The Poet

15

Passing the time in my room at the Hilton I updated my computer files on what little I had learned at the foundation and then called Greg Glenn to fill him in on everything that had transpired in Chicago and Washington. When I was done, he whistled loudly and I pictured him leaning back in the chair, thinking of the possibilities.

It was a fact that I already had a good story, but I was unhappy. I wanted to stay on the leading edge of it. I didn't want to have to rely on the FBI and other investigators to tell me what they felt like telling me. I wanted to investigate. I had written countless stories about murder investigations but each time I was always an outsider looking in.

This time I was inside and wanted to stay there. I was riding the front of the wave. I realized that my excitement must be the same as Sean felt when he was on a case. In the hunt, as he called it.

"You there, Jack?"

"What? Yeah, I was just thinking of something else."

"When can we do the story?"

"Depends. Tomorrow's Friday. Give me till tomorrow. I have this feeling about the foundation guy. But if I don't hear anything by mid-morning tomorrow I'll try the FBI. I've got a name of a guy. If that doesn't get me anywhere I'll come back and write the story Saturday for Sunday."

Sunday was the biggest circulation day. I knew Glenn would want to go big with it on a Sunday.

"Well," he said, "even if we have to settle for that, what you've got is a hell of a lot. You've got a nationwide investigation of a serial killer of cops who's been operating with impunity for who knows how long. This will-"

"It's not that strong. Nothing is confirmed. Right now it's a two-state investigation into the possibility of a cop killer."

"It's still damn good. And once the FBI is in, it's nationwide. We'll have the New York Times, the Post, all of them following our ass."

Following my ass, I felt like saying but didn't. Glenn's words revealed the real truth behind most journalism. There wasn't much that was altruistic about it anymore. It wasn't about public service and the people's right to know. It was about competition, kicking ass and taking names, what paper had the story and which one was left behind. And which one got the Pulitzer at the end of the year. It was a dim view but after as many years as I had been at it, my view pretty much wasn't anything else but cynical.

Still, I'd be lying if I said I didn't savor the idea of busting out a national story and watching everybody follow. I just didn't like talking about it out loud like Glenn. And there was Sean, too. I was not losing sight of that. I wanted the man who did this to him. I wanted that more than anything.

I promised Glenn I'd call if anything developed and hung up. I paced around the room for a while and I have to admit I was thinking about the possibilities, too. I was thinking about the profile this story could give me. It could definitely get me out of Denver if I wanted it to. Maybe to one of the big three. L.A., New York, Washington. To Chicago or Miami, at the least. Then beyond that, I even began to think about a publishing deal. True crime was a major market.

I shook it off, embarrassed. It's lucky no one else knows what our most secret thoughts are. We'd all be seen for the cunning, self-aggrandizing fools we are.

I needed to get out of the room but couldn't leave because of the phone. I turned on the TV and it was just a bunch of competing talk shows serving up the usual daily selection of white trash stories. Children of strippers on one channel, porno stars whose spouses were jealous on another and men who thought women should be kept in line with occasional beatings on a third. I turned it off and thought of an idea. All I had to do was leave the room, I decided. It would guarantee that Warren would call because I wouldn't be there to take the call. It worked every time. I just hoped he would leave a message.

The hotel was on Connecticut Avenue near Dupont Circle. I walked toward the circle and stopped into Mystery Books to buy a book called Multiple Wounds by Alan Russell. I'd read a good review of it somewhere and figured reading would take my mind off things.

Before going back into the Hilton I spent a few minutes walking around the outside of the hotel looking for the spot where Hinckley had waited with a gun for Reagan. I remembered the pictures of the chaos vividly but I couldn't find the spot. It made me think the hotel had made some renovations, maybe so that the spot didn't become a tourist destination.

As a police reporter I was a tourist of the macabre. I moved from murder to murder, horror to horror without blinking an eye. Supposedly. As I walked back in through the lobby toward the bank of elevators I thought about what this said about me. Maybe something was wrong with me.

Why was the spot where Hinckley waited important to me?

"Jack?"

I turned around at the elevators. It was Michael Warren.

"Hey."

"I called your room… I thought you might be around."

"I was just taking a walk. I was beginning to give up on you."

I said it with a smile and a lot of hope. This moment would determine a lot of things for me. He was no longer in the suit he had on at his office. It was blue jeans and a sweater. He had a long tweed coat over his arm. He was following the pattern of a confidential source, coming in person rather than leaving a possible phone record.

"You want to go up to the room or talk down here?"

He moved toward the elevator saying, "Your room."

We didn't speak in the elevator of anything of consequence. I looked at his clothes again and said, "You've already been home."

"I live off Connecticut on the other side of the beltway. Maryland. Wasn't that far."

I knew that was a toll call and that was why he hadn't called first. I also figured that the hotel was on the way from his house to the foundation. I was beginning to feel the small tick of excitement in my chest. Warren was going to turn.

There was a damp smell in the hallway that seemed to be the same in every hotel I had ever been in. I got out my card key and let him into my room. My computer was still open on the little desk and my long coat and the one tie I had brought with me were thrown across the bed. Otherwise, the room was neat. He threw his coat on the bed and we took the only chairs in the room.

"So what's going on?" I asked.

"I did a search."

He started to take a folded paper out of his back pocket.

"I have access to main computer files," he said. "Before I left for the day, I went in and searched the field reports for victims who were homicide detectives. There were only thirteen. I have names, departments and dates of death here on a printout."

He offered me the unfolded page and I took it from him as gently as if it were a sheet of gold.

"Thank you," I said. "Will there be a record of your search?"

"I don't really know. But I don't think so. It's a pretty wide-open system. I don't know if there's a security trace option or not."

"Thank you," I said again. I didn't know what else to say.

"Anyway, that was the easy part," he said. "Going through the protocols in file storage, that's going to take some time… I wanted to know if you'd want to help. You'd probably know better than me which ones were important."

"When?"

"Tonight. It's the only time. The place will be closed up but I have a key to file storage because sometimes I have to dig out old things for media requests. If we don't do it tonight the hard-copy files may be gone tomorrow. I have a feeling the FBI isn't going to like them sitting up here, especially knowing you asked for them. They'll come and grab them first thing tomorrow."

"Is that what Ford said?"

"Not exactly. I heard it through Oline. He talked to Rachel Walling, not Backus. He said she's-"

"Wait a minute. Rachel Walling?"

I knew the name. I took a moment but then I remembered she was the profiler who had signed the VICAP survey Sean had submitted on Theresa Lofton.

"Yes, Rachel Walling. She's a profiler down there. Why?"

"Nothing. The name's familiar."

"She works for Backus. Sort of the liaison between the center and the foundation on the suicide project. Anyway, Oline says she told Ford she's going to take a look at all of this. She might even want to talk to you."

"If I don't talk to her first." I stood up. "Let's go."

"Listen, one thing." He stood up. "I didn't do this, okay? You use these files as an investigative tool only. You never publish a story that says you had access to foundation files. You never admit that you even saw a file. It could be my job. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely."

"Then say it."

"I agree. To all of it."

We headed toward the door.

"It's funny," he said. "All those years procuring sources. I never really realized what they were risking for me. Now I do. It's kind of scary."

I just looked at him and nodded. I was afraid if I said anything he'd change his mind and go home.

On the way to the foundation in his car, he added a few more ground rules.

"I am not to be a named source in your story, okay?"

"Okay."

"And any information from me cannot be attributed to a 'foundation source,' either. Just a 'source familiar with the investigation,' okay? That gives me some cover."

"Okay."

"What you're looking for here are names that might be connected to your guy. If you find them, fine, but later on you don't have to report on how you got them. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, we've been over this. You're safe, Mike, I don't give up sources. Ever. All I'll do is use what we get here to get other confirmation. It'll be the blueprint. It's no problem."

He was quiet for a few moments before doubts must have crept into his mind.

"He's going to know it's me, anyway."

"Then why don't we stop? I don't want to jeopardize your job. I'll just wait for the bureau."

I didn't want to do that but I had to give him the option. I wasn't that far gone yet that I'd talk a guy into losing his job just to get information for a story. I didn't want that on my conscience. There was enough there already.

"You can forget the FBI as long as it's Walling's case."

"You know her? She tough?"

"Yeah, one of those as hard as nails with fingernail polish on. I tried shooting the shit with her once. She just shut me down. From what I hear from Oline, she got divorced or something a while back. I guess she's still in her 'men are pigs' mode and it's looking permanent to me."

I held up saying anything. Warren had to make a decision and I couldn't help.

"Don't worry about Ford," he finally said. "He may think it's me but he won't be able to do anything about it. I'll deny. So, unless you break the agreement, he'll have nothing but his suspicions."

"You've got nothing to worry about with me."

He found a spot on Constitution a half block from the foundation and parked. Our breath was coming out in thick clouds when we got out. I was nervous, whether or not he thought his job was in danger. I think we both were.

There was no guard to be fooled. No staff members working overtime to surprise us. We got in the front door with Warren's key and he knew right where we were going.

The file storage room was about the size of a double-wide garage and was taken up by rows of eight-foot steel shelves stacked with manila files with different colored tabs.

"How're we going to do this?" I whispered.

He took the folded printout from his pocket.

"There's a section on the suicide study. We look up these names, take the protocols to my office and copy the pages we need. I left the copier on when I left. Won't even have to warm it up. And you don't have to whisper. There's nobody here."

I noticed he said "we" one too many times but I didn't say anything about it. He led me down one of the aisles, his finger out and pointing as he read the program headings printed on the shelves. Eventually, he found the heading for the suicide study. The files had red tabs on them.

"These here," Warren said, raising his hand to point.

The files were thin, yet they took up three complete shelves. Oline Fredrick had been right, there were hundreds. Each red tag protruding from a file was a death. There was a lot of misery on the shelves. Now I had to hope that a few of them didn't belong there. Warren handed me the printout and I scanned the thirteen names.

"Out of all of these files only thirteen were homicide cops?"

"Yeah. The project has accumulated data on over sixteen hundred suicides. About three hundred a year. But most are street cops. Homicide dicks see the bodies but I guess for them the misery is over by the time they get there. They're usually the best and the brightest and the toughest. Seems like less of them eat the gun than the cops out on the beat. So I only came up with thirteen. Your brother and Brooks in Chicago also came up but I figured you have that stuff."

I just nodded.

"They should be alphabetical," he said. "Read me the names on the list and I'll pull the files. And give me your notebook."

It took less than five minutes to pull the files. Warren tore blank pages from my notebook and marked the spots in the stacks so they could be slipped back in quickly when we were done. It was intense work. It wasn't meeting a source like Deep Throat in a parking garage to help take down a president but my adrenaline was flowing anyway.

Still, the same rules applied. A source, no matter what his information is, has a reason, a motive, for putting himself on the line for you. I looked at Warren and couldn't see the true motive. It was a good story but it wasn't his story. He got nothing from helping other than knowing he had helped. Was that enough? I didn't know but I decided that at the same time that we were entering this sacred bond of reporter and secret source, I had to keep him at arm's length. Until I knew the true motive.

Files in hand, we walked quickly down two hallways until we got to room 303. Warren suddenly stopped and I almost rammed into him from behind. The door to his office was open two inches. He pointed to it and shook his head, signaling that he hadn't left it that way. I raised and dropped my shoulders, signaling back that it was his call. He leaned an ear toward the crack and listened. I heard something, too. It sounded like the crunching of papers, then a swishing sound. I felt a cold finger moving over my scalp. Warren turned back to me with a curious look on his face when suddenly the door swung inward and open.

It was like dominoes. Warren made a startled move, followed by me and then the small Asian man who stood there in the doorway with a feather duster in one hand and a trash bag in the other. We all took a moment to get our normal breathing going again.

"Sorry, mister," the Asian man said. "I clean your office."

"Oh, yeah," Warren said, smiling. "That's fine. That's good."

"You left copy machine on."

With that, he carried his goods down the hallway and used a key attached by a chain to his belt to get into the next office down. I looked at Warren and smiled.

"You're right, you're no Deep Throat."

"You're no Robert Redford. Let's go."

He told me to close the door, then turned the compact photocopy machine back on and moved around behind his desk, files in hand. I sat in the same chair I had been in earlier in the day.

"Okay," he said. "Let's start going through them. There should be a synopsis section in each protocol. Any kind of note or other significant detail should be there. If you think it fits, copy it."

We started going through the files. As much as I liked him, I didn't like the idea of letting him decide in half of the cases if they fit into my theory. I wanted to look at all of them.

"Remember," I said, "we're looking for any kind of flowery language that might sound like literature or a poem or whatever."

He closed the file he was looking at and dropped it on the stack.

"What?"

"You don't trust me to do this."

"No. I just… I want to make sure we're both on the same wavelength about this, that's all."

"Look, this is ridiculous," he said. "Let's just copy them all and get out of here. You can take them to your hotel and go through them there. It's quicker and safer. You don't need me."

I nodded and realized it was the way we should have done it all along. For the next fifteen minutes he operated the copier while I took the protocols from the files and replaced them after they were copied. It was a slow machine, not made for heavy use.

When we were done he turned off the machine and told me to wait in the office.

"I forgot about the cleaners. It might be better if I just take these back to storage, then come get you."

"Okay."

I started looking through the copied protocols while he was gone but was too nervous to concentrate on them. I felt like running out the door with the copies and getting away before anything could go wrong. I looked around his office to try to pass the time. I picked up the photo of Warren's family. A pretty, petite wife and two kids, a boy and a girl. Both of preschool age in the photo. The door opened while the frame was still in my hand. It was Warren and I felt embarrassed. He paid no notice.

"Okay, we're ready."

And like two spies we snuck out under cover of darkness.

Warren was silent almost all the way back to the hotel. I think it was because his involvement was over and he knew it. I was the reporter. He was the source. It was my story. I felt his jealousy and desire. For the story. For the job. For what he'd once been and had.

"Why'd you really quit, man?" I asked.

This time he dropped the bullshit.

"My wife, family. I was never home. One crisis after another, you know. I had to cover them all. Finally, I had to make a choice. Some days I think I made the right one. Some days I don't. This is one of those that I don't. This is a hell of a story, Jack."

Now I was silent for a while. Warren drove into the hotel's main entrance and headed around the circle to the doors. He pointed through the windshield to the right side of the hotel.

"See down there? That's where Reagan got it. I was there. Fuckin' five feet from Hinckley while we were waiting. He even asked me what time it was. Almost no other reporters were out there. Back then, most of them didn't bother staking his exits. But they did after that."

"Wow."

"Yeah, that was a highlight."

I looked over at him and nodded seriously and then we both laughed. We both knew the secret. Only in a reporter's world would it be a highlight. We both knew that probably the only thing better than witnessing a presidential assassination attempt as a reporter was witnessing a successful assassination. Just as long as you didn't catch a bullet in the crossfire.

He pulled over at the door and I got out and leaned my head back into the car.

"You're showing your true identity there, pal."

He smiled.

"Maybe."