“I think maybe we should keep this line open in case they come up with something on the rim,” Glenn said.
“Who’s got it?”
“Brown has the main and Bayer has the side. I’ll do the back reading myself.”
I was in good hands. Brown and Bayer were two of the best of the rim rats.
“So, what are you planning for tomorrow?” Glenn asked while we were waiting. “I know it’s early but we also have to talk about the weekend.”
“I haven’t thought about that stuff yet.”
“You’ve got to have a follow, Jack. Something. We don’t go out front this big with something and then come back flat-footed the next day. There’s gotta be a follow. And for this weekend, I’d like a scene setter. You know, inside the FBI hunt for a serial killer, maybe get into the personalities of the people you’ve been dealing with. We’ll need art, too.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “I just haven’t thought about all of that yet.”
I didn’t want to tell him about my latest discovery and the new theory I was brewing. Information like that in an editor’s hands was dangerous. The next thing you knew it would be on the daily news budget—practically the same as being written in granite—that I’d have a follow linking the Poet to Horace the Hypnotist. I decided I would wait and talk to Rachel before I told Glenn about that.
“What about the bureau? They going to let you back inside?”
“Good question,” I said. “I doubt it. I kind of got the sayonara when I left today. In fact, I don’t even know where they are. I think they blew town. Something’s happened.”
“Shit, Jack. I thought you—”
“Don’t worry, Greg. I’ll find out where they went. And when I do, I’ve still got some leverage with them and there are a few things I didn’t have room for in the stories today. One way or the other, I’ll have something tomorrow. I just don’t know what, yet. After that, I’ll do the scene setter. But don’t count on any art. These people don’t like having their pictures taken.”
After a few more minutes Glenn got an all clear from the copy desk and the story was shipped to composing. Glenn said he was going to baby-sit it to production to make sure nothing went wrong. But I was finished for the night. He told me to have a nice dinner on the company expense account and call him in the morning. I told him I would.
As I contemplated whether to page Rachel for a third time, the phone rang.
“Hiya, sport.”
I recognized the sarcasm dripping off the voice.
“Thorson.”
“You got it.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m just letting you know that Agent Walling is tied up and she won’t be calling you back any time soon. So do us and yourself a favor and stop calling the pager. It gets annoying.”
“Where is she?”
“That’s really none of your business now, is it? You shot your wad, so to speak. You got your story. Now you’re on your own.”
“You’re in L.A.”
“Message delivered, signing off.”
“Wait! Listen, Thorson, I think I’ve got something. Let me talk to Backus.”
“No, sir, you aren’t talking to anyone on this investigation anymore. You are out, McEvoy. Remember that. All media inquiries on this investigation are now being handled by public affairs at Washington headquarters.”
Anger was balling like a fist inside me. My jaw was clenched tight but I managed to take a shot at him.
“Does that include Michael Warren’s inquiries, Thorson? Or does he have a direct line to you?”
“You’re wrong about that, fuckhead. I’m no leak. Your kind of people make me sick. I’ve got more respect for some of the scumbags I’ve put in stir than I have for you.”
“Fuck you, too.”
“See what I mean? You people have no respect whatso—”
“Fuck that, Thorson. Let me talk to Rachel or Backus. I’ve got a lead they should have.”
“You have something, you give it to me. They’re busy.”
It galled me to tell him anything at all but I swallowed back the anger and did what I thought was the right thing.
“I have a name. It could be the guy. William Gladden. He’s a pedophile from Florida but he’s in L.A. At least he was. He—”
“I know who he is and what he is.”
“You do?”
“Past experience.”
Then I remembered. The prison interviews.
“The rape project? Rachel told me about that. He was one of the subjects?”
“Yes. So forget him, he’s not the guy. Thought you were going to be the hero and solve it, didn’t you?”
“How do you know he’s not the guy? He fits and there’s the possibility he learned hypnotism from Horace Gomble. If you know about Gladden, then you know about Gomble. It all fits. They’re looking for Gladden in L.A. He cut up a motel maid. Don’t you see? The maid could be the bait murder. The detective—his name is Ed Thomas—could be the intended victim he was talking about in the fax. Let me—”
“You’re wrong,” Thorson interrupted loudly. “We already checked this guy out. You’re not the first to come up with him, McEvoy. You’re not that special. We checked Gladden out and he’s not our guy, okay? We’re not stupid. Now drop it and go the fuck back to Denver. When we get the real guy, you’ll know.”
“How do you mean you checked Gladden out?”
“I’m not going into it. We’re busy and you’re no longer inside. You’re out and you’re staying out. Just don’t call the pager anymore. Like I said, it gets annoying.”
He hung up before I could say another word. I slammed the phone into its cradle and it bounced down to the floor. I was tempted to page Rachel again immediately but thought better of it. What could she be doing, I wondered, that would have made her ask Thorson to call me instead of calling me herself? A crushing feeling began to form in my chest and many thoughts went through my mind. Had she merely been baby-sitting me while I was on the case with them? Watching me while I watched them? Had everything just been an act for her?
I broke away from it. There was no way to know the answers until I spoke to her. I had to guard against letting my impressions of Thorson’s comments speak for her. Instead, I began to analyze what Thorson had told me. He said Rachel could not call me. She was tied up. What could that mean? Did they have a suspect in custody and she, as lead investigator, was conducting the interrogation? Was the suspect under surveillance? If so, she might be in a car and away from a telephone.
Or by asking Thorson to call me was she sending me a message, communicating something she didn’t have the guts to tell me herself?
The nuances of the situation were unreadable to me. I gave up on a deeper meaning and thought about the surface. I thought about Thorson’s reaction to my mention of William Gladden. He’d showed no surprise at the name and seemed to easily dismiss it. But in replaying the conversation in my mind, I realized that whether I was right or wrong about Gladden, Thorson would have played it the same way. If I was right, he would have wanted to deflect me. If I was wrong, he would not have missed the opportunity to let me know.