by Brian Haig
But clearly the choice wasn’t ours. And therefore the Boston PD had sprinkled undercover cops from their narcotics unit at intervals along the route. Narcotics cops go the extra mile to look seedy and scummy, and while I was assured they were there, I hadn’t detected any, which I regarded as a good sign. As long as it didn’t mean there’d been a minor communications problem, and they were all on the other side of the river. This sometimes happens.
Anyway, it was a spectacular day for a stroll along the river; the temperature was cool, the sky clear and sunny, a nice breeze made the water ripple and sparkle. An occasional scull raced by on the water. A biker sped past us. Then a few more bikers, followed by a middle-aged, overweight male jogger. A minute later, a pair of chubby girl joggers wearing stretch pants huffed and puffed past us. The idea was, we would watch Janet’s back, and she’d watch her front. Her cell phone was still at her ear, and she was chatting intermittently with Spinelli, appearing to all the world like a modern young executive, oblivious to the beauty around her, tied to her office, too driven and ambitious to stop and smell the roses, or whatever.
Two more joggers chugged past us, a guy and a girl. The guy was about six foot four, with long, dark hair, and in terrific shape. The girl was svelte with thick blond hair, and that bouncy run and well-toned body of the former cheerleader. They were chuckling and chatting as they sped past, the modern generation’s version of foreplay. Ah, to be young, fit, and in lust.
Spinelli turned to me and asked, “See the sweet ass on that one?”
“Huh? . . . Oh yeah. But don’t you think he was a little tall for you?”
He chuckled. “Fuck you.”
I added, “He’s a good match for Pilcher here, though.”
Pilcher also replied, “Fuck you.”
Obviously they were both pleased to have me along.
I watched Janet again. Three male joggers ran past us as the cheerleader and her big running partner passed Janet.
I studied the three men. The one in the middle, I noticed with a nasty jolt, was fairly short and very well built, with knotty shoulders and thickly muscled arms. But what really got my attention was the long, stringy ponytail bouncing off his back. He fit the precise physical description of the L. A. Killer and it struck me that Spinelli’s copycat theory could be wrong. I mean, nothing I had discovered actually ruled out the L. A. Killer. Spinelli elbowed me in the ribs, indicating he also had noticed Mr. Ponytail and the possibility here. As the three men closed the distance to her, Spinelli said to her, via his phone, “There’s three guys coming up behind you. Look around and keep your eye on the guy in the middle, the one with the ponytail.”
Janet somehow managed to maintain her poise and glance casually back over her right shoulder. Pilcher’s right hand was nearly out of his cassock pocket, ready to drill Mr. Ponytail if he made a wrong move.
When they passed right by Janet, I still kept my eye on Mr. Ponytail. So did everybody else, which was why we all failed to notice that the big guy who’d been running with the cheerleader had departed his partner, done a U-turn, and was sprinting straight toward Janet.
It was too late when I did notice. He was within feet of her. Without thinking, I yelled, “Janet!” Her head swung around to look, but the fatal mistake had been made, and she was on her own. The guy’s approach was such that Janet was between us and him, and the odds of nailing her were greater than the odds of hitting him.
Janet was about five foot eight and he towered over her. His arm drew back and I saw a silvery glint that had to be a knife. Janet dropped the cell phone, her back to us, and she appeared to freeze in her tracks, too shocked to run or respond.
Just as his arm started to arc forward, he stepped toward her, twisted and moved sideways, and I heard a pop. Then he twisted again, and there was another pop. I was still forty yards away and sprinting, but I saw him bring his arm down, lower his shoulder, and slam into Janet like a middle linebacker sacking a wimpy quarterback. She flew about six feet through the air, landed on her butt, and somersaulted over backward from the force of the blow.
He then glanced at me and without a hint of confusion or hesitation sprinted immediately toward the four-lane highway above the pathway. He was incredibly fast, and was dodging around like a crooked Ping-Pong ball. Pilcher had dropped to a knee and was firing his pistol. Spinelli was standing upright and shooting. From the best I could tell, neither hit him.
I started sprinting after him, even as I knew it was useless. The guy had legs like pistons, and he was across the highway and dodging into the side streets of Cambridge before I could even reach Janet. Pilcher was screaming something into his microphone. A pair of seedy-looking bums who’d been loitering by the next bridge began running toward us. Presumably, these were the undercover cops we’d been promised.
Janet lay perfectly still. As I approached, I could see her pale blue eyes following me, which I took as a good sign.
I asked, “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t reply at first, and I realized she was trying desperately to suck oxygen into her deflated lungs. I knelt beside her and performed a quick visual inspection. No blood. No cuts. The killer had failed to stab her. I saw a bullet hole in her coat, but she didn’t appear to be wounded. She finally struggled into a sitting position and cursed a few times. That worked for me.
I said, “He got away.”
“How?” She added, “I shot him. Twice.”
That explained the holes in her coat. She apparently had a gun in her pocket and had fired right through her coat. But I’d seen the guy’s moves and technique, and I was fairly certain she had missed him, and I was definitely certain I knew why. Then Spinelli jogged over and said, “The Boston PD is moving on him. We know where he ran, and he won’t get out of the cordon.”
I nodded, and then looked down at Janet. “Are you all right?”
“No. I’m pissed. I heard you yell and . . . and I shot him.” She shook her head, and said, “From three feet away? How could I
miss?”
Spinelli asked, “Where’d you get the gun?”
I reached out and helped her get to her feet. She brushed the leaves and dirt off her backside. She said, “I get death threats all the time, so I have a special permit. I even fly with it.”
I asked, “What kind of gun?”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew a .22 caliber. She stared at the pistol and said, “Okay, it’s a peashooter, but I’m accurate with it, and there’s no kick.”
That made sense. It also explained how even if she had hit the killer—which I strongly doubted—he could still run away. I hadn’t seen his face, but I saw his size. About six foot four and perhaps 250–260 pounds of highly buffed muscle. A guy with that bulk could take a couple of .22 slugs and, unless they penetrated a vital organ, regard them as beestings.
I asked Janet, “Did you get a good look at him?”
“Yes, I. . . too good. Long, dark hair, a thick mustache, a goatee, and green eyes. Give me a good profiler and I’ll give you a good picture.”
Pilcher was talking rapidly into his microphone, and listening to his earpiece, saying, “. . . yeah . . . nah, she’s okay.” He listened for a moment, then said, “She says she pumped two rounds into him . . . uh-huh . . . ah, shit. Okay, lemme know.”
He scowled.
Janet said, “What?”
“He just killed two of our guys five blocks from here. Came up from behind ’em, cut one guy’s throat, and butchered the other one. This is one bad motherfucker.”
I asked, “And did he get away?”
“Not yet. But he’s out of the cordon. We got an all-points on him, and cops are converging from all over the city. We’ll get this bastard.”
Spinelli was staring at the ground, and commented to no one in particular, “Not a prayer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
GOOD NEWS WAS IN SHORT SUPPLY AT THE FEDERAL BUILDING IN BOSTON.
After murdering Detective Sergeants Phillip Janson
and Horace O’Donnell, the perp had vanished. A thorough investigation by the forensics crew at the running path revealed that he wore size 12 shoes, and chose New Balance 715s for his morning jog. It further revealed no trace of blood, hair, or other bodily fluids, which was unfortunate, because a DNA trace would’ve been invaluable to tie him to one attempted and two successful murders.
A statewide manhunt was in full swing. Roadblocks were erected at various state border crossing points. Airports and bus stations had been faxed a copy of the facial composite constructed from Janet’s description and ordered to detain anybody who bore the slightest resemblance. Hospitals in a two-hundred-mile radius were staked out for a big white man with one or possibly two bullet holes.
Still I think we all knew he was too smart for any of those steps to work. Of course the police and Feds had to go through the motions—to use a football analogy, the way a football team down 77–6 late in the fourth quarter kicks a field goal. Also, this guy had now added two cops to his ledger, and the blue brotherhood looks dimly upon that.
Four hours had passed since the screwup by the river. A plane-load of puffy, red-faced FBI agents had flown up from Washington to interrogate all involved. Understand that FBI people, once they’re drawn into a case, treat it as sort of a feudal setup, where they own the castles and playgrounds, and expect everybody else to grow their potatoes and kiss their asses. They felt jilted and mistreated. Their general mood was pissed.
Given that the FBI’s public affairs office was handling the press releases regarding this case, everybody felt like it was time to play round-robin cover-your-ass.
The potentially embarrassing problem for the Boston PD was they had had the baddest motherfucker in the land in their sights. I overheard some of their conversations in the hallways and their line of bullshit was that they’d lost two brave men in the pursuit of this badass, who wasn’t really their killer in the first place but a
D. C. problem dropped on their doorstep. In short, they’d donated to charity—don’t come knocking on their door. But of course, this was Boston, and in the event that that bullshit wasn’t taken seriously, a few oily fixers from City Hall had showed up to work the hallways and discreetly remind the FBI that the two very influential senators from Massachusetts sat on both the Appropriations and Judiciary Committees; and if the FBI wanted their next budget request to pass, or their next fuckup to get generous treatment, this might be a prudent moment to sort of shuffle this thing under a rug. And it sure would be in the spirit of good fellowship to add a few adulatory words about the Boston PD in their press releases. Truly, you have to marvel at the way these things work.
Spinelli’s line of defense was that I had contacted him and he’d taken every reasonable step and precaution to get this guy, including turning it over to the local authorities. That had the value of being true.
And Janet? Well, every story, especially a tragedy, needs a sexy, beautiful heroine, and she was made for the role, la femme fatale, the Beantown chick who kicked ass, the bereaved victim’s sister who had risked body and soul to terminate a public menace. And then . . . well, then she had had the fortitude to stand in the dark shadow of the salivating monster and pour lead at his putrid guts. Books and movie to follow.
So, everybody had a good defense, alibi, or claim to glory.
Right . . . not quite everybody.
What every good government tale requires is a token scapegoat, and once everybody had spun their sides of the tale, all the black arrows sort of pointed back at the guy who lacked either beauty or an institution to cover his butt. I began to figure this out as more and more sour-faced Fibbies trickled into my interrogation room. When it hit twenty, it became standing room only, and a guy was posted at the door to issue tickets and bathroom passes. George Meany, incidentally, was front and center, and in off moments, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I caught him smirking.
My interrogator, Special Agent Arnold, was at that moment saying to me, “. . . and because you had everybody jump the gun, we’ve lost our only chance to apprehend the killer, Drummond. This was amateur hour. God knows how far you set us back . . .” Blah blah blah.
This particular lecture wasn’t improving the third time around, but I was listening intently and hanging my head in shame. Also, I think I must have been unconsciously drumming my hands on the table to the beat to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” and carrying it really well. This was brought to my attention when he suddenly reached out and pinned both my hands to the table.
“Do I need to slap your ass in manacles?” he inquired.
“Does your wife enjoy that?”
“You leave my wife out of—”
“She liked it when I did her.” I smiled. He didn’t smile back.
Anyway, interrogators are never supposed to lose control of the situation, and he obviously had a large crowd, so after a few huffy breaths, he said, “Major, would you explain again, you know. . . how you decided the killer had left D. C. and come here?”
For the fourth time, I replied, “When I saw the names of two of the victims in Lisa Morrow’s e-mail, the implication struck me as clear. Lisa, Cuthburt, and Carrol were friends or acquaintances.”
“This would be J. and A. , right? Isn’t that what you claimed?”
“No. That’s what I stated for a fact.” I added, “I then tried to get hold of Miss Morrow, was notified about the fire, and put two and two together.”
“You, uh . . . —Gee, I hope I’m not being repetitive here, but, boy, that’s speculative. Certainly, there’s a few things you’re not telling us.” He leaned back in his chair and straightened his lapels. “What are those things?”
“I had a hunch.”
“Did the killer call you? Leave a note? Somehow make contact?”
Of course, the FBI, filled as it is with lawyers and accountants, and backed up by the world’s best scientific labs, considers the whole notion of hunches and instincts silly. And I could hear a few murmurs from the gallery. Also a few derisory snickers. I was getting really annoyed.
He bent forward. “This Sherlock Holmes bullshit isn’t selling, Drummond. We’re the good guys here. Tell us.”
“Okay, okay . . . you’re right.”
“I am?”
“Wow. . . I can’t fool you guys, can I?”
“I’m glad you’re coming around.”
“The truth is . . .” He leaned toward me. “When I was with your wife, she said, well . . . she said you’ve got a tiny dick.”
He howled and slapped the table. I did hear a few distinct chuckles from the boys in the third bleacher, however. Trust me, it’s not easy when you’re playing to somebody else’s home crowd.
I said, “You’re pissed. I didn’t call you. I’m sorry, I lost my head.”
“Why didn’t you call us?”
“Army lawyers call CID.”
“Bullshit. Special Agent Meany informed us that he gave you his business card.” He added nastily, “Had you called us, this entire disaster would have been avoided. Think about that, wiseass.”
Okay, I thought about it. The two dead Boston PD detectives and the escaped felon were on my shoulders because I called the wrong kind of cop? Did I need this nonsense?
In truth, two hours of this bullshit had convinced me that had I gone to the Fibbies instead of Spinelli, Janet Morrow would be a chalk outline beside the Charles River. They wouldn’t have believed a word. Despite my arguments, and the corroborating physical descriptions of four witnesses, they continued to insist this guy was the L. A. Killer.
However I had surmised he would turn up in Boston, they were convinced I had reached the right conclusion from completely idiotic assumptions. Go a step further, and Spinelli and my theory about this guy being a copycat contradicted the very public assurances the FBI had given John Q. Public. Obviously, this was inconvenient, and nobody in that room, and Mr. Meany particularly, wanted egg on their face by admitting they fingered the wrong guy. But also, in a big bureaucracy like theirs
, everything has to be run up the flagpole before anybody knows what they think.
Mysteriously, another gray suit slipped into the room, walked over to the interrogator, whispered something in his ear, and then stepped back. A lot of these guys had those earphone thingees, and suddenly a lot of hands were adjusting their volume or getting them better seated in their ears. It looked like a Twenty Stooges skit.
Special Agent Arnold stood and straightened his suit. He informed me, “This interrogation is over. You plan to return to D. C. , correct?”
I indicated I did.
“We know how to reach you. We’ll pick this up there at a later time.”
And on that ominous note, bodies began racing for the door. What the . . . ? I mean, one moment I’m the Man of the Hour, ticket scalpers are in the hallway making a fortune off me, and suddenly I’m in an empty room. I finally got up and walked out.
Janet and Danny Spinelli were waiting in the hallway, sipping from paper coffee cups and looking mildly anxious.
Janet pushed off the wall and said to me, “You were in there almost two hours. Is anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No, it just took a while for them to, you know, tell me how much they admired the brilliant way this was conceived and conducted, and how swell it all turned out for everybody.”
She rubbed her temples and groaned. “I’m sorry. I know you were right.” She then said, “They . . . well, they found another body.”
“Whose? Where?”