Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you talked with this television reporter yet?”

  “No, sir. I was planning to, but—well, sir, you called me in for this discussion.”

  He was pushing it, just. But then he’d just told the man he was waiting to talk to her about it. A police department is like any other organization: something bad happens, and everyone scrambles to avoid taking responsibility for it. Well, there had been a message, but my secretary forgot to tell me about it. And so forth. Hastings hated that sort of thing, and he was particularly hard on his own people when they tried it with him. But in this case, what had happened was legitimately beyond his control. He was getting irritated now because he believed Fenton Murray had to know that. And Hastings was fairly sure that Murray had gotten a full night’s sleep, while he and his men had not.

  Maybe the man sensed this, because the next thing he said was, “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “No, sir,” Hastings said.

  Assistant Chief Murray sighed. And Hastings realized it was as close to an apology as he was going to get that day. In a different tone, Murray said, “Well now it’s officially a kidnapping. So FBI’s in. We can work alongside, but it’s their game. The chief’s been on the phone with the local SAC. The ASAC and two of his agents are in the conference room.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said. He had been expecting it. Indeed, he had even warned the Penmarks that it would happen. But it had happened sooner than he expected. The videotape on the news had accelerated things. It had upset people and made them frightened and anxious. It had reminded the authorities that they were not the ones in control.

  Murray said, “Get as much of the file as you can, and meet us there as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hastings stood up.

  “George?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Murray hesitated for a moment. “Have you had any dealings with the FBI since the Cahalin thing?”

  The Cahalin thing.

  Hastings told himself he should not be surprised that Fenton had brought it up. In fact, now that it was out, he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it himself. Once they suspected that the Penmark girl had been kidnapped, it was just a matter of time before the FBI got involved. Frank Cahalin had been the former SAC for the FBI field office. He was dead now, having committed suicide. He had probably been aware that he would lose his trial. Hastings was not vain enough to be haunted by this. He was actually angry at Cahalin for doing it. By killing himself, Cahalin had deprived Hastings and others of the satisfaction of seeing him convicted in court. And Hastings had no doubt that he would have been.

  Now Hastings said, “No, sir. I have not had any business with the FBI since then.” His tone was a little hard then. He said, “Is the chief concerned about it?”

  Fenton Murray said, “He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  After a moment, Hastings said, “And you, sir. Are you concerned about it?”

  Murray flashed him a fierce look. “I think Frank Cahalin was a piece of shit,” he said. “I’m not bothered in the slightest about him. But these feds may not see it that way.”

  “So what.”

  “So they may be a little chilly to you.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “You sure?”

  Hastings wasn’t bothering to hide his anger anymore. “Are you pulling me off the case?”

  Murray’s tone matched his. “No, Lieutenant, I am not. What I’m telling you is, the primary goal is to get this girl returned to her parents safely. That’s the mission. You say you’ll conduct yourself professionally, I believe you. But if they refuse to cooperate with us—directly or indirectly—because of you, then yes, sir, you will have to be replaced. If that happens it won’t be fair, but fairness to you is not what’s important here. Understand?”

  Hastings straightened. “I understand,” he said. “If that’s all…”

  “That’s all. Go on.”

  Hastings walked out.

  TWELVE

  They didn’t hesitate to bring up the fact that the television station had gotten a videotape of the victim before the police had. The agents wouldn’t try to bawl him out or anything else direct like that. Just, “So you saw it on television?” followed by pitiful shakes of the head.

  Hastings said, “We can’t control the movements of the kidnapper. Or kidnappers.”

  There were three agents in the conference room with Hastings and Fenton Murray. Murray had done Hastings the kindness of sitting on his side of the table. The feds were on the other side. Dressed in full suits, as opposed to the herringbone jacket Hastings wore with dark slacks. Two of the feds had American flag pins on their lapels.

  The ASAC wore a What Would Jesus Do bracelet. He was a tall, slender man in his fifties. He looked like a runner. His name was Jim Shellow.

  The two other agents were in their thirties. Early to midthirties, clean shaven, and well groomed. Their names were Craig Kubiak and Curtis Gabler.

  Hastings remembered watching a football game between Nebraska and Stanford University. A year when Stanford had a moderately competitive team. The contrast between the Stanford and Nebraska sidelines had been an added amusement to the game: on one side, clean-cut guys, blond with stylish haircuts, could have been models for GQ. On the other side, milling around Saint Tom Osborne, a bunch of mullet-haired two-by-fours in red jerseys who looked like they just got done changing a tractor tire … Stanford did well, but didn’t win the game.

  Hastings said, “My sergeant is arranging an interview with her right now.”

  Agent Shellow said, “Is that all?”

  Hastings’s voice was civil. He said, “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Agent Shellow said, “it seems to me that we should be doing more than that, don’t you think?”

  “You mean,” Hastings said, “threatening her with obstructing an investigation. Something like that?”

  Agent Shellow was a bit taken aback: the Metro lieutenant had already thought of it. “Yes,” Agent Shellow said, “that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “I’d thought of that,” Hastings said. “But that’s only a misdemeanor. And it presumes that our DA would want to file on it. And I doubt he would. But even if he would, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” It was Agent Kubiak speaking now. His tone was not one of a man seeking input, but one of conducting an interrogation.

  “Because we might need her,” Hastings said. “Maybe the kidnapper feels comfortable talking to her. We go to her threatening charges, the first thing she’ll do is refer us to the station’s attorney. And we’ll be stuck. And … we’ll have lost the opportunity to work with her.”

  There was a silence then. Agent Gabler was taking notes and he stopped to look briefly at the ASAC. The ASAC looked over to Assistant Chief Murray, who wasn’t going to give him any help on this one. Agent Kubiak continued to look at Hastings, appraising him. Hastings thought, He knows. He knows about Cahalin, but he’s not going to say anything about it now.

  “Listen,” Hastings said, “for what it’s worth, I’m not very happy about it either. Either she’s pretty stupid or she just wanted to break a story and make a name for herself. Either way, she should have contacted the police first. And for whatever reason, she chose not to. But it’s already happened and we can’t change it.”

  “All right, Lieutenant,” Shellow said. “Thank you for your recommendation. We’ll take it from here.”

  Hastings said, “Where are you going?”

  Agent Kubiak said, “Well, first we’re going to interview the reporter. We’ll keep you posted.”

  Hastings said, “I’m going with you.”

  Agent Kubiak smiled and shook his head. He looked over to Shellow as if to say, I told you. I told you he was going to be this way.

  Agent Shellow said, “It’s FBI’s case now, Lieutenant. You can observe, and we’ll call you if we need you. But it’s a kidnapping and
that makes it our ball game. You know how it works.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But there’s a homicide too. We can safely presume that the kidnappers killed Tom Myers. And that’s my case.”

  There was another silence and exchange of glances around the table. Hastings kept a patient expression, resting a casual eye on Shellow. He’d decided that Kubiak wasn’t worth eyeballing.

  ASAC Jim Shellow turned to Fenton Murray.

  Murray raised a hand, like there was nothing he could do about it. He said, “The lieutenant’s right. It’s our murder case. I’ve already discussed this with Chief Grassino. We all want the same thing here, really. We can joint-task it. And there’s no point in the police and your boys interviewing the same witnesses separately. We can agree, can we not, that it’s a waste of manpower. But the danger is that it gives the witness an opportunity to change his story on the second round. Best to do it all at once, don’t you think, Jim?”

  * * *

  The meeting wrapped up shortly after that. Hastings got Fenton Murray alone and said, “Did the chief really say that?”

  Fenton Murray said, “Don’t talk to me.” And then walked away. He was in a foul mood, obviously, and Hastings was wise enough to let him be.

  THIRTEEN

  Hastings remembered one time a copy of St. Louis Magazine being passed around the Department because it had an article titled “Single in the City” in it and there was a thirty-year-old patrolman who had been dumb enough to let himself be featured as one of the city’s prime catches. The article said something like, “Get to know some of the metro area’s most successful singles and find out what makes them tick, what they like to do when they’re not hard at work.”

  The patrolman’s name was Nick Pesavento, and he must have been something of a masochist because alongside a photo of him leaning up against a brick wall with his arms folded and wearing a ridiculous, self-satisfied smile with his tight black T-shirt, there was a profile of his “personal” details. Such as: Ideal first date: A long conversation over coffee; First thing I notice about someone I’m attracted to: Smile; My secret talent/skill: I’m good with people. Celebrity dream date: Cameron Diaz. And perhaps one of the best, The celebrity who would play me in a movie: George Clooney.

  It was too much to resist. George Clooney? Long conversations over coffee? The guy was fucking asking for it. And homophobic comedy long being a staple of the law enforcement community, it was just a matter of time before a couple of cops with a computer put together a flyer and hung it on Department walls and cafeterias and locker space. The flyer had the same photo of Nick as the one in the magazine and the personal details included but were not limited to:

  Ideal first date: Shopping for new boots at the Galleria.

  Celebrity dream date: Nicholas Cage.

  First thing I notice about someone I’m attracted to: His package.

  The celebrity who would play me in a movie: Ricky Martin.

  And so forth.

  Joe Klosterman, who was known for instigating these sorts of things, swore he had nothing to do with it. But he made sure that Hastings and everyone else on the squad saw both the flyer and the magazine article.

  Hastings read the magazine and, though he would never admit it, read the profiles of the other “hot” singles as well, men and women. He was then recently divorced and it was before he’d gotten involved with Carol, so he was curious about the singles scene, such as it was. The article wasn’t promising. Many of the women seemed to answer their questionnaires with exclamation points. E.g., “First thing I notice about someone I’m attracted to: Personality! If you like to laugh and have a great time, you’re a hit in my book!” Women wanting to take hot-air-balloon rides and saying that Selma Blair should play them in a movie. Ay-yi-yi.

  He remembered Judy Chen being one of the singles profiled. Attractive girl still in her twenties. And Hastings had thought then that she was posing in the magazine not because of lack of dates, but more to gain publicity for the news network. And herself. Cute little thing. Had her arms been folded too…?

  * * *

  He rode with the FBI agents to the news station. Kubiak and Gabler sat in the front. Hastings sat in the back. The agents didn’t say much and when they did speak it was to each other, as if Hastings were not there. Hastings thought about asking them how long they intended to keep this up, but he doubted it would do any good.

  When they got to the lobby of the station, he stood in the background as the feds presented their credentials to the front desk and said they were here to speak with Judy Chen and the station manager as well. Minutes later they were seated at a conference-room table in a room that had little more than a chamber of commerce seal as decoration.

  Judy Chen and the station manager were seated opposite the law enforcement officers. The station manager was named Kelly Ingle and one of the first things he did was put a videotape on the table and slide it across.

  Agent Craig Kubiak said, “Is that the original?”

  Kelly Ingle said, “Yes.”

  “But you made a copy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  To Judy Chen, Kubiak said, “And when did you get this?”

  “This morning.”

  Kubiak said, “Tell us about that.”

  She said, “Well, I was getting into my car—I had just gotten into my car and my cell phone rang. I answered it. And this guy said his name was Carl.”

  “Carl what?”

  “He didn’t give a last name. He just said Carl.” She said, “I think he said something like, ‘for purposes of this conversation.’ Meaning, Carl wasn’t his real name.”

  Kubiak nodded.

  Judy Chen said, “So he asked me if I knew about Gene Penmark’s daughter being kidnapped.”

  Kubiak said, “Did you?”

  “I don’t think I did, then.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  She seemed to think about that for a moment. Then she said, “No. I don’t think I did. I think I said, ‘Who is this?’”

  “And he said?”

  “And he said he’d already told me his name was Carl. Then he said, ‘Turn around.’”

  “Turn around?”

  “Yes. Turn around. So I did, and there was the videotape.”

  “Where?”

  “On my backseat. Well, in a brown bag on my backseat.”

  “Where is that bag now?”

  The lady looked at the station manager and gave him a shrug. “It’s in my car, I guess,” she said.

  Agent Gabler said, “We’re going to need that too, ma’am.”

  Kubiak said, “Then what?”

  Judy Chen said, “Then he said that they had kidnapped Cordelia Penmark. He said that she was alive and he told me to take the tape to the station and play it over the air.”

  Kubiak said, “And that’s what you did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before contacting the police?”

  Hastings noticed the station manager shift in his seat.

  Judy Chen said, “Yes.”

  Kubiak said, “Do you think that was smart?”

  “I don’t know what the law is,” Judy Chen said. “But I don’t regret doing that.”

  Gabler said, “Why not?”

  Hastings was listening a little closer now. He expected the woman to excuse it by saying she didn’t want to risk the Penmark girl’s life by not following their instructions. It would be a rational excuse, though Hastings probably wouldn’t have bought it.

  But Judy Chen didn’t say that. What she said was, “Because I had a feeling that whoever was calling me was watching me too.”

  For a moment, no one said anything. Kubiak looked briefly at Gabler and even at Hastings before he turned his attention back to the woman.

  Kubiak said, “Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t know. The way he said ‘turn around’ and then seemed to know that I had.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “No. But I was parke
d near my apartment. I mean, he could have been anywhere.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  “I just felt someone was watching me.”

  Hastings said, “Did it frighten you?”

  She looked down at the table at Hastings, her weighted expression not the one she wore in the magazine photo.

  “Yes,” she said. “Very much.”

  “And yet,” Kubiak said, “you still didn’t call the authorities.”

  Her expression changed again. Hardened. She said, “Sir, the man knew where I lived and what I drove. Knew who I am. Knows. I’m cooperating with you now and I haven’t broken any laws.”

  “That’s debatable, Ms. Chen,” Kubiak said. “And how are we to know that this fear you’re describing isn’t just an act?”

  “Because I’m telling you the truth.”

  Craig Kubiak smiled at the woman then. It was the sort of cold, superior smile that drives people to hate cops and managers and lawyers. It was working on Hastings now too, because he could see that the woman was seething and there was now a real danger that she would clam up on them.

  Hastings could also see that she was no pushover. And that she would not hesitate at all to get a lawyer and make things difficult. Which would be a hardship for him and the feds. Unnecessary, but inevitable if this clod weren’t so intent on pushing her. Kubiak was probably attracted to the woman and blaming her for it. Or he was just a fool. In any event, the woman was about one step away from ending the interview.

  Hastings leaned forward, his body language conciliatory. He said to Judy Chen, “We believe you are telling the truth. I’m sorry if we’ve been misunderstood.”

  From the corner of his eye, Hastings detected a scowl on Agent Kubiak’s face. Hastings said, “Our beef is not with you. I know you understand that.”

  Hastings waited for her to give him a nod. Which she did. Good.

  Hastings said, “The goal for everybody involved is to get the girl back safe. That’s what Agent Kubiak wants.”

  “Of course,” the station manager said. He seemed a little relieved now. Judy Chen was looking wary, but it was an improvement over cold fury.