by Warren Adler
They had tried to connect the lady romantically to the dead man and she had really given them a piece of her tongue.
“Him,” the transcript read. The interrogator was obviously speculating. The invective came out like a stream of consciousness. If she had been Queen Victoria, she couldn’t have been more indignant. Unfortunately she was white trash in their eyes, and they had really leaned on her, searching for motives.
As for the dead man, he was the other side of the coin. A red-neck con man from West Virginia. Mathew Luther Pringle, a ridiculous name. His police sheet was the catalogue of a drifter’s rage, barroom brawls, nights in the tank. He had beaten up his wife in Charlestown. They had reconciled. He beat her up again and then left their squalid nest. “Did he have enemies?” Someone had surely asked this of his estranged wife. “I would have pulled the trigger myself,” she might have responded.
Worse, the whole litany spilled across the front page of the Post, like ketchup stain. They couldn’t find a picture of Pringle anywhere, not even from his high school yearbook. He had opted out after the first year to join the army. Why, Fiona wondered, couldn’t they have written something else instead of Used Car Salesman? At least Officer Temple had gotten his picture in the paper and a headline reference as a “Hero Cop.”
The connection still nagged her. For a few hours it had nagged at everyone, including the eggplant. But the autopsies denied the connection. Pringle had his head blown away by a rifle and Temple had his heart exploded by bullets from a .38 revolver.
“Coincidence,” the eggplant had concluded. He had pulled the troops together in the lineup room. The chief was there as well, looking somber, as he listened to various reports. Everybody at homicide was present, even those who stumbled in from sick call. They had two crazies, a wacko sniper and a cop killer, but it was clearly the cop killer who had their attention.
“I want that muvva,” the eggplant shouted after he had outlined the details. He had, of course, been gilding the lily. For him the death of Officer Temple was a minor miracle, like a piece of flotsam that nudges a drowning man to shore. He was holding on for dear life. By the time the meeting broke up, he had them believeing that Temple’s killer was the Antichrist, while the sniper was some dumb deranged kid playing with matches.
They had found the three empty cartridges on the top floor of the Library of Congress. So the shots had come from a public building. The connection seemed studiously avoided.
Without attempting to resurrect the contentious circumstances of the two previous killings, Fiona quickly ascertained that the ammunition had been of comparatively recent vintage, made less than twenty years ago, exploding further her own nagging suspicions. A connection, therefore, could only remain in her mind, a lingering intuitive burr.
The sniper’s vantage was easy to calculate. As for motivation, despite their intensive grilling of the hapless waitress, it seemed an example of random selection. The victim had simply appeared in the killer’s sights at the right moment.
Watching the eggplant rage during the meeting, her thoughts coalesced around a discordant theme, like an irritating off-key musical phrase in a classical piece. Try as she could to screen it out, it was impossible. Worse, it nudged her funny bone and she had to bite her lips to keep herself from laughing out loud.
“Who benefits?” It was the investigative axiom around which every criminal investigation whirled. In this case, the immediate beneficiary of Temple’s killing was none other than the eggplant. It was almost as if he had heard about the sniper killing, realized its damaging potential and went out with a gun to drill down the black cop. In her mind, he might even have invented the victim or, at the least, exchanged the bodies. Who gave a shit about a drifter, a no-good used car salesman, who also happened to be white? If she had a conspiratorial mind, she might have also put the headline writer in league with the eggplant. And Officer Temple himself, the gallant upwardly mobile self-sacrificing hero-cop. And the keeper of the personnel records who had created heroic police exploits for Temple as well. And the Argentinian junta.
It was bizarre because what it boiled down to was a conspiracy against her, blocking her from getting even a shred of help for what they would all say was an intuitive compulsion by a pushy cunt. Still, she knew she was preparing herself for that moment of confrontation. Be patient, Dr. Benton had said. Not that the role of gadfly tantalized her. She wondered if she would be able to muster the courage or stand the pain when the time came. Sooner or later, it would have to come.
To complicate matters, Bruce had returned to Washington like a man fully cured from a debilitating illness. He had become his old self or, at least, her old image of him, strong, loving, beautiful. At Tiberio’s, where he took her to celebrate his homecoming, she had searched his face for any signs of residual trauma, and found none at first. But midway through the meal, she caught it, a faint rumble like the distant sound of an oncoming train.
“The bitch wouldn’t call me to concede,” he said, caressing the rim of his wine glass. He had been holding her hand under the table and she felt the knuckles harden.
“Maybe she didn’t like the way you won.”
“You win any way you can,” he said. “Would you have rather I lost?”
She felt his attempt to make her guilty. Anger rose in her like a geyser.
“It’s like cheating.”
“So was she.”
“How so?” she snapped.
“She wasn’t one of them either. Educated. Aggressive. She had broken out. It was only a stepping stone. Besides, she was taking advantage of her femaleness and the color of her skin, darker than mine. Actually, we were two of a kind. She had a white lover.”
“What’s so terrible about that? So have you.”
“Hers was a woman.”
“How noble then to have ignored it.”
“We weren’t sure. Clark had paid for the information. It could have backfired. Besides, we were thinking ahead. The gay vote is not to be ignored in a statewide election. As a front runner, I don’t want to get anybody mad. Not yet.”
“No. You wouldn’t want that.” He looked at her archly.
“I won. That’s the bottom line.” His fingers tightened around hers. “You’re getting self-righteous in your old age,” he said gently.
“Can that be all?”
“Come on, Fi. It happens that way in business every day. It’s accepted. The law of evolution. The strong eat the weak. The smart eat the dumb. It just hangs out more in politics. The media put the wash on the line, stains and all. I’m not saying I like it. I just hold my nose, close my eyes and take the dose. Who am I to change the rules? Especially if I want to continue playing. You think the cops are any different?”
He finished his drink, like a winded athlete who had worked up a good thirst, and ordered another.
“Don’t confuse the issues,” he said quietly, turning to kiss her neck. “I love you and I hope you love me. Don’t look for perfect. Better a winner. A survivor, Fi. There’s nothing worse than a loser.”
“No,” she said sadly. “I guess not.”
“Believe me, I can imagine how she must have felt,” he said. “Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I called her.”
“How gracious.” She could not quite get the edge off her anger.
“Butter would melt,” he said. “Why not? I told her it was hers next time around. She knows where I want to go. Be a good little girl and stand in line, I told her. I could feel her ambition sweating through the phone.”
“Could she feel yours?”
“Of course she could. Takes one to know one.”
She pondered this a moment, wondering why she wasn’t sharing his enthusiasm. Something about him frightened her.
“So where do you want to go?” she asked, feeling foolish because she knew the answer. Why couldn’t she leave it alone? “Fiona’s a strange one.” Her father’s words came back in a rush. Perhaps all that original sin shit had encrusted itself on her reas
on. She was thinking so hard she had barely heard him say “Up.” But she made him repeat it.
“Up,” he said again. “Maybe President. Numero uno.”
“That far?”
“Why not?”
The heat in his fingers rose. Turning, she saw his eyes glisten. A vein palpitated in his neck. She imagined he was salivating.
“What good is living without striving for an impossible dream?” he said, puffed up with pride. “The bigger the better.”
She saw him clearly now. What he was offering was company, not real sharing. Perhaps it did not exist. The shock of revelation sobered her and she projected a lifetime of loneliness for herself. Without her realizing it, he had moved closer, his thigh touching hers.
“Let’s change the subject,” she said. She had better start making compromises, she told herself firmly, and pointed to her glass for another drink.
They watched the body of Officer Temple lowered to its Arlington grave. Observing the somber faces, she sensed the pull of unity, and the pervasive power of comradeship. At that moment they were one mind, a unit beyond race or class or gender. She wished she could cry. But then the first shovelful of dirt was cast into the open grave and she felt the guilt of the living reality. Nothing had changed.
“It was a damned shame,” she said later, after they had returned to their car. His big, hamlike hands gripped the rim of the automobile wheel as he eased the car out of the parking lot in fits and starts. The car always seemed to react to his inner moods.
“Just another dead nigger,” he growled.
“You’re being unfair,” she said.
“We should be out there, lookin’ for that dude.” It was enough to telescope the message of his discontent. It was a good time to fix blame.
“Hell, Jefferson, we’re in Siberia together,” she countered. “It wasn’t me that asked for this. Let’s just accept things for the time being. The eggplant’s the enemy. Not me.”
“I should be out there in the street,” he said. “I knew him. I knew his family. His kids.” She could see the sinews in his neck force a swallow. “I should be out there, finding the muvva who wasted him.” He turned to her. “You just don’t know.”
“You think so?”
“How could you . . . damned bitch,” he mumbled. He was, she sensed, reaching for something deep inside of him. She admitted to some brief speculation about his history, but he had been so off-putting and offensive that she had deliberately let it pass, convincing herself instead that he had been hatched from a big black egg, whole and mean. What she knew about him was shorthand. He was a Ranger in Vietnam. He lived alone. He chased women.
“You know why bad is good in ghetto talk?”
She shrugged, stringing along.
“Because good is bad . . .” His voice trembled and she turned away. “You wear this skin, you know. My old man . . .” he swallowed quickly. “He was bad . . . You know what it is to drag yourself out of that shit? You know how many bodies you have to walk over? My mother wouldn’t eat so’s I could become . . . a person. You know who the real enemy is. Not you honkies. You’re all just turd, subhuman. The real enemy is those niggers, killers, junkies, robbers . . .” His voice trailed off. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him. I feel your agony. She wanted him to know that.
But suddenly the car was speeding up Canal Road, along the Potomac. The speedometer climbed as they crossed the border into Maryland. Still she said nothing.
When the car turned off into a side dirt road, she became uneasy and began to finger her piece, hanging in its holster.
“Calm down, Frank,” she said gently, as she had been taught to handle people caught in the whirlpool of rage. “We’re out of our jurisdiction.”
Ignoring her, he drove the car to the end of the bumpy road. She sensed that he had been here before. The dirt road ended at the edge of a clump of evergreens, through which she could see a narrow trial. Abruptly, he stopped the car and rushed out, heading into the woods. For a moment the illogic of his action stunned her and she sat in the car, uncomprehending and confused.
The vaguely familiar sound, like the boom of a bass drum, roused her.
“No, Jefferson!” Her voice was stuck somewhere in the base of her throat. She ran into the woods drawing her revolver. As she ran, she heard the boom again, alleviating her panic. At least he hadn’t shot himself.
He was standing on the bank of the river, firing the Magnum in a rhythmical beat at a spot on the Virginia side. The target was a small clump of saplings, each splitting apart as his deadly shots ripped at them.
He stood stiffly, showing no emotion, his feet planted firmly, his body braced against the recoil. He fired round after round until the saplings were totally destroyed. Calmly he observed the wreckage for a few moments, then slipped the Magnum back into his holster.
“Feel better?”
He grunted and they got back into the car. “That’s one way to throw away your career,” she said after a while. The car seemed to slow down and she could sense that he was, at last, mastering his rage.
“You’re not the only one with feelings around here. You haven’t got a patent on anger. It’s my career, too.” When he didn’t respond, she felt her own emotions take hold. “It’s not worth it. You’ve worked too hard.” She reached out and touched his arm. When he didn’t flinch, she increased the pressure. He did not talk for a long time. Finally he turned and looked at her.
“I got to work to get it under control,” he said calmly.
“I know.”
“Do you?” he snapped, lips curling.
“Maybe you should put that energy to better use.”
“Like what?” He looked at her and she saw the old lasciviousness.
“Like what I told you about.” She paused, wondering if he understood. She had thrown the pebble in the pond.
“You mean about the others?” She could see the ripples begin.
“They could be all connected.” His silence encouraged her and she continued.
“The MO. Random selection. The killer just upped and pumped the bullets in at close range. Temple was a desk cop. He had no enemies. Hadn’t made an arrest in years.”
“The ammo doesn’t tally,” he said flatly, his attitude suddenly professional. “The gun was a thirty-eight Special. S. and W. Victory model. The barrel was sawed down. The ammo recent vintage, maybe fifteen years.”
“Not bad for a guy not working on the case. It also wasn’t connected with a public building. Temple was shot in the street.” She was reversing roles now, drawing in the hook.
“But the time frame. I drove it last night. About half an hour. They were thirty-five minutes apart.” Strangely, the ghetto inflections had disappeared.
“And all four with different weapons,” she pressed.
He shrugged. “Maybe there’s four of them out there.”
“Maybe.”
“Four white men. It’s a white man’s crime, Jefferson.” She watched him flinch again.
It was, she knew, statistically right. Blacks weren’t good at mass killings. They got caught too early. And the motivation was different. Usually money. Addiction. Domestic anger. Transparent rage. This was more complex, beyond explanation. All she had to go on was intuition. She wouldn’t dare mention that.
“White killer. Black victim. That turn you on, Jefferson?”
The car lurched, heading east on the Beltway.
“We got a natural to investigate,” he said, and remained silent until the car turned again, going south on Connecticut Avenue.
“If it connects,” he said, “I gotta see more.”
“Suppose I force it?”
“I gotta see more,” he repeated.
The car moved in fits through traffic.
“You’re one hell of a shot, Jefferson,” she said, strangely elated. “A real killer.”
19
BECAUSE those who attended the inaugural balls were always disappointed, Remington kept open house from t
en o’clock on. Engraved invitations were sent to various ambassadors and politicians who were certain to troop in with horror stories about crowds and traffic. He had gone to the Kennedy ball at the Armory in a snowstorm, but he had the box next to the Kennedys and Jack had waved and Jackie blown a kiss. Even the old man had punched him in the arm. Remington had loved it, but after the assassination it was never the same again. He went to the first Nixon ball, came home disgusted, and never went again.
Three liquor bars were placed strategically around the house and in addition to the usual buffet, he had set up a special bar with three professional omelet makers on continuous duty. This was, after all, to be a gala celebration in more ways than one.
The past two months had been euphoric. Nothing could ruffle his calm. He slept like a baby. Eagerly, he had read the accounts of the police investigation, until they faded from the papers. It was amusing, too, to see how the newspapers had concentrated more on the killing of the policeman than on the sniper. The fools. They had missed the main point. Poor Officer Temple. A tiny footnote to history. How could he have been more obvious, leaving them three spent cartridges from a 6.5 millimeter Mannlicher-Carcano, manufactured by the Western Cartridge Company of East Alton, Illinois. More proof of their ignorance.
He also regretted not getting the angle right, although the ninety-yard distance was reasonably close. But the car wasn’t open on top and he couldn’t quite fire from behind, although he would have loved to have read the autopsy report to find out how close he had come. The fools. It should be as plain as the noses on their faces. What it proved was that we were a country without any sense of history. That’s why we were doomed. That’s why he could never have been President. His sense of history was too profound.
“It is preordained,” his mother had assured him. “Meant to be.” But the divine forces had changed their minds at the last moment, saving him for what would come later. He would show them all how vulnerable we had become as a nation. How our leadership would grow weaker. How the Presidency would fail! It was his mission to reverse this decline.