“So, Jeffrey Dahmer asks his mother over for lunch, and she’s eating and says, ‘Jeffrey, I don’t like your friends.’ And he says, ‘Well, then, just eat the vegetables.’”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Usually gets a laugh.” I got serious and said, “So I assume you also did not speak to Liam Griffith about this.”
“I spoke to no one. Except the guys on the twenty-eighth floor, who told me it was none of my business.”
“Right. So you made it my business.”
“If you want it to be. It all comes down to finding this couple. If they were found, and if it turned out that it was a dead end-that they didn’t see or tape anything-then that’s the end of it. The rest of the case-the eyewitnesses and the forensic evidence-have been gone over a million times. But this couple… whoever it was on the beach that night who left a lens cap to a video camera on that blanket…” She looked at me and asked, “Doyou think there was a videotape being recorded, and do you think it captured on film what the eyewitnesses said they saw?”
I replied, “It depends, obviously, on which way that video camera was pointing, and if it was even turned on. And then you have the problem of film quality and so forth. But let’s say everything came together by chance and that the last seconds of that TWA flight were recorded. Let’s even say the film still exists. So what?”
“What do you mean, ‘So what?’ Two hundred eyewitnesses would be looking at that film and-”
“And so would the FBI and CIA and their film experts. Someone needs to interpret the film.”
“It wouldn’t need interpretation. It would speak for itself.”
“Would it?” I said to her, “An amateur video, shot at dusk into a night sky, probably from a fixed tripod-assuming the couple were engaged in other activities-may not show all you think it would show. Look, Kate, you’ve been searching for the Holy Grail for five years, and it may actually exist, but you may never find it, and if you do, it may not hold any magical powers.”
She didn’t reply.
I continued, “You’ve heard of the Zapruder film.”
She nodded.
“Guy named Zapruder was filming John Kennedy’s motorcade as it passed by the Texas Book Depository. He was using an eight-millimeter handheld Bell amp; Howell movie camera. The film lasted twenty-six seconds. You ever see it?”
She nodded.
“Me, too. I saw the digitalized version, and I saw it in slow motion. So how many shots were fired? And what direction did they come from? Depends on who you ask.”
She stayed quiet for a while, then said, “Still, we can’t interpret the tape unless we find it. First things first.”
The waiter cleared the table before I could get the last penne in my mouth. I finished my beer, and Kate sipped her sparkling water. I could tell she was deep in thought.
My hunch was that she hadn’t shared much of this stuff with many people, and those she had shared it with were inclined to agree with her that if a videotape was found, it would break open the whole case.
Enter John Corey-skeptic, cynic, realist, and bubble-burster. I’d been around fourteen years longer than Kate Mayfield, and I’d seen a lot-maybe too much-and I’d been disappointed too many times as a cop and as a man. I’ve seen murderers go free and a hundred other crimes go unsolved or unpunished. I’ve seen witnesses lying under oath, sloppy police work, inept prosecutors, incompetent forensic work, outrageous defense attorneys, imbecilic judges, and brainless juries.
I’ve seen good stuff, too-bright shining moments when the system worked like an oiled clock, when truth and justice had their day in court. But there weren’t many days like that.
We had coffee, and Kate asked me, “Is it really true about the blue wall of silence?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Can a cop absolutely trust another cop, anytime, about anything?”
“Ninety-nine percent of the time, though it drops to fifty percent when it has to do with women, but rises to a hundred percent when it has to do with the FBI.”
She smiled, then leaned across the table and said to me, “There were over a hundred task force cops out on Long Island after that plane went down, and at least as many working back here. Among those cops, somebody knows something.”
“I get it.”
She took my hand and said, “But if it gets hot, drop it. And if you get into trouble, I’ll take the blame.”
I didn’t know whether to get all choked up or to remind her that I couldn’t have gotten into trouble without her help and advice. I said to her, “Let me ask you something-aside from truth and justice, what is your motivation in pursuing this case?”
She replied, “Why would I need any further motivation? It’s truth and justice, John. Justice for the victims and their families. And if this was an attack by foreign terrorists, then it’s also patriotism. Isn’t that reason enough?”
The correct answer was yes and that’s what John Corey would have said about twenty years ago. Today, I just sort of mumbled, “Yeah, I guess so.”
She didn’t like that and said to me, “You need to believe in what you’re doing, and know why you’re doing it.”
“Okay, then I’ll tell you-I do detective work because I like it. It’s interesting, and it keeps my mind sharp and makes me feel smarter than the idiots I work for. That’s the extent of my commitment to truth, justice, and country. I do the right thing for the wrong reasons, but bottom line, truth and justice get done. If you want to do the right thing for the right reasons, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to share your idealism.”
She stayed silent for some time, then replied, “I’ll take your help on your terms. We can work on your cynicism another time.”
I don’t like it when people-especially women-invade my hard-won cynicism. I know what makes me tick. And I had a lot of ticking to do in the days and weeks ahead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I walked with Kate back to the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza and said to her, “I need to make some pay phone calls. I’ll see you later.”
She looked at me and said, “You have that faraway look you get when you’re on to something.”
“I’m just a little logy from the pasta. Please don’t try to read me. That scares me.”
She smiled, gave me a kiss, and walked toward the elevators.
I went outside to a phone booth on Broadway and fished some change out of my pocket. I remember when you had to wait for a pay phone, but now, everyone has cell phones, even derelicts-homeless persons-and the phone booths are as empty as the confessionals at St. Patrick’s.
I dropped a quarter and dialed the cell phone of my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, who was working out of Manhattan South.
He answered, “Hello?”
“Dom.”
“Hey, paisano! Long time. Where are you? Let’s grab a beer tonight.”
“Are you in your office?”
“Yeah, what’s up? Everyone would love to see you. Lieutenant Wolfe misses you. He’s got a new paperweight.”
“I need a favor.”
“You got it. Come on over.”
“I can’t. What I need-”
“You free tonight? I found a new place in Chelsea-Tonic. Incredible ass there.”
“I’m married.”
“No shit? When?”
“You were at the wedding.”
“Right. How’s Kate?”
“Kate is great. Sends her regards.”
“She hates me.”
“She loves you.”
“Whatever.”
It was hard to believe that this man had a brilliant mind when it came to detective work. But he did. I actually learned a lot from him. Like how to play dumb. I asked him, “How’s Mary?”
“I don’t know. What do you hear?” He laughed at his own joke, as he often does, and said to me, “All kidding aside, throughout my whole married life, I’ve never cheated on a girlfriend.”
“You’re a prince. Okay, what-”
“How’s it going at 26 Fed?”
“Terrific. Which reminds me-I saw Captain Stein the other day, and he’s still waiting for you to put in your papers and come over to the task force. The job is yours if you want it.”