“A name, that’s all. I’ll hand it over to the police, and a dozen agencies will track down the killer of Henry’s wife. All that’s left for me to do is get the name.”
“I’ll come,” Joan said, “but on one condition. You have to tell me everything that occurred in Denver. And no, I don’t care if your battery runs out. Tell me now. From the centre of the United States.”
And so he recounted the tale of the Denver shootout, from beginning to end, and from the middle of nowhere.
Passing the truck stop in Colby, Peter made another decision: when Devereau/Shaw appeared out of the long shadows, when Peter and Henry dealt with him, someone would have to tell his twisted story.
Peter hadn’t called ahead to give Henry his time of arrival, but when he reached Coppermount on the second afternoon, Elder Tynan was standing in the driveway. How did he know when I’d pull up? The Mormon appeared worn and worried, not his usual self; on the other hand, even a shabby Tynan projected an Old Testament willpower that impressed Peter.
Dusty and road-weary, Peter followed Tynan inside. “What’s wrong?”
“Henry’s off the wagon. A little bit,” the Mormon said penitently.
The big living room was empty. Peter looked for the green absinthe bottle.
“I’ve been having trouble with the shoulder bandage,” Tynan said.
Henry drifted in from his bedroom. He wore pyjama bottoms but no top; blood leaked through his shoulder compress.
But more striking was the powder on his nostrils.
“Hello, Peter. When did you get back?”
Henry moved in a robotic circle and disappeared into his wing of the house. Tynan went to the bar and gestured to a small wrought silver box sitting on a glass tray. “Pure White.”
Peter wasn’t sure what surprised him most: that Henry had latched on to a supply of cocaine or that Tynan was familiar with drug lingo. Pure White. Tynan was becoming a fixation for Peter. Perhaps he had a more complicated history than he disclosed. Walking the desert, building a house, mending the wounded. Was he striving for atonement?
Peter knew that cocaine produced ugly interactions with prescription painkillers, but he was too tired to press the matter with Henry or the old Mormon.
“Let him sleep it off. I need sleep myself.”
But Tynan himself had issues and wanted to get to them, Peter saw. Having been subjected to lectures by both Joan and Captain Brockhurst, Peter wasn’t keen on another. Tynan restlessly walked to the patio windows, gazed at the vast desert, and turned back to Peter.
“This vendetta of Henry’s. It has to end sometime, Peter.”
Peter’s response was more glib than he intended. “Isn’t that the nature of vendettas? To end?”
“I’m hoping Henry returns to the church someday.”
Peter wasn’t ready for this. He turned evasive, as he always did when religion came up. Religion was the antithesis of practicality, and Peter was always practical. “He has a long way to go, and the first stages of his recovery will be, I would say, ‘secular.’”
Tynan smiled. “You’re probably right. I’d at least like to get him into rehab, for both drugs and liquor.” Despite the Mormon’s tangent into religion, Peter liked and generally trusted him. Fortitude and loyalty were his virtues.
Peter considered going into Henry’s bedroom to change his bandage. Instead, he said, “So, Elder Tynan, are you trying to convert me?”
Tynan joked, “Sure. I’ll start with wise counsel, then see how we do … How is your investigation going, Peter?”
“I’m working out what to do next.” Peter surprised himself by sitting down on the couch and laying out his current dilemma in detail. He covered the re-investigation of Hollis Street, Devereau’s evaporation, and his own Unabomber strategy.
“You’re still determined to help Henry achieve his revenge?”
“Yes, in a word.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Peter. I’m not trying to talk anyone out of anything. But is this manhunt wearing both of you out?”
Everybody’s a critic, Peter thought. But he found his will collapsing, and he felt compelled to reveal his surfacing unease. Perhaps this was Tynan’s clever doing, the first ploy in his effort to convert him. “I’m afraid that Devereau will turn out to be ordinary, not the arch-villain I had him pictured as.”
“And you are sure that Devereau is the villain you encountered two decades ago in the Unabomber case?”
After a long minute, Peter said, “Yes.” Tynan, recognizing that he was in the presence of an experienced criminalist, did not push.
“He was a terrorist — once,” Peter added, recalling Brockhurst smashing his pistol down on the fragile Yoda.
They remained on the sofa, each man exhausted for his own reasons. Tynan turned directly to Peter. “You know the great thing about Mormonism? It gives us epic stories, all of them as intriguing as the Greek myths.”
“What does it do for the devout?”
“It makes you feel part of an important larger story.”
Peter wasn’t ready to be dislodged from his tepid Church of England upbringing. “Any epics of revenge in the Book of Mormon?”
“Oh, yes. Do you think, Peter, that I would try to dissuade you from your fully justified plan for retribution? What I’m skeptical about is your commitment to your own strategy.”
“Should I have to demonstrate more than I already have? Sorry, but vengeance versus balanced justice isn’t an issue I plan to debate.”
“I’m not asking you to buy into the metaphysics of the Bible or the Book of Mormon, Peter, but don’t do this alone. You have to take a larger perspective than your pigeonholing of Devereau as evil. You and Henry need each other. Your journey is nothing without Henry beside you, hunting with you. As for Devereau, I’ll concede he’s irredeemable.”
“I know how he fits into Henry’s epic nightmare. That’s all the metaphysics a policeman like me needs.”
“Don’t misinterpret me on the bottom line, Peter. It’s a practical matter.”
“You’re saying I need to understand my enemy?” He looked at Tynan in puzzlement.
The Elder hesitated. He stood and again walked to the patio windows. He swept his hand across the horizon in a grand, almost imperious gesture that told Peter that here was Tynan’s permanent home. Henry was entwined with it. He would defend this place and Henry, too. The Mormon turned to Peter.
“I’m not impugning your motives.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Oh, wasn’t I clear? I believe that Devereau is evil in every way.”
“Explain.”
“The worst betrayal of Theresa would be to wait around for Devereau to burst from hiding. You need to name the Devil and then deal with him. Be proactive.”
“You sound like you believe in righteous retribution.”
“I’m saying, Peter, you need to ratchet it up. Revenge should blaze white-hot.”
CHAPTER 38
Peter had planned to sleep in, but as usual he awoke a few minutes after dawn. It was too early for his urgent task, calling the warden of ADX Florence, the Colorado Supermax, and he went to the kitchen to make coffee. Henry wouldn’t be up for a while, he figured, and he could relax in solitude on the patio and consider where the Devereau manhunt stood.
On the way to the fridge, he looked for the silver box of white powder. He found it behind the granite bar. There was the glass tray, the cocaine, and a 500-peso note. He brought out the works and contemplated the white powder. On impulse, he rolled the banknote into a tube and clumsily leaned in to the line of blow set out on the glass. He drew a small amount of the powder into his right nostril.
Peter had tasted cocaine once, but never ingested. He was surprised at the instant high. It wasn’t exactly euphoria; rather, it came on as a flood of clarity and cold fire. Th
e living room lit up in fluorescent indigo and white. He padded to the broad windows, where the spectrum out in the desert broadened into canary-yellow, mauve, and orange waves of light. He went out to the patio. In his youth, he had embraced the pseudo-profound Teachings of Don Juan, with its hallucinations and sombre instructions for achieving personal insight. Castaneda, you old phony: at least you got the hallucination part spot-on.
The rush faded after twenty minutes. The feeling of supremacy had been compelling, but at the same time the coke had slipped a tincture of paranoia into his momentary rapture. He returned to the kitchen and made the coffee extra-strong.
He sat on a chaise longue on the terrace for an hour and free-associated. His greatest fear was that Ronald Devereau would disappear like a “wisp of smoke,” as he had put it to both Tynan and Brockhurst in his recent conversations. There is an element of cowardice in all terrorists, who think they can fight for grandiose principles while remaining anonymous. Both Devereau and the Unabomber had drafted their windy manifestos without any intention of publicly defending them. There had always been strong odds that Devereau would quit the game again and slip away. Brockhurst’s persuasive argument that Devereau wasn’t the ambitious ideological radical he once was only added to the urgency for Peter. And so, however unimpressed he was by the work of Furst and Ordway thus far, he would continue to cooperate with them. They had the network and would likely be the ones to bring in the murderer.
But he didn’t plan to tell them yet about his visit to the Unabomber.
As a priority, he had to address Henry’s drug habit. From the day Peter had arrived in Utah, Henry had veered from depression to resolve, crashing in each cycle; he had offered inconsistent help. Peter wasn’t naive: his friend’s tragedy had poisoned his life but now, if Henry’s cocaine indulgence came out, his career would be scotched.
Peter was considering this problem and contemplating going back to bed when Henry wandered out. He smiled as if nothing was wrong, and Peter actually felt relief wash over him. As Tynan had admonished, he and Henry inevitably remained partners in this vendetta, however fitful Henry’s engagement.
“What’s on our agenda, Peter?”
“Let’s go for a walk, Henry.”
It was a crazy thing to wander the desert in this heat; Henry did not even have to mention mad dogs and Englishmen. But he followed Peter out the patio doors without a word.
“Something’s been bothering me, Henry. That night in Denver. Why did González rush into the marijuana store like that?”
They were a hundred feet beyond the house. Henry squinted against the sun. “I was behind González all the way into the warehouse,” he began. “He barely hesitated. It was strange. José was with us, but he remained behind me. I figured he was trusting me to play backup, but maybe it was his way of being protective of me, on González’s orders.”
“What was González’s mood?” Peter said.
“Determined. Fatalistic. He walked right into the bomb.”
“And you said José came to see you at the hospital? Why?”
Henry took a moment, and when he spoke there was a new assuredness in his voice. “These Mexicans aren’t sentimental people. I learned that from talking to González in Wendover. They kill their enemies without regret, and that was certainly Avelino’s intention in Denver.” Henry scuffed the pebbly ground. “José came to the hospital to bare his soul. He said something had changed in González last year. He had become obsessed with finding the man who shot his brother. When he heard about Hollis Street and the Watsons, he figured out, with details from Boog DeKlerk about the pipe bomb, that Devereau was the man he wanted. He was sure, José said, and he became single-minded, obsessed, and neglected his drug empire. When he convened the meeting out in Wendover, he took a liking to me, and he instructed José to follow up if anything went wrong with the Denver sting. José feels guilty about my injuries.”
“And a silver box full of coke is his way of atoning,” Peter said.
“Sure helps with the pain!”
“How are your wounds, Henry?”
“Not bad at all. I can drive myself now to the clinic.”
Peter decided to leave the coke issue for the time being. “Henry, you asked about our agenda.”
“Yup. What’s our plan?”
“We’ll put a notice in the Deseret Star. An ad for a killer.” He handed over a sheet of paper. Henry read the scribbled words:
Insight into our modern dilemma!
Recently unearthed masterpiece, FIRE AND BRIMSTONE
Write for your copy, Free!
Pay postage only
Box 1234 …
“I like it!”
On their circle back to the house, Peter said, “I have two more developments to tell you about.” He explained his plan to interview Kaczynski, and Joan’s arrival.
This news appeared to revitalize Henry. They quickly refined the newspaper squib, and Henry insisted on calling it in to the Deseret Star.
No sooner had he placed the ad than Ordway called to say that his team had issued a warrant for the arrest of Ronald Devereau, also known as Casper Shaw, on suspicion of murder and arson. The Watsons were the only named victims. He and Furst had developed a new sketch in collaboration with Phil Mohlman. They emailed it to the Coppermount house, and Henry and Peter ruled it to be as good as any of the many past efforts by witnesses; Peter noted that the detectives had taken pains to avoid replicating the classic Unabomber hoodie-with-sunglasses drawing. What surprised and pleased Peter was the fine-print description of Devereau’s sins, albeit a mundanely phrased reference to “known involvement in narcotics trafficking and possibly in domestic terrorism conspiracies.” Inclusion of terrorism made strategic sense if the new team wanted to draw Homeland agencies into a dragnet.
“Do we retract the newspaper posting?” Henry asked after the phone call.
“I don’t think so,” Peter said. “At the same time, I didn’t mention it to Ordway.”
When Peter called the Bureau of Prisons office in Denver, he was told that neither the warden nor the deputy warden of the Florence Supermax was available to talk, and he was shunted to a Corporal Youngman in Special Investigative Services.
“I’m speaking with Chief Inspector Peter Cammon of New Scotland Yard?” The stiff voice of the corporal wasn’t encouraging, but then: “The warden instructed me to extend every courtesy to you. It will be feasible for you to visit inmate Kaczynski under secure arrangements, but we require details regarding yourself and the active law enforcement process that supports your contact with him. Now, I am told that you’re coming here under the auspices of Captain Brockhurst of the Kansas Highway Patrol.”
Brockhurst had come through.
Peter carried the phone to the patio and allowed the morning to bathe him in brightness and warmth. The day was starting well, and he felt the manhunt accelerating. Reaching out to Brockhurst in Topeka and, likewise, embracing the Watson Team’s fresh warrant had toppled the wall he had built around Devereau’s terror-linked past. It was time to be completely open with the Unabomber’s minders on the Kaczynski-McVeigh-Devereau connection. Peter took most of an hour to explain all this to Youngman, after which he artfully brought the tortuous saga back to the simple, distilled legal process of the Furst and Ordway warrant. “Obtaining the birth name will bolster the warrant, Corporal, hopefully enabling the capture of a man who has slaughtered two married couples on his own street.”
Corporal Youngman asked few questions, other than clarifying the three names to be given to Kaczynski: Jim Riotte, Ronald Devereau, Casper Shaw.
“Of course, Chief Inspector, the inmate will have to agree to the visit, but …” Peter understood that Kaczynski would likely agree. Peter wasn’t flattered: Ted would welcome human interaction with anyone. “Assuming he okays it for three Fridays from now, could you drive down to Denver this week for a se
curity briefing and a few signatures? No need to travel all the way to Florence for these preliminaries.”
Peter promised to meet Youngman in the Bureau’s suburban office in Denver on the upcoming Thursday. Hanging up, he debriefed Henry on the latest developments, and they agreed that the case was picking up speed. Peter silently wondered how he would stay focused on showing Joan around the desert while he waited for his appointment with the Unabomber. But overall, the tumblers were clicking into place, and Peter was infused with the policeman’s singular zeal that comes from the certainty that the investigative process is advancing.
Four hours later, Youngman called back with amazing news. Upon being shown the three names, Ted Kaczynski had insisted on meeting with the English detective as soon as possible. Ted didn’t say why — indeed didn’t have to, for he knew every nuance of his rights. The ADX warden lacked any reason to refuse a meeting with Peter on a regular visiting day.
“Indeed, Mr. Cammon, we see no harm in allowing a visit this Friday, if that suits you. To be honest, we prefer to give ground on the small issues and save our gunpowder for the bigger conflicts. He has no other visits scheduled that day.”
Peter understood. “This is a good sign, Corporal. Mention of the names to Kaczynski triggered a strong response. It signifies to me that he knows the identity of our man.”
“I agree,” Youngman stated.
Youngman pledged to email a list of the rules for visitors, but they would skip the security briefing. Peter managed to reach Joan at the cottage and promised that Henry would pick her up at Salt Lake City International on Friday.
CHAPTER 39
For vaguely ascetic reasons, Peter drove from urban Denver to the ADX Florence without using the GPS; it seemed right to get semi-lost in the desert. Down the middle of Colorado, Interstate 25 eventually branched west onto the narrower Colorado 115, and he found himself for a few minutes out of sight of any settlement. He luxuriated in a broad landscape that was scarred only by a few wandering fences and wheel tracks that meandered into the horizon. The first road sign he met, and the next few as well, informed him that Florence, Population 3,653, lay up ahead, but he ended up bypassing the town without seeing it.
The Verdict on Each Man Dead Page 29