He had expected to call on the Vice-President for publicity purposes. To be greeted officially by the Vice-President was a symbol of one’s coming of age in the Washington political arena. But Agnew had resigned earlier in the month, and Gerald Ford of Michigan had not yet been confirmed by Congress. There was no one to greet him.
Roger Tompkins, who was handling the advance work for the tour, did the next best thing and got him invitations to all the good parties during the three days he would be in town. Which suited Stoner just fine since they promised to be the only bright spots in an otherwise endless round of meetings and talks. Even better, a California congressman had promised to fix him up with one of the young girls on the Senate office staff. He was told they all did it like rabbits. A small-game hunter himself, Stoner could hardly wait.
After Washington he would be heading for New York on Tuesday, where he was to appear on a TV news program Wednesday evening and then on Meet the Press the following Sunday. It was national exposure of the most vital kind and he fully expected to be a smash. Of course he would say all the right things and conduct himself in a very virile masculine manner. Smart and sexy. How could he fail?
The possibility never seriously entered his mind.
ON SUNDAY night Adam Kenton dreamed that he and Chess Man finally came face-to-face. They were on the Golden Gate Bridge, on the same streetcar coming into San Francisco from Mann County. Only the streetcar somehow ran without rails and had enormous windows, all of them painted black. People constantly walked back and forth in the dingy, crowded aisles. At some point Kenton and Chess Man came together. They immediately recognized each other.
“You!”
“You!”
Accusation was in both voices. Kenton saw Chess Man reach for a weapon and quickly pounced on him. The two men struggled as the streetcar swung wildly out of control and smashed through guard rails until it plummeted from the bridge, falling finally in an endless arc through time and space and black bottomless ether.
When Kenton awakened from his disturbed sleep the strongest impression was of Chess Man’s face, his identity. Kenton had known him right away. It was Otto Klemp.
CAPTAIN BARNEY HOLLIMAN was a good cop and a staunch Republican. When he got the letter from his friend Alex Dimitri in New York he noted with particular interest the part about the Newstime reporter who was trying to corner Vincent Mungo before the police. That sounded like interference with police business, or so it seemed to Holliman. Such interference was illegal and could lead to embarrassing consequences for the magazine.
The captain didn’t know the politics of Newstime since he wasn’t a reader, but he regarded most of the media as liberal and therefore highly suspect. On that basis he thought he might pass along his item to a friend on the President’s internal security staff.
IN HIS college days in the Midwest Franklin Bush had been an editor of the undergraduate newspaper, and there were those who could still recall the sting of his biting criticism. Anything liberal or flamboyant was sure to draw his ire. After graduation he had turned to politics, working as a legislative aide to several Republican leaders before joining the White House staff in the spring of 1972. Though he didn’t turn out editorials any longer, his writing now confined to reports and recommendations for proposed legislation, he read actively a wide spectrum of the press and was as easily at home with the Christian Science Monitor as the National Review.
One of his coeditors on the college paper was a young man who became a professional reporter and was now on the staff of the Washington Post. Bush saw him once in a while for a few beers and a sandwich even though Pete Allen’s paper almost daily vilified the President. Allen was on the metro desk handling mostly nonpolitical news, and so Bush did not hold him personally responsible for what the Ben Bradlees and Carl Bernsteins and Bob Woodwards were doing to the Nixon government.
At his invitation the two of them met at a bar near the Post on Tuesday afternoon. Bush bought the drinks and steered his companion to a dark booth in the back corner. He was so secretive about it that the bartender wondered if the wrong clientele were beginning to frequent his place.
“I need some information,” Bush said when they were settled. “Thought maybe you could help.”
“What’s it all about?” asked Allen.
Bush told him of the report from the Committee to Reelect the President and the possibility that Newstime was working up a hatchet job on the President via Caryl Chessman.
“Chessman?” Allen was startled. “That’s a long time ago.”
“Our second year of college when they executed him. I remember you wrote an editorial blasting the state of California for its action. You called it murder and blamed everyone from the governor on up and down. You were really incensed about it.”
“I remember,” said Allen.
“That’s why I came to you, I need to know if there was any connection between Chessman and Nixon other than the fact that he was Vice-President at the time. You know all about Chessman. Can you think of any tie-up that could be used now against the President? Anything at all?”
“Is this for publication?”
“Christ, no, strictly off the record. I’m asking you for a favor, that’s all. I just don’t want to send this kind of thing upstairs unless there’s something to it. He’s got enough troubles.”
“Chessman and Nixon,” Allen said slowly. “Interesting.”
“Must be, for Newstime to pull this Adam Kenton out of California to work on it. I hear he’s the best they got.”
Allen gave no sign of having heard the remark and Bush attributed it to professional jealousy.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly. “Any connections?”
“Might be,” said the other nodding his head. “They’re both from the same general area around L.A.”
“So are Mickey Mouse and Charles Manson.”
“Chessman’s full name,” said Allen deep in thought, “was Caryl Whittier Chessman. Named after John Greenleaf Whittier, the poet. Chessman’s father was a direct descendant of Whittier. There’s a town near L.A. that was also named after the poet. And in the town is a college, again with the same name.”
“Whittier College in California,” whispered Bush. “Nixon went there. He was undergraduate president.”
“Exactly.” Allen smiled. “Just a coincidence of course. Now if I remember correctly, the town was once a Quaker settlement and the college a Quaker school. Caryl Chessman’s family was Quaker, going all the way back to Whittier and even before. And Richard Nixon’s people—”
“—were Quakers too.” It was almost a shout.
No one spoke for a long moment.
“Just another coincidence,” Bush finally said, shaking his head.
“Of course. What else could it be?”
“Lots of people went to that college. And there are millions of Quakers.”
“But not all of them get to be Vice-President,” said Allen, staring into his glass. “You remember how long Chessman was on death row?”
“Nine or ten years, wasn’t it?”
“Twelve. He went through seven stays of execution during those years. Each time his lawyers hoped to get the original verdict set aside. They had plenty of good cause too—everything from outright fraud regarding the trial transcript to denial of due process. While all that was going on year after year Chessman saw dozens of confessed killers get commuted to life or even go free. But his turn never came. The state wanted his life, wanted it badly because he had decided to go outfighting. Finally it seemed he had used up all his chances. The execution was set for February 1960.
“That same month the President of the United States, Eisenhower, was due to go to South America on a goodwill and defense-treaty tour. With preparations already made, reports were sent to Washington from a number of South American countries citing the certainty of anti-American demonstrations if Chessman were killed. The word from Uruguay was especially disturbing. Why there instead of Peru or
Colombia is another story, but it was serious enough to frighten the striped pants off the State Department. They didn’t know what to do, especially in view of the bad mauling given the Vice-President a few years earlier. You might remember the famous picture of Nixon’s car being shaken by an angry mob, with him still in it. Anyway, communications were suddenly opened between Washington and Sacramento. The next thing anyone knew, Pat Brown had granted Chessman a sixty-day reprieve, his eighth stay of execution but the first time California had done something for him. Eisenhower went to South America and there were no demonstrations. Everybody was happy. Except Chessman. When the sixty days were up Eisenhower was back and Chessman was out. He got the gas and everyone got the message. It had been a political trade-off, sixty days’ grace—allowing the President safe travel—for a promise of noninterference in states’ rights, at least in the matter of one Caryl Chessman. When it was over they pulled the plug. But the thing I most remember was this rumor at the time that the one behind the whole stinking deal was the Vice-President himself, Richard Milhous Nixon.”
Silence seemed to flood the bar as the two men became aware of their own breathing. Each sat stonestill with his thoughts of the political dealing that had gone on during Chessman’s final days. Toward the front the bartender was mixing martinis for a couple of recent arrivals, while several regulars stared moodily into the silvered mirror between the two cash registers.
“Did you ever see any confirmation of this rumor?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. I was just a college kid. What did I know?”
“The Post might have something on it. Could you check the files for me, on the quiet? Shouldn’t take you long.”
“I suppose so,” said Allen. “But what would it mean now? At the most, it would be embarrassing to Nixon. It’s not like anything illegal was done. That kind of double-dealing goes on all the time in politics, and somebody always gets hurt. You know that.”
Bush shrugged. “I just want to make sure before I send the report upstairs. Do it for me, okay?”
“I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
“Call me at home on this, will you? Not the White House. Too many phones there—have problems.”
Allen looked at him sharply. “You mean the whole White House is bugged?”
“I didn’t say that.” Bush was flustered. “Just call me at home. Okay?”
“Sure, sure. No problem,” said Allen, suddenly thoughiful.
“Much appreciated.” Bush got up from the booth. “I’ll do the same for you sometime.”
“You bet you will,” the Washington Post reporter murmured to himself as he followed the White House staff member out the door.
WHILE BISHOP was busily dissecting his fourth New York victim, the third not yet having been discovered, Adam Kenton conducted a long phone conversation with Amos Finch in Berkeley. Wednesday was an early class day for Finch, and Kenton caught him already back home by 1:30 P.M. California time. The Newstime investigator introduced himself and mentioned that he was doing a cover story on Vincent Mungo. Reliable sources had told him that Dr. Finch, an eminent criminologist, did not believe Mungo was the maniacal killer. Neither did he.
Would Finch comment on his belief?
Finch would and did, at great length. It was obvious to him that a clod like Vincent Mungo could not commit such a brilliant series of crimes. What was being seen was nothing less than the work of a classic mass murderer, in the very best tradition of Jack Ripper and Bruno Lüdke. Certainly the outstanding example in recent American history and perhaps eventually of the twentieth century. One who apparently began his public life about the time of Mungo’s escape. Perhaps he killed Mungo or the man simply disappeared of his own volition or even died accidentally.
Finch mentioned John Spanner’s theory, now discarded, that Mungo’s partner on the night of the escape was the one they sought. His name was Thomas Bishop.
Bishop? Wasn’t he dead?
Killed by Mungo during the escape. Spanner had once believed it was the other way around. Finch explained the circumcision angle and how it had failed to support the theory. Which left them with no clue to the maniac’s identity.
Kenton had no interest in the dead. What he needed was flesh and blood. Did Finch have any specific suggestions about what kind of man the maniac might be?
Indeed he did! As a matter of fact, he was in the process of collecting material and writing preliminary notes for a book about the Chess Man. All the great mass murderers had style. Chess Man had style too, and he was rapidly getting the numbers as well.
As the criminologist ran through the litany of qualities such a monster needed—the sum total of which was a superior mentality and a genuine alienation—Kenton kept thinking that he was no longer alone in his convictions about his man. He wasn’t exactly warmed by the thought. It was always more fun to be the only one who knew something. At least until he wrote about it.
Being a good newspaperman, Kenton did not reveal his own beliefs on the matter or any of his sources for those beliefs. He could, for example, have mentioned his idea that Chess Man had killed his own mother and was now reliving that experience. Or that there was some connection between his parents and Caryl Chessman. Instead he pumped all the information he could from Finch, some of which he found most useful in his laborious and painful reconstruction of the killer’s psychic identity.
The two men promised to stay in touch. Both shared, for the present, a consummate passion in mass murder.
Afterward Kenton spent a half hour at his dictaphone machine. Then he called Senator Stoner’s former mistress in Sacramento. She denied knowing Stoner and professed to have no knowledge of any tapes. Kenton repeated his name and phone at the magazine, should she change her mind. He was of course prepared to pay handsomely for such merchandise.
She hung up on him, but not before noting the name and number.
AT 8:30 that evening Pete Allen dialed Franklin Bush’s home in Georgetown. Allen was still in his office at the newspaper.
“I just finished checking our files for 1960, the first five months right through Chessman’s execution. It was just the way I said. Rumors, but nothing definite. The original communique to Governor Brown came from the State Department, over the signature of an assistant secretary of state. There were purported phone conversations between Washington and Sacramento, one of which was reported to have been initiated by Vice-President Nixon. But again no substantiation.”
“Maybe not at the time,” said Bush softly, “and maybe not from the Washington end. But there could be something in California that ties the President to the Chessman thing.”
“Could be,” admitted Allen, “but I still say, so what. Nixon has always been known as a hard-nose. And there’s nothing wrong with a Vice-President interfering in State Department matters. Maybe Eisenhower asked him to see what he could do. Or maybe Newstime is interested in Chessman for another reason, having nothing to do with Nixon. You ever think of that?”
Bush thanked Allen for his help and promised to return the favor. He put the phone down, his mind made up. In the morning he would send the report to Bob Gardner himself Which meant it would probably get to the President. Let them figure it out. He had enough to do holding things together on his level.
At the Washington Post Pete Allen typed up a brief summary of his meeting with the White House aide. Included was the observation that the White House might be tapping most of its own phones, beyond even what the Watergate hearings had disclosed. On the way out he dropped the memo on the desk of his section chief. Better safe than sorry, said the conscientious young man to himself as he turned up his mackinaw collar on a wind-swept and deserted 15th Street NW.
By the time he got home and to bed, October had slipped quietly into November.
Eighteen
BISHOP SLEPT soundly that night, a long luxurious sleep devoid of the nightmarish monsters and hideous demons that forever filled his nocturnal hours. When he finall
y rose, fully rested, it was already after nine o’clock Thursday morning. He boiled the water for his breakfast coffee while he dutifully brushed his teeth and did his daily exercises. With infinite care he then made up his bed, folding the sheet and blanket precisely, as he had learned to do all those years in the institution. That over, he sat silently at the breakfast table, coffee cup in hand, and stared at the dismembered body of the young woman spread out on the cold cement floor in front of him.
It had been one week since the killing in Greenwich Village and for most of that time Bishop had gone quietly about his life, doing whatever was necessary to insure his safety and continued comfort. On the previous Thursday he had deposited an additional $2,000 in the bank under the name of Jay Cooper, bringing the total to $4,000 in the savings account. According to the plan he had devised, a second $4,000 was soon to follow. Another $8,000 waited to be deposited in a different bank as soon as the new identity was secured. The remaining $6,000 of Margot Rule’s money would be kept hidden at home for living expenses and emergencies. He had found several loose bricks at the back end of the long wall and had chiseled out enough of a space behind them to hide the bills. It was a good job for a man who had never worked with his hands. Only a close examination would reveal that the mortar was not intact.
That afternoon he had gone again to Modell’s on lower Broadway across from City Hall, where he purchased more wool socks as well as a six-foot muffler and an insulated vest to wear under his suede leather jacket. Not used to the New York chill, he had no intention of freezing to death. Wrapped in wool, wearing his hunter’s fur-lined cap, his sheepskin-collared jacket and heavy brown boots with rubber soles and heels, Bishop believed he might be able to survive.
By Reason of Insanity Page 45