips up, and they can't get back; before you know it, they're gone. The river's three miles wide at this point, and the distance is deceptive; people have a lot of room to get into trouble out there. Considering your professional background and reputation, I'll be happy to show you the file on the case.'

'I appreciate the courtesy, Chief, but that won't be necessary. I'm not here to look over your shoulder or question your work. I'm sure your inquest, or investigation, was thorough, considering the evidence and what you had to go on.'

'Then what-?'

'I came here to offer you information I'm sure you didn't have when you conducted your investigation. It might raise some questions in your mind and cause you to reconsider your original finding.'

'What information?'

'Michael wasn't exactly a boating enthusiast, Chief; he hated the water. He wouldn't have gone out on the Hudson or any other body of water on a battleship, much less paddling in a canoe.'

Mosely thought about it, said, 'That's interesting.'

'Yeah. Interesting.'

He thought about it some more as he absently tapped the fingers of his right hand on the top of the desk. 'Sometimes people with phobias like that will purposely do something risky to force their fear out in the open in order to try to face it down,' he said at last.

'Michael didn't have a phobia of water, Chief. He just hated it. As a matter of fact, he was a strong swimmer, and he'd done some ocean sailing at one point in his life. Fifteen years ago he was living on a houseboat in Island City with his wife and three small children. Some leftover garbage from the Symbionese Liberation Army, friends of people he'd helped put into prison, found out where he was living and decided to pay him a visit. They blew up his houseboat with a few pounds of plastique. Michael wasn't aboard at the time, but his wife and three children were. He got back just in time to watch the police and Coast Guard picking bloody chunks out of the water with fish nets.'

'Oh, God,' Mosely said softly.

'An experience like that tends to leave a mark on you, Chief. After that, he couldn't stand to be near any large body of water; I suppose he'd look at the surface and still see parts of his family there. So there's no way I see Michael happily paddling a canoe out on the Hudson.'

Mosely continued to drum his fingers on the desktop. 'I see your point, Frederickson.'

'Uh-huh.'

'You think he could have committed suicide, maybe chosen that way as a kind of symbolic means of rejoining his family?'

'No. I don't think he committed suicide.'

Mosely fixed me with his steel-gray eyes. 'You suspect some other explanation?'

“I’ll let you handle the suspecting, Chief. The only reason I'm here is to pass on that bit of information about Michael loathing water. There's no way you could have known that when you found the canoe and Michael's body, but I thought you might like to know that now; not many people knew about it, but I did. If he was out on the water in a canoe, it wasn't for recreational purposes; he would have had to have a good reason. I'm absolutely certain there's more to Michael's death than just an accidental drowning.'

Mosely took a notebook out of a drawer in his desk, made a few notes in it. 'I appreciate the information, Frederickson.'

'I thought you would. Have you heard from the FBI on this yet?'

He shook his head as he studied the notes he had made. 'Not a word.' He made another note, then looked up at me. 'The Bureau may be conducting their own investigation; if they are, I'm not aware of it. But no matter what they're doing, Frederickson, I'm going to be doing some more checking into the matter.'

'I'd hoped you would,' I said, rising and extending my left hand. 'Thanks for your time, Chief.'

He stood, shook my hand, then smiled thinly. 'And if I didn't check into it further, you would. Am I right?'

'Chief,' I said, suppressing a sigh, 'you have no idea how much of my own work I have waiting for me back home on my desk. I can't think of any reason why I'd want, or presume, to try to do your work for you.'

'I'll be in touch, let you know what else I find out, if anything. Call it professional courtesy.'

'Thanks, Chief.' I took a business card out of my wallet and handed it to him. Then I walked back across the office and opened the door.

'Frederickson?'

I turned back toward Dan Mosely, who was tapping the eraser of his pencil on top of his notepad. 'Yes, Chief?'

'A question. I don't doubt anything you've told me, and your sincere concern is obvious. But is it possible that you didn't know your friend as well as you think?'

'What are you getting at, Chief?'

'If Michael Burana hated water so much, why did he choose to vacation in a riverfront town, and why would he choose to room in a place that's practically on the water?'

I released my grip on the doorknob, took a step back into the room. 'What gave you the idea that Michael was in Cairn on vacation?'

Mosely gave a broad shrug of his shoulders, as if the answer were obvious. 'Why else would he be here?'

'Christ, Chief, he was here on assignment.'