Carnival of Shadows

by R.J. Ellory

  “These men with you,” Gale went on. “Perhaps they joined the Bureau for the same reason as yourself, perhaps not. That does not concern us. What concerns us is what we are beginning to call a situational dynamic. You have to understand that this is all theoretical, but it is the director’s wish that we explore all such areas of the human condition, certainly as it relates to the apprehension of criminals. To best something, you have to understand it, no? Possibly not in every case. One does not need to know the mind of a tiger to shoot it, but knowing the mind of a tiger perhaps gives you an advantage. The way it thinks, where it hunts, how it sees you as a potential threat, how it evades you, the instinctive methods it employs to escape capture. That is what we are looking into, Mr. Travis, and that is why you are here. In fact, when I mentioned the fact that some of you had come to the attention of the director personally, it was you I was talking about.”

  “The director himself wants me here?” Travis asked, the surprise in his voice all too evident.

  “Oh yes,” Gale said. “He most definitely wants all of you here. This is being overseen by myself, and even though I might not be running the day-to-day activities of this unit, the reports and findings will all come to me, and then there’s only one or two pay grades above me before those reports and findings reach the director himself. As you know, he is a stickler for administrative exactitude, and even though this is a somewhat nebulous and uncharted territory, he feels that an investment of time and resources could be very worthwhile.”

  “So, can I ask what this unit is called?” Travis asked.

  “Simply Unit X. That is our unofficial name. It merely means experimental.”

  “And do we have a mission statement, so to speak?”

  Gale smiled knowingly. “You remind me of Clyde Tolson. Same need to know. Same need to put a label on everything. Our mission statement, as you so eloquently put it, Mr. Travis, is to ask every question we can think of, to challenge everything we see, to try to find patterns, seeming coincidences that can then be substantiated, to recognize similarities in motive, intent, decision, and action. Really, we are here to try to discover if there is some way to understand the darkest and most destructive aspects of the human mind.”

  “And our findings will be studied by the director personally?”

  “Of course they will. He was the one who requested this unit be established, and he is quite prepared to fund whatever is required to obtain results.”

  “And do you know what results he is after?”

  “The truth, Mr. Travis. As always, he wants the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  And so the work began—work that was continuing even then, work that would perhaps continue for as long as there was a Bureau, as long as there were subjects to interview, crimes to investigate, patterns to follow, lines to pursue.

  And Travis had been right there at the forward edge of the thing, though every step of the way he had found himself challenging what he saw, being challenged in return.

  Looking back on those initial months, recalling the reports he wrote—knowing all the while that they would ultimately find their way to the desk of Director Hoover himself—he at once recognized the differences between himself and some of the others who were brought on to the team. Travis could divide them into three camps: the hopers, the deniers, the abstainers. The hopers were those who wanted to believe that there were connections through everything, and—as such—every case they studied, every answer they interpreted, every report they wrote simply served to highlight the almost-childlike and naive view that life possessed predictable and quantifiable reason. The deniers were the opposite and perhaps feared the possibility that there was reason and rationale behind all things. They did not want to see connections; they did not want to find out that cause resulted in effect, that every decision and action possessed an identifiable and attributable consequence. And then there was Travis, the abstainer, or—as Chief Gale had called him—the devil’s advocate. Soon it was evident why Travis was there, for the collected reports of all investigations and studies were brought to him, and his task was to determine where the hopers were hoping too much, where the deniers were denying too much, and how the middle ground might best be navigated.

  Travis spent five years in that building, working with an ever-changing cast of characters, directly and indirectly involved in some of the most significant and high-profile investigations that the Bureau had undertaken. Travis was among those who interviewed the bank robbers, the killers, the terrorists, the political subversives, the reactionaries and would-be revolutionaries. From individuals connected to the Hollow Nickel Case to the Brink’s Robbery, from Baby Face Nelson’s compadres to Gerhard Puff and George Heroux, Travis had crisscrossed the country with his notebook, his tape recorder, his unquenchable thirst for answers. He had interviewed Angelo LaMarca in the fall of 1956 after LaMarca’s conviction for the kidnapping and murder of the Weinberger baby. Had he not been there in Seneca Falls, he would have been down in Nassau, Florida, for LaMarca was due to be executed the very next day. In his stead, there would be some other member of the X Unit, asking questions, trying to establish some further understanding from LaMarca about what had happened, his motives, his rationale, the thought processes that took place, the reason he believed that the opportunist kidnapping of a baby and a request for two thousand dollars in ransom money would have solved any problems at all.

  In January of 1957, Hoover came to visit. It was Friday the eleventh, the day of Jack Graham’s execution in Colorado for the November ’55 sabotage of United Airlines Flight 629. With twenty-five sticks of dynamite, a blasting cap, a sixty-minute “off-type” timing device and a battery, Graham had blown a DC-6B out of the sky above Longmont, Colorado. He had killed forty-four people, five of them United Airlines crew members, one of them a baby. Travis had interviewed Graham at Colorado State Penitentiary just three months earlier, once again stringing together some semblance of a biography, trying to get to grips with how Graham had become the person he was. Had the man been born with a destructive impulse, an impulse that drove him relentlessly toward some preordained and unalterable conclusion, or had there been factors—familial, environmental, social, cultural, even pathological—that had contributed to such an end?

  Where were their exhaustive investigations taking them? What was Unit X learning, and how could it contribute to a more effective Bureau? This was what Hoover wanted to know, and this was what he asked Special Agent Michael Travis when they were introduced.

  Hoover’s manner was as Travis had expected. Despite his immediate proximity, the director seemed to be ever distant. Even as he shook Travis’s hand, Travis felt as if he was being surveyed, inspected, weighed. Hoover’s notorious unpredictability, his severity, his ability to make a snap decision about someone’s character that could then never be reversed, was legend, but Travis did not fear meeting the director. In truth, he welcomed it.

  Travis stood in the presence of a man he had long respected and admired and yet felt unnerved by his presence. His loyalty to Hoover was unquestioning, and yet even as Hoover spoke to him, Travis felt a degree of suspicion in Hoover’s manner. He could have been wrong, but Travis felt as if Hoover was looking for some reason not to like him, as if Hoover wanted to justify some sort of basic and inherent distrust of all men.

  “As you know,” Hoover explained in the brief conversation they shared, “I established the Bureau laboratory in 1932, all of twenty-five years ago. It has served its purpose, no doubt, but its purpose is very specific, very tangible, very functional. It does not matter how many bullets or knives or dead bodies we look at, such things do not help us to understand the mind. Hence we now have this unit, Unit X, which I believe might ultimately be called the Behavioral Science Division. You are a new viewpoint, young man, a new, fresh, vital viewpoint required to keep us right there at the cutting edge of law enforcement.”

  Tr
avis listened but did not speak. It was customary, certainly with Hoover, not to speak unless specifically invited to do so.

  “I have read some of the summaries and reports you have written, Special Agent Travis, as has Mr. Tolson, and we have been impressed with your precision and directness. However, you lack an element of imagination. You lack the degree of foresight that would make so much of what we are doing here so much more real and applicable. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir,” Travis replied.

  “What I hope to accomplish, young man, is a view into the criminal mind, you see? I want to see behind the eyes of the criminal. I want to understand why the murderer kills, why the bank robber is incapable of any constructive contribution to society, why the subversive Communist sees reason in the most unreasonable political ideology. I want to know what they are going to do before they do it.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “But do you believe it is possible, Special Agent Travis?” Hoover asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Travis lied. “I believe everything is possible.”

  “Now, is that a well meant but meaningless aphorism designed to placate me, Agent Travis, or is that what you really think?”

  Travis looked at Hoover directly. “I am a realist by nature, sir, and I do not believe that my nature will ever fundamentally change. I do not need to believe in something to make it happen, nor do I need to believe in something to have it be true. There are many things I do not understand, and there are many things I do not need to understand. I know what questions need to be asked, and I know what you are looking for. My every waking moment is dedicated to giving you as much useful and usable information as can be isolated and documented. I am here to challenge everything, and I will continue to challenge it.”

  “You would do well on Capitol Hill, young man,” Hoover said with a careful smile. “I shall have to keep an eye on you.”

  Hoover looked at Travis unerringly for one moment, and then he smiled once more, this time in a somewhat forced fashion, as if friendliness was as much a stranger to him as Communist sympathy, and then he left the room. Travis was left with the feeling that he had somehow said the wrong thing, but then wondered if everyone felt that way around J. Edgar Hoover.

  Later, Chief Gale came to see him.

  “You impressed the director,” he said, “but he feels that you need to expand your tolerances.”

  Travis frowned.

  “Too rigid,” he said. “His exact words? New ideas were never discovered by men with preconceptions. That’s what he said, Agent Travis.”

  “I cannot change who I am,” Travis replied.

  “You don’t need to change who you are,” Gale replied. “You just need to change the way you see everyone else.”

  It was that comment, that specific comment, that came to mind as Travis sat there in his car. And just as had been the case with Donald Gerritty, both the killing of his wife and his own suicide, so it now was with this current investigation. Hungary. Fekete Kutya. A killer had been killed.

  Michael looked out toward Slate’s caravan. It was now almost dark. There was a light within the caravan and a silhouette within.

  Shadow play, Travis thought, and smiled to himself. Enough with Doyle and the Mironescu woman. Enough of their games.

  Travis locked the car and started across to the caravan, feeling already that familiar tension in his temples.

  16

  Slate’s caravan was a little smaller than the Westfalia and set back beneath the trees. Travis did not see how he could have missed it when surveying the line of vehicles the day before.

  “Agent Travis.”

  Travis looked up. Mr. Slate stood on the upper step of the caravan entrance. Travis had seen him the day before when he’d spoken to the collective group, but now he was arm’s length away and appeared quite different. His features were aquiline, well defined, and his hair was cut a little longer than average. There was something altogether precise about his demeanor, as if someone had taken time to outline him with a fine black pen. Slate extended his hand then, and when Travis took it, he was aware of his own change of expression. Had he been focusing, he would have been less likely to react.

  “Always gets ’em,” Slate said, and laughed. “Throws people off completely when they shake a hand with too many fingers.”

  Travis didn’t know what to say.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” Slate said, as if he’d heard the thought. “I am completely oblivious to anything anyone does or says, believe me. Come on in. You look like a man who needs a strong cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you,” Travis said. “That would be good.”

  Slate turned and entered the caravan, ducking his head as he went back through the doorway. Travis followed him, was surprised by the seeming spaciousness within the vehicle. Slate lived alone, evidently, for the bed at the far end was no wider than a shelf, and the accoutrements and utensils that Travis could see were suited to a bachelor, not a husband.

  “We’ve not been introduced,” Travis said. “At least not formally.”

  “I know who you are,” Slate said, “and I know why you’re here. My name is Slate, and I am a cardsharp, a conjurer, a magician, and a liar.”

  “A liar?”

  “It is all lies, Agent Travis. All of this. The carnival, the people who work here, everything. We make magic, we create illusions, we deceive and misdirect, and then we fleece the innocent, unthinking public for their dimes and dollars.”

  “I think that’s perhaps a little harsh, don’t you?”

  “I am not being serious, Agent Travis. We are here to entertain. We provide distraction from the trials and tribulations of everyday life, and then we are gone.”

  Slate held out his right hand and then brought all seven of his fingers together as if snatching something from the air.

  “Here,” he said, and then opened his fingers suddenly and blew into his palm, “and then gone…”

  Out of nowhere, a white feather drifted up and then down toward the floor.

  “Very impressive, Mr. Slate.”

  Slate caught the feather before it touched down and handed it to Travis. Travis reached out to take it and then found himself touching nothing. The feather had gone, disappeared even as he was looking at it.

  “Where did it go?” Travis asked, smiling.

  “Perhaps it was never there, Agent Travis.”

  Slate paused for effect and then indicated the table. “Please sit,” he said, “and I will fulfill my promise of a cup of strong coffee.”

  Travis sat, found himself glancing around for any sign of the white feather. Slate had secreted it about his person somehow, but how he had done that, Travis could not guess. That was the skill of a sleight-of-hand artiste, however, a skill learned and then practiced again and again until it was seamless.

  Travis did not sense the same degree of challenge from Slate. First impressions were of someone quite unassuming, despite the theatrics. Slate’s body language did not suggest resistance.

  “Cream, no sugar,” Slate said, “strong enough to start a dead man’s heart.” He turned then and looked over his shoulder at Travis. “Perhaps not the best thing to say under the circumstances. I apologize.”

  “No concern,” Travis said. “We so often deal with death with a sense of humor. It’s a natural defense mechanism.”

  Slate busied himself with making coffee, and soon the smell of it filled the caravan.

  “Tell me about Saturday night,” Travis said as Slate brought cups to the table.

  “Saturday night was the busiest night we’ve seen for weeks.” Slate held Travis’s gaze for a moment and added, “Every once in a while, the stars are in our favor. The weather is good, the word of mouth spreads, there is a distinct absence of local preachers advocating temperance and sobriety, and the c
arnival is barely able to cope with the numbers that appear, and seemingly from nowhere. They just flood in by the carload and spend a small fortune.”

  “And when the body was found?”

  “Well, it was late. Perhaps eleven or thereabouts. I remember hearing the girl scream, and I wondered whether it was just someone playing a prank. Then there was all manner of confusion, and I went over there and saw John Ryan crawling beneath the platform to reach him.”

  Travis took the photograph of the dead man from his jacket pocket and put it on the table.

  “This is him, isn’t it?” Slate asked.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  Slate picked up the photo and looked at it for a good while. “Not a clue,” he said. “I can’t say that I’ve never seen him before because in this line of work you see thousands of different people in a month, but he’s not familiar to me.”

  Travis took the diagram of the tattoo and showed Slate.

  “And this?” he asked.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a diagram of a design found on the man’s body,” Travis explained, alert for any indication in Slate’s manner that he recognized it. “I wondered if you had ever seen anything like this before, this pattern, or if you had any idea why someone might have it tattooed on their body.”

  “A tattoo, you say?”

  “Yes, Mr. Slate, behind his right knee.”

  “Fascinating,” Slate said, and took the piece of paper from Travis. “The design means nothing to me,” he said, his body language indicative of nothing but his own simple curiosity, “but tattoos are often used to indicate membership of some group, some organization, you know? In the Far East it’s very common.”

  “You have been to the Far East?”

  “I have been everywhere, Agent Travis,” Slate replied. “The Far East, Arabia, Mexico, England, Italy, Spain, France, Holland, South America. I am, as they say, a well-traveled man.”

  “Might I ask how old you are, Mr. Slate?”