Kill The Story

by John Luciew

  Langhorne and the other officers hurried inside. I quickly shut the door behind them. As I turned the deadbolt, I noticed that my hands were shaking.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said to Langhorne.

  We left the uniformed officers at the door and adjourned to the living room to talk. The detective sat down on the couch. I took the chair across from the coffee table.

  “We don’t usually provide police escorts for reporters,” Langhorne said. “Especially not to save their ass from their own kind. But like you said on the phone, you are a witness.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A witness you wouldn’t want to see get nervous and say certain things about the investigation -- its larger parameters. A witness you wouldn’t want followed, not where I’m going today.”

  “Like I said, that’s why I’m here,” Langhorne repeated. “So what’s the plan?”

  “You get me outta here so I can be on my way to Allenwood and interview Winters. By the way, any leads from the parole list?”

  “Lots of possibilities,” Langhorne answered. “Just nothing that fits. Give it time. Allenwood’s a big place. They got four prisons up there. The Feds move a lot of bad boys through that place. And there are lots of ways to communicate in a place like that, what with all those criminal minds in such close proximity. That’s another thing that makes our job so difficult. Even if we come up with an inmate we like, we need to link him back to Winters. I doubt the governor’s stupid enough to make a pact with one of his pod mates. Besides, he’s in the prison camp, where it’s mostly the lightweights. It’s the adjacent complexes where the real criminal talent lies. We’ll need to check common visitors, even guards -- anything to prove a connection. It’s doable. It’s possible. In fact, it wasn’t too long ago, a couple of guards were helping some mobster smuggle his love juice out of there so his wife could have another kid before her ovaries dried up. No one was the wiser until the dumbfuck inmate started introducing his two-year-old son around on visiting days. Problem was, the guy had been inside for the past five years. No conjugal visits, either.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  Langhorne threw up his right hand, as if swearing an oath. “True story. Matter of fact, I think that particular guard had performed reproductive services for a couple of cons. Good thing he never mixed up the goods. I don’t think the mob guy woulda liked it much had his wife showed up with a brown baby.” The detective let loose a wicked chuckle. The only thing Langhorne loved more than analyzing the criminal mind was the reassuring knowledge that his own mental powers were vastly superior.

  “So about your visit today,” Langhorne continued. “See what Winters has to say about the other cons. Ask him how the guards are treatin’ him. See how he communicates with the outside world. All written correspondence in and out is read by the staff. But the inmates have pretty wide-ranging phone privileges and most of the calls aren’t monitored. One guy ordered a hit on two grand jury witnesses from behind the walls of a federal prison. Lots of cons have cell phones smuggled in, too. God knows what the good governor has been ordering up.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “It’s worth a shot,” Langhorne said, waving his hand. “It’s not like we got much else to go on. By the way, D.C. police found your friend Bressenhan’s other half.” Langhorne dropped this information as if it were an afterthought.

  “Where?”

  “In his basement. Turns out, Bressenhan was the first vic killed. Sometime Friday night, according to the time of death report.”

  “And no one missed him all weekend?” I asked.

  “He was single and he was planning to leave town on assignment. Wasn’t due anywhere till Monday.”

  “Anything useful from the crime scene?”

  “What crime scene?” Langhorne shot back, frustration in his voice. “The whole house was neat as could be. They almost missed finding the body, for crissakes. Killer stashed the corpse in a closed shower stall in the corner of an unfinished basement. It was one of those old workman’s showers. You know, where the guy comes home dirty and goes down to the basement to clean up, rather than track through the house. The killer enters the home and lays in wait. Bressenhan arrives home from work sometime Friday evening. Our guy subdues the victim, brings the body to the basement and performs his handy work in the shower stall. He washes the mess down the drain and cleans up with bleach from the laundry, also in the basement. Real neat fellow, this one. Precise. He knew enough not to leave a messy corpse lying around where a mailmen peeping through a window might see. When they questioned her, even the housekeeper didn’t know. She comes weekdays to dust, run the vacuum and tidy up. She was in there Monday morning. Said there wasn’t a thing out of place. Bressenhan had been dead two days by then. That really freaked her out. There she was dusting the china and the guy’s corpse is rotting in the basement. Course, if there were any fingerprints, she wiped them clean. I don’t think there were, though. This one’s too good.”

  “What about the bed?” I asked. “If Bressenhan was killed sometime Friday, that means he wouldn’t have slept in his bed the entire weekend. The maid should have noticed that. She should have wondered why the bed was undisturbed when she cleaned up the place Monday.”

  “We asked about that. Housekeeper said the guy made his own bed.”

  “Yeah, but how did the killer know that?”

  Langhorne brought a hand to his face and wiped it across his mouth. “Either he got lucky and didn’t think about disturbing the bed for appearance sake. Or--”

  “Or what?” I pressed.

  “Or he knew,” Langhorne said. “He knew Bressenhan made his own bed. And if he knew that, the guy’s good. Real good.”

  * * *

  We plotted my escape from my own home. Langhorne volunteered to have a cop car roll up in the rear alley and smuggle me out the back door. I nixed the idea. Such a plan, while convenient, would keep the press outside my door thinking I was still inside. I’d be long gone, but the pack would continue its assault on my mother’s sanity. And I had already done enough to Maggie. I’d ruined her Christmas plans and dashed her hopes for a family reunion. At the very least, I owed her some peace and quiet as she packed for Florida, loading all those presents into her car for the long trip south.

  The front door was my way out. I’d face the onslaught head-on. But the media gauntlet wasn’t my only obstacle. My Fiesta was blocked in by a TV truck. The little car was good at getting out of tight spaces, but not that tight. And the press would like nothing more than to have me pinned down behind the wheel as they shouted question after question. My old car would have to stay put. I’d make the newspaper spring for a rental.

  There was one last concern. What if the press followed me? The media certainly weren’t above such tactics, even when the subject was getting a police escort. Especially when the subject was getting a police escort.

  Langhorne had the remedy for this. When the time came, he’d have his officers roll up three patrol cars in front of the house. Then it would be a shell game. All three cars would take off, lights and sirens going full-tilt. The three cars would take the left onto Front Street, then blow through the light at Forster Street. That’s where they’d separate -- one going left, one heading straight and one turning right. The cars would race off in three different directions at 75 mph. That should eliminate any tails. Then Langhorne would drive me to the nearest rental place, and I’d be on my way.

  * * *

  I was ready except for one last thing. I walked upstairs to Maggie’s bedroom. Three suitcases were spread out on the bed, and Mother was carefully filling them with clothes. Upon seeing me in the doorway, she stopped.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right driving by yourself?” I asked.

  “I’m a better driver than you,” Mother said. “I was always a better driver than your father, too. One thing about that man, God rest him, he had no vanity, no male ego. He never minded a woman behind the wheel.”

  “As I r
ecall, you were pretty insistent.” I smiled.

  “Me? Insistent?” Maggie joined in on the smile. She was strong and she was independent. Always was. And I could see that she was dealing with this setback better than I was.

  “At least promise me you’ll stop and rest now and then,” I said. “Better yet, why don’t you fly down. We could exchange the tickets.”

  “Got too many gifts to lug,” she said, then resumed packing as if just realizing all the work ahead of her. “Besides, I like driving. You get to see the country, and maybe I’ll stop and get a few more presents.”

  Oh great, I thought. More shopping.

  “Come here, son.” Maggie dropped the blouse she was folding and waved one of her still-strong arms at me. I was constantly amazed at how toned and conditioned Maggie’s forearms remained from all her cooking, cleaning and kneading Filo dough.

  “Give your mother a hug before she goes,” Maggie said. “At least act like you’ll miss me.”

  I went to her and she wrapped me in a bear hug of an embrace.

  “You take care of yourself and don’t worry about me,” she whispered, then planted a slobbery kiss on my cheek. “You do a good job on the story, youhear?”

  Mother held me away from her so she could inspect me. “I’m proud of you, Francis. Always was.”

  “I’ll miss you, Mom.” The words surprised me, but I meant them. Despite all my complaining about Maggie, I loved the old gal.

  Neither of us said another word. Maggie wiped a hand across her cheek, and I coughed up whatever was in my throat. Then Mother returned to her packing.

  In the foyer, Langhorne helped me on with my overcoat. I pulled a brimmed hat from the top shelf of the hall closet. I very rarely wore hats but figured it was a good disguise. Under the glare of the TV lights, the hat would cast a shadow on my face making me more difficult to recognize and less likely that the assembled cameramen would get a clear shot of my face on video or film.

  “You ready?” Langhorne asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll do great. You look like Al Capone.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  We walked to the door and lined up. The two uniforms were in front and Langhorne was right behind me.

  “Whatever happens, you keep moving,” Langhorne instructed me. Then to the two cops, “Be firm and clear a path. No pushing unless they push first, got it? Just tell them to move out of the way. Keep saying it.”

  The officers responded with crisp yes sirs.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Langhorne said.

  One of the uniforms twisted open the deadbolt and quickly opened the door. Immediately, the cops began barking commands. “Move out of the way. Clear a path. Make a hole.”

  The pack parted. Langhorne grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me out the door. As soon as the press saw me, they exploded.

  “Mr. Tellis, are you communicating with the killer?” boomed one female TV reporter. “Are you going in for questioning?” shouted another.

  I didn’t seem to be moving under my own power. It was as if Langhorne were controlling me. I was a puppet on his arm. I couldn’t make out much detail about the crowd of reporters and I sure didn’t pause to look. There were a lot of them -- maybe thirty, maybe more. Each one was screaming something at me. Or maybe, the pack had become one thing. They weren’t individual reporters anymore, with their own questions and their own minds. But rather a giant creature with multiple mouths. A monster with many black eyes and glaring lights above, all focused on me.

  I wasn’t conscious of movement, but we were moving. The uniforms were doing a good job of clearing a path with a minimum of pushing and shoving. Occasional jostling was about as bad as it got.

  I felt things -- people -- brushing up against me as we moved. I heard more questions and was blinded by flashes. But it all blended together.

  Then I felt pressure on my left arm. Someone was grasping it, squeezing it hard. I felt this person pull my arm. My balance shifted, leading me away from Langhorne and toward the crowd. The person holding my arm leaned out from the pack. I didn’t see him as he brought his face toward my ear. But I heard him.

  “How does it feel, Tellis?” he asked.

  Just then, Langhorne grabbed the man’s hand and flung it off me. The detective kept us moving forward. I wheeled around, looking for the reporter who had asked the question. But all I saw was a dozen open mouths and one man turning away.

  We were at the cruiser now and Langhorne pushed my head down as if loading a perp into the back seat. He scooted in after me, slammed the door and told the cop in front, “hit it.”

  Sirens screamed as we shot down the street, barely stopping as we made the left onto Front. I turned around as the pack stood watching in the middle of my street. TV cameras documented our escape, but no one followed.

  We were away clean, but I felt dirty. I felt that way because I was a journalist, too. All those people in front of my home represented my profession. I thought then that every reporter should have to go through what I had just experienced. They should be made to run the gauntlet of the pack.

  Then, maybe, we’d act differently.

  Chapter 39

  The ride north to Allenwood was a peaceful counterpoint to the chaos of the morning. The prison complex, officially known as Federal Correctional Institution Allenwood, or simply, FCI Allenwood, was located on a huge tract of land north of Lewisburg.

  Federal prisons were a booming business in this part of the state. Lewisburg, itself, was home to a federal penitentiary -- the big house. And the Allenwood complex was comprised of no less than four institutions, including the federal prison camp where Winters was housed. The camp held the likes of fallen Wall Street big shots, all manner of embezzlers and bribers, and of course, disgraced politicians, the latest of whom were our ex-governor and a former Ohio Congressman.

  The camp was one of the most sought-after addresses among male white-collar criminals. If you had to take a pinch, this was the place to do it in. It wasn’t Club Fed, but it was close. Most of the inmates there were nonviolent offenders. But sometimes, the federal prison system moved harder criminals through the camp on their way to release. And if an inmate didn’t behave in the camp, he could always be sent to one of the other institutions on the sprawling complex. The proximity of all those prisons with varying degrees of security raised the possibility of communication and conspiracy among the large inmate class. Winters could have made friends with any number of the criminal element assembled there. Some of these acquaintances could have had experience in the areas of assassination, arson and dismemberment.

  * * *

  I arrived early for my visit with the ex-governor and would have to wait. There was no disrupting the regimented schedule of life behind the wall. Rules were what they had, all they had. Inside the camp, it no longer mattered what these men did in life. No one cared if you were a millionaire or a powerful political leader on the outside. Once you went inside, you were just another inmate with a number to be treated the same as everyone else. That’s what they said, anyway. That’s was how the place was supposed to operate in theory. But I still wondered about that. Winters had practically hand-picked this facility for his penance. It’s reputation as a favorable place to do time was well known. Winters took a plea and cut the best deal he could. Maybe, just maybe, he knew something more. Perhaps he had found a way to pull strings from behind bars, just like when he was a political puppet master in Harrisburg. I didn’t know. But I had come here to find out.

  When it was time, I was searched and led to an alcove off the camp’s main visiting area. There was no door, but there was a measure of privacy. I took a seat and about five minutes later a guard escorted a man to the room. I did not recognize this man as Gov. Lowell Winters, he of the fine suits, the perfect hair and the wise campaign smile. But it was him, all the same.

  “So nice of you to call on me,” Winters said. The ex-governor was about my height but he seeme
d to loom over me, him standing and me seated. He was much broader than I remembered. His chest was prominent underneath a khaki shirt with his inmate number embroidered across the breast. His forearms were veined and sinewy.

  Winters moved slowly and efficiently to the opposite chair but did not sit down. The guard turned his back, leaving us to our business.

  Winters extended a hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Tellis.”

  I stood and accepted the greeting, though I wondered just how genuine it was. After all, I’d had a rather large role in the governor’s political undoing.

  Winters’ hand was like sandpaper, his grip like a vice. He’d grown powerful in other ways during his time in prison.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

  He nodded once, then sat. His perfect, gray hair was gone in favor of a close-cropped buzz cut. He’d grown facial hair, as well. A snow-white goatee looked menacing on his broader, beefier face. His ice blue eyes were as piercing as always, the lines around them even deeper now.

  “Frankly I’m surprised to see you,” Winters said. His hands were folded on the table and he stared straight at me. If he was embarrassed or bitter about his downfall, he didn’t show it. He had the steel-backed posture of the proudest of men. “I assumed you’d be otherwise occupied. I, after all, am yesterday’s news.”

  “Occupied how?” I asked.

  Winters smiled. It wasn’t the warm campaign smile I grew to hate when he was running for president. It was more menacing -- and knowing.

  “I may not have access to newspapers here, but I have other ways of keeping current,” he said. “We both know there’s been quite a lot of activity in our beloved capital city. I figured you’d be busy with that. You are the paper’s political reporter these days, are you not? In that position, I bet news just has a way of showing up on your desk.”