Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  “During prohibition, the profit was in bootlegging. But alcohol isn’t much of an opportunity now. Gambling and prostitution are still big bucks, so organized crime’s still there. There’s big money in professional sports, so they’ve managed to fix some fights, have an occasional game thrown, but it’s rare because sports are too much in the public eye. Drugs, now that’s been a real windfall. Easily processed, easily transported, tremendous value in small packages. But what you have to understand about organized crime is, these guys are always looking for something new, and something clean. They prefer to stay away from the illegal stuff. Some of them are community leaders, family men, church-goers. They just want the money and the power. They’d rather be associated with respectable stuff. These guys don’t wear pinstriped suits and call each other Bugsy and Babyface. They wear business suits and call each other Bob and Jim and work out next to each other at the health club.”

  Jake looked at Sutter, wanting to challenge him, but realizing this agent knew a great deal more than he did in this area. It made him feel good to know he was being trusted with important information, that he was being “brought in” to an FBI investigation. Still, he wasn’t going to buy into it that easily.

  “So, you’re saying these guys appear respectable enough that people can get involved without realizing who they are?”

  “Exactly. It all goes back to Meyer Lansky. Know the name?”

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “Lansky was a businessman. He proposed a working agreement where territories were laid out so the gangs could stop hassling each other and there’d be more profits for everyone. That became the Syndicate. The Syndicate realized prostitution and gambling and bootlegging and other criminal activities were too confining and dangerous. So it moved into the labor movement. Then into food products, taverns and bars, restaurants, securities, real estate, vending machines, garment manufacturing, produce, garbage disposal, securities, the Waterfront, you name it. They’re always looking for something new where they can flex their muscles. Something where there’s big money.”

  Sutter checked out Jake’s expression. The cockiness had melted. He was listening intently.

  “So where you gonna go today that’s new, Jake? Where’s the big money? Big salaries, big facilities, big grants? Unlimited future, yet change and uncertainty that spells opportunity?”

  Jake gave a questioning look and shrugged. Agent Sutter was in the driver’s seat and clearly knew where he was going. Jake didn’t.

  “Medicine. Health care. Look at today’s upper class. I don’t just mean the really wealthy, I mean the country club set, the people who live in the three-thousand-square-foot houses in the suburbs and drive the BMWs and give their kids private tennis lessons. What do they have to worry about? Primarily, just their health, right? How do they spend their discretionary income? Health foods and vitamins and exercise equipment and health club memberships. And when they get sick, they’ll pay anything to get the best medical care. Everybody’s concerned about their health, right? I mean, your health is all you’ve got. That’s what opened the door to pharmaceuticals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Specialized drugs are big money. The latest medical technology is always big money. So, naturally, unscrupulous people are getting in on the edges, buying some research, manipulating some results, pumping up certain companies, deflating others. But the inroads in medicine didn’t used to be as strong as they were in other legit enterprises. There’s been something about the medical community that didn’t make it as vulnerable as the waterfront and trucking. It’s had kind of a moral wall protecting it. Sacred oaths to protect life and all that. And because health care’s been relatively uncorrupted in the past, it just leaves more room for the flood-tide.”

  “Flood-tide?”

  “The wrong kind of people moving in. Making some tempting offers. That’s where your friend comes in. He met with some people, outwardly respectable people, but with known links to the bad guys. We’ve been tailing them for months, seeing who they spent their time with. And guess what? One of them made at least three contacts with your friend.”

  Jake started to say, “That doesn’t prove anything,” but instead asked, “What did they talk about?” He felt he’d betrayed Doc by his choice of responses.

  “We don’t know yet. We were hoping you might be able to tell us.”

  Sutter studied Jake’s face like a palm reader examining a palm. “First, we need to know if you’ve ever seen or heard anything that substantiates what I’ve just told you.”

  “That’s easy. It’s all brand new to me. I don’t think I believe it, but I’ve certainly never seen anything that makes me think it’s true.”

  Even as he said it, Jake realized he was lying. He was believing a lot of this, and he had been aware of what seemed like a large windfall of money Doc had been spending the past year. He’d wondered about it several times. Doc seemed under more pressure at work, often complaining about unfair medical regulations and health care revisions and how they were “trying to cut doctors off at the knees.”

  “So there’s nothing you’ve come across related to the car wreck that points the finger to organized crime?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I just have to be clear on this. Second, we know you’re working on this case too, and no one knew your friend as well as you. We’d like you to tell us what you know, or at least what you suspect.”

  Here it was, finally. The FBI had a lot of puzzle pieces, but they just weren’t fitting together. They needed him.

  “If you want anything official on the investigation, you’ll have to go to Detective Chandler.”

  “I’ve already explained why we can’t do that.” Sutter looked exasperated. “Look, twice in the last year the FBI has talked with ranking police personnel in this city, and twice vital information has leaked to organized crime. There’s either a collaborator or somebody with an awful big mouth. We just can’t take the chance of them even knowing we’re on their tail. The director himself called that shot. No contact with the police. So, what can you tell me?”

  “Well, maybe you can tell me what you know I know, so I don’t bore you.”

  “We know about the yellow card. We know about the car, the tie-rods. We know a lot more, but please, bore us, will you? We want you to bore us.”

  Jake hesitated, but figured they’d been honest with him and it couldn’t hurt to help them. This wasn’t like giving a scoop to another newspaper. He wanted Doc and Finney’s killer nailed, and these might be the pros to help nail them.

  “Well, I can tell you there’s a lot of other people who could have had motives. A right-wing fanatic, opposed to Doc because he’s done abortions or promoted the abortion pill.”

  Even as he said it he thought of “pharmaceuticals” and noted Sutter’s slightly raised eyebrow.

  “It could be somebody else with a personal vendetta against him. You know, someone unhappy with a surgery he did on them.”

  “They’d have to be awfully unhappy. I mean you don’t kill somebody because your stitches show.” Now Sutter was skeptical. “More likely because you’ve crossed them or threatened to squawk.”

  “It’s even possible someone was going after my other friend, Finney, or me.”

  “We’ve thought of that. Our surveillance on you was originally for information, but we’ve told our agents to give you protection too. Other people are tailing you, we know that. But if they wanted you dead, they’ve had ample opportunity. We give it a 95 percent chance that Dr. Lowell was the sole target. The kingpins probably ordered a hit by an out-of-town trigger man who’s long gone, although I’ve got to admit using a hacksaw isn’t their style. Who knows? Anyway, you’re probably not in danger. But we’d hate to be proven wrong by a bullet in your head.”

  “Yeah, I’m not real excited about that either.”

  “Who else have you talked to? What else have you found out?”

  The photos and the surveillance
told him they knew exactly where he’d been, so he figured he’d better tell them the general stuff. He told them about talking to Sue and Mary Ann. That he’d be talking to some of the abortion protesters next week. He even told them about the possibility of betrayed husbands or women scorned. He decided it was a little late to be protecting Doc’s reputation.

  After another forty minutes of probing and note taking, Sutter put down his pen.

  “Jake, we appreciate your honesty. I’d like to ask your ongoing cooperation. We’re going to be contacting you periodically. We’ll update you on our investigation, tell you everything we’re authorized to. In return, we’d like you to update us on what you know. You could come across exactly what we need to put these guys away.”

  “So, do I just drop by to chat? Or do I wave a red hanky to your surveillance guys?”

  Sutter smiled. “It’s essential you don’t come by here, or you could blow the investigation. You didn’t ask about the other people tailing you.”

  “I was working up to it.”

  “Our surveillance agents, Mayhew’s been one of them, have noticed some of the same bystanders happen to show up around you in different parts of town. Not a coincidence. Today they weren’t around, I don’t know why, so we made our move. They didn’t tail us here. We have ways of knowing. Bottom line, I’m not even going to give you our phone number. It’s just too risky. We’ll call you regularly, at your office usually. Until then, be careful. And, please, remember your agreement. We wouldn’t want to prosecute you, but we would if you forced our hand.”

  Mayhew nodded, as if doing so put real weight behind Sutter’s threat.

  “Remember, we’re on the same team, Jake. We want to get the guys that took out your friends. We want them as bad as you do.”

  Somehow Jake doubted that, but he was sure Sutter meant it anyway.

  “Okay. Am I free to go?”

  “Of course. We’ll escort you out.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was 2:45 Monday afternoon, three hours after Jake finished his column. He dreaded what awaited him in fifteen minutes. But first he had to return a call to Ollie.

  “Detective Chandler would like you to hold a minute, Mr. Woods.” It was the familiar voice of the detective bureau receptionist.

  “Sure.”

  “Actually, his exact words were, “Tell him to hold on to his shorts, I’m coming.”’ Jake smiled. He was enough of a regular now she felt free to actually quote Ollie.

  No stranger to holding, Jake used the time to contemplate his bizarre weekend. Despite his initial skepticism, there was no doubting Sutter and Mayhew were FBI. And as wild as the organized crime scenario sounded at first, the more Sutter explained it, the more it had the ring of truth. From his years as an investigative reporter, Jake had developed a gut instinct about what was true and what wasn’t. The FBI’s hypothesis was disturbing but plausible.

  Meanwhile he had other, more ordinary suspects to pursue. Now he also had the added dimension of looking over his shoulder, realizing at any time he could be followed not only by FBI agents, his self-appointed guardian angels, but others, potentially ruthless people fully capable of playing hard ball if they didn’t like his nosing around. The game took on a new complexion. The stakes had been raised.

  “Chandler here.”

  “Your favorite reporter checking in for duty.”

  “Try again. That doesn’t carry much weight. Sort of like favorite tax collector.”

  “Understood. What’s up?”

  “I’m snowed under, that’s what’s up. Crime takes no holiday. I remember when murders used to be rare in this city. I’m having a hard time recalling which leads go with which investigation. Let’s see, you’re on the strangled high-class hooker case, right?”

  “Funny, Ollie.”

  “Okay, I got the file. Hang on.”

  Jake noticed Ollie’s voice, usually loud despite its thinness, reduce almost to a whisper. Obviously he didn’t want to advertise he was sharing information with anyone outside the department. Jake realized again Ollie was taking a risk trusting him, which made him feel even worse about holding back on the FBI’s involvement. But what choice did he have?

  “More news from the boys in crime lab. They’ve really earned their bagels on this one. You know that little piece of fabric they found under the car? Well, they identified the fabric type—80 percent cotton, 20 percent polyester. They say it’s a basic sweatshirt type material, which narrows it down to a few million items. But they ran a chemical analysis and identified the dye lot.”

  Ollie paused as if Jake should immediately respond.

  “Which means…?”

  Ollie sighed, as a master with a slow pupil.

  “Which means, every manufacturer keeps detailed records on clothing it produces, including dye lot information and what retail stores it sells the clothing to. That’s no big help if it’s a line of clothing sold to lots of different stores everywhere, or if it’s sold to one national chain, say K-Mart, and they ship it all over the place. All you know then is your killer could have bought his clothes in Orlando, Florida or Gresham, Oregon or three hundred other cities in between. But our strand of fabric was much more isolated. This particular dye lot was processed by a small manufacturer and all sent to Regent’s.”

  “Regent’s? That’s just a local chain, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly. Only five stores, every one within twenty miles of where we sit.”

  “So, what does that prove?”

  “It doesn’t prove anything. But it strongly suggests whoever did it is local. Shops locally, lives locally. Bought his blue sweat shirt or sweat pants at Regent’s.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t sound too excited. Well, granted, it doesn’t tell us a lot, but it’s one more piece in the puzzle. If we come up with suspects we can watch them, study their shopping habits, maybe even find our blue sweats with a nice little hole, maybe an oil stain.” Jake could almost hear Ollie salivate. “But we’ve got a long way to go here. Got anything more for me, Jake?”

  “Nope, sorry. Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting. I’ll call you if I come up with anything. And thanks for telling me this stuff. I really appreciate it.”

  Jake hung up under a load of guilt. He wanted to discuss everything with Ollie. But he’d vowed not to. He’d have to sift all this out for himself. How did Ollie’s new evidence jibe with the FBI’s theory of an out-of-town hit man hired by organized crime? Besides, he still couldn’t picture a hit man with a hack saw. On the other hand, maybe that was the whole point—if a head shot was an obvious professional murder, why not stage an apparent accident which, even if discovered, would look like the job of an amateur? Jake could make a case for every possibility, but nothing seemed right. His head spun like one of those carnival squirrel cages he and Doc and Finney used to cram into every summer at the Benton County Fair.

  Normally he’d be column brainstorming, sneaking out early to play some golf, or taking an extra long walk in the city this clear crisp afternoon. Instead, he found himself walking toward a Trib conference room, to one of his least favorite activities, made all the more odious by this rare November sunshine flooding into the Trib from every outside window. Jake shook his head in resignation. A committee meeting.

  Managing editor Jess Foley presided at the long rectangular table in the Trib’s biggest editorial conference room. Every day he met with all the Trib’s department heads, getting fifteen to twenty of their nominations for what deserved to make A-1. Exactly one would get the top billing, the main headline, and four or five others would get a less prominent role on page one, expanding on later pages. The prototype diplomat, Jess showed the same respect for the Travel and Living and Sports departments as he did for Metro, Foreign, Politics, and Business. Jess wasn’t a curmudgeon like Winston, but shared the same dedication to the newspaper, and a much larger picture of how the components worked together. If the Tribune was a symphony orchestra, Jess Foley was the
conductor. He also chaired a few key committees, including the one now assembled.

  “Okay, first let’s welcome our newest member. Everybody knows Jake, right? We thought it was about time we got a general columnist on the committee. We need opinions here, and columnists have opinions to spare. Welcome, Jake.”

  Jake nodded. Most of the eight others smiled, especially Clarence, his favorite sports columnist and occasional partner in pranks. Jake had known for a month he’d be joining this committee, but with every spare moment off the job going to the investigation he didn’t need anything new right now. Nonetheless, here he sat on the “Multicultural Concerns Committee,” with only a vague understanding of what it did.

  “Whenever we add a new member, it’s a good time to remind ourselves what we’re about.” Jess sounded like a college professor working with a group of masters students.

  “Two years ago we were getting a lot of feedback from groups that felt slighted and misrepresented. That’s when we started diversity training for editors, then reporters. At first this was voluntary, as you recall, but we found those who didn’t choose to attend needed it most. We needed some sort of structure to assure diversity was being respected. Hence, this committee. As you know, some other papers are doing the same, and it seems to be working well.”

  “So,” Jess eyeballed Jake now, “we try to stay on top of what’s coming down the pike in our different departments, things that could affect the image of minority groups. Also, we evaluate what’s already in print and give input to editors and reporters when necessary. We’re a diverse group ourselves, and I think we’ve done well to arrive at as much consensus as we have, all things considered.”

  Jess looked down now, and from a few facial expressions Jake caught his first clues this committee was not a big happy family. Clarence in particular seemed uncomfortable.

  “Anyway Jake, you’ll get a feel for what we do here. Jump in any time. Okay, Peter, let’s start with a report on the New York conference.”

  Peter Sallont, a promising young reporter assigned to politics, struck Jake as someone making a mark at the Trib. Peter made no bones about his sexual orientation, right down to his bumper sticker, “Gay and Proud of It.” He’d written a few pieces on the homosexual rights issue, including the one Sue complained about. Jake wasn’t about to tell Sue Peter was gay. She’d never understand.