by Greg Iles
“I thought the Double Eagles carried twenty-dollar gold pieces.”
“Only the older guys, the founding members. The rest wore 1964 JFK half-dollars, most with a hole shot through them.” Kaiser raises one eyebrow, Mr. Spock style. “Kind of makes you wonder, huh? Anyway, the Bureau sent an informant to the funeral. The guy watched Forrest Knox walk up to the casket alone.”
“You think Forrest put the coin in Abbott’s coffin? On the body of the man he’d ordered killed?”
Kaiser’s eyes carry some emotion I can’t read. “When Forrest was in Vietnam, he carried a little bag of JFK half-dollars with him. Whenever he killed a VC, he’d leave one of those coins in the corpse’s mouth, so the Cong leaders would know it was him.”
A chill races along my arms. “The Bureau couldn’t pin Abbott’s murder on him or the Eagles?”
Kaiser shrugs. “J. Edgar Hoover was still director at that time. His last few months on earth, I’m happy to say. The problem was, Forrest was a decorated war hero—something in short supply during that war. I don’t think Hoover wanted to cause him trouble.”
“Wonderful.”
Kaiser makes a sour face. “Here’s your takeaway from that story.” He holds up his right forefinger. “You cannot bargain with Forrest Knox. He’ll eat you alive, Penn.”
A little overwhelmed by Kaiser’s revelations, I walk over to the door to the interrogation room and lay my ear against its face. Walker Dennis’s sonorous voice passes through the wood in a muted drone. Caitlin must be bursting to get out of there.
I turn back to Kaiser. “How the hell could you hold all this back? This morning you acted like you didn’t know shit about Forrest Knox.”
“I tried to tell you Brody Royal wasn’t the real power behind all this. Just three hours ago, outside the hospital, after the sniper tried to get Henry, I told you Forrest was the real enemy. But then I got called away, and you took your chance to bug out. You didn’t want to hear it.”
He’s right, of course, but that’s not what bothers me. “But how long have you known this?”
Kaiser rubs his stubbled cheek, his eyes distant. “Look, if I told you what I really believe about this situation, you’d think I’m out of my mind.”
Given that Walker Dennis and I intend to declare war on the Knox family tomorrow morning, any intelligence I can gather in the meantime could be critical. “We’re already in the twilight zone. Cough it up.”
Kaiser clucks his tongue softly, then gets up and begins pacing the hall with me. “There’s a synchronicity to Forrest turning up in this Double Eagle mess that feels like fate, like it was supposed to happen. I feel like I’ve been brought to this place—after years of chasing ghosts—specifically to oppose and destroy him.”
“I didn’t figure you for a Jungian.”
The FBI agent smiles strangely. “Hey, I’m a child of the sixties. Seriously, though, this is the third time Forrest and I have grazed past each other, in historical terms. He doesn’t even know about the first time.”
“When was that?”
“Vietnam. In 1970 I was stuck on a hill on the northern rim of the A Shau Valley, a hellhole called FSB Ripcord.”
“FSB?”
“Fire Support Base. Ripcord was one of the last major engagements of the war. A twenty-one-day siege. I was 101St Airborne. We took beaucoup casualties during that particular nightmare. You don’t hear much about Ripcord, because in the end we sneaked out and let the B-52s carpet-bomb the place into oblivion, but we lost that battle.”
“Forrest Knox was there?”
“I didn’t know it then, but he was. He was a Lurp.”
“A what?”
“A Lurp. That’s the phonetic version of an acronym—L-R-R-P: Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The Lurps were precursors of the modern-day Delta operators. They weren’t at Ripcord the whole time I was, and they had technically been folded into the Seventy-Fifth Rangers by then, but they were still Lurps in every way that counted. And Forrest’s army record puts him there during the first phase of the battle. I must have seen him several times—all the time, really—but the Lurps kept to themselves. They were truly elite soldiers, and a few were stone killers. As a unit, the Lurps had a four-hundred-to-one kill ratio.”
“Jesus.”
“Like I said, you don’t fuck with a guy with that résumé. But it’s weird, isn’t it? I was from Idaho, Knox was from Louisiana, yet fate kept putting us in the same place.”
“When was the second time you ‘grazed past’ him?”
“Hurricane Katrina. While I was out in the field trying to hold the city together for the Bureau, Forrest was theoretically doing the same thing for the state police. But as the situation deteriorated, I started getting reports of crazy shit going on in the wee hours. Vigilante stuff. Scores being settled, prisoners disappearing, sniping . . . Lurp-type stuff, only directed against certain elements of the U.S. population. Black drug dealers, mainly.”
“I thought those stories were bullshit.”
“Most were, but not all. Between the time the levees broke on Monday and Saturday afternoon when General Honoré got his troops into the city, things literally went to hell. The NOPD virtually ceased to function, and civil unrest was rampant. You saw the daylight stuff on TV. At night it was worse. Bands of predators roamed the streets, preying on desperate people, using the sound of emergency generators to locate victims. Quite a few young black men turned up dead during that time, from head or heart shots, and most got written off as flood deaths or unexplained homicides.”
“Forrest was involved with that?”
Kaiser shrugs. “A couple of sources have told me he had a private SWAT crew down there, operating off the reservation. At the time, I assumed that if it was true, it was cowboy law enforcement. After all, Forrest was the son of an infamous Klansman. I figured he and some racist buddies took their chance to declare open season on black drug dealers. But after talking to Henry, I think those killings were business.”
“Christ, John.”
“The thing is, Forrest has gone to great lengths to appear above reproach. He has quite a few fans in state government. There’s even talk of making him the next superintendent of state police.”
This seems beyond belief. “Will you try to stop that?”
“A week ago, I’d have said I couldn’t. Tonight . . . things have changed a bit. Depending on how far he and Ozan stick their dicks out to protect the Knox family, I might just be able to rip Forrest’s mask off.”
I stop walking and take hold of his arm. “You’ve held back a hell of a lot more than I have.”
“Have I?” The FBI agent looks skeptical. “I could tell you some mind-blowing pathology about the Knox family. History that explains the mutilations and trophy taking—”
“Screw telling me stuff! Why haven’t you done anything about it?”
Kaiser seems surprised by my anger. “I’m doing something now. But it takes time to build a case against cops—especially one as powerful as Forrest.”
“Hey, I’ve been there, you know? But meth trafficking carries mandatory minimum sentences. That’s the legal equivalent of a baseball bat. Why the hell would you pursue any other angle? You told me this morning that you’re operating under the Patriot Act. So bust every perp you know about in the Knoxes’ meth organization and start offering plea bargains. Sooner or later, somebody will cough up a link to Forrest.”
Kaiser actually smiles at this suggestion. “You really must be in shock. You worked enough federal task forces to know how cases like this have to be handled. It’s like fighting the Mafia. You don’t start squeezing peons and hope to work your way up to the top. You’ve got to find a star witness—a key man with access to the center of operations. Then you build your case, piece by piece. And once all your ducks are in a row, you roll up everyone at once, from the bottom to the top. If I went after Forrest your way, he’d either kill my low-level witnesses or skip the country.”
Kaiser is right; bu
t that doesn’t mean his is the only way. “You’re talking about months of work, John. You’ve got probable cause to start busting Double Eagles tomorrow, and that would instantly put Forrest on the defensive. You might get lucky and flip someone who could help you nail him on RICO charges. Why won’t you try that, when hours might mean life or death for my father?”
Kaiser looks back at me for a few seconds, then walks down to the L in the corridor, so that he can see the main entrance. Satisfied, he walks back to me and speaks with quiet conviction.
“I guess the plain truth is, I don’t want Knox and his relatives going down on a drug charge. I believe the Bureau has a moral duty to the people of this parish—the black people, mainly—to close the cases we failed to solve back in the 1960s. We failed those victims and their families, and we failed the agents who worked those cases as best they could. To get any kind of closure, or redemption, or healing, the Double Eagles will have to be tried and convicted for the race murders they committed—not for peddling crystal meth.”
My face feels cold from the blood draining out of my cheeks, and my palms have gone clammy. “Are you serious?”
“Never more so. The same holds true for Forrest. That bastard’s not going to Angola for skimming profits off meth sales. He’s going down for murder. He will be tried and convicted for disgracing the badge and uniform he wore during Hurricane Katrina. He betrayed every cop who stood by his or her post and acted honorably while others deserted.”
Kaiser clearly means every word. But I can’t let his argument go unanswered. “John . . . would you really let my father die for your sense of moral proportion?”
He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “Your father put himself where he is now. Dr. Cage has always had the option of turning himself in.”
“Bullshit. Knox’s troopers would shoot him down before he could even raise a white flag, and you know it.”
Kaiser neither answers nor looks away.
It takes several seconds to get my temper under control. “The Treasury Department didn’t show these scruples when they went after Al Capone. Income-tax evasion was good enough.”
“This is different. When you combine the unsolved civil rights murders with Forrest’s modern-day crimes, and then tie that in to the Kennedy and King assassinations through Brody Royal and Carlos Marcello, you’re talking about one of the most important conspiracy cases in American history. And if anyone but your father were involved, you’d be making my argument for me.”
The realization that Kaiser truly means to move at a snail’s pace while the men he claims to be hunting close in on my father engenders a kind of crazed panic in me. Compared to Walker Dennis and me, Kaiser has unlimited power at his control. He can tap the NSA, the DEA, and any number of other resources for support. One of the few things he cannot do is control my actions—
“I don’t like what I see in your eyes, Penn. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I hold up both hands and back away from him. “Hey . . . you hold all the cards. I’m just the mayor of Nowhere, USA, and I want to go home.”
His eyes remain on me, but the suspicion in them slowly wanes. “Are your mother and daughter okay? I assume you’re hiding them somewhere?”
You’re damned straight, I reply silently.
“So long as they’re not with your father.”
“Fuck you, John.” I glance anxiously at my watch. “Walker’s got to be nearly done with Caitlin. She’s been in there longer than I was.”
“Maybe she’s more talkative than you. Is Dennis videotaping the questioning?”
“Why? You want a copy?”
As if on cue, we hear the sound of sliding chairs from the interrogation room. Kaiser takes out his cell phone and sends a quick text message.
“Jordan’s sitting up front,” he informs me. “She thought she should come along, in case Caitlin was upset. Do you think it would help Caitlin to see her?”
Jordan Glass is Kaiser’s wife. A famous conflict photographer from my generation, she was one of Caitlin’s idols as a young woman. Now fate or chance have thrown them together in the midst of the kind of story they both live to cover. It was Jordan who earlier tonight convinced Caitlin to turn over a copy of Henry Sexton’s backup files to the FBI instead of fighting a federal subpoena—or so Caitlin claimed, anyway.
“It probably would,” I say, my mind back on tomorrow’s drug raid.
The door of the interrogation room opens abruptly, and Caitlin walks out, her face still smeared with ash. Behind her I see Walker Dennis shutting off the video camcorder he used to record our scripted charades in that little room.
“My God,” say Jordan Glass, rounding the corner of the hall and catching sight of Caitlin. “I think we need a trip to the bathroom.”
“I’m fine,” Caitlin says, giving me a worried look. “What I really need is to get to the newspaper. Like an hour ago.”
“I’ll drive you over,” Jordan offers.
“Hold on,” says Kaiser, stepping up to Caitlin. “I wouldn’t advise you to cross the river into Mississippi just yet.”
“Why not?” she asks, cutting her eyes at me again.
“Because the Royal family has already filed complaints against both of you with the Adams County Sheriff’s Department. They’re claiming that you caused Katy Royal to take those pills, and that Penn harassed their father at St. Catherine’s Hospital.” Kaiser looks at me. “They’ll undoubtedly claim that you went to Royal’s house to persecute him for a crime he never committed.”
“And killed a Natchez cop on the way?” I ask.
“Tell them good luck with that,” Caitlin says. “Tomorrow’s Examiner will explode that little illusion.”
“I’m sure. But be aware, you’re almost certain to be sued over anything you print about Brody Royal in your newspaper. Even if they lose, that family has the money to burn.”
Caitlin waves her hand as if swatting a mosquito. “That still doesn’t explain why I shouldn’t go back to Mississippi.”
“Sheriff Billy Byrd,” I say in a flat voice, naming one of the three men behind the prosecution of my father for murder. “And Shad Johnson. Right?”
Kaiser nods. “I doubt Sheriff Byrd will miss this chance to harass you. You two ought to take a room at the motel where my field agents are staying. You’ll have a lot more peaceful time over here than you will trying to function in Natchez. Caitlin, you can call your staff over there for a briefing.”
“No way,” Caitlin says. “If Billy Byrd arrests me, I’ll slap it on the front page of the paper. Then I’ll sue him, and my father has the attorneys on retainer to do it. Does Billy really want that action?”
Kaiser doesn’t look surprised by her fire.
Caitlin looks at Jordan. “Will you still take me across the river? My staff is waiting.”
“Absolutely,” Jordan answers, without even looking at her husband.
Kaiser sighs in resignation. “I’m going to have a team follow you over, just in case. I’d suggest sneaking into the Examiner building, if you want to have a hand in tomorrow’s stories. Otherwise, you’re liable to spend all night in an interrogation room like the one you just left—only not as hospitable.”
“Should my ears be burning?” Sheriff Dennis asks, stepping into the hall with his Stetson on.
“Not at all,” Kaiser replies. “How’d it go, Sheriff? You get everything about tonight documented?”
“In Technicolor.”
Caitlin’s trying to catch my eye, but I know better than to try to slip anything past Kaiser. The behavioral science veteran is quietly studying us, absorbing nonverbal cues I can’t even begin to guess at. Kaiser looks as though he’s about to ask a question when his cell phone pings. After checking the message, he looks up with his facial muscles as tense as I’ve ever seen them.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A state police cruiser just pulled up. Our friend Alphonse Ozan is inside.”
“No,” Caitlin wh
ispers. “I can’t spend the night being questioned by that son of a bitch. I’m about to write the biggest story of my career.” She looks at Sheriff Dennis. “Can you sneak me out the back or something?”
“No way,” Kaiser interjects. “You try that, Ozan will have an APB out on you, same as Dr. Cage.”
The sound of boot heels on a tiled floor echoes from the front of the sheriff’s office.
“What’s your plan, then?” I ask Kaiser. “Are you going to back off like you did at the hospital? If so, tell me now, and we’ll take our chances running. Ozan is Forrest Knox’s man, and you know it.”
Before Kaiser can reply, a muscular man with black eyes and copper-colored skin rounds the corner in highly polished knee boots and a state police uniform. A Louisiana Redbone, Alphonse Ozan radiates a quality of eerie apartness that has nothing to do with his race, but what I perceive as his sociopathic nature. He walks up to the little hall table and taps one of the red Christmas balls on the plastic tree.
“Well, well,” he says, looking around the corridor with amusement in his eyes. “Four men burned to death out by the lake, more likely shot dead, and here we’ve got everybody in the hall having a Christmas party.”
Sheriff Dennis pulls his Stetson low over his eyes and drills Ozan with a hard stare. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
Ozan pretends to notice Dennis suddenly. “You? Nothing. Your whole damned parish is falling apart around you, and you seem powerless to stop it. I’ve come to officially inform you that, as of now, the state police have assumed control of all criminal investigations originating in this parish over the past three days. I want all the relevant files boxed up and ready to go in fifteen minutes.”
CHAPTER 8
SHERIFF WALKER DENNIS’S face has gone through about six discernible shades since Captain Ozan declared he was taking over all his investigations—starting at pink and arriving at purple. But when Sheriff Dennis speaks, his voice somehow remains under control.