I walked around her and headed to the pay phone. I picked the receiver off the hook and the phone was dead. I didn’t let on, though. She was watching me. I dialed information.
“I need a cab company,” I said to a nonexistent operator.
I dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed a number. I then read the address off the phone and asked for a cab.
When I hung up and turned around, Agent Walling was standing there very close. She reached past me and picked up the phone. After holding it to her ear for a second she smiled slightly and hung it back up. She pointed to the side of the box to where the receiver cable was attached. It was severed, the wires tied together in a knot.
“Your act could use some polish, too.”
“Fine. Just leave me alone.”
I turned away and started looking through the store windows to see if there was another phone inside. There wasn’t.
“Look, what did you want me to do?” she asked my back. “I need to know what you know.”
I whipped around on her.
“Then why didn’t you just ask? Why’d you have to. . . try to humiliate me?”
“You are a reporter, Jack. Are you going to tell me you were just going to open your files and share with me?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, right. That’ll be the day, when one of you people do that. Look at Warren. He’s not even a reporter anymore and he was acting like one. It’s in the blood.”
“Hey, you know, speaking of blood, there’s more at stake here than a story, okay? You don’t know what I would have done if you had approached me like a human being.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “Maybe I don’t. I’ll grant you that.”
We did a little pacing in opposite directions until she spoke.
“So what do we do? Here we are, you found me out, and now you have a choice. I need to know what you know. Are you going to tell me or are you going to take your ball and go home? You do that and we both lose out. So does your brother.”
She had skillfully backed me into a corner and I knew it. On principle I should have walked off. But I couldn’t. Despite everything, I liked her. I silently walked to the car, got in and then looked at her through the windshield. She nodded once and came around to the driver’s side. After getting in she turned to me and held out her hand.
“Rachel Walling.”
I took it and shook it.
“Jack McEvoy.”
“I know. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
20
As a show of good faith Rachel Walling went first—after extracting a promise from me that the conversation was off the record until her team supervisor decided how much cooperation, if any, the bureau would give me. I didn’t mind making the promise because I knew I was holding the high hand. I already had a story and the bureau would likely not want a story published yet. I figured that gave me a lot of leverage, whether Agent Walling realized it yet or not.
For a half hour while we moved slowly south on the freeway toward Quantico she told me what the bureau had been doing for the last twenty-eight hours. Nathan Ford of the Law Enforcement Foundation had called her at three o’clock Thursday to inform her of my visit to the foundation, the findings of my own investigation to that point and my request to see the suicide files. Walling concurred with his decision to rebuff me and then consulted with Bob Backus, her immediate supervisor. Backus gave her the go-ahead to drop the profiling work she had been assigned and proceed with a priority investigation of the claims I had made in my meeting with Ford. At this time, the bureau had not yet heard from anyone from the Denver or Chicago police departments. Walling started her work on the Behavioral Science Service’s computer, which had a direct tie to the foundation computer.
“Basically, I did the same search Michael Warren did for you,” she said. “In fact, I was on-line in Quantico when he went in and did it. I just ID’ed the user and literally watched him do it on my laptop. I guessed right then that you had turned him as a source and he was doing the search for you. This became a problem of containment, as you can imagine. I didn’t need to go up to the city today because we have hard copies of all the protocols at Quantico. But I had to see what you were doing. I got a second confirmation that Warren was leaking to you and that you had copies of the protocols when I found your notebook page left in the files.”
I shook my head.
“What’s going to happen to Warren?”
“After I told Ford, we confronted him this morning. He admitted what he had done, even told me what hotel you were at. Ford asked for his resignation and Warren gave it.”
“Shit.”
I felt a pang of guilt, yet I was not overwrought by what had happened. For I wasn’t sure if Warren hadn’t somehow engineered his own dismissal. Maybe it was a self-derailment. At least, that’s what I told myself. It was easier to handle that way.
“By the way,” she said, “where did I go wrong with my act?”
“My editor didn’t know where I was staying. Only Warren knew.”
She was quiet for a few moments until I prompted her to continue the chronology of her investigation. She told me that on Thursday afternoon when she ran the computer search she’d come up with the same thirteen names of dead homicide detectives that Warren had gotten from me, plus my brother and John Brooks of Chicago. She then pulled the hard copies of the protocols and looked for ties, keying on the suicide notes as I had told Ford I wanted to do. She had the aid of a bureau cryptologist and the FBI cipher computer, which had a database that made the Rocky’s look like a comic book.
“Including your brother and Brooks, we came up with a total of five direct connections through the notes,” she said.
“So in about three hours you did what it took me all week to do. How’d you get McCafferty without the note in the file?”
She took her foot off the gas and looked over at me. Only for a moment, then she took the car back up to speed.
“We didn’t count McCafferty. There are agents from the Baltimore field office on that now.”
This was puzzling because I had five cases, including McCafferty.
“Then what five have you got?”
“Uh, let me think. . .”
“Okay, my brother and Brooks, that’s two.”
I was opening my notebook as I said this.
“Right.”
Reading my notes, I said, “You got Kotite in Albuquerque? ‘Haunted by ill angels’?”
“Right. We have him. There was one in—”
“Dallas. Garland Petry. ‘Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength.’ From ‘For Annie.’ ”
“Yeah, got that.”
“And then I had McCafferty. Who’d you have?”
“Uh, something or other from Florida. It was an old one. He was a sheriff’s deputy. I need my notes.”
“Wait a minute.” I flipped through a few pages of my notebook and found it. “Clifford Beltran, Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department. He—”
“That’s it.”
“But wait a minute. I’ve got his note as ‘Lord help my poor soul.’ I read all the poems. That wasn’t in any of them.”