Carnival of Shadows (12 page)

At the base of the stairwell, seeing agents leaving by the front door, Scarapetto had turned and started running toward the rear of the building. His movements were awkward, as his hands were cuffed, but he was desperate. Travis went after him, followed him out into the yard where Scarapetto was faced with a thirty-yard expanse of scrubbed earth and nothing to shield him from a clean shot.

And here he turned and faced Travis, utterly certain in his belief that Travis did not possess the nerve to shoot him right there in cold blood.

“Stand still, Anthony,” Travis told him. “If you move, I will shoot you. Have no doubt about that.”

“Screw you, fucknuts,” Scarapetto replied. “You ain’t got the nerve. You was a faggot wimp when I knew you, and you’re a faggot wimp now.”

Travis was struck with an image of his father, that single bright blue eye looking back at him from the kitchen table.

Travis held the .45 steady in his right hand. The muzzle was aimed unerringly at Scarapetto’s heart.

“On your knees, Scarapetto. You’re going in, no two ways about it. Dead or alive, you’re going in.”

“You go fuck yourself, Travis. You never had any fucking guts, you know that? Even back then you were a pathetic fuck…”

Travis took one step forward and Scarapetto fell silent.

It was a strange conspiracy of emotions that assaulted Travis in that moment. Scarapetto enraged him, a dark edge to that rage, that same desire to obliterate, to hurl himself at the man and tear him apart. And yet there was a calmness in his thoughts. He knew what his father would have done, but he was not his father. And yet he could hear his father, almost as if Anthony Scarapetto now represented everything that he had hated about Jimmy Franklin—the arrogance, the condescending tone, the sneering self-aggrandizement. So it was that one part of himself faced another part of himself, and yet his own identity was lost in the space that sat between them.

“Down on your knees,” Travis said, aware of how steady his hand was.

“Go to hell,” Scarapetto hissed, and started to turn.

“Jimmy!” Travis heard himself say, and then he pulled the trigger.

There was one shot and one shot only.

The bullet entered Scarapetto’s heart.

Nevertheless, Travis believed that Scarapetto was well and truly alive for a good thirty seconds after the bullet hit him. He knew he had been shot, he knew that shot was fatal, and he knew that Michael Travis had indeed possessed the nerve to put him down.

After it was done, Travis stood over him. Looking down at the man’s face, and the rage that had filled his chest just seemed to wash away like a bloody cloth beneath running water. He did not understand what he had experienced, and he did not know that he wished to.

Anthony Scarapetto’s last dying breath was accompanied by a desperate and pathetic flurry of kicks.

A small cloud of dust rose from the ground around his feet and then settled.

It would be more than a week before Michael Travis met with Executive Assistant Director Bradley Warren. It took place in one of the Lincoln Bureau offices, and no one but Warren and Travis were present.

“I have read and reread the numerous and varied reports of everything that happened that day,” he told Travis, “and there are certain questions I have for you, young man. First and foremost, I want to know why you acted alone in securing the cooperation of Madeline Jarvis when she first entered the main building to prepare breakfast for Barrett and his accomplices.”

Travis could not answer with anything but the truth. “Because I felt certain how she would best respond, sir,” was what he said. “I believed that mention of her parents would engage her attention and cooperation. I also felt very strongly that the surprise appearance of half a dozen unknown men would cause a panic reaction and might thus have served to alert Barrett and the others that she was in trouble.”

“You were sufficiently certain of this to modify an approved strategy
in situ
?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Well, that doesn’t excuse the fact that protocol is protocol, Agent Travis, and even if an agent had not been shot, we would still be conducting this internal inquiry. Other law enforcement bodies might believe themselves excused from such thoroughness if a positive result is achieved, but the Bureau is not just any law enforcement body.”

“No, sir.”

“Secondly, there is the unresolved matter of why you shot and killed Anthony Scarapetto when he was already handcuffed and unarmed.”

“Because he would not cease in his attempt to escape, sir.”

“But you could have run him down. I don’t believe for a moment that he could have outrun you, Agent Travis. He
was
handcuffed, was he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So?”

“He would have made it to the road, sir. He would have overpowered the agent in the car by the edge of the upper field. The agent in the car was not an experienced field operative, and he would have hesitated. Scarapetto would not have hesitated, and I believe we would have had a second dead agent.”

“You really consider that this would have been the outcome, Agent Travis?”

Travis sat there and just looked at EAD Warren.

Warren, seemingly satisfied with Travis’s response, closed the file on the desk before him and leaned back in his chair.

“So, I want to talk to you about this new department that Section Chief Gale is establishing.”

“You mentioned it before, sir.”

“Mr. Hoover is very interested in the potentials of this new department, and he is keen to staff it with the brightest and the best we have. You do not have family here in Nebraska, do you, son?”

“No, sir.”

“I am fully aware of your earlier life and personal circumstances, of course,” Warren went on. “Mr. Hoover’s only concern is whether or not you feel there is some outstanding psychological difficulty regarding the events surrounding the respective deaths of your father and mother.”

“No, sir, there is not.”

“You are sure, now? Because Mr. Hoover, though he might be aware of your abilities and potential, does not wish to involve you in a new project such as this if there are going to be any issues with your personal mental and emotional stability.”

“There have not been to date, sir, and I can assure you that there will be no issues in the future.”

“That is what I understand to be the case, and that is what I was hoping to hear from you. I think we should look further into your suitability for this project and work toward transferring you to Kansas. That is where the new unit will be based for the foreseeable future. Section Chief Gale will be heading it up, and he has already selected a number of experienced and suitable agents.”

“I have no problem moving to Kansas, sir.”

“Very good. I will make my recommendations, and you will be hearing from me directly.”

The meeting ended. Michael Travis remained in the office, aware that there were a number of things that he had chosen not to communicate to Executive Assistant Director Bradley Warren.

The first was the enormous emotional impact he had experienced in returning to question Madeline Jarvis at the State Reformatory for Women in York. He did not believe he would face any difficulty and expressed no concern or reservation regarding this to either Rex Farraday or Frank Gale. It was only when he entered the facility that he felt it. This was where his mother had been held on remand. This is where she had awaited her trial. This is where she had sat alone in a cell and considered the consequences of what she had done.

The second, and perhaps the most important, thing that Travis failed to communicate was the subsequent mental and emotional effect of the Barrett Gang raid. The dreams he suffered had returned with a vengeance, and they had interrupted his sleep every subsequent night for a week following the events of February 11, 1953. The headaches came soon after—intense, like drills being driven though his skull, and yet always brief, short-lived, dissipating as quickly as they had come.

They say the tendency to violence can be hereditary. Was the baton passed, Michael? From father to son, was the baton passed?

Those words went over and over in his mind.

I killed a man. I killed a man in cold blood. I killed a man when no one else would have done so, but I knew I had to kill him.

Perhaps, when all is said and done, I truly am my father’s son.

And the images of his dreams remained, stronger than ever, lasting long into each day—the cracked and arid field, the shadow of a man, the sound of the laughing crow—as if those images had been seared into the front of his mind simply to remind him that of all the things he understood, he understood himself the least of all.

These things he did not communicate to Executive Assistant Director Bradley Warren, for these things troubled him, and it seemed that such a sense of internal disquiet was something he needed to hide—not only from himself, but from the world.

7

Michael opened his eyes and looked out through the windshield toward the central marquee of the carnival. There were lights within it, and the silhouettes of the gathering crowd played against the canvas like a shadow show.

He sat for a moment more, and then he opened the door and stepped out of the car. The air had chilled as darkness fell, and he could see his own breath.

Travis already felt a familiar tension in his temples, the warning sign of an oncoming headache. He hoped it would pass. Best answer was to eat well and get some sleep, but there was too much to do, too many questions to ask, too many answers to find.

Travis reached the back of the marquee and started around it. The hubbub of voices within was considerable, and when he appeared in the doorway, it fell quiet.

He stood there for a moment, but that moment seemed to stretch out like elastic and distort. He was faced with the strangest collection of human beings he had ever seen, and he did not know where to look first.

There were perhaps fifteen or twenty people in that marquee. Tables had been arranged, and around those tables were a random collection of mismatched chairs and benches. Those chairs and benches were occupied by the kind of characters that inhabited dreams and nightmares, not reality.

Directly to his right was a group of five men who appeared to be exactly the same. Not only in dress and physical bearing; their faces were identical. Five of them. At the end of the table, visible only from the shoulders up, was a dwarf. Seated at the next table along was a man so unbearably thin it almost hurt to look at him. Travis guessed his height somewhere around five eight or -ten, but he couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. Beside the Thin Man sat a dark-haired individual who—at first glance—seemed entirely regular in all aspects. It was only as Travis focused his attention on the man that he became aware of his hands. This was the man of whom Rourke had spoken. He had too many fingers, seven on each hand in fact, and there was something so anomalous about this that Travis felt himself shudder. John Ryan was present, beside him a diminutive Asian woman, and next to her a man of inordinate height and stature. The overall effect was disconcerting beyond belief. Those individuals gathered within the central marquee created an atmosphere by their very presence. Surreal, wholly disturbing, the scene before Travis’s eyes seemed to confound and confuse all his preconceptions about the way people
should
be.

Doyle rose, and in his expression Travis could see that he was enjoying himself. Travis felt sure that Doyle was fully aware of the effect created, and yet he was not going to acknowledge it. Perhaps he wanted Travis to feel as though he was the odd one out, the stranger, the misfit.

“Most everyone is here,” Doyle said. “Valeria has not yet returned, but I don’t believe she will be much longer. Generally, we all eat in here. We have a cook, just like any other Wild West wagon train.” He smiled at his own comment. “There are a few absentees. After all, when we are not performing, everyone is free to come and go as they please.”

“This is a good start,” Travis said. He crossed confidently to the center of the marquee and stood before the assembly. He smiled in as relaxed a manner as he could, and then he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Doyle… if you could introduce me.”

“As you wish, Agent Travis,” Doyle said, and then he turned to the gathered crowd. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice. “Your attention, please. This is Special Agent Travis of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He has come down here from Kansas City to look into our murder. He’s going to need to speak with some of you individually, and it goes without saying that the more suspicious and dishonest-looking you are, the more intensively you will be questioned—”

There was a susurrus of laughter from the assembly.

“But, just for now, he wants to say a few words to all of us as a group.”

Doyle turned, and with a theatrical flourish of his hands, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… Special Agent Travis of the FBI.”

Travis did not acknowledge Doyle’s slightly irreverent manner, just as Doyle had intentionally ignored the effect his carnival people had created on Travis.

Travis stepped forward and spoke directly to those before him.

“Good evening to all of you. Thank you for gathering at such short notice. As Mr. Doyle stated, I wanted to say a few things to the group as a whole, but then I will need to interview each of you individually. That can take place tomorrow and over however many days I stay. I can appreciate that this must have come as a shock, but my first and foremost task is to identify the victim, and then I can better establish whether this is a matter that can be left in Sheriff Rourke’s capable hands, or if it does warrant federal intervention. As you know, a man was found dead beneath the carousel on Saturday night. As Mr. Doyle and Sheriff Rourke have already explained, I understand that none of you are aware of this man’s identity. However, a further detail has come to light that needs to be considered, and it is concerning this detail that I will be speaking with you on a one-to-one basis. All I can ask is for your utmost cooperation in this matter, and I give you my assurance that I will do everything I can to move this investigation forward to a swift and satisfactory resolution. There is no intention from the Bureau to delay your passage any longer than is absolutely necessary, nor to prevent you from further earning your living.”

Travis paused. He still had their attention.

“That is all at this time,” he went on. “And unless there are any immediate questions, then I shall wish you a good evening.”

“One question.”

Travis turned. The man with seven fingers rose to his feet. Everyone looked at him.

“Perhaps it is a foolish question, Agent Travis, but am I to understand that we are all murder suspects?”

“More witnesses than suspects, sir.”

“And if the sheriff has asked us what we saw, and we saw nothing, why do we remain potential witnesses?”

Travis smiled. “There are different approaches to such an investigation, sir. The Bureau is responsible for training its agents in a certain way, and the means and methods employed by the Bureau are somewhat different from the Sheriff’s Department.”

“So are you going to torture us for the truth, or will you merely hypnotize us?”

Again, a low murmur of laughter filled the air.

“Yes, torture will be applied in most cases,” Travis said. “We have also found that sleep deprivation can work wonders in assisting people to remember the truth. I tend to prefer teeth-pulling, fingernail removal, and horse-whipping as a general rule, but I am old-school, you see?”

The man seemed surprised by Travis’s humorous response. “Seriously, Agent Travis, I am wondering what more you can find out that hasn’t already been communicated.”

“All I can say is that I’ve had a great deal of experience in situations such as this and have routinely found that there are things that people do not realize they saw, nor realize that they can in fact remember. By appropriate questioning, those details can sometimes be brought to the fore, and they can be extraordinarily helpful.”

“So you can read minds, Agent Travis,” the man said.

“What is your name, sir?” Travis asked.

“My name is Slate.”

“Well, Mr. Slate, I can assure you that I cannot read minds—”

“Have you ever tried, Agent Travis?”

Travis frowned. “I’m not sure that I understand the point of asking me these questions, Mr. Slate.”

“Considering that we are extending sufficient courtesy to answer your questions, it would seem only right that you should extend the same courtesy in return.”

“Well, no, I have never tried to read someone’s mind, Mr. Slate.”

Slate smiled. “Then how do you know it cannot be done?”

Travis smiled patiently. “All I am saying, sir, is that a further detail regarding the possible identity of the murder victim has come to light, and this is something I wish to explore, with your cooperation, of course. I appreciate that you would ordinarily have moved on by now, but until the Bureau and the Sheriff’s Department are completely satisfied as to your lack of knowledge or involvement in this murder, then we are going to require your continued presence in Seneca Falls.”

Slate smiled once again, and then he placed the palms of his hands together as if to pray. It was as if he were holding a broad fan in front of him, and when he sat down once again, he did so slowly, as if to demonstrate that Travis’s answers to his questions had not been answers at all. Travis felt that this had been a somewhat ineffective attempt to manipulate him, as if there was some purpose in making him appear a fool, to appear naive and ignorant.

Doyle was suddenly behind Travis, had leaned in close and was speaking directly into his ear in a hushed voice.

“Ignore him,” Doyle said. “He is teasing you. He is simply being mischievous. It is just his nature.”

“And not appreciated,” Travis said. “This is a serious matter. A man has lost his life.”

“No less serious to us, of course,” Doyle said, “but for different reasons.”

“Different reasons?”

“Not one of us was responsible for that man’s death, Agent Travis, and yet here he is, even in death, capable of preventing us from continuing with our lives. Quite selfish, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, perhaps, Mr. Doyle, but doesn’t justice for what was done to him appeal to your basic humanity?”

“The same basic humanity that sees people such as this rejected from society, treated as outcasts?
That
sense of humanity, Agent Travis?”

Travis did not respond. This was becoming a game of words that meant nothing. This was the United States of America. This was the society within which all of those present existed, and irrespective of their chosen walk of life, each citizen had a right to be treated fairly within the standards of the law. Those same expectations then had to be extended to others less fortunate, those who found themselves as victims of crime. A man had been killed. Someone somewhere cared for that man, undoubtedly, and they had a right to know what had happened and why.

“You are simply affording this poor man the same rights as would be afforded any one of us if we found ourselves horribly murdered, aren’t you, Agent Travis?”

It was as if Doyle had plucked the very thought right out of his mind.

“Yes, Mr. Doyle,” he said, doing all he could to maintain an implacable expression. “That is absolutely what I am doing.”

“Truth finds friends in truth, Agent Travis, and lies do not.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Do not be sorry, Agent Travis. You are merely doing your job.”

“That’s not what I meant, Mr. Doyle.”

Doyle took Travis’s arm and effortlessly steered him toward the doorway of the marquee. Travis felt all eyes were upon him. There was not a sound but for Doyle’s voice, and even that was a whisper.

“Do you
know
what you meant, Agent Travis? Do any of us ever really
know
what we mean? Seems to me that the fundamental difficulty in each of us is the inability to say exactly what we mean.”

They were outside then, halfway back to Travis’s car. Travis was aware of the headache then, more so than before. He instinctively touched his right temple, the point where the pain was most concentrated.

“Your head hurts,” Doyle said. “Eat, sleep, we will deal with this tomorrow.” He released Travis’s arm, stepped back, gave a small bow of his head, and then turned and walked away.

“Mr. Doyle?”

Doyle turned back.

“I have afforded you nothing but respect and patience. I would appreciate the same in return. I will not be spoken to impolitely or discourteously, and I will not be portrayed as anything other than what I am. The truth will come out, sir. I assure you of that. Attempting to make mockery of this investigation will do nothing but incur my anger, and that, I assure you, is not something I would advise that you do. Do I make myself clear?”

Doyle opened his mouth to speak, and then he seemed to think better of it. He smiled sincerely, and then he nodded respectfully and turned away.

Travis waited for the man to disappear into the marquee, and then he returned to the car. It was only as he reached it that he realized his headache had eased, if not dissipated altogether.

Doyle was a showman, and—as with all performers—the face he wore for the world and the reality were very different. If the man believed he could blindside Travis, then he was very much mistaken.

Travis got into the car and started the engine. He put on the headlights, and as he turned toward the road, he saw the silhouettes again within the marquee. People seemed to be dancing. He knew that this was not possible. There was no music. There was no reason for them to dance. Nevertheless, this was the impression he had.

He reached the road and started away toward the center of Seneca Falls.

By the time he reached the McCaffrey Hotel, whatever headache might have been threatening to assault him was nothing but a memory. It was nearing seven thirty, the dinner service was just beginning, and Danny McCaffrey said he had reserved a place for Travis.

“Unless, of course, you’d wish to take dinner in your room, sir,” Danny said.

“No, I’d like to eat here,” Travis said, and followed Danny through to the dining room.

Travis was served soup, a pot roast, offered a dessert—which he declined—and then he took his coffee upstairs.

For a few minutes he sat in the chair by the window and watched the street below. There were few passersby, two or three couples walking hand in hand, an elderly man with a stooped back and a heavy cane, which he thumped along the sidewalk as he went, a couple of children on bicycles. Seneca Falls and its inhabitants seemed to be going on about their business of being a small and relatively insignificant Midwestern town. Nevertheless, something had happened here that had served to make this place less insignificant, and whether they wished to know what had happened or not, they were soon to find out. That attitude—
If it doesn’t directly concern me, then it is of no concern—
did not apply to him. This was a matter of life and death. This was no meaningless detail. This was a cardinal sin, a violation of a commandment, a capital offense. Turn a blind eye to something such as this and you could feel the very foundations of the society start to crack and crumble.