Oaths and miracles, p.30
Oaths and Miracles, page 30
Incident Control, which had been set up in the Covenant Hall, had been equally frustrating. Cavanaugh had gone there as soon as he arrived at the camp. Cadillac’s chief of police, Ray Plovin, sat at a desk at one end of the room. The special investigator sent down from Albany by the governor sat behind a desk at the other end. Turf wars.
“Chief Plovin, how long do you estimate it will take your men to explore the caves under the camp?”
“Hard to say,” Plovin said coldly. He was in surly middle-age, the kind of man who hasn’t achieved what he’d hoped and blamed the world. Which was now going to blame him for the bloody circus in his jurisdiction. Reporters were already shouting questions across the police cordon: “Why weren’t the cops even aware that this supposedly peaceful religious cult was actually heavily armed?” “What steps are being taken to find Wendell Botts and the wife and children he’s holding hostage before more tragedy occurs?” Plovin didn’t have answers. He hadn’t even been made aware there was any situation to have answers to. He was pissed.
He snarled at Cavanaugh, “Caves haven’t even been mapped.”
“But the Soldiers wouldn’t have been likely to go in very deeply? For fear of getting lost, collapse, bats, whatever?”
“Hard to say.” Definitely pissed. Cavanaugh had already explained that the FBI had reason to think the abduction of Saralinda Botts and her children crossed state lines. Hence the involvement of the Bureau in what was essentially a spectacular version of domestic violence. Cavanaugh knew both men were too experienced to accept this. They knew something else was going on here, and they had to resent not being told what it was. By now, one or both would have discovered that Cavanaugh was with Organized Crime and Racketeering.
He turned to Special Investigator Hardesty, a tall trim man who moved like the athlete he probably once had been. “Anything I should have?”
Hardesty said, “Nothing yet from the APB on Botts, or on the getaway car. We found a car registered to Botts in the woods. Empty. No stolen vehicles reported during the last two weeks in or around Cadillac, but of course that doesn’t mean anything. But the newspaper check turned up allegations by Botts that the local medical examiner, Dr. Richard Stallman, had ordered two bodies exhumed for additional autopsies in November. Both deceased resided at the camp. You want to run that down in the morning, or will I?” His tone was perfect: cool courtesy, without actual deference. A professional who did not let personal feelings color his job performance.
“I’ll take it,” Cavanaugh said. Felders hadn’t told him about this during his call from the plane. “Stallman at the hospital?”
“No, he’s retired. Fifty-six Grove Street.”
Cavanaugh turned to Plovin, in order to involve him. Don’t make turf wars worse. “How do I get there?”
“Back to town, east on Main Street, left at the second light,” Plovin said, his voice sarcastic at this interloper who couldn’t even find his way around town.
“Thanks,” Cavanaugh said evenly.
Hardesty said, “We got a report from the hospital. Two of the bodies were I.D.’d by camp members as not belonging to the cult. Strangers. Both Caucasian males, twenties or early thirties, wearing ski masks, dark clothing, and combat boots. No identification on the bodies. We’re requesting prints now.”
“Okay,” Cavanaugh said.
“Here’s a preliminary list of people being held at the hospital. The rest are at the high school—we don’t have that list yet, there’s at least a couple hundred people. Even the hospital list might not be complete. The detectives are at the hospital and the high school now, taking statements. You’ll get them in the morning. But what we’re hearing so far is that camp members were shocked when some of their own suddenly produced firearms, and started using them in a competent manner in response to strangers in ski masks who carried guns. The cult members interviewed didn’t think there were even any guns in the camp.”
“And the guys with the guns are the camp members missing now,” Cavanaugh said.
“Yes,” Hardesty said. He looked Cavanaugh straight in the eyes. “Cavanaugh, you going to bring us up to speed on this case?”
Cavanaugh had already discussed this with Felders. “It’s still nebulous at this point, but I’ll tell you what I can. We think the LCN may have been testing out biological weapons at this site.”
“The hell they were!” Plovin exploded. “There isn’t anything like that in my town! This is just some wacko who snatched his wife and kids!”
Hardesty said, “What kind of biological weapons?”
“We’re not sure. I need to interview the camp doctor. Then we’ll know more.” He didn’t promise to share the information.
Hardesty caught the omission. His voice stayed cool. “We have the doctor in a bungalow next door to the infirmary. You’ll see the light on. No one has spoken with him, except to say he’s being detained as a material witness. Our instructions were to wait for you.”
He found the bungalow easily. It was a single room, furnished with a double bed, chest of drawers, wood stove, and a few chairs. The furniture had the solid, earnest look of homemade. On the wall was a cheap print of The Last Supper and a calendar with puppies on it. Two cops sat in the chairs. The doctor slumped on the bed, but he stood quickly when Cavanaugh walked in.
And the moment Cavanaugh saw the doctor, his tired senses sharpened again. The doctor was it. One of them. Cavanaugh knew it.
“Dr. …”
“Anthony Parker.” He was in his thirties, heavyset. Dark smooth hair, wire-rimmed glasses.
Cavanaugh flipped his badge. “Agent Robert Cavanaugh, FBI.”
Parker didn’t change expression. “I think I should have a lawyer.”
“Why is that, Doctor? We just want to hear what happened.”
“I don’t think I should talk to you without a lawyer.”
Cavanaugh watched him, not saying anything, waiting to see what Parker would say next. The bastard knew. He knew a background check would turn up something … not a rap, but a family connection, a financial tie, something. Parker knew, too, that the others, the muscle, had all escaped or been killed and he was cut off, alone with the law. Of course he wanted a lawyer, and to hell with how that made him look to Cavanaugh.
“I understand there are no phones in the camp,” Cavanaugh said. “The Soldiers of the Divine Covenant didn’t believe in them. Are you a Soldier of the Divine Covenant, Dr. Parker?”
“There must be phones by now. You people … the law enforcement agencies would have run lines in by now.”
Which of course they had. Cavanaugh had seen the emergency cable.
“I want my lawyer,” Parker said. “I’m entitled to call him!”
“Certainly. I’ll have a police officer accompany you.”
Parker nodded. There was a thin film of moisture on his face; his glasses kept sliding down his nose. “What am I charged with?”
“Nothing, Doctor.”
“Then why must I be accompanied by a police officer?”
“This is a crime scene,” Cavanaugh said, and felt deep satisfaction. Parker was jumpy, and frightened, chosen for his medical profession rather than for any natural toughness. The Relatives had run him until now, but he was their weak link. There was a possibility Cavanaugh could get him to turn. Even with a lawyer present.
He said to the two uniforms outside the bungalow, “Escort Dr. Parker to Incident Control. Tell Investigator Hardesty that the doctor wishes to call his lawyer.” One of the cops stepped quickly forward; an eager beaver. Cavanaugh thought of Dollings.
When Parker returned, he said, “I called him. He’ll be here in an hour.”
“Fine,” Cavanaugh said. “Meanwhile, come in out of this cold.” He led Parker back into the bungalow, motioning to the uniforms to stay outside. They wore parkas. And he wanted to talk to Parker alone.
The two men faced each other across the handmade wooden table. Cavanaugh said softly, “It’s all screwed up, Doctor, isn’t it. And they’ll blame you.”
“I don’t have to answer any—”
“I’m not asking any questions. And you aren’t charged with any crime. I’m just talking to you, telling you how it is. You’re an intelligent man—hell, you’re a doctor. You thought you could work with them, control your little piece of it, collect the payoff that you figure will set you up for life. And then you’d disappear and be done with them. And maybe you could have, if nothing had gone wrong—but I doubt it. And something has gone wrong. They take out even their own, Doctor, when their own fail to get something done right. You probably already know that. And you’re not their own. But you already know all this. You’re an intelligent man.”
Cavanaugh paused. Parker pushed his glasses back up on his nose. He didn’t tell Cavanaugh to go to hell.
“They kill their own when something goes wrong, Doctor. We find them all the time. In the trunk of a car in Chicago. In the harbor in New York. On the desert in Vegas. A clean kill, if it’s a made man. To show respect. If it’s not a made man—well, it’s pretty awful, Doctor. You can maybe imagine what they do. You’re a doctor, you must know what can be done to the human body. After Frank Guelli failed to kill Tony Lupica when he was supposed to, they tied Frank up, poured lighter fluid on his face and genitals, set it afire and—”
“I’ll deal,” Parker said. “With you.”
“Yes,” Cavanaugh said swiftly. “About Verico.”
“Yes. About Verico. But only after my lawyer arrives. I’m not saying anything more until after my lawyer arrives!”
So the lawyer was clean. “Okay,” Cavanaugh said, keeping the elation out of his voice. This was it. The link between Verico and the Relatives. “We’ll talk when your lawyer gets here in an hour.”
He left Parker huddled on a chair by the woodstove and raced back to the Covenant Hall. Plovin had left. Hardesty still sat at his desk, beside a whirring fax. Cavanaugh called Felders at home. Felders answered on the first ring.
“I got it,” Cavanaugh said. “The link. The doctor says he’ll deal, and he already mentioned Verico to me. Reliable criminal informant; reasonably corroborated by other knowledge.”
“I’ll have Deming prepare the warrant,” Felders said. “It’ll be a pleasure to get him out of bed. Judge Gallagher’ll sign it in the middle of the night if Duffy asks him to. I’ll go in to Verico first thing in the morning.”
“You? Personally?”
“Bet your ass. There’s a 5:10 flight to Newark.”
“Call me afterward,” Cavanaugh said. “And we’ll need subpoenas for the Verico staff.”
“You got them. Bob—”
He was going to say it, Cavanaugh thought in disbelief. Felders was actually going to say “Nice work.” He waited.
“Don’t screw up,” Felders said. “I promised Duffy you wouldn’t.”
“Right,” Cavanaugh said.
* * *
He was too keyed up to sleep. He told Hardesty where he’d be and went to see Dr. Richard Stallman.
Fifty-six Grove was a gray Victorian house. Its bare maples thrust bleak and ash-colored branches against a black sky. Between the branches shone stars, icy and sharp. There was no odor at all in the winter air. The steps gleamed with ice and Cavanaugh gripped the wooden railing with his gloved hand, feeling the blood pulse in his fingers, the adrenalin surge through his body. Somewhere in the far distance a dog barked.
The woman who answered the door, without so much as the chain left on, was plump and grandmotherly. She wore a quilted robe and blue slippers. Her face creased with worry.
“Mrs. Stallman?”
“Yes?”
He showed her his shield. “Robert Cavanaugh, FBI. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I’d like to talk to your husband, please.”
“He’s asleep. He doesn’t hear the bell when his hearing aid is out. He takes it out at night—”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wake him up, ma’am.”
“Yes, of course. Won’t you come in?”
She led him into a cluttered living room. No, the right word was “parlor.” This was a parlor: overstuffed plush chairs, faded rug with pink roses, a million little tables densely covered with picture frames and wooden boxes and seashells and candleholders and dried flowers in small vases the dim colors of Victorian gentility. How old were these people?
Stallman, when he appeared in a plaid bathrobe and leather slippers, looked older than Job, and as righteous. The moment Cavanaugh saw him, he knew that the Relatives had not gotten to Stallman. His lined, long-jawed, fine-boned face was etched with a lifetime of absolute honesty.
“Please sit down, Mr. Cavanaugh. What can I do for you?”
Cavanaugh sat. “You can tell me, Dr. Stallman, why you ordered the bodies of Anna Borlan and Ramon Morreale exhumed for additional autopsy.”
The old man didn’t seem surprised. “If you know that much, Mr. Cavanaugh, you know that allegations had been made that the original autopsies were inadequately performed.”
“Is it usual to exhume bodies just because of allegations made in the media by a less-than-reliable person, who wasn’t even a relative of either of the deceased?”
“You already know it is not,” the old man said. For the first time Cavanaugh noticed that his left hand trembled slightly. “I was under court order.”
“Who requested the order?”
“Police Chief Plovin.”
Cavanaugh was beginning to see. Plovin, unlike Stallman, was stung that the newspapers and TV were running around—that’s the way a man like Plovin would put it, “running around”—saying the police work in his jurisdiction was inadequate. Plovin would think he’d followed the book, damnit, he always followed the book, it was a damn stupid conspiracy is what it was, they wanted autopsies they’d damn well get autopsies. … Wendell Botts’s crazy cause had lucked out in Ray Plovin.
Cavanaugh said, “I would guess you and Chief Plovin may have tangled before.”
Stallman smiled faintly and didn’t answer.
“What did the autopsies reveal, Doctor?”
“Nothing unusual.”
“Nothing?”
Stallman said quietly, “I’m sure you’re going to request copies of them.”
Of course he was. But Cavanaugh said, watching him closely, “Doctor, did the autopsies reveal unusual amounts of bradykinin in the bloodstream?”
Stallman’s eyes widened. For a moment he was completely still, thinking. “I didn’t … it isn’t usual to measure bradykinin levels. It’s a naturally occurring molecule, of course, and isn’t commercially available as a toxin, so …” He trailed off.
Cavanaugh waited.
“Mr. Cavanaugh, what is this line of questioning about? Why is the FBI interested in my autopsies?”
“I can’t tell you that, Doctor. And I’m going to ask you not to mention these questions to anyone else, even your wife.” Never had Cavanaugh been so confident of anyone’s silence. Excepting Mark Lederer. “But first, is there anything else you can tell me about the medical situation at the camp of the Soldiers of the Divine Covenant? Anything at all?”
“They had their own doctor, I understand.”
“Yes. I’m talking to him soon. Did you meet him?”
“No. He was a Soldier, I was told. They kept to themselves.”
Cavanaugh suddenly pictured a pack of Red Riding Hoods, huddling in the woods like a circled wagon train. The better to kill you with, my dear. He stood up from the overstuffed chair. “Yes, I know. Anything else, Doctor?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But Mr. Cavanaugh …” He seemed to be searching for words. Cavanaugh’s senses alerted.
“Maybe you can’t answer this,” the old man said. “But did you people know in advance that something was going to happen at the camp? Something terrible? Because if you’d said so, I’d have told the other agent more about the local politics when she asked.”
“Other agent? She? When was this?”
“This afternoon. She came pretending to be a reporter, but I could tell she wasn’t any newspaper reporter. She was too … involved. She asked about the autopsies, too.”
Cavanaugh let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “What was her name?”
“Maggie Davis, I believe. Wasn’t she one of yours?”
“What did she look like?”
“Small, slim, red hair, rumpled-looking clothes. Like she’d slept in them.”
Cavanaugh sat down again. “Yes, we’re interested in her, Doctor. Very interested. Let’s go over everything you remember. From the beginning.”
Stallman described the interview. Cavanaugh listened intently, but a part of him had turned sick. The Relatives would have had surveillance all through Cadillac, all around the camp. Pulled out, of course, now that the place was crawling with police and FBI. But they would have been here earlier today, as a matter of routine, and one of them could have seen Judy Kozinski stroll along Grove or Elm or Sycamore or one of these other, arboreal streets, and reported it. She had gotten to the camp, all right, to make her call to 911. But what then?
Had the Relatives grabbed her just after she made the call but before Botts took off in the car? Or had Botts taken her with him as an additional hostage? If it was the first, she was already dead. If not …
Stallman gazed directly at Cavanaugh. “Mr. Cavanaugh, what they were doing out there at the camp was somehow medical, wasn’t it? In my jurisdiction. And I’ll never learn what it was, will I?”
Cavanaugh was saved from answering by Mrs. Stallman’s gentle voice. “Mr. Cavanaugh? You have a phone call.”
Here? He followed her into the hallway and grabbed the phone off a little ornamental table.
“This is Hardesty.” The cool courtesy was gone. The special investigator sounded furious. “I have a major error to report. Dr. Parker is dead.”
Cavanaugh stared at the wall. That wasn’t, couldn’t have been, what Hardesty had said. “Dead?”
“When he was returned to the bungalow, it appears. After calling his lawyer. One of the uniforms is also dead. The other walked out of the camp.”
On the pad. Big time. Nobody had done background checks on the cops. And no cop on the pad expected to have to commit murder to justify his money. But this one knew he would be dead by the people who owned him if he didn’t stop Parker from talking. So he did, and trusted they would hide him. Which they wouldn’t. Cavanaugh saw again the uniform stepping eagerly forward to escort Parker to Incident Control. Too eagerly. And the thin film of sweat on Parker’s nose, under his slipping glasses.
