“You’re right. We found it somewhere else.”
“Where? One of the short stories?”
“No. They were his last words. Poe’s last words, ‘Lord help my poor soul.’ ”
I nodded. It wasn’t a poem but it fit. So now there were six. I was quiet a moment, almost in respect to the new man added to the list. I looked down at my notes. Beltran had been dead three years. A long time for a murder to go unnoticed.
“Was Poe a suicide?”
“No, though I suppose his lifestyle might be considered a long suicide. He was a womanizer and a heavy drinker. He died at forty, apparently after a lengthy drinking bout in Baltimore.”
I nodded, thinking about the killer, the phantom, and wondering if he drew corollaries to Poe’s life.
“Jack, what about McCafferty?” she asked. “We had him as a possible but no note according to the protocol. What did you get?”
Now I had another problem. Bledsoe. He had revealed something to me that he had not revealed to anyone before. I didn’t feel I could just turn around and give it to the FBI.
“I’ve gotta make a call first before I can tell you.”
“Oh, Jesus, Jack. You’re going to pull that shit after all I just told you? I thought we had a deal.”
“We do. I just have to make a call first and clear something with a source. Get me to a phone and I’ll do it right then. I don’t think it will be a problem. Anyway, the bottom line is McCafferty is on the list. There was a note.”
I looked through my notebook again and then read from it.
“ ‘The fever called living is conquered at last.’ That was the note. It’s from ‘For Annie.’ Just like Petry in Dallas.”
I looked over at her and could tell she was still upset.
“Look Rachel—can I call you that?—I’m not going to hold back on you. I’ll make the call. Your agents from the field office probably already got this anyway.”
“Probably,” she said, in a voice that seemed to say, Anything you can get we can get better.
“Okay, so go on, then. What happened after you came up with the list of five?”
She told me that six o’clock Thursday evening she and Backus had convened a meeting of BSS and Critical Incident Unit agents to discuss her preliminary findings. After she trotted out the five names she had and explained the connections, her boss, Backus, became agitated and ordered a full-scale priority investigation. Walling was named lead agent, reporting to him. Other BSS and CIU agents were assigned to victimology and profiling tasks, and VICAP liaison agents from local field offices in the five cities where the deaths occurred were scrambled to immediately begin gathering and shipping data on the deaths involved. The team had literally worked through the night.
“The Poet.”
“What?”
“We’re calling him the Poet. Every task force investigation gets a code name.”
“Jesus,” I said. “The tabloids are going to love that. I can see the headlines. ‘The Poet Kills without Rhyme or Reason.’ You guys are asking for it.”
“The tabs will never know about it. Backus is determined to get this guy before he’s spooked by any press leaks.”
There was silence while I thought of how to answer that.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I finally asked.
“Jack, I know you’re a reporter and you’re the one who started this whole thing. But you’ve got to understand, if you start a media firestorm about this guy, we’ll never get him. He’ll get spooked and go back underneath his rock. We’ll lose our chance.”
“Well, I’m not on the public payroll. What I am, though is paid to report and write stories. . . The FBI cannot tell me what and when to write.”
“You can’t use anything I just told you.”
“I know it. I agreed and I’ll keep my word. I don’t need to use it. I already had it. Most of it. All except for Beltran and all I have to do is read the bio section of this book and I’ll find his last words. . . I don’t need the FBI’s information or permission for this story.”
That brought the silence back. I could tell she was steaming but I had to stand my ground. I had to play my cards as shrewdly as I could. In this kind of game you don’t get a second deal. After a few minutes of this I started seeing the freeway signs for Quantico. We were close.
“Look,” I said. “We will talk about the story later. I’m not going to run off and start writing. My editor and I will calmly talk about it and I will let you know what we are going to do. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine, Jack. I hope you’re thinking about your brother when you have that discussion. I’m sure your editor won’t be.”
“Look, do me a favor. Don’t talk to me about my brother and my motives. Because you don’t know a thing about me or him or what I’m thinking about.”
“Fine.”
We drove a few miles in solid silence. My anger wore off a bit and I began wondering if I’d been too harsh. Her goal was to capture this person they now called the Poet. It was mine, too.
“Look, I’m sorry about the speech,” I said. “I still think we can help each other. We can cooperate and maybe catch this guy.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t see the point in cooperating when what I say is just going to show up in the newspapers and then the TV and then the tabloids. You’re right, I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know you and I don’t think I can trust you.”
She didn’t say another word until we got to the gatehouse at Quantico.
21
It was dark and I couldn’t see the grounds well as we drove in. The FBI Academy and the research center were located in the heart of a U.S. Marine base. It consisted of three sprawling brick buildings connected by glassed walkways and atriums. Agent Walling pulled into a lot marked for FBI agents only and parked.
She continued her silence as we got out. It was getting to me. I did not want her unhappy with me or thinking of me as self-serving.
“Look, my main priority is obviously to get this guy,” I tried. “Let me just use a phone. I’ll call my source and my editor and we’ll work something out. Okay?”
“Sure,” she said grudgingly.
One word and I was happy just to have finally leveraged something out of her. We went into the center building and took a series of hallways to a set of stairs which we took down to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It was the basement. She led me past a reception area into a large room that didn’t look much different from a newsroom. There were two rows of desks and work spaces with sound partitions between them and a row of private offices running down the right side. She stepped back and pointed me into one of the private offices. I assumed it was hers, though it was austere and impersonal. The only photo I saw anywhere was the one of the president on the rear wall.
“Why don’t you sit there and use the phone,” she said. “I’m going to find out where Bob is and see what’s been going on. And don’t worry, the phone’s not tapped.”
As I noted the sarcasm in her voice I saw her eyes scan the desk, making sure I would not be left alone with any important documents lying about. Satisfied there was nothing, she left. I sat behind the desk and opened my notebook to the numbers Dan Bledsoe had given me. I got him at home.