Authors: Daniel Hecht
For a moment Flannery's face turned scarlet. The veins in his neck stood out. But then his face fell into the big grin, and he chuckled as he turned away, went to his bag, brought out a towel. He rubbed his bald head and face and neck, watching Mo and grinning.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" the DA said finally. He shook his head appreciatively. "Seriously. I don't understand why you have such an aversion to playing ball with me—metaphorically speaking, that is. On the other hand, I like your style. The 'last honest man' thing, that's good, you pull it off well. So I'm going to confide in you. Can I trust you, Detective?"
"Depends."
"Right answer! Give Mr. Integrity a
prize\"
Flannery tossed his towel, and then his face got serious again. He lowered his voice. "Okay. Wheels within wheels, right? We've got a stubborn situation with these killings, don't we. Something here doesn't compute. Right?"
"Right."
"So let me tell you a story. Just between you and me." The frown deepened as Flannery sat himself down against the wall and began massaging his legs. "I was in the Army Med Corps during the Vietnam War. Down in Georgia most of the time, some months over there. You know what my job was? I was assigned to treat former POWs, or guys we'd recovered after they'd been lost in the jungle for a while. They had very specific medical problems, which demand both physical and psychological treatment, closely integrated. My specialty. Some of the POWs we treated had been what we used to call 'brainwashed,' but most just got screwed up from a year or two or three in very restrictive captivity. Nowadays they use the term 'post-traumatic stress syndrome,' but the truth is there are many varieties of response to stress or trauma. Imprisonment and prolonged abject subjugation to the will of others produces a unique cluster of problems. You get claustrophobia, depression, rage disorders, what we call 'learned helplessness,' and obsessional stuff around
control.
Control issues, whether it's about being controlled or controlling others, usually both. You see where I'm going with this?"
"The puppet killings are about control."
"Yeah." Flannery grimaced as he worked out a kink in a knotted calf muscle, and when he went on, he spoke quietly. "Okay. So there's a funny coincidence you should know about. When I was over in Vietnam, our unit was primarily concerned with these problems, and we were semisecret because no one back home was supposed to know how bad the war really was, how hard it was on our boys. But we were learning a lot, we were making progress. Other units, both intelligence and combat, would come to us for advice. One individual from an elite black-ops unit came back several times, asked a lot of insightful questions. Coincidentally, that same individual is now deeply involved in investigating the puppets murders."
Holy shit,
Mo was thinking.
Flannery caught his expression. "Yes. Biedermann. I'm very interested in Erik Biedermann." He stared hard at Mo.
Before Mo could say anything, a couple of racquetballers appeared at the glass back wall. They smiled, looked at their watches meaningfully, glanced back toward Flannery. When Flannery flashed them two fingers,
two minutes,
they sat against the bench on the other side of the corridor and chatted as they readied their equipment.
Mo asked quietly, "And how're you thinking he might be involved?"
Flannery spoke very quiedy and kept his back to the observation wall as he got to his feet and began stuffing his gear into his bag. "Not sure yet. But I'm not a big believer in coincidences. So there're two possibilities that occur to me. One is that Biedermann is on a mission that's pretty important and is related to his past work—bigger than a copycat killer. In which case, the whole scenario is full of opportunities that I find, frankly, rather attractive."
Mo waited, then thought to ask, "What's the other possibility?"
Flannery grinned. "Why don't we just leave it at that for now?"
"And you're telling me all this because—?"
"I'd like you to help me find out more about him. This is going to have to be very delicate. And, you can understand, I'm reluctant to use anyone in my own shop on this."
"Why me? You'd be better off talking to some of the others, NYPD or New Jersey people. They've had more experience with him."
Flannery just chuckled at that. "Because the old killings weren't in my jurisdiction, I don't have as much pull with those guys. Whereas the new ones are, and you—you, I kind of have you under my thumb just now, don't I?"
Mo was thinking of all the angles Flannery was, playing, or might be. Maybe just what he said, using Mo as a mole for information he could eventually use to advance himself. Or a trap, a way to catch Mo in some impropriety that Flannery could crucify him for. Better yet, raising the Biedermann red herring at this stage was a perfect way to deflect a suspicious investigator from consideration of Flannery himself. Suddenly he was sick of Flannery, his big smile, his confidence, his machinations.
"What happens if I don't play along?"
"The usual." Flannery zipped his gym bag shut, glanced quickly around the court, scowled at Mo. "Big Willie can go away easily, or he can not go away at all. I might not be able to make anything stick to you, but even having the indictment in your record would put the kibosh on any future promotions. Nah, forget that—a guy like you wouldn't care about that. But with a trial I can surely make your life hell for six months, a year. And I don't think that's something you want right now. It would probably be bad timing for you, wouldn't it, given that rumor has it you're starting something up with that good-looking psychologist. Who, let's not kid ourselves, is a bit of a reach anyway. For a guy in your position." Flannery's eyebrows rose as he drilled his gaze at Mo, like
We both know what I'm talking about.
Mo was dead beat by the time he made it back to Carla's mom's house.
Mausoleum.
He checked the empty rooms on all three floors, downed a glass of acid-tasting orange juice, took off his jacket. The spot where the handball had hit him still burned on his shoulder, not a physical bruise but the psychic brand of another man's machismo.
Fucking Flannery.
He wanted to call Rebecca, but he was beset with sudden uncertainties, and anyway there was another call to be made first. He dialed the number from memory, got the terse answering machine message.
"Gus, this is Mo Ford. I could use your help. Same problem, different guy. Give me a buzz."
M
O HAD NEVER THOUGHT of himself as much of a drinker, but Friday nights loomed big when you lived alone in an abandoned house and the one person you wanted to be with was having her night with her daughter, thirty miles away. And the noisy, boozy ambience of a bar sounded like about the right antidote for a growing case of the lonesome scaries. So after leaving the message for Gus he got into his car and let it steer itself through the humid summer streets toward The Edge. A bar that cops knew, a bar that knew cops. Misery loves company.
The Edge occupied the ground floor of a three-story, older brick building. Previously it had styled itself an Irish pub, and though the new owner had changed the name to reflect the postmodern angst of the times and installed a thin veneer of sports mania, the place retained a lot of the dark wood, Guinness signs, Irish flags, and dartboards of its prior incarnation. One section of wall was devoted to photos of celebs and local hero cops. Eight o'clock, maybe twenty people there, half of them in the back room around a pair of pool tables. At the bar, a couple of TV screens beamed sports shows down through a haze of cigarette smoke onto a dozen drinkers arguing about the Knicks' playoff chances.
Mo nodded to a couple of familiar faces, slid into one of the narrow booths, ordered a pint of Bass from the bone-skinny waitress. After the hot day it was good to glug something cold. He'd drunk half of it and was just feeling it hit his bloodstream when a big form blocked the TV light and he looked up to see Erik Biedermann.
"Hey, good buddy," the G-man said. He sat down heavily across from Mo, put his arms on the table, rubbed his meaty hands together expectantly. "What a surprise, seeing you here."
"How'd you know where I was?"
"Vee haff our vays," Biedermann quipped. He grabbed a beer menu, looked it over quickly, tossed it back on the table. "No, seriously, this is a coincidence. I had a meeting up this way, finished up and had a hankering for a drink. Everybody says this is where the law-enforcement community waters, thought I'd check it out."
"In that case, have a seat," Mo said.
Biedermann laughed. "Always the attitude! Love it. Come on, Ford, cut me some slack, huh? Yeah, you think what I do for a living stinks. But I bet you get the same shit from civilians, how can you
do
that shit, wouldn't mind a break once in a while yourself. Right?"
Mo was thinking of Rachel's comment:
I mean, who would do that?
Doesn't it gross you out?
Biedermann's grin had gone wry and a little sideways there, Mo could see he meant it, the guy did know that brand of lonely. Okay, Biedermann could have some slack, he decided.
The waitress came, Biedermann ordered a pint of Sam Adams, Mo put in for another Bass.
Biedermann looked appreciatively around the room. He was dressed in jeans and a blue work shirt, cuffs rolled halfway up beefy forearms, cloth tight over his pecs and biceps, and he looked more like a buff suburban hubby after a day of yard work than a covert-ops hit man on his night off. "Nice place," he said. "You drowning your sorrows, or is this just a regular Friday-night gig for you?"
Mo thought about it. "You saw where I live," he said finally.
To his credit, Biedermann just nodded, didn't say anything.
The waitress brought their beers, they slugged some back. Mo felt himself relax a bit. Part of him wanted to broach the subject of Flannery, bring it out into the open, maybe Biedermann would answer some questions. But really, he had nothing on the DA yet. Certainly nothing he could talk about without revealing that they'd put together the Geppetto scenario. That was the crucial thing, keeping their knowledge from Biedermann.
"I keep feeling that you and I got off on the wrong foot,"
Biedermann said. "Macho stuff, who's-in-charge crap. But I'd like to get past that. We also have a lot in common. I mean, more than job stuff." He looked at Mo meaningfully.
"You mean Rebecca."
A ghost of wistfulness crossed Biedermann's face. "Well. Yeah. She's, uh, she's quite a gal. Ah, fuck, that sounds sexist. She's a rare person. She's beautiful, she's smart, she's"—Biedermann groped for the word—"she's
genuine.
You know? You're a lucky guy." Suddenly he looked uncomfortable, glanced down into his beer, then finished it with a long guzzle and craned around to catch the waitress's eye.
"I didn't mean to insult your place when I was over there," Biedermann went on. "I know what it's like, I hardly live anywhere myself, no time. But speaking of Rebecca, if you want my advice—"
"I don't."
"Okay, not advice, just an observation. She's
choosy.
You know? Very high standards. And why shouldn't she be? All I'm saying is, you know—a guy in your situation, right, don't take this the wrong way—don't get your hopes up too far? That's all. I'm, uh, kind of speaking from personal experience here." Biedermann looked sadly at his empty glass.
Great,
Mo was thinking. Christ, the mismatch was obvious to everyone, even macho lunks like Flannery and Biedermann. How long before Rebecca caught on?
Biedermann's beer came, and he quaffed off a third of it before raising his glass to Mo. "To the gentler sex," he said soberly. They clinked glasses and drank.
An explosion of laughter and applause came from back in the pool room, the slap of a cue stick, and they turned their heads. A young woman in a short skirt was sitting on one of the tables, showing off her long legs as she twisted to take an awkward shot. She knocked the cue ball right off the table, collapsed laughing onto the felt, then slipped down into her boyfriend's arms.
They spent another minute nursing their beers, and then Biedermann said, "Listen, I gotta get going. But I have to tell you something. I lied about this being a coincidence, me finding you here. I was looking for you. I, uh, I wanted to talk to you. Off the record."
Mo felt a tingle of alarm and suddenly wished he hadn't drunk so much. "About?"
Biedermann leaned forward, dropped his voice. "Bad news, Mo. We've been working on the handcuffs? The disposable nylon cuffs on some of the vies. Turns out they
are
traceable, by manufacturing lot, subtle differences in plastic composition. We identified the lot, tracked sales from Flex-Cuf company. The lot in question went to eleven police departments. One of them happens to be—well, it's a little too coincidental for my taste."
Somehow Mo knew instantly where this was going. Abruptly the whole show ramified, elaborated. New depths of complication and confusion.
"Yeah, your friend Ty Boggs. He ordered a couple gross of'em for his precinct. I know you guys went to college together, hung out some, you're probably fairly close. So I thought I'd give you a heads-up. We've been looking at him."
"He's not the guy," Mo said.
"I wouldn't think so either. But how well do you really know him? We know our perp's an actor, knows how to look unlikely. Ty was in Vietnam, ran some special missions. Has a police and forensic background. Smart, highly organized. Look at what your . . . what Bee has said about the killer's profile. Alienated, probably no real domestic life. Your buddy Ty got divorced eight years ago, right, never remarried, supposedly lives with his sister. Looks to me like an angry man, and you could make a case that the blond, blue-eyed victimology stems from racial hatreds. Physically strong as a tank, martial arts skills, close to the investigation—"
"You must know who your ex—guinea pigs are," Mo countered. "Zelek said you kept a strict record." His head was spinning, trying to figure if this was real or some ploy on Biedermann's part, another deflection for whatever reason.
Ty?
"There're a thousand ways to lose touch with them over twenty-seven years. A thousand ways to fabricate a new identity. Plus, screw Zelek, the fact is the program's records were so decentralized, so compartmentalized, so hush-hush, we can't be totally sure. Let me ask you this: What's your relationship with him like? Real close, or just . . . more professional? See him much on weekends, evenings? Ever meet his girlfriends?"
"Pretty close. Well, we were until—"
"Until about three years ago, I'd bet. Coincidentally, just about the time the Howdy Doody kills began." Biedermann drilled a look at Mo, obviously seeing his confidence fade.
Mo had to admit that much was true. Ty had seemed to push him out right around then. All he could think of to say was "Why are you telling me this? I thought you wanted me out of the big picture."
Biedermann bobbed his head. "Couple reasons. One, he's your buddy. If it turns out we get very serious about him, we can't have you getting protective here, doing him little favors, turning a blind eye. Getting under our feet deliberately or accidentally. Two, I figured you should know. A professional courtesy, I guess. A gesture of respect. We've decided not to mention progress on the handcuffs to the task force, not just yet, it could get back to him. So do me a favor, keep this just between you and me. Right?"
Biedermann blew air out between his lips, looking resigned and unhappy, then slid sideways and stood out of the booth. "I gotta run. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. Not easy to think of an old friend as a killer. Hey, maybe we're wrong, maybe it'll all blow over, huh?" His attempt at being reassuring sounded as bogus as they came. He chucked Mo on the shoulder and left the bar.