The Poet

33

I talked Greg Glenn into letting me write from Phoenix. For the rest of the morning I stayed in my room making calls, gathering comments from players in the story ranging from Wexler in Denver to Bledsoe in Baltimore. I wrote for five straight hours after that and the only disturbances I had all day were calls from Glenn himself, nervously asking how I was doing. An hour before the five o'clock deadline in Denver, I filed two stories to the metro desk.

My nerves were jangling by the time I shipped the stories and I had a headache that was almost off the scale. I had been through a pot and a half of room service coffee and a full pack of Marlboros-the most I had smoked in one sitting in years. Pacing the room and waiting for Greg Glenn's callback, I made a quick call to room service again, explained that I couldn't leave my room because I was expecting an important call, and ordered a bottle of aspirin from the hotel's lobby shop.

After it arrived I downed three tablets with mineral water from the minibar and almost immediately started feeling better. Next I called my mother and Riley and alerted them that my stories would be in the next day's paper. I also told them there was a chance that reporters from other media outlets might try to contact them now that the story was out and to be prepared. Both said they didn't want to talk to any reporters and I said that was fine, not missing the irony that I was one myself.

Lastly, I realized I had forgotten to call Rachel to tell her I was still in town. I called the Phoenix field office of the FBI but was told by the agent who answered that she was gone.

"What do you mean 'gone'? Is she still in Phoenix?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Can I speak with Agent Backus then?"

"He's gone, too. Who may I ask is calling?"

I hung up and dialed the hotel's front desk and asked for her room. I was told she had checked out. So had Backus. So had Thorson, Carter and Thompson.

"Son of a bitch," I said after hanging up.

There had been a break. Had to be. For all of them to have checked out, there had to have been a major breakthrough in the investigation. And I realized I had been left behind, that my moment on the inside was surely over now. I got up and paced the room some more, wondering where they would have gone and what could have made them move so quickly. Then I remembered the card Rachel had given me. I dug it out of my pocket and punched the paging number into the phone.

Ten minutes surely seemed enough time to bounce my message off the satellite and then down to her, wherever she was. But ten minutes came and went and the phone didn't ring. Another ten minutes passed and then a half hour. Not even Greg Glenn called. I even picked up the phone to make sure I hadn't broken it.

Restless, but tired of pacing and waiting, I fired up the laptop and logged into the Rocky again. I called up my messages but there were none of any importance. I switched to my personal basket, scrolled the files and called up the one labeled HYPSTORIES. The file contained several stories on Horace Gomble, one after the other in chronological order. I began to read from the oldest story forward, my memory of the hypnotist coming back as I went.

It was a colorful history. A physician and researcher for the CIA in the early sixties, Gomble later was a practicing psychiatrist in Beverly Hills who specialized in hypnotherapy. He parlayed his skill and expertise in the hypnotic arts, as he called them, into a nightclub act as Horace the Hypnotist. First it was just appearances on open-mike nights at the clubs in Los Angeles but the act became immensely popular and he started taking it to Las Vegas for weeklong gigs on the strip. Soon Gomble wasn't a practicing shrink anymore. He was a full-time entertainer appearing on the stages of the nicest palaces on the Las Vegas strip. By the mid-seventies his name was on the billing with Sinatra's at Caesar's, albeit in smaller letters. He made four appearances on Carson's show, the last time putting his host in a hypnotic trance and eliciting from him his true thoughts on his other guests that evening. Because of Carson's caustic comments, the studio audience thought it was a gag. But it wasn't. After Carson saw the tape, he canceled the airing of the show and put Horace the Hypnotist on his blacklist. The cancellation made news in the entertainment trade papers and was a knife in the heart of Gomble's career. He never made another network television appearance until his arrest.

His shot at TV gone, Gomble's shtick got old, even in Vegas, and his stages moved further and further away from the strip. Soon he was on the road, working comedy clubs and cabarets, then finally it was the strip club and county fair circuit. His fall from fame was complete. His arrest in Orlando at the Orange County Fair was the exclamation mark at the end of that fall.

According to the trial stories, Gomble was charged with assaulting young girls whom he had chosen as volunteer assistants for matinee performances at the county fair. Prosecutors said he followed a routine of seeking a girl ten to twelve years old from the audience and then taking her backstage to prepare. Once in his private dressing room, he gave the intended victim a Coke laced with codeine and sodium pentothal-a quantity of both was seized during his arrest-and told her he must see if she could be hypnotized before the performance started. With the drugs acting as hypnotic enhancers, the girl was placed in a trance and then assaulted by Gomble. Prosecutors said the molestation primarily involved fellatio and masturbation, actions difficult to prove through physical evidence. Afterward, Gomble repressed memory of the event in the victim's mind with hypnotic suggestion.

It was unknown how many girls were victimized by Gomble. He was not discovered until a psychologist treating a thirteen-year-old girl with behavioral problems brought out her assault by Gomble during a hypnotherapy session. A police investigation was launched and Gomble was eventually charged with attacks on four girls.

At trial the defense's contention was that the events as described by the victims and police simply did not happen. Gomble presented no fewer than six highly qualified experts in hypnotism who testified that the human mind, while in a hypnotic trance, could not be persuaded or forced under any circumstances to do or even say anything that would endanger the person or be morally repugnant to them. And Gomble's attorney never missed a chance to remind the jury that there was no physical evidence of molestation.

But the prosecution won the case with essentially one witness. He was Gomble's former CIA supervisor, who testified that Gomble's research in the early sixties included experimentation with hypnosis and the use of drug combinations to create a "hypnotic override" of the brain's moral and safety inhibitions. It was mind control, and the former CIA supervisor said codeine and sodium pentothal were both among the drugs Gomble had used with positive results in his studies.

A jury took two days to convict Gomble of four counts of sexual assault of a child. He was sentenced to eighty-five years in prison to be served at the Union Correctional Institute in Raiford. One of the stories in the file said he had appealed the conviction on the basis of incompetent counsel but his plea was rejected all the way up to the Florida supreme court.

As I reached the bottom of the computer file I noticed the last story was only a few days old. I found this curious because Gomble had been convicted seven years earlier. This story also had come from the L.A. Times instead of the Orlando Sentinel, which all the previous ones had come from.

Curious, I started reading it and at first believed Laurie Prine had simply made a mistake. It happens often enough. I thought she had shipped me a story unrelated to my request and that somebody else at the Rocky had probably asked for.

It was a report on a suspect in the murder of a Hollywood motel maid. I was about to stop reading but then I came across Horace Gomble's name. The story said the suspect in the maid's killing had served time at Raiford with Gomble and even helped him with some undescribed jailhouse legal work. I reread the lines as an idea spun in my mind and then finally couldn't be contained.

Once more I called Rachel's pager after disconnecting the laptop. This time my fingers were shaking as I punched out the number and I could hardly keep still afterward. I paced the room again, staring at the phone. Finally, as if the power of my stare had caused it, the phone rang and I grabbed it up before it had even stopped its first sounding.

"Rachel, I think I've got something."

"Just hope it isn't syphilis, Jack."

It was Greg Glenn.

"I thought it was somebody else. Listen, I'm waiting on a call. It's very important and when it comes I should take it."

"Forget it, Jack. We're pushing the envelope. You ready?"

I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes past the first deadline.

"Okay, I'm ready. The faster the better."

"Okay, first off, good work, Jack. This… well, it doesn't make up entirely for not being first, but it's a much better read and much better information."

"Okay, so what needs to be fixed?" I asked quickly.

I didn't care about his compliment/criticism parlay. I just wanted to be done by the time Rachel answered my page. Because there was only one phone line into the room I couldn't use my laptop to connect with the Rocky and view the actual edited version of the story. Instead I called up the original version on the laptop and Glenn read off the changes he had made.

"I want to make the lead a little tighter and stronger, go right out with the fax a little harder. I fiddled around with it and this is what I've got. 'A cryptic note from a serial killer who apparently preys on randomly selected children, women and homicide detectives was being analyzed by FBI agents Monday as the latest twist in the investigation of the slayer they have dubbed the "Poet." ' What do you think?"

"Fine."

He had changed the word "studied" to "analyzed." It wasn't worth protesting. We spent the next ten minutes fine-tuning the main story, going back and forth on nit-picks. He didn't make too many significant changes and with deadline breathing on his neck he didn't have the time to do a lot, anyway. In the end, I thought some of the changes were good and some were made simply for change's sake, a practice all newspaper editors I've worked with seem to share. The second story was a short, first-person account of how my search for understanding of my brother's suicide uncovered the trail of the Poet. It was an understated tooting of the Rocky's horn. Glenn didn't mess with it. When we were done he had me hold the line while he shipped the stories to the copy desk.

"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 what so-"

"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.

The next thought I focused on was the possibility that I was right about Gladden and that the bureau had somehow made a mistake in dismissing him as a suspect. If this was the case, the detective in Los Angeles could be in danger and not even know it.

It took me two calls to the Los Angeles Police Department to get a number for Detective Thomas at the Hollywood Division. But when I called the number it went unanswered and kicked over to the station's front desk. The officer who answered told me Thomas was unavailable. He would not tell me why or when the detective would be available. I decided not to leave a message.

I paced the room for a few minutes after hanging up and wrestled with thoughts about what to do. I came to the same conclusion from every angle I tried. There was only one way of learning the answers to the questions I had about Gladden and I knew that was to go to Los Angeles. To go to Detective Thomas. I had nothing to lose. My stories were filed and I was off the case. I made some calls and booked the next Southwest flight from Phoenix to Burbank. The airline agent told me Burbank was just as close to Hollywood as L.A. International.

The front-desk clerk was the same man who had checked all of us in on Saturday.

"You're leaving on the fly, too, I see."

I nodded, realizing he was talking about the FBI agents.

"Yes," I said. "They got a head start, though."

He smiled.

"I saw you on TV the other night."

At first perplexed, I then realized what he meant. The scene out at the funeral home. Me in the FBI shirt. I knew then that the clerk thought I was an FBI agent. I didn't bother to correct him.

"The boss man wasn't too happy about that," I said.

"Well, you people must get that a lot when you swoop into town like that. Anyway, I hope you catch him."

"Yeah, we do, too."

He went about processing my bill. He asked if I had any room charges and I told him about the room service and the items I had taken from the bar.

"Listen," I said. "I guess you also have to charge me for a pillowcase. I had to buy clothes here and didn't have any luggage and…"

I held up the pillowcase in which I had packed my few belongings and he chuckled at my predicament. But figuring what to charge me caused confusion and finally he just told me it was on the house.

"I understand you people have to move quickly," he said. "The others didn't even have time to check out. Just blew out of town like a Texas tornado, I guess."

"Well," I said smiling. "I hope they at least paid."

"Oh, yes. Agent Backus called from the airport and said just to keep it on the credit card and send him the receipts. But that's no problem. We aim to please."

I just looked at him, thinking. Deciding.

"I'm going to be catching up with them tonight," I finally said. "You want me to take the receipts?"

He looked up at me from the paperwork in front of him. I could see his hesitation. I held my hand up in a not-to-worry fashion.

"It's all right. It was just a thought. I'll see them tonight and thought it might speed things along. You know, save the postage."

I didn't know what I was saying but I was already lacking confidence in my decision and wanted to back away.

"Well," the clerk said, "I don't really see the harm in it. I've got their paperwork in an envelope ready to go. I guess I can trust you as much as the mailman."

He smiled and now I smiled back.

"The same guy signs our checks, right?"

"Uncle Sam," he said brightly. "Be right back."

He disappeared into a back office and I looked around the front desk and lobby, halfway expecting Thorson and Backus and Walling to jump out from behind the columns and scream. "See? We can't trust your kind!"

But nobody jumped out from anywhere and soon the clerk was back with a manila envelope he handed across the counter to me with my own hotel bill.

"Thanks," I said. "They'll appreciate it."

"No problem," the clerk said. "Thank you for choosing to stay with us, Agent McEvoy."

I nodded and shoved the envelope into my computer bag like a thief, then headed to the door.