Chapter 2
There was a knock on the door. I went and let the police in.
Two cops: one young and black, the other middle-aged and white. They recognized me, and they couldn't disguise their surprise—or their anxiety. Oh, shit, I could feel them thinking, this is gonna be a messy one. And suddenly I was performing. It was as if the politician in me had simply been waiting for an audience to arrive for him to take over once again. He couldn't be denied; he was a force of nature. Here was the audience, and now every gesture, every word counted.
I took charge. "The victim is in the kitchen, Officers. Her name is Amanda Taylor. She's a reporter for Hub magazine. I came here a few minutes ago to be interviewed. I found the place like this." I waved at the chaos in the living room.
They looked at the chaos, then at each other. The older officer motioned to the younger one, who headed for the kitchen. Then the older one took out a notebook and started jotting things down. He had black, oily hair with graying sideburns, unstylishly long. He was left-handed. His stomach bulged out over his belt. "Did you touch anything, sir?" he asked.
"No—well, yes. I closed her eyes... and felt for a pulse. And I kind of searched through the apartment—in case, you know, the murderer was still here. And of course, I used the phone to call nine-one-one."
The lies had begun. They felt easy, effortless. Politicians get so used to lying sometimes that they start mistaking it for the truth.
The cop nodded and wrote some more. He didn't know how to act. He was just waiting for the homicide people to show up and let him off the hook. The young black policeman returned from the kitchen. "She's dead," he said. "Look like she was stabbed. A few hours ago maybe."
This obviously made the older cop feel better. Here I was being cooperative. I was still wearing a wet raincoat; my wet umbrella was lying beside the door. At least he didn't have to worry about arresting me. The black officer glanced at me. I'm not a big favorite with blacks. Was he disappointed that I didn't appear to be a suspect? Impossible to tell.
We heard the elevator stop, then footsteps along the corridor and a knock on the door. "Mackey," a voice said.
The cops relaxed. It was Mackey's problem now. I knew Mackey; I didn't know if that was good or bad. The older cop opened the door.
Mackey entered and saw me. "Hi, Jim," he said, as if we were passing on the street.
"Hi, Mack."
He glanced quickly around. "So, uh, what the fuck is going on?" he asked of no one in particular.
* * *
So the law enforcement machinery rumbled into motion. People showed up: EMTs, in case Amanda was alive; a medical examiner, to determine how and when she died; assorted technicians, to record everything and sift for evidence; and an assistant DA, to make sure the investigation went by the book. The two cops went down to handle the crowd gathering outside. Mackey started taking his own notes. Amanda became a case; her death became a job.
I find this comforting in the abstract. The quest for justice shouldn't be the stuff of newspaper crusades and popular uprisings. It should be institutionalized; it should belong to bureaucrats. Justice should happen because that's the way things work, like sending out tax bills or holding elections. Someone's paycheck should depend on it. That, really, is what civilization is all about.
Well.
Mackey is a thin Irishman with a pointed nose and a pointed chin and a few strands of hair that stick like thin, limp spaghetti to an ever-growing bald spot. He was wearing a rumpled green raincoat, an old brown suit, and rubbers over his wing tips. If he was surprised to see me at the scene of a homicide, he didn't show it. Of course, he wouldn't have shown any surprise if he had come across his mother naked in a schoolyard with an assault rifle.
When things were under control, he turned his notebook to me. "Wanna start from the beginning, Jim?" he said.
"She was writing a book about me, Mack," I responded. Too quickly? "I've come here a few times to be interviewed. Tonight I gave a speech in Newton and then drove over. I found the body and called the police. And that's it."
Mackey wrote everything down. "Good-lookin' woman, Jim," he said.
I nodded my agreement. "Exactly what my wife said when she introduced us."
Mackey smiled. "How is Liz?"
"Couldn't be better. She went back to school, you know. Getting her doctorate."
"I read about that. The brains in the family."
"Our kid's the one with brains, Mack. We're just trying to keep pace."
Mackey smiled again. He liked kids. He had about a dozen of them.
Roger showed up at that point, wet and breathless; he had put on a lot of weight in the couple of years since his wife died. He was wearing one of those floppy canvas rain hats that can make even a legal scholar look like a dim-witted country club drunk. I hoped he hadn't been drinking. He looked nervous. "Ball game traffic," he explained. "They lost. Hi, Mack."
Mackey nodded to Roger. "Lemme get Mr. Tobin," he said, "and we can take care of the formalities." The way he said "Mr. Tobin" told us exactly what he thought of the assistant DA. He went into the next room.
Roger looked at me. "Harold's on his way," he said.
"Great."
"Are there going to be any problems here, Jim?"
I thought about it. "Not right now," I said truthfully.
Roger nodded. It was obvious that this was going to be bad for us, even under the most innocent of interpretations. I wasn't going to tell him that those innocent interpretations would be far from the truth. That made me a typical client, of course—lying from the moment he starts talking to his lawyer. "We'll handle it, Jim," he said. But he still looked nervous.
Mackey came back with the assistant DA. "Jerry Tobin, meet Jim O'Connor and Roger Simmons."
Tobin shook our hands firmly. "Shall we get started, gentlemen?" he said. It didn't come out sounding quite as matter-of-fact and in control as he undoubtedly hoped it would. He looked about eighteen years old, even with the pin-striped suit and horn-rimmed glasses that were supposed to make him appear mature and distinguished. I knew the type. Not quite as smart as good old Dad, who had probably pushed him through BC and Suffolk Law through sheer force of will. Good old Dad probably knew Francis Cavanaugh from the Knights of Columbus or Kiwanis, probably contributed to his campaigns every four years (even though Francis never had any opponents). And when little Jerry needed a job after eking out his J.D., Dad knew whom to call. And poor Jerry just had the bad luck to be on duty for this.
Not that Jerry was a loser. No matter how much we dislike each other, I have to admit that Cavanaugh isn't stupid, and he knows better than to hire losers. Lots of these green Suffolk Law grads become wily, tenacious prosecutors. But clearly young Tobin was in over his head when it came to dealing with this particular situation. So why was he going to handle this crucial first interview with me? Why not keep me on ice until the boss could show up?
I figured I knew. Surely Tobin was bright enough to call Cavanaugh as soon as he took one look at me. And the Monsignor (as everyone refers to him behind his back) would understand how delicate the situation was. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, but he couldn't afford to overplay it. I was in enough trouble. No sense in giving me the sympathy vote by having it look as if his office was out to get me. So let Jerry handle things for now, but keep him on a short leash. And I imagined I could hear the sound of phones ringing all over the state as the Monsignor spread the news, as the people who live and breathe politics suddenly found new meaning in their existence.
The four of us found some privacy in the dim stairwell. Mackey stationed a cop at the door to keep people from barging in. Roger sat on the stairs heading up to the next floor; the rest of us remained standing. I went over my story once again.
"But why would you come to her apartment to be interviewed?" Mackey asked, reasonably enough, when I had finished. "Why wouldn't she go to your house or your office or campaign headquarters—someplace more convenient for you?"
"Well, as I said, I happened to be in the neighborhood tonight, so this was convenient for me."
"But in general, Jim. You said you've been here a few times."
"I didn't say I came here exclusively, Mack. Sometimes it made sense for me to come here, so I did."
"Why is this an issue?" Roger interrupted.
"Well, we're gonna have to piece together this woman's life, aren't we? And Jim happens to be standing here, so I figure, let's start with him."
"But why do you have to piece together her life?" Roger persisted. "Her apartment's a mess. It looks to me like someone broke into the place and robbed her."
Mackey shrugged. "Maybe. Her wallet's empty. But the ME gives me a time of death of four-thirty, five o'clock. You generally don't have break-ins in the late afternoon. Too many people around."
Four-thirty, five. No, that was not a good time of death. Oh, Lord.
"And then there's the stuff on the computer," Mackey added.
"What stuff?" Roger asked.
Mackey told him.
"That's weird," Roger said. "But why doesn't it also suggest a robbery? Some crazy breaks in, kills her, sees the computer on, and decides to leave a message."
"Maybe," Mackey said again. "But your average crazy doesn't stick around to leave messages."
"Well, there's the door, Mack," I said. "It looked to me like someone attacked the lock."
"Looked to me like someone did a bad job of making it appear that the lock had been forced. Whacked at it with a hammer or something—didn't do any real damage. Probably got scared by the noise. Was the door locked when you got here, Jim?"
I could have lied, but I didn't have time to think through the consequences. Under the circumstances I figured it was better to tell as much of the truth as I could. "Yes," I said.
"How'd you get in?"
"I have a key."
I thought I noticed Tobin twitch. The assistant DA knew what would make his boss happy. My opinion of him went up. "How come you have a key?" he demanded.
Mackey sighed.
"Because I asked for it," I said. "Once she got delayed coming to the interview, so there was nothing for me to do but leave. Waste of my time. I got pretty angry about that. I said, 'If we're going to meet here, at least give me a key, let me go in and get some work done if you're late.' So she did."
Not bad, I thought, for spur of the moment. But the key was obviously a problem; just one of many. "Didn't you think it might look bad," Tobin persisted, "meeting a single woman alone in her apartment?"
"Oh, come on," Roger said. I glared self-righteously at Tobin. Mackey laid a hand on my arm. Tobin looked away.
"Anyone see you coming in?" Mackey asked.
"No. I mean, out on Comm. Ave., maybe. There was a woman walking her dog. But not in the building, not that I know of."
"Any reason not to believe him, Mack?" Roger asked.
"Heck, I've got a hundred witnesses who saw me in Newton half an hour before I got here," I pointed out. "Of course, they're all Republicans."
Everyone laughed except Tobin.
"Do you know if this woman had any enemies?" Mackey asked. "Hub magazine—they can get pretty nasty."
"True, but she wasn't one of the nasty ones. We wouldn't have agreed to the biography if we thought she was out to savage me. She did mainly human-interest-type stuff—you know, quadriplegic with AIDS volunteering at a homeless shelter, that sort of thing."
"So you don't think she had enemies."
I shrugged. "Look, Mack, anyone in the public eye can have enemies. You know that. She writes something unflattering about the quadriplegic's dog, and he rams her with his wheelchair. But no one told me about any enemies."
"Were you two close, Jim?"
Jerry Tobin perked up.
"Not especially," I said. "I mean, we were friendly—once again, I wouldn't have gone ahead with this if I didn't feel there was some rapport. But that was it. I don't need that kind of trouble, Mack."
I stared at Mackey. He stared back. Two old pros. He scribbled some notes. "Anything else you can think of might help us, Jim?"
Plenty. But nothing I was going to share with Mackey or Tobin. Or Roger. "Sorry, Mack. I really don't know anything."
Roger stood up. "Okay, gentlemen?"
Mackey shrugged. "Sure."
"We may, of course, need to question you further at a later time," Jerry Tobin said.
"Oh, I'm confident there'll be scenes on the news of me heading into the Monsignor's office to be grilled by his crack staff," I said. "These things have a way of happening."
Tobin's face turned crimson, but he didn't respond.
"So long, Mack," I said. "Give my love to Tricia." If I had been a better politician, I would have remembered the names of his kids, too.
"See you, Jim. Same to Liz."
Mackey and the assistant DA went back to Amanda's apartment. Roger and I headed downstairs. "You want to face 'em," he asked, "or should I handle it?"
"No, I'll have to do it. This looks bad enough without me hiding behind a lawyer." I glanced at my watch, "Perfect for the eleven o'clock news. You think any TV stations'll be out there?"
Roger laughed. "Nah, this sort of thing wouldn't interest them. They're all at Logan Airport, probably, doing live reports about the fog. I bet Harold'll be out there somewhere, though."
Harold. I didn't feel like dealing with Harold now. "Won't that be a thrill," I muttered.
Roger looked at me. "Are you okay, Jim?"
"I'm okay," I said. "Considering."
"It must've been quite a shock."
We reached the lobby. Roger was out of breath; he couldn't even walk downstairs? The smell of disinfectant hit me once again. White shirt, black floor. Eyes staring at the ceiling. Quite a shock. "Roger, would you do me a favor?" I said.
"Sure thing, Jim. What?"
"Take your hat off."
Roger took his hat off. We walked through the lobby, past the cop at the door, and outside.
It wasn't raining anymore. The TV lights made everything as bright as morning in the tropics. The yellow police lines out on the sidewalk gave us a little breathing room, but eventually we had to cross them and enter the jungle beyond. And when we did, the microphones jabbed at us, the cameras tracked us, the questions roared in our ears. I stopped and waited in the middle of the frenzy. I felt calm; I could handle this sort of thing. Eventually the roar subsided. "I'd like to make a statement," I said.
Silence, except for the clicking and whirring of cameras, the jockeying for position. "This evening I went to the apartment of Ms. Amanda Taylor," I said. "Ms. Taylor was a highly regarded reporter for Hub magazine. She was conducting a series of interviews with me for a book she was writing. When I arrived, I discovered her body. She had been murdered, and her apartment had been ransacked. Of course, I called the police immediately, and I have just finished talking with them. This is a terrible tragedy. Ms. Taylor was a fine writer and a good human being, and my heart goes out to her family and friends. I intend to assist the police in any way I can to bring the perpetrator of this brutal, senseless crime to justice."
The questions exploded at me as soon as I finished. I picked out one that asked how Amanda had died. "I know you'll understand that it's inappropriate for me to speculate about this crime," I responded, "or to reveal any details that might jeopardize the police's investigation. I'm sure the police and the district attorney's office will provide you with all the appropriate information."
"Could you tell us more about your relationship with the victim?" someone shouted.
Might as well get it over with, I figured. "Well, my staff has received several requests over the past year or so from people who wanted our cooperation in writing books about me. My wife recommended Ms. Taylor. As you may know, Liz is a graduate student at Cabot College, and she became acquainted with Ms. Taylor while she was writing an article about the college for Hub. We were all impressed by Ms. Taylor's enthusiasm and objectivity,
so we gave her the go-ahead. I guess you could say the result was to have been a semiauthorized biography. She had conducted several interviews with me as part of her research, and I was supposed to talk with her again tonight."
More questions. I could make out one of Mackey's among them: Why were the interviews conducted in her apartment? I didn't want to handle that one now; I was running out of steam, and I was afraid I would make a mistake. I raised a hand. "As you can well imagine, this had been a deeply distressing experience for me. I'll be happy to answer more questions at a later date, but that's all for now."
The questions didn't stop, but I started walking with Roger at my side, and the seas parted for us, more or less. And there was Harold, at the edge of the crowd, motioning to us. I headed for him. As usual, he was wearing a tweed jacket, a starched white shirt, and a bow tie. He was carrying an expensive umbrella that looked like a walking stick. A dandy out for an evening stroll. "I'm double-parked down the block," he said.
"Great," I replied. "Just drive me to my car."
"All right. We're meeting at my place if you can make it, Roger."
Roger nodded. "Nice work back there, Jim."
I shrugged and followed Harold. Roger put his hat back on and went off to his own car. A meeting was the last thing I wanted, but there was no way to avoid it. We had to figure out what to do.
Harold was silent as we got into his Porsche. He was angry at me, I knew; he had every right to be, from his point of view. I loosened my tie and closed my eyes. "I'm parked on Gloucester," I said. "Near Marlborough."
Harold started the car. After a few turns on the one-way streets we pulled up next to my Buick. "Thanks," I said, opening my eyes.
Harold was staring at me—the stare that had reduced many a campaign worker to jelly. "Did you kill her?" he demanded.
I stared back. "No," I said. "Did you?" I didn't bother waiting for an answer. I got out of the car and slammed the door shut. Harold paused for a moment and then drove slowly away.
Senator Page 2