The Christmas tree in the Prudential Center was lit already although it was only three forty-five. I turned left at Charles and right onto Beacon and parked at the top of the hill in front of the State House in a space that said Reserved for Members of the General Court. They meant the legislature, but Massachusetts calls it the Great and General Court for the same reason they call themselves a Commonwealth. It has something to do I think with not voting for Nixon. To my right the Common sloped down to Tremont Street, its trees strung with Christmas lights, a very big Nativity scene stretching out near the Park Street end. The snow was holding on the grass part of the Common and melting on the walkways. Down near the information booth they had some reindeer in pens, and a guy with a sandwich board was standing by the pens handing leaflets to people who were trying to feed popcorn to the deer.
Ticknor’s office was on the top floor looking out over the Common. It was high-ceilinged and big-windowed and cluttered with books and manuscripts. Across from the desk was a low couch, and in front of the couch was a coffee table covered with manila folders. Ticknor was sitting on the couch with his feet on the coffee table looking out at the guy on the Common who was handing out leaflets by the reindeer pens. Frank Belson, who was a detective-sergeant, sat on the couch beside him and sipped some coffee. A young guy with a face from County Mayo and a three-piece suit from Louis was standing behind Ticknor’s desk talking on the phone.
Belson nodded at me as I came in. I looked at the kid with the County Mayo face and said, “DA’s office?”
Belson nodded. “Cronin,” he said. “Assistant prosecutor.”
Ticknor said, “Spenser, I’m glad you could come. You know Sergeant Belson, I gather.”
I nodded.
Ticknor said, “This is Roger Forbes, our attorney.”
I shook hands with a tall gray-haired man with high cheekbones and sunken cheeks who stood—a little uncomfortably, I thought—in the corner between the couch and a book shelf.
Cronin said into the phone, “We haven’t said anything to the media yet.”
I said to Belson, “What have you got?”
He handed me a typewritten sheet of paper. It was neatly typed, double-spaced. No strikeovers, no x-ed out portions. Margins were good. Paragraphs were indented five spaces. It was on a plain sheet of Eaton’s Corrasable Bond. It read:
*Whereas Rachel Wallace has written several books offensive to God and country; whereas she has advocated lesbian love in direct contradiction of the Bible and common decency; whereas she has corrupted and continues to corrupt our nation and our children through the public media, which mindlessly exploits her for greed; and whereas our public officials, content to be the dupes of any radical conspiracy, have taken no action, therefore we have been forced to move.
We have taken her and are holding her. She has not been harmed, and unless you fail to follow our instructions, she will not be. We want no money. We have taken action in the face of a moral imperative higher than any written law, and we shall follow that imperative though it lead to the grave.
Remain alert for further communication. We will submit our demands to you for communication to the appropriate figures. Our demands are not negotiable. If they are not met, the world will be better for the death of Rachel Wallace.
R(estore) A(merican) M(orality) RAM
I read it twice. It said the same thing both times. “Some prose style,” I said to Ticknor.
“If you’d been able to get along with her,” Ticknor said, “perhaps the note would never have been written.” His face was a little flushed.
I said to Belson, “And you’ve checked it out.”
“Sure,” Belson said. “She’s nowhere. Her hotel room is empty. Suitcases are still there, stuff still in drawers. She was supposed to be on a radio talk show this afternoon and never showed. Last time anyone saw her was last night around nine o’clock, when the room service waiter brought up some sandwiches and a bottle of gin and one of vermouth and two glasses. He says there was someone taking a shower, but he doesn’t know who. The bathroom door was closed, and he heard the water running.”
“And you got nothing for a lead.”
“Not a thing,” Belson said. He was lean and thin-faced with a beard so heavy that the lower half of his face had a blue cast to it, even though he shaved at least twice a day. He smoked five-cent cigars down to the point where the live end burned his lip, and he had one going now that was only halfway there but already chewed and battered-looking.
“Quirk coming in on this,” I said.
“Yeah, he’ll be along in a while. He had to be in court this afternoon, and he sent me down to get started. But now that you showed up, he probably won’t need to.”
Cronin hung up the phone and looked at me. “Who are you?”
Ticknor said, “Mr. Spenser was hired to protect her. We thought he might be able to shed some light on the situation.”
“Sure did a hell of a job protecting,” Cronin said. “You know anything?”
“Not much,” I said.
“Didn’t figure you would. They want you around, okay by me, but don’t get in the way. You annoy me, and I’ll roast your ass.”
I looked at Belson. He grinned. “They’re turning them out tougher and tougher up the heights,” Belson said.
“This must be their supreme achievement,” I said. “They’ll never get one tougher than this.”
“Knock off the shit,” Cronin said. “Sergeant, you know this guy?”
“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Cronin. I know him. You want me to shoot him?”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Belson? I asked you a simple question.”
“He’s all right,” Belson said. “He’ll be a help.”
“He better be,” Cronin said. “Spenser, I want you to give Sergeant Belson a rundown on anything you know about this case. Belson, if there’s anything worth it, get a formal statement.”
“Yeah, sure,” Belson said. “Get right on it.” He winked at me.
Cronin turned to Ticknor. “You’re in the word business. You recognize anything from the way it’s written, the prose style?”
“If it were a manuscript, we’d reject it,” Ticknor said. “Other than that I haven’t anything to say about it. I can’t possibly guess who wrote it.”
Cronin wasn’t really listening. He turned toward Forbes, the lawyer. “Is there a room around here where we can meet with the media people, Counselor?” He addressed Forbes almost like an equal; law-school training probably gave him an edge.
“Certainly,” Forbes said. “We’ve a nice conference room on the second floor that will do, I think.” He spoke to Ticknor. “I’ll take him to the Hamilton Room, John.”
“Good idea,” Ticknor said. Forbes led the way out. Cronin stopped at the door. “I want everything this guy knows, Sergeant. I want him empty when he leaves.”
I said to Belson, “I don’t want my face marked up.”
“Who could tell?” he said.
Cronin went out after Forbes.
I sat on the edge of Ticknor’s desk. “I hope he doesn’t go armed,” I said.
“Cronin?” Belson laughed. “He got out of law school in 1973, the year I first took the lieutenant’s exam. He thinks if he’s rough and tough, people won’t notice that he doesn’t know shit and just wants to get elected to public office.”
“He figures wrong,” Ticknor said. Belson raised his eyebrows approvingly. Ticknor was behind him and didn’t see.
I said to Ticknor, “How’d you get the letter?”
“Someone delivered it to the guard at the desk downstairs,” Ticknor said. He handed me the envelope. It was blank except for Ticknor’s name typed on the front.
“Description?”
Belson answered. “They get a hundred things a day delivered down there. Guard paid no attention. Can’t remember for sure even whether it was a man or a woman.”