Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

CHAPTER Thirty-Seven

Zachary Scott Taylor was a thorough, analytical, and very hard-nosed reporter on the Washington Post. I respected the hell out of him. His relentless cynicism and skepticism were a little too much for me to take on a daily basis; otherwise we might have been even closer friends. But we had a good relationship and I trusted him more than I did most journalists.

I met him that night at the Irish Times, on F Street, near Union Station. The restaurant-bar is in an anachronistic stand-alone brick building surrounded by modern office structures. Zachary called it 'a dumpy little toilet of a bar, a perfect place for us to meet'.

In the time-honored tradition of Washington, I have occasionally been one of his trusted sources, and I was about to tell the reporter something important. I hoped he would agree, and that he could convince his editors at the Post about the story.

'How're Master Damon and Ms. Jannie?' Zachary asked as he sat across from me in a darkened comer under an old photo of a stern-looking man in a black top hat. Zachary is tall, gaunt and thin; he resembles the man in the old photo a little bit. Zachary always talks too fast - with the words running into one another -How'reMasterDamonandMsJannie? There was just a hint of Virginia softening his accent.

The waitress eventually came over to our table. He ordered black coffee and I had the same.

'Two coffees?' she asked, to make sure she'd heard us right.

'Two of your very finest coffees,' Zachary said.

'This isn't Starbucks, y'know.' she said.

I smiled at the waitress's joke, then at what Zachary had said - his first words to me. I'd probably mentioned my kids' names to him once, but he had an encyclopedic memory for all kinds of disparate information.

'You should go get yourself a couple of kids, Zachary,' I told him, smiling broadly.

He glanced up at an ancient whirring ceiling fan that looked as if it might suddenly spin out of the ceiling, it seemed a nice metaphor for modern life in America, an aging infrastructure threatening to spin out of control.

'Don't have a wife yet, Alex. Still looking for the right woman,' said Zachary.

'Well, okay then, get yourself a wife first, then get a couple of kids. Might take the edge off your neuroses.'

The waitress placed steaming cups of black coffee in front of us. 'Will that be all?' she said. She shook her head, then left us.

'Maybe I don't want the edge taken off my rather stunning neurotic behavior. Maybe I believe that's what makes me such a damn fine reporter, and that without it my work would be pedestrian shit, and then I'd be nothing in the eyes of Don Graham and company.'

I sipped the day-or-two-old coffee. 'Except that if you had a couple of kids, you could never be nothing.'

Zachary squinted one eye shut and smacked the left side of his lips. He was a very animated thinker.

'Except if the kids didn't love, or even like me very much.'

'And you don't consider yourself lovable? But actually you are, Zachary. Trust me. You're just fine. Your kids would adore the hell out of you and you would adore them. You'd have a mutual adoration society.'

He finally laughed and clapped his hands loudly. We usually laugh a good bit when we're together.

'So will you marry me and have my children?' He grinned at me over the top of his steaming cup. This is a pick-up joint, after all. Singles from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the Government Printing Office come here, hoping to bed a staffer from Kennedy's or Glenn's.'

'Actually, it's the best offer I've had all day. Who called this meeting anyway? Why are we here at this dive, drinking really bad coffee?'

Taylor slurped his. 'Coffee's fairly strong, isn't it? That's something to be thankful for. What's up, Alex?'

'You interested in another Pulitzer?' I asked him.

He pretended to think it over, but his eyes lit up. 'Well, I might be. You see, I need to balance the look of my mantelpiece. One of my dates told me that. Never did see the young woman again. She worked for Gingrich, as a matter of fact.'

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I told Zachary exactly what I thought was up. I told him about one hundred and fourteen unsolved murders in Southeast and parts of Northeast DC. I detailed the contrasting investigation of the cases of Frank Odenkirk and the German tourist in Georgetown, and the black teenagers Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal. I filled him in on the chief of detectives, his proclivities and his biases, at least my perception of them. I even admitted that I disliked Pittman intensely, and Zachary knows I'm not that way about too many folks who don't murder for a living.

He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, while I talked, and didn't stop when I was finished. 'It's not that I doubt any of what you're saying, but do you have any documentation?' he asked.

'You're such a stickler for details,' I said. 'Reporters are such wusses when you come right down to it.'

I reached down under my seat and lifted up two thick manila folders. His eyes brightened.

This should help with the story. Copies of sixty-seven of the unsolved homicide reports. Also a copy of the Glover and Cardinal investigation. Note the number of detectives assigned to each. Check the case hours logged.

You'll see a huge discrepancy. That's all I could get my hands on - but the other reports exist.'

'Why would this be happening, this malicious neglect?' he asked me.

I nodded at the wisdom of his question. 'I'll give you the most cynical reason,' I said. 'Some Metro cops like to refer to Southeast as “self-cleaning ovens”. That sound like the beginnings of malicious neglect to you? Some victims in Southeast are called NHIs - that's No Humans Involved. The latter is a phrase used by Chief Pittman.'

Zachary quickly leafed through the reports. Then he shook my hand. I'm going home to my lonely abode, made bearable only by my single Pulitzer. I have all these fascinating police files on NHIs to read, then hopefully a chilling news expose to write. We'll see. As always, it's been a party, Alex. My best to Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. I'd like to meet them one day. Put some faces with the names.'

'Come to the next Washington Boys' Choir performance.' I said. 'All our faces will be there. Damon is a chorister.'