"The tabs will never know about it. Backus is determined to get this guy before he's spooked by any press leaks."
There was silence while I thought of how to answer that.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I finally asked.
"Jack, I know you're a reporter and you're the one who started this whole thing. But you've got to understand, if you start a media firestorm about this guy, we'll never get him. He'll get spooked and go back underneath his rock. We'll lose our chance."
"Well, I'm not on the public payroll. What I am, though is paid to report and write stories… The FBI cannot tell me what and when to write."
"You can't use anything I just told you."
"I know it. I agreed and I'll keep my word. I don't need to use it. I already had it. Most of it. All except for Beltran and all I have to do is read the bio section of this book and I'll find his last words… I don't need the FBI's information or permission for this story."
That brought the silence back. I could tell she was steaming but I had to stand my ground. I had to play my cards as shrewdly as I could. In this kind of game you don't get a second deal. After a few minutes of this I started seeing the freeway signs for Quantico. We were close.
"Look," I said. "We will talk about the story later. I'm not going to run off and start writing. My editor and I will calmly talk about it and I will let you know what we are going to do. Is that okay?"
"That's fine, Jack. I hope you're thinking about your brother when you have that discussion. I'm sure your editor won't be."
"Look, do me a favor. Don't talk to me about my brother and my motives. Because you don't know a thing about me or him or what I'm thinking about."
"Fine."
We drove a few miles in solid silence. My anger wore off a bit and I began wondering if I'd been too harsh. Her goal was to capture this person they now called the Poet. It was mine, too.
"Look, I'm sorry about the speech," I said. "I still think we can help each other. We can cooperate and maybe catch this guy."
"I don't know," she replied. "I don't see the point in cooperating when what I say is just going to show up in the newspapers and then the TV and then the tabloids. You're right, I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know you and I don't think I can trust you."
She didn't say another word until we got to the gatehouse at Quantico.
21
It was dark and I couldn't see the grounds well as we drove in. The FBI Academy and the research center were located in the heart of a U.S. Marine base. It consisted of three sprawling brick buildings connected by glassed walkways and atriums. Agent Walling pulled into a lot marked for FBI agents only and parked.
She continued her silence as we got out. It was getting to me. I did not want her unhappy with me or thinking of me as self-serving.
"Look, my main priority is obviously to get this guy," I tried. "Let me just use a phone. I'll call my source and my editor and we'll work something out. Okay?"
"Sure," she said grudgingly.
One word and I was happy just to have finally leveraged something out of her. We went into the center building and took a series of hallways to a set of stairs which we took down to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It was the basement. She led me past a reception area into a large room that didn't look much different from a newsroom. There were two rows of desks and work spaces with sound partitions between them and a row of private offices running down the right side. She stepped back and pointed me into one of the private offices. I assumed it was hers, though it was austere and impersonal. The only photo I saw anywhere was the one of the president on the rear wall.
"Why don't you sit there and use the phone," she said. "I'm going to find out where Bob is and see what's been going on. And don't worry, the phone's not tapped."
As I noted the sarcasm in her voice I saw her eyes scan the desk, making sure I would not be left alone with any important documents lying about. Satisfied there was nothing, she left. I sat behind the desk and opened my notebook to the numbers Dan Bledsoe had given me. I got him at home.
"It's Jack McEvoy. From today."
"Right, yeah."
"Listen, I got picked up by the FBI after I got back into D.C. They're doing a major deal on this guy and they've connected up five cases. But they don't have McCafferty yet because of no note. I can give it to them and they'll go from there. But I wanted to check with you first about it. They'll probably come talk to you if I tell them. They'll probably come even if I don't."
While he thought about this my eyes scanned the desk as Walling had done. It was very clean, taken up mostly by a monthly calendar that also served as a blotter. I noted that she has just come back from a vacation, the date blocks for the prior week having "vac" written in each one. There were abbreviated notations in the blocks for other dates of the month but they were indecipherable to me.
"Give it to 'em," Bledsoe said.
"You sure?"
"Sure. If the bureau comes out and says Johnny Mac was murdered, then his wife gets the bread. That's all I wanted in the first place, so tell 'em. They're not going to do anything to me. They can't. What's done is done. I already heard from a friend that they were up here going through records today."
"Okay, man, thanks."
"You going to get a piece of it?"
"I don't know. I'm working on it."
"It's your case. Hang in there. But don't trust the G, Jack. They'll use you and what you got and then leave you on the sidewalk like dog shit."
I thanked him for the advice and as I hung up a man in the standard-issue gray FBI suit walked by the open door of the office, noticed me behind the desk and stopped. He stepped in, a curious look on his face.
"Excuse me, what are you doing here?"
"Waiting for Agent Walling."
He was a large man with a sharp and ruddy face and short, black hair.
"And you are?"
"My name is Jack McEvoy. She-"
"Just don't sit behind the desk."
He made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating I should come around to the front of the desk and take one of the chairs there. Rather than argue the point I followed his instructions. He thanked me and left the office. The episode served as a reminder to me of why I never liked dealing with FBI agents. In general, they all carried anal-retentive genes. More than most.
After I was sure he was gone I reached across the desk to Walling's phone and punched in Greg Glenn's direct number. It was shortly after five in Denver and I knew he would be busy supervising deadline, but I had no choice of when I could call.
"Jack, can you call back?"
"No. I've got to talk to you."
"Okay, hurry. We had another clinic shooting and we're bending deadline."
I quickly brought him up to date on what I had and what had happened with the FBI. He seemed to forget all about the clinic shooting and the deadline, repeatedly saying that what I had was fantastic and was going to be a fantastic story. I left out the part about Warren losing his job and Walling's attempt to scam me. I told him where I was and what I wanted to do. He approved it.
"We're probably going to need the whole news hole for this clinic stuff anyway," he said. "At least the next couple of days. It's going crazy here. I could use you on rewrite."
"Sorry."
"Yeah. Well, you go ahead and play it out and see what you get, then let me know. This is going to be great, Jack."
"I hope so."
Glenn started talking about the possibilities again in terms of journalism awards and kicking the competition's ass, breaking a national story. While I listened, Walling stepped into the office with a man I assumed was Bob Backus. He also wore a gray suit but had the air of the man in charge. He looked like he was in his mid- to late thirties and was still in good shape. He had a pleasant look on his face, short-cropped brown hair and piercing blue eyes. I held one finger up to signal I was almost done. I cut in on Glenn.