by John Luciew
“If you’re trying to say something, say it.”
He shrugged, a gesture of innocent intentions. “Just making small talk.”
“You were never big on small talk,” I shot back. “Words were your weapon. You used them wisely. There was a point to everything you said. I should know, I’ve listened to the tapes.”
It was a reference to the secret recordings of his conversations with a treasonous reporter. The tapes had contained more than enough to bring him down.
“Ah,” he said knowingly. “Those were the trappings of my former life. It’s a life I’ve had to leave behind in order to exist here. You either let go or you drive yourself insane.”
“You never struck me as the forgiving kind,” I pointed out.
“What was it that Nixon said?” Winters cocked his head and brought a hand to his chin in thought. “Never hate your enemies or you destroy yourself.”
“Yeah, but Nixon did hate his enemies.”
“Case in point.”
“You’ve got to be a little bitter,” I prodded. “You were the front-runner for the Republican nomination for president. Then, just like that, it’s all gone. That’s gotta be a helluva rub.”
“I’m at peace,” He softly closed his eyes as if meditating. “I’m centered. I have rules and routine. That’s my life now. There’s time to read and exercise and socialize. There are some great chess players here. And you’d be surprised how many people -- how many women -- on the outside like to correspond with inmates. Entire Web sites are devoted to such things. They keep us company. You see, there’s no need to worry about me. I’m well looked after. My only regret is that I can’t practice my tai chi. It’s a martial art, you understand. And that’s against the house rules. For me, the movements were always more of a centering exercise. A movement of spirit, if you will. Alas, its practice is strictly forbidden.”
“Maybe the guards would look the other way,” I said, seeing a chance to mine for pertinent details. “You used to be the governor, after all. Surely, they realize that and treat you accordingly. I mean, it’s got to be quite the honor for them.”
“I’m just one of many high-profile inmates here,” Winters answered in a correcting tone. “We have a number of big names from Wall Street. Even a former NFL star. It’s quite the Who’s Who. The treatment is surprisingly equitable given all that celebrity. I certainly have no complaints. Speaking of celebrity status, I hear there’s a rather high-profile opening at the Washington Post.”
I was so busy reaching for clever ways to question Winters, his sudden reference to Irv Bressenhan’s murder took me off guard. “What?”
“Yes, quite the unfortunate incident,” he continued, his expression as placid as his voice. “But there’s always an upside. The political beat is within your area of expertise. You should apply before they go and advertise the job in Editor & Publisher. Beat the rush, so to speak. Besides, I hear Mr. Bressenhan already gave you the nod, albeit posthumously.” Winters cracked a wicked sneer. He was relishing toying with me.
“Thanks,” I said, eyeing him. “But I’m happy where I’m at.”
“Understandable, seeing how you get all the good fan mail.” Winters’ sneer became a full, evil smile.
“What is it that you think you know?”
“I don’t think anything.” Winters shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re the one who thinks things. The one who guesses. Assumes. Well, good luck. Guess all you want. I’ll enjoy hearing all about it.”
“What else have you heard?”
“Plenty.”
“Like what?”
“Come now, Tellis. I think you’re straying from the parameters of the interview. You seem more interested in current events than in my new life in the federal corrections system. On that subject, I have to say the Feds do time far better than the state. I should know, I was governor. I certainly knew enough not to be caught dead in a state prison. Much too violent. Being an inmate can be dangerous. Then again, so can being a reporter. It’s a crazy world. You can quote me on that.”
“Is that a threat?” I demanded, studying Winters, trying to read his face, his every gesture, each nuance and intonation. But I was coming up short. He was rattling me, and I wasn’t sticking to the plan.
“Just an observation,” Winters casually said. “It is such a shame about Wayne Dykstra. To be in the wrong place at the wrong time like that. It really makes you wonder when it’ll be our turn. And that poor, poor girl.” Winters wrinkled his brow. “Eddie Moore’s daughter, wasn’t it? That truly was a tragedy. A real freak thing, don’t you think?” He shook his head in regret.
“Neither one was an accident,” I shot back. “Dykstra was the shooter’s target and the fire was arson. But then you already know that.”
“Rumors, Mr. Tellis. I hear rumors. I don’t have the reliable sources of a man such as yourself. I must subsist on rumors and speculation.”
“In that case, you must be meeting a lot of interesting people here.” Finally, a way back to the subject I wanted to discuss.
“I do okay. I always was a social animal.”
“I’m sure the inmates love trading stories of their crimes? Yours must go over big.”
“Crimes? What crimes?” Winters appeared shocked. “Everyone here’s innocent. Or they’ve been set up. Or the cops got it wrong. Or they got railroaded at trial. Don’t you know anything?”
“So it’s just a coincidence then? That you’re all here? Together?”
“No crueler force than the hand of fate,” Winters said. “Then again, you seem to be finding that out.”
“How so?”
“With all that nasty business about the dead reporters. Helluva coincidence, dontcha think?”
I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “I guess so.”
“C’mon, Tellis. You know what’s going on. No one will read about it in the press, but you and I both know.”
My heart was pounding in my chest and I felt my hands trembling. But I managed to calmly move my head from side to side. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”
I wanted him to say it, to tell me, even though I feared the answer. I feared that, somehow, Lowell Winters was behind everything. And I was worried that he was still too smart and too powerful to get caught.
“Harrisburg,” the ex-governor said in a long whisper.
His mouth widened into a red grin at the center of his snow-white goatee. “I just happened to notice the connection because I was around back then. Good old 1980. I’ll never forget that year, my first year in Harrisburg. It’s when I met all you boys -- Dykstra, Bressenhan, Moore. And you, of course. I’m just so glad that you and I are mature enough to put aside our differences and mourn our old friends. I miss them. Just like I’ll miss you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” My throat was parched and my words sounded unconvincing.
Winters nodded his head. “Yes, you are. You most certainly are.”
The words chilled me but I would not be intimidated. I would not back down to a jailed ex-governor.
“Are you threatening me?”
Winters’ ice cold, blue eyes bored into me. There was hate behind those eyes. He could talk all he wanted about moving on and forgetting the past, but I knew better. I knew he hated me. I felt it. I saw it.
“Well, are you?” I pressed again.
“Why, no,” he said, his voice never changing from its steady, even tone. “I’m just stating the facts. Visiting time is over. Rules are rules.”
Winters turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Guard,” he called. “We’re through here.”
Chapter 40
I raced back to Harrisburg, needing to talk to Langhorne. I needed to tell him to put a rush on the background checks of former Allenwood inmates. I needed to tell him that I thought we were right. Somehow Lowell Winters was part of this. I was sure of it now. The detective would need to pull all the records of Winters’ phone calls and the logs listing his visitors. Langhorne would need to st
art questioning the guards, even other inmates. We had to find out how he was doing it. How Winters was organizing the perfect murders of journalists from inside a federal prison.
I didn’t have a cell phone and the pay phones were few and far between on the rural roads leading from the prison. Maybe it was just as well. It might not be wise delivering such news over the phone. I roamed the radio dial in search of the latest news on the case, instead. I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it would be if another journalist had been killed while I was talking to the mastermind.
Instead of news, all I picked up were weather warnings. The National Weather Service was predicting a major winter storm. In all my concentration on the case, I hadn’t paid much attention to other news, much less the weather reports. Now, it was too late. If the warnings were to be believed, I was headed right into the season’s first big shitstorm.
Sure enough, as I ascended and descended the rolling mountains on my way home from the prison, the flakes started to fly. By the time I picked up US 322 for the final leg into Harrisburg, it was an all-out storm.
Tractor-trailers were lumbering dinosaurs caught in an Ice Age. Cars spun off the road and dangled along the berm. It was a long, slow slog back home. The tension I felt about the case only increased as the driving conditions worsened. I gripped the wheel with both hands, squeezing with all my might. My palms were sweaty underneath my winter gloves. But I made it. I made it back to Harrisburg.
I decided to keep the rental car and drove directly to my street. I cruised past my row house, searching for lurking reporters. There were none. They’d probably been reassigned to weather stories. Local TV loved making a big deal about a little snow. And this was a lot of snow. They’d have a field day. There would be storm center reports, Doppler radar forecasts and team coverage.
I pulled into a parking space, noticing that Mother’s wagon was long gone. Maggie had probably checked the weather and got on the road ahead of the storm.
I entered my empty house, stomped the snow from my shoes and shook off my overcoat. The Christmas tree that once blinked with so much optimism was slumped and crooked in the corner. All the presents except two had been taken away. The whole thing looked sad.
I grabbed a whiskey bottle first, then the phone. I dialed Langhorne. He answered his cell on the second ring. I told him I was back. He replied as if I were a fellow cop, no doubt for the benefit of whoever else was in the room. He said he’d get back to me when he had the time. I figured there were too many ears wherever he was and that he’d return the call later from a more private location.
Two drinks later, the phone rang. I filled Langhorne in on my cryptic conversation with Lowell Winters. To me, the ex-governor’s words were damning evidence of his involvement. Langhorne was less impressed.
“How do we know he wasn’t just playin’ you?” he asked.
“Because I didn’t bring up the murders. He did. And he made the connection to Harrisburg. He even used the exact year, 1980. Neither of those things has been made public.”
“He did know those people,” Langhorne debated with himself. “He could have made the connection on his own. I’m not ruling him out. Not by a long shot. But we can’t move on him until we get more. We’ve got to identify suspects from the parole lists, then work the connection back to Winters. Otherwise we risk lookin’ foolish. This guy tripped you up once. My guess is, he’d love nothing more than for you to point the finger at him again. If he’s innocent, he comes off as the penitent politician tryin’ to do his time in peace, only to be persecuted by the press. I can’t be a part of that. Not now, when this case is finally giving me a shred of credibility in the department. I don’t think you can afford a blow like that, either.”
“So we’re giving up on him?”
“No. I have some guys I trust going over the list of federal parolees. We’re lookin’ for red flags. Anyone with a background in arson or with military shooting experience. Then we’ll start lookin’ for ties to Winters. It’s gonna take some time, but it’s the only way. We can’t afford for this to get out. Not if we’re wrong.”
“Any new developments?” I asked hopefully.
“No. But that’s not all bad. At least there are no new bodies. And with this storm, I doubt there’ll be any for a while. Snow slows everything down, even the criminals.”
“Let’s hope.”
“You and me both,” Langhorne said, sounding distracted. “Look, I gotta go. I promise to stay in touch.”
“Thanks again for this morning,” I said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
The detective chuckled. “You reporters should have a better code. No way cops would turn on each other like that. It was like cannibal city outside your place. Man, they wanted you bad.”
“Believe it or not, there is a code,” I said. “Only, it’s all about getting the news. Wherever it breaks, whatever it takes. It’s a code I used to believe in. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Always helps to see things from the other side,” Langhorne pointed out.
“I guess.”
There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. The hours passed slowly. After the action of the past several days, I found myself unable to relax. My body refused to unwind. My mind would not shut down, despite a liberal dousing of alcohol.
I found myself wishing for something to do, a new angle of the story to follow. But Langhorne was right. The storm was really settling in now. Harrisburg was being blanketed in white. So was the entire Northeast, for that matter. It would be a white Christmas. Had my daughter and granddaughter been able to come up from Florida as planned, Lexi would have gotten to see snow for the first time. And I would have been there to witness it.
I washed away those thoughts with another drink. Then a knock at the door startled me. I was more accustomed to the bell but then remembered that I had disconnected it. The knock was loud and forceful. I expected it to be the press. Some enterprising reporter who had taken a swing by my house and saw the lights on. I turned off the living room lamp and crept toward the front window. I pulled aside the closed drapes for a look.
It was the media all right. In fact, it was representative of the most powerful news organization in the world. I opened the door anyway.
This member of the media didn’t look all that intimidating. Then again, she never did. Looks were deceiving that way.
Cassie Jordan’s nose and cheeks were a rosy red and snow was clinging to her hair. With her earmuffs on, a scarf pulled tight around her neck and her jacket buttoned up, she looked like a girl coming inside for some hot cocoa after playing in the snow.
“Don’t you answer your bell?” Cassie scolded.
“It’s broken. Kinda got overused this morning.”
Cassie glanced down, the penitent reporter. “Yeah, I heard about the welcoming committee. I just want you to know, I was no part of that.”
“You didn’t need to be. You got your exclusive the day before, remember?”
“I’m sorry about the other night, Telly. I’ve come to make it up to you.”
I invited her in. Cassie stepped inside but she didn’t remove her winter gear. “I didn’t come for another meal. And, frankly, I don’t think I could stand another sip of that awful wine. I’ve come to take you out instead. I promised you a meal on the Times and damn it, that’s what you’re gonna get. I’d say with this weather, we’ll have our pick of any table in town.”
“If they’re open,” I put in.
“Somewhere will be. C’mon. I rented a four-wheel-drive SUV. It’ll be fun.”
I felt like I was in a TV car commercial as Cassie put her rented monster truck through its paces. She whipped around slippery corners and drove through snow banks. She powered up powdery hills and plowed through snowdrifts.
At first, my face must have been as white as the snow. I clutched the grip handle on the door and braced my other hand against the dash. But that fancy SUV never lost its footing once, and the leather-upholstered interior wa
s more than comfortable. I began to relax inside Cassie’s indestructible refuge from the weather. And I must admit, it was damn good fun driving by all those other sputtering, sliding motorists and the many stranded, abandoned vehicles.
Downtown was deserted, save for the occasional brave, bar-hopping soul. We had our pick of parking spaces and our choice of restaurants -- two things normally in short supply in suddenly trendy Harrisburg. Cassie pulled right in front of one of the fanciest, high-dollar joints. The lights were on and there were a few heads scattered among the dining tables and a couple more at the bar.
“Will this suit?” Cassie turned to me as she jammed the truck’s gearshift into park.
“Fine with me. Sure you don’t want to use the valet service?”
“No one’s touching this bad boy.” Cassie patted the steering wheel with genuine affection.
Inside, the maitre d’ showed us to the best table in the house, right next to the window. We had a view of the city, which tonight was a desolate winter landscape colored by Christmas lights and neon beer signs.
Cassie ordered an expensive bottle of wine. The steward corked it for her, and she went through all the motions of smelling the cork, swirling the wine in her glass and swishing it around in her mouth. She deemed it acceptable and gave the steward permission to pour. I watched the crimson liquid fill my glass even as I wished for a beer.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Cassie said, eyeing me. “Just give it a try, then you can have your beer.”
I looked up sheepishly. She knew me too well. “Can we put that beer on standby?” I said.
Cassie turned to the steward. “One Yuengling, sir. Make it a draft.”
The steward bowed. “Certainly, ma’am. Right away.”