A President In Peril (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  I phoned in my report of the rabbi's shooting to a rewrite man on the city desk. Minutes later I got a call from Hal Murray, the day city editor. "Snap, Maloney wants to talk to you; hold the line."

  The next voice on the line was that of the managing editor. "Mr. Malek," he said, "I just read your piece on the rabbi. May I assume the shooting was done by the same people who killed the police officer and the fireman?"

  "So they claim, sir. I was going to call you. I just got another one of those anonymous phone calls taking credit."

  "All right," he said after exhaling, "I think it's time to tie the three shootings together–but without mentioning this so-called New Reich group. Get some sort of quote from the police."

  I told him I would, informed my press room colleagues of the managing editor's decision, and went back down to Fergus Fahey's office. He was far from overjoyed.

  "Shit, Snap, I hope to hell you're not going to call this the work of an anti-Semitic group in your story. That's all we need–fanning the flames of ethnic hatred."

  "You didn't let me finish, Fergus. When you interrupted me, I was about to say that Maloney specifically said I was not, repeat not to include anything in the piece about the notes or calls I've received from this hate group. Or the anti-Semitic nature of this slimy bunch."

  "But you still plan to link the three events, right?"

  "Well, is there any doubt whatever in your mind now that they are linked?"

  Fahey slouched in his chair, hands jammed into pants pockets. "And I suppose you want a quote from me?"

  "Yep."

  He lit a Lucky Strike from the pack I had dropped on his desk earlier. "Okay, here it is: 'We have reason to believe that there may be a connection among these three unfortunate occurrences, but we are using all the resources at our disposal to continue investigating each of them.' That good enough?"

  "Fergus, you are indeed a true grammarian," I said.

  "Eh? What're you talking about?"

  "Nine people in ten would have said 'there is a connection between these three, etc.' But you correctly said among, because there were more than two occurrences."

  He scowled. "Well, after all, I did go to school. Loyola Academy, to be exact. And those Jesuits pounded the grammar into you–almost literally. They really knew their stuff. By the way, I assume you realize that as a result of the story you're doing, there almost surely will have to be a press conference."

  "Yeah, that occurred to me, too. Well, the commissioner needs to keep a high profile. It'll do him good."

  Fahey's answer was another scowl.

  Chapter Ten

  C3 A1 C3 O1 P3 H4 O1 N1 Y1

  (n) 1..harsh, discordant sound; dissonance.

  2. a discordant and meaningless mixture of different sounds

  My story made page one the next morning under the headline RABBI'S SHOOTING MAY BE LINKED TO TWO KILLINGS.

  Because I had briefed my so-called competitors in the press room after talking to Fahey, they each also filed a story linking the episodes and quoting Fahey, and none of them mentioned either The New Reich or anti-Semitism. The Sun-Times ran its article on page three with the headline CRAZED GUNMAN ON LOOSE?

  I had yet to see the early editions of the afternoon papers when we got word that Commissioner Prendergast had announced a press conference for eleven A.M. in the second-floor auditorium.

  "So we're about to get the official word on how Chicago's Finest will leave no stone unturned in its effort to track down the mad shooter," Packy Farmer scoffed. "Hell, if good ol' Snap hadn't pried a quote out of Fahey, we wouldn't have any place to go at eleven this morning."

  "I do believe you're right about that, Packy," Dirk O'Farrell put in. "We owe much to our fine Mr. Malek and his resourcefulness. He is a true inspiration to us all. My only beef is that every time there's a high-level press conference in this building, the geniuses who run my city desk decide to send over some hot-shot reporter to cover it, forgetting that I'm even here."

  "Same at the Herald-American," Farmer groused. "You can bet that Crenshaw will muscle in, acting self-important as usual and asking questions that have already been answered. From the day he won that damn Pulitzer years ago when he was with the Washington Star, he's been the fair-haired boy with our editors. Shit, he's been coasting ever since we hired him; I doubt if he averages more than a byline or two a month. Snap, I suppose the Trib will send some star over too, huh?"

  "Likely," I said, "they usually do. I figure it will be either Walker or Hammond–they're the latest fair-haired boys in the newsroom. I've complained a couple of times, for all the good it does."

  "Sorry to break up this gripe session, gentlemen, but we have almost two hours before the commissioner's little party," Anson Masters scolded. "Which is plenty of time for everyone to get to their beats."

  Thus chastened, we each left the press room in search of news. This meant, of course, that I went to the office of Chief of Detectives Fergus Fahey.

  "Any idea what our commissioner's going to say?" I asked him as I settled into one of his unmatched guest chairs.

  "What the hell can he say, other than to basically paraphrase what I told you yesterday. I huddled with him first thing this morning and he feels as I do–and as your bosses at the Trib apparently do–that we don't want this Nazi business to get out if we can possibly prevent it."

  "And you'll be happy to learn that apparently the other papers seem to feel the same way," I said.

  "Yeah, I'm glad to hear that. It's not often that the press and I agree on anything."

  "Now, Fergus, that comment was not necessary. All these years I've been your staunch defender. I've even cleaned up your quotes for publication on more than one occasion."

  "Wait a minute! Didn't you just compliment me yesterday on my grammar?"

  "I'm not talking so much about your grammar, Chief. It's your use of certain…how should I put it…unsavory words."

  "By that you mean cursing, swear words?"

  "Since you phrase it so baldly, yes."

  "Hah! You know damn well that even if you tried to use any of those words in a quote from me your editors wouldn't let them get into the paper. Your Colonel McCormick would have himself a conniption and you'd be out on the street peddling the paper instead of writing for it."

  "All right, Fergus, you're just too quick for me this morning," I laughed, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "But just remember, we newspaper types help make you law enforcement types look good."

  "I could argue that, Snap, but I'm not going to. I'll see you at the press conference."

  At five minutes before the appointed hour, the overheated, drab auditorium in Police Headquarters was jammed. As Packy Farmer and Dirk O'Farrell had predicted, all of the papers had sent front-line reporters from their city desks to 'help' those of us on the Headquarters beat–including Anson Masters of the Daily News, who appeared none too pleased to see his own paper's latest hotshot breeze into the room wearing a trench coat and a smirk. The Trib sent over Mark Hammond, who winked at me from across the room.

  Several radio stations covered the conference as well, along with two television stations, newcomers to these scenes. They added to the congestion in the already cramped auditorium with their cumbersome cameras and lights.

  Just after the hour, a door at the back of the room swung open and in walked Police Commissioner John C. Prendergast, followed by Fergus Fahey. The commissioner, who was both tall and bulky, strode to a lectern, with Fahey planted on his left. Shoulder to shoulder, they looked like a pair who might have anchored the line on the University of Illinois football team three-plus decades earlier.

  The square-faced, white-haired Prendergast pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and cleared his throat several times. "Gentlemen," he said, looking over the gathering and then at his paper, "Mr. Fahey and I thank you all for coming this morning. As you know from reading the newspapers or hearing reports on the air today, we have a serious situation in our midst.
In recent days, there have occurred the murders of both a police officer and a fireman, and the shooting and wounding of a rabbi. We have reason to believe the same individual or individuals may be responsible for all three heinous actions.

  "When I was named to this position almost three years ago, I made a commitment to run hoodlums and racketeers out of town. My commitment to hunting down murderers is equally strong and–"

  A pugnacious radio reporter cut in. "Commissioner, what–"

  "I am not finished!" Prendergast snapped, making a slicing motion with his palm. "Mr. Fahey and I will answer questions later."

  He cleared his throat again, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, and returned his gaze to the sheet he held. "As I said, we have reason to believe the same person or persons may have committed all three of these dastardly acts. As commissioner, I am pledging the full resources of our entire force–both the uniformed and plainclothes components–in seeking out the perpetrators.

  "However, the Police Department, even with its considerable resources and unmatched dedication to duty, also needs the help of the citizenry of this great city. To that end, I am authorized, through the good offices of several civic-minded individuals, to offer a reward of $25,000 for information leading to the capture and conviction of said perpetrators. Chief Fahey, do you have anything to add at this point?"

  "Only that I firmly echo the commissioner's determination to find whomever is responsible for these cowardly and despicable deeds," Fergus said hoarsely, looming above the radio and TV microphones clamped to the rostrum. "We will, repeat will, find the guilty party or parties. And we earnestly invite the aid of the public in this mission." He turned to the commissioner and nodded, then stepped aside.

  "And now," the commissioner asked, "are there questions?"

  A half-dozen voices squawked at once. Prendergast halted the cacophony by slapping a meaty hand on the rostrum. "You," he said, pointing to a short guy in front I didn't recognize and who I assumed was from a radio station.

  "Commissioner, what do you know about the shooter?"

  "I'm afraid I can't say at present," he answered. "What information we have in our possession at this time must remain confidential in the interests of the ongoing investigation."

  Anson Masters piped up from near the back of the room. "Mr. Prendergast, can you tell us who put up the reward money?"

  "Again, I'm afraid I am not allowed to say, Mr. Masters. Three pillars of our community–I'm sure you would recognize their names instantly–joined together to offer the reward, but they specifically requested that they remain anonymous."

  "Commissioner, have you been able to ascertain any common motive for these shootings?" asked the dark-haired fellow with a chiseled profile who anchored one of the ten P.M. news programs that had begun appearing on the local television stations.

  Prendergast paused and scowled. "Not…not as yet. Do you have anything to add to that, Chief?" he asked, turning to Fahey.

  "No. We have been pursuing several theories, but as yet nothing has panned out."

  "Does the fact that a rabbi was shot suggest to you there's an anti-Jewish motive here?" posed the Herald-American's Crenshaw, the object of Packy Farmer's earlier derision.

  "Not at all," Fahey snapped, perhaps a little too quickly. "Neither the young policeman nor the firefighter were Jewish."

  Now it was Packy's turn: "Have you seen any pattern regarding where these events have occurred?"

  "You can answer that question as well as I can," Fahey responded in an acerbic tone. "As you know, two of the shootings were close together–41st and Western, and 3900 South Damen–but the rabbi was wounded up in Rogers Park, some twelve or thirteen miles away, so there goes any South Side theory. We're really not looking at this in geographic terms right now."

  Several more reporters fired off questions, all of which got vague answers, to the point where I almost began feeling sorry for the commissioner and Fergus. Finally, as Prendergast was about to close the session, the feisty radio guy who had been cut off by him earlier blurted out, "With all due respect, sir, we haven't gotten one solid piece of information from either of you. Isn't there something else you can tell us, something we can hang our stories on?"

  "Mr. Fahey and I are not here to write your stories or your broadcasts for you," Prendergast said testily as he took off his glasses. "We have been as honest as we can at this time, and if what we have said does not generate headlines, you all will have to do the best you can. We are in the midst of a very serious situation and the Police Department will do its best to keep you, and through you the public, apprised of our progress. Good day, gentlemen."

  With that, he and Fahey left through the door they had entered earlier, as more questions bounced off their backs.

  Back at our desks, we held a post-mortem on the press conference. "Waste of time," Dirk O'Farrell snorted. "I could have predicted every word that was said. I guess Prendergast is a decent enough commissioner, but Christ, nothing got accomplished this morning, not one damn thing."

  "Are you really surprised, Dirk?" Packy Farmer posed. "When's the last time you went to a press conference in this building when something significant got said?"

  "They gotta go through the motions, though," I said. "Besides, this way all our papers have an excuse to run another piece on the shootings."

  "Even if we aren't the writers," O'Farrell huffed.

  "Now, gentlemen," Anson Masters put in, "no use dwelling on what's done. We just have to take it all in stride."

  "Yeah, Antsy, just like you were taking it in stride in the press conference," Farmer needled. "If looks could have killed, your glare at that trench-coat-wearing hotspur your paper sent over would have struck him dead on the spot."

  Masters colored slightly but said nothing. For once I felt a touch of sympathy for him and was about to come to his defense when my phone rang.

  I wasn't surprised by the caller. "Hello, Mr. Malek. We have not spoken for some time."

  "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked, coming down on the last word with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

  "We were delighted this morning to see that your story linked the three shootings," the nasal voice said. "That's progress. But still, I am disappointed to say, no mention was made of The New Reich. Do you still remain unconvinced that we were responsible in each case?"

  "I continue to reserve judgment. Any chance of you and me sitting down together for a chat?"

  The noise that came through the receiver was meant to be a laugh but sounded more like an asthmatic attack. When the hacking had run its course, the voice rasped, "You certainly are persistent, Mr. Malek, I will give you that."

  "It's all part of being a reporter," I said, trying to keep the conversation going. "However, you are a fine one to be accusing someone else of persistence."

  "Point well taken, Mr. Malek. As I have repeatedly told you, I will be happy to go over the philosophy on The New Reich in detail–on the telephone. Of course, we'd have to break that interview up into five-minute calls. We can't have you trying to trace them, now, can we?" he said with a dry laugh.

  "So, dash from phone booth to phone booth? Calling me from a different one each time?"

  "Mr. Malek, I'm willing to make that sacrifice to get our word out."

  "As I have repeatedly told you, it's no deal unless we meet. The Tribune does not, as a rule, use an anonymous source, particularly when that source may be a murderer."

  "Oh, dear, Mr. Malek. That is too bad, really too bad. In all likelihood, you have just consigned one or more other individuals to their doom."

  Before I could mount a reply, the line went dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  M3 A1 T1 E1 R1 I1 E1 L1

  (n) the aggregate of things used or needed in any business, undertaking, or operation; military arms, ammunition, and equipment in general

  Back in the press room, we grumbled about the futility of the press conference for the next half hour. Farmer made fun of his hated c
olleague, Crenshaw; O'Farrell muttered about the caliber of questions from the radio and television contingent; Masters cursed the commissioner for even bothering to call the conference, and I suggested that we all go out and have a beer.

  Then we dutifully filed stories about the event, each knowing full well that our respective papers would likely use the reports from the 'stars' who were sent out from their newsrooms.

  After I phoned in my piece, my thoughts returned to the automaker and his wondrous new product. I put in a call to Hazel in the Tribune reference room, more popularly known in newspaper circles as the 'morgue.'

  "Can you put together a batch of clippings on everything you've got about this new Tucker car that's made so much news, and also about its boss-man Preston Tucker?" I asked her.

  "You mean the guy who seems to have an entire army of enemies these days, right?"

  "That's the chap, all right. Oh, and some time back in the summer, June I think it might have been, Tucker took out a full-page ad in the Trib–and probably in a lot of other papers, too–defending himself and his company. Think you can find that, too?"

  "Snap, honey, you ask for it, I'll find it. Presumably, that's what I'm here for. I suppose you need all of this yesterday?"

  "More or less. If you can have it ready by, say, four-thirty, I can swing by and pick it up. And I promise to return the clips in a day or two."

  "Pretty demanding, aren't we now?" she said in a mock-peevish tone. I say 'mock' because I had no doubt she would have everything ready for me. Hazel had been my favorite contact in the morgue for years, and I had long since solidified our working relationship by providing her each Christmas with a bottle of her favorite single-malt Scotch. And no, I didn't hide the cost of this fine sippin' whiskey in my expense account. The money came straight out of my very own battered billfold, but I've always thought of it as a worthwhile investment.

  I left the press room a few minutes early that evening, asking Dirk O'Farrell to cover for me until our night man came on board. I then grabbed a northbound