The Pinocchio Syndrome

by David Zeman

  Kraig sat quietly through the rest of the meeting. When it ended he returned to his office. He was pensive. Not for the first time in this crazy year he felt that events were outrunning the efforts of responsible leaders to understand them. History was writing itself in a shorthand that no one understood.

  Kraig wanted desperately to understand it in time to save Susan.

  ————

  JUDD CAMPBELL breathed a gigantic sigh of relief when he heard the news about the kidnappers’ demand.

  In the days since Susan’s abduction Judd had slept little. He was devoured by nightmares about Susan lying dead in a shallow grave or under the water of a lake somewhere. The public demand, terrifying though it was in itself, offered some comfort. Susan was alive somewhere. The people who had her were human beings possessed of reason and logic. They wanted something. They could be bargained with. Some sort of deal could be struck with them.

  Judd commiserated with Michael, who also seemed relieved by the news and desperately hopeful that it meant he would get Susan back.

  Yet Michael seemed thoughtful. When Judd asked him what he was thinking, Michael only said, “I’d like to be surer.”

  “Surer of what?” Judd asked.

  “That she’s still alive. If only I could talk to her myself . . .”

  Judd squeezed Michael’s hand. “She’s alive, son. I feel it in my gut. She’s alive, and we’re going to get her back.”

  It was not until Judd had left Michael and returned home that he began to weigh the consequences of the captors’ demand.

  Assuming they were telling the truth, Susan might come home safe—but only on the condition that Michael abandon the greatest opportunity of his political career.

  Judd knew, as a man familiar with the political wars, that too often a chance for the White House came only once. There was no way to predict what the political situation would be in two years, six years. This might be Michael’s only opportunity. If Michael gave in to the abductors’ demand, that opportunity was gone.

  Judd worried that Michael might jump at the chance to refuse the president’s nomination. Michael had always resisted Judd’s relentless pressure to be aggressive, to be ambitious, to move up faster, to achieve the greatest things in the shortest space of time. Michael had always wanted to move more slowly, to enjoy life. Michael wanted to be a person instead of just a success. The kidnappers’ demand might be just the escape he secretly craved.

  Judd even feared that Michael would be so wounded by what had happened this year that he would never run for high office again. Like Edward Kennedy, he might want to devote himself to the Senate for a lifetime. This concept was hateful to Judd. He knew Michael was capable of more, so much more than simply voting on bills in the Senate.

  Now a rare introspective thought entered Judd’s head, to the effect that perhaps his own ambition for Michael was being punished by the current situation. Perhaps in some obscure way it was Judd’s relentless pushing of Michael, Judd’s vicarious lust for the spotlight of history, that had put Susan at risk. If Judd had allowed Michael to live a normal life like other men, none of this would have happened.

  The thought was uncharacteristic, and it skipped out of Judd’s mind like a stone skipping off the surface of a lake. Returning to his concern for Susan, Judd called the head of his detective force and demanded that everything be done to determine who had Susan and whether she was still alive.

  “Find out who that voice on the tape is,” he said. “Find out where the tape was recorded. And don’t tell me you can’t do it.”

  Having taken the only constructive action he could take, Judd could now go back to comforting Michael and, in the solitude of his bedroom, of weeping more tears over Susan.

  ————

  COLIN GOSS’S advisors found him uncharacteristically agitated following the news about Susan Campbell.

  “I’m going to make a statement tonight,” he told them. “Something statesmanlike. We must put aside political differences while we make sure that this lovely young woman comes home safe. That sort of thing. Make it good, very good.”

  “Will do,” said Goss’s chief speechwriter, making a note on his pad.

  Goss dismissed the PR people and had a meeting with his detectives.

  “I want to know where she is,” he said. “I want to know before the FBI knows. And I want to know who took her.”

  The chief detective looked concerned. “All we really have to go on is the phone call,” he said. “We don’t really have a clue to who might be behind this.” His tone was faintly interrogative, as though he wondered what Goss might know on the subject.

  “That’s right,” Goss said, pouring mineral water into a crystal glass with a hand that shook slightly. “But we’re going to find out, and fast.”

  The detective gave Goss a slight smile. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt us too much if Campbell did drop out,” he said. “The president has been climbing in the polls ever since Campbell came on board. Take Campbell out and the president is very vulnerable. That could be a big advantage for us.”

  Colin Goss’s usual composure failed him at this moment.

  “Michael Campbell is going to become vice president,” he said. “No matter what happens.”

  The security man looked at Goss uncomprehendingly.

  “Michaelmust take the job,” Goss said.

  57

  —————

  Seattle, Washington

  April 10

  KAREN ARRIVED in Seattle on the red-eye from Washington at 5A .M., three hours behind East Coast time. She was physically exhausted but focused on her goal.

  She had located the Patricia Broderick of Grimm’s e-mail without much difficulty, using online address services and making a few phone calls.

  Patricia Broderick’s married name was Gaynor, but she still used Broderick as a professional name. She was a real-estate agent specializing in homes and condominiums. Her husband was a tax attorney. She had two children, a boy of eleven and a nine-year-old girl.

  Karen had called her long distance to arrange to look at some houses and condominiums in the greater Seattle area. She told the woman she was a journalist relocating to Seattle. A crisp, intelligent voice told her what a lovely city Seattle was, and promised to meet her at the appointed time.

  Karen had heard the audiotape of the demand made by Susan Campbell’s captors. She felt sure the voice of Susan Campbell on the phone was genuine. That unique edge of warmth and worry so typical of Susan was eloquently captured on the tape.

  As for the other voice, that of the captor—or the captors’ spokesperson—Karen had not recognized it at first. But a few repetitions and some thought had convinced her it was the voice she had overheard on the phone at Susan’s Georgetown home.

  Karen did not know exactly what to make of this. The demand that Michael Campbell remove himself from consideration for vice president was consistent with the vague threats made by Susan’s anonymous telephone crank. But why? Why should anyone want Michael out of the way? Who would benefit from his withdrawal?

  The first answer, of course, was Colin Goss. Ever since Michael’s selection to replace Dan Everhardt, the president had been gaining in the polls, and Goss had been losing. Goss hated Michael Campbell—that was well known. No man in Washington stood to gain more by getting rid of Michael than Goss.

  On the other hand, Joe Kraig’s challenge to Karen’s logic about the Boston episode had left her perplexed. If Goss was Michael’s enemy, why did Grimm’s hints about Boston lead to a seemingly guilty link—the fourteen sick girls—between Goss and Michael?

  Karen did not know the answer. But her instinct told her to trust Grimm and to follow the trail he offered her. She needed to know what Patricia Broderick knew. She would put the pieces together later.

  Karen met Patricia Broderick at her realty office at 10A .M. Patricia was a handsome, well-preserved woman in her forties who might well have been beautiful fifteen or twenty years ago.
She had thick auburn hair, freckled skin, and very large green eyes.

  For a change it was not raining in Seattle. The day was chilly but beautiful. Majestic mountains graced the horizon, and the blue waters of Puget Sound came in and out of view as Patricia Broderick drove Karen toward a new subdivision.

  Karen decided to waste no more time. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Broderick,” she began.

  “Oh, call me Pat! Everybody does.”

  “Pat, then. I needed to talk to you alone about a sensitive matter, and I didn’t want to alarm you at long distance. I’m here as a reporter.”

  A wary look came over the woman’s face. “I can’t imagine why a reporter would want to talk to me,” she said.

  “Let me assure you that anything you tell me will be off the record,” Karen said. “This is not an official interview. I’m working on something important, and time is of the essence. I just need as much of the truth as I can get my hands on. As quickly as possible.”

  “What is this in reference to?” Pat asked.

  There were two names on the tip of Karen’s tongue. She chose the latter.

  “Colin Goss.”

  “I have nothing to say about that.” The realtor’s jaw was set. A frown of distaste was on her face. Her eyes looked frightened.

  “Listen, Pat,” said Karen. “I don’t want to threaten you. What I’m working on has nothing to do with you directly. But the press is the press. Your name could come into it. All I want is a completely confidential interview.”

  The quid pro quo was on the table. The woman chewed her lip nervously as she drove.

  “What about?”

  Once again Karen had to gamble.

  “About the Donkey Game,” she said.

  There was a silence. Pat Broderick drove more and more slowly. At length she turned into the parking lot of a strip mall. She left the engine running as she turned to Karen.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “I’m talking about deep background,” Karen said. “If any of what I’m investigating finds its way into print, you will never be identified as a source.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pat Broderick looked stubborn.

  “Do you watch the news at all?” Karen asked. “Are you aware of what’s going on?”

  “You mean Susan Campbell?” The realtor’s big green eyes looked pained.

  Karen nodded. “I’m fighting against the clock, Mrs. Broderick. I’m working closely with the law enforcement agencies. We’re trying to get Susan Campbell back alive. That’s why I’m here.”

  Pat Broderick was silent.

  “I need background that will help me find out who abducted Susan Campbell, and why. And where she can be found,” Karen said.

  “Nothing I might tell you would help you find Mrs. Campbell,” Pat said.

  “It might help in ways that have nothing to do with you,” Karen rejoined. “Why not let me be the judge of that? Just tell me what you can, and I’ll be on my way.”

  There was a silence.

  “Listen, Miss Embry,” Pat Broderick said. “I’m worried about more than just being embarrassed in this. Susan Campbell is a hostage. I might turn up dead.”

  “Why do you say that?” Karen asked.

  “Colin Goss is not a man who plays with white gloves on.”

  “So you do know him,” Karen said.

  “I’m not saying I know him.” Pat Broderick looked fearful.

  “I know you know him,” Karen said. “And if you know him, he knows you.”

  There was a silence. Karen studied the other woman carefully. Her crisp realtor’s demeanor had vanished. She looked scared to death.

  “Listen,” Karen said. “If what you say is true, the safest thing you can do is to talk to me. I’m not a federal agent. I won’t subpoena you and drag you in front of a grand jury. What you say to me will never be attributed to you publicly. The law enforcement people can’t offer you a deal like that.”

  The other woman had turned a shade paler at the mention of subpoenas.

  “Please,” Karen said. “Help me and I’ll help you. I promise.”

  Pat Broderick sat for a long moment staring out through the windshield, her fingers drumming nervously on the wheel of the car.

  “Are you telling the truth about keeping my name out of it?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. You have my word. No one knows I’m here. Not even my agent.”

  “Are you wired?”

  “No. Feel free to search me.”

  The realtor ran a hand around Karen’s back and between her legs, in search of the telltale battery pack that went with a wire. Her hand trembled.

  “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it,” she said. “I want you to know that. I will never testify about this, ever.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t ask you to.”

  Patricia Broderick paused one more time, as though weighing a terrible choice.

  “All right,” she said with a sigh. “The Donkey Game? Yes, I know about it. I participated in it, more than once. Goss and his rich corporate friends would get several girls together and play games with them. Some of them were paid, like me, and knew what to do in advance. Others—so I heard—were lured in off the street. They were drugged before the game, and afterward they were either paid off or threatened, or—”

  “Or what?”

  She chewed her lip nervously. “I can’t testify to this personally, it was just a rumor. I heard some of them were made to disappear. I also heard Goss used some special drugs on them, to make them unable to talk about what had happened. You probably know his company is into truth serums and hypnotic drugs, stuff like that. Well, I heard he turned a few girls into mental vegetables after he had his way with them. I never knew if it was true. I didn’t want to know.”

  “What kind of girls?” Karen asked. “Hookers? Bar girls?”

  “No.” Pat Broderick shook her head. “Straight girls. Students. They had to be innocent types. That’s what Goss got off on. It was one thing to pay a call girl like me to take part in a bondage game or an S&M scenario. But Goss knew I was acting. The other girls weren’t acting. They were scared shitless. That’s what turned him on.” She exhaled nervously. “Fear is an aphrodisiac to him.”

  Karen nodded. “Tell me about the Donkey Game,” she said.

  “They would tie a girl down. Naked. With her ass exposed. They would play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. The man whose turn it was would be blindfolded. They would give him a tail made out of horsehair, with some glue on the end. He would make his way through the room, trying to find the girl. They placed bets on who would get to her fastest. Anyway, when he found her he would stick the tail to her ass. Then the reward was that he could have sex with her, right there. The others would cheer him on. Usually he would be drunk, so he needed all the encouragement he could get.” Patricia’s lips curled in distaste.

  “Was the man naked?” Karen asked.

  “Yes. The contestant was always naked. The others were dressed. They sat at tables, drinking company booze. It was like a nightclub, there was music playing.”

  “And you were one of these girls?” Karen asked.

  Pat nodded. “More than once. Sure. I pretended I was drunk or out of it. I would just sit there passively. It didn’t particularly bother me—I’ve done stranger things in my time. And I was being well paid for it, believe me. Colin Goss doesn’t stint where money is concerned.”

  She thought for a moment. “My sense of it was that the other men enjoyed the betting and the idea of screwing a helpless girl. In later years I began to feel that Goss got off particularly on the idea of the girl wearing a tail. Because of some kink of his own.” She looked at Karen. “He’s a sick guy. That was well known. The public knows nothing about it, naturally. If they did, he would be finished. In politics, anyway.” She darted a bitter glance at Karen. “But he has the press in his pocket, I’m sure you know that.”
>
  “Sick in other ways too?” Karen asked. “Other than the bondage?”

  Pat Broderick chewed her lip nervously. “Yes.” She glanced out the window, as though afraid her words could be heard by someone outside the car. “He likes pain. Inflicting it, I mean. He likes having total control over people. That could lead to a lot of things. He may have gotten worse since I knew him. Men, as they get older, get kinkier.”

  “What do you mean, worse?”

  “The thing about him was, he never attached any value to other people. They were all guinea pigs to him. There was a coldness in him . . . I can’t describe it. You had the feeling there was nothing he would shrink from. He didn’t care how other people felt. He lived only for himself.” Pat shook her head. “As I look back on it, that was the scariest thing. That way he had. That look in his eyes.”

  Karen was thoughtful. This was news to her, though she had heard vague rumors that Colin Goss had sexual skeletons in his closet.

  “So you’re saying that the Donkey Game didn’t bother you particularly,” she said. “You weren’t physically hurt.”

  “Right.”

  “But if you were a girl off the street,” Karen suggested, “a girl who had been lured there under false pretenses, and you were forced to do this against your will . . . it would be bad, wouldn’t it?”

  Patricia Broderick nodded. “Yes, it would be bad. Especially if you were drugged. As I say, it was only a rumor. But I wouldn’t put it past Goss. He was very into pain, humiliation. And he liked young girls.”

  “But you never saw anyone actually harmed during these games?” Karen asked.

  “Never. Not physically, anyway.” Pat shook her head. “But I was only a small part of Goss’s sex life. You have to remember that. What he did in other places, with other women, I have no idea. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “What was the connection of Michael Campbell to Goss in those days?” Karen asked with studied casualness. “Did he play a part in these games?”

  Pat Broderick’s face, which had softened a bit during the last few minutes, turned distant again.