John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“Well,” he said, speaking in a world-weary, cynical tone, “not as much as I can get, and will get, assuming you want me to continue, but I was figuring that you’d want an update sooner rather than later, given the, ah, personal nature of this particular inquiry.”

“That would be correct.”

“You want the bottom line? Or details first?”

“Just tell me what you know.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ve got too much to worry about. You’ve got something to worry about, that’s for sure, don’t get me wrong, but let me put it this way: I’ve seen worse.”

Sally felt a surge of relief. “Okay, that’s good. Why don’t you fill me in?”

“Well, he’s got a record. Not a real long one, and not one with a whole lot of red flags, if you know what I mean, but enough to be concerned.”

“Violence?”

“Some. Not too much. Fights, that sort of thing. No weapons that I can see from the charges filed against him. That’s good. But it can also mean he just hasn’t been caught.

“Look,” Murphy continued, “this guy O’Connell seems like a bad guy. But I’ve got the feeling that he’s a lightweight. I mean, I’ve seen his type a million times, and with a little no-nonsense pressure, they fold up like a stack of chairs. You want to put up the cash, I can arrange for a couple of my buddies and me to go pay him a little visit. Put the fear of God into him. Make him understand that he’s screwing around with the wrong sort of folks. Maybe help him to understand that a different approach to life will be healthier for him, all around.”

“Are you saying threatening him?”

“No, ma’am. And I would certainly not advocate violence in any regard.” Murphy paused, letting those words sink in, and letting Sally understand that he was saying exactly the opposite. “Because that would be a crime. And, as an officer of the court, I know, Counselor, that you would never hire me to injure someone. No, ma’am. I understand that. What I’m saying is that he can be, ah, intimidated. That’s it. Intimidated. All well within the absolute letter of the law. As you and I understand the law to be. But something that definitely will make him think twice about what he’s doing.”

“That’s a step maybe we should consider.”

“Be happy to. Won’t cost too much, either. Just the usual per diem and travel for me. A little something for my, ah, companions.”

“Well,” Sally said, letting a little hesitancy creep into her voice, “I’m not sure that I’m too comfortable with involving anyone else. Even friends whose, well, whose discretion in these sorts of matters you have confidence in. Especially a state policeman who might be forced, at some much later point, to testify in court, ah, truthfully. I’m just trying to think ahead here. Get a grasp on future eventualities and possibilities. Need to cover all bases, so to speak.”

Murphy thought all lawyers failed to understand the lines between reality as it took place on the street and what was subsequently described by utterly reasonable people in the cool tones of a court of law. These were distinctions lost on almost all of them. Sometimes bloody distinctions. He sighed a little, but hid it from his voice.

“You make a good point, Counselor. But my guess is that I could handle this part of the, ah, arrangement, on my own, without involving anyone currently in a law enforcement job. If that was what you wanted.”

“That would be wise.”

“I should go ahead, then?”

“Why don’t you design an approach, Mr. Murphy? And we’ll go from there.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

The telephone line went dead in her hand. Sally sat back in her chair feeling unsettled at the same time that she was reassured, which, she understood, was a complete contradiction.

It was a typical urban cemetery, tucked into a neglected corner of the small city, with a black wrought-iron fence surrounding it. My eyes swept the rows of gray headstones marked with name after name. They grew in stature as they marched up the slope of the hill. Simple slabs of granite gave way to more elaborate shapes and forms. The messages carved on the gravestones grew more elaborate as well. Lengthy testimonials to BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER or DEVOTED FATHER. I didn’t think Matthew Murphy, from what I already knew of him, was likely to be interred beneath horn-playing cherubs.

I started to walk up and down the rows, feeling my shirt stick to my back, and a thin line of sweat break out on my forehead. Right about the time I was about to give up, I saw a single, modest headstone with the name MATTHEW THOMAS MURPHY above a set of dates. Nothing else.

I wrote down the dates and stood for a moment. “What happened?” I asked out loud.

Not even a wisp of breeze or a ghostly vision replied.

Then I thought, with more than a small twinge of irritation, I knew who could answer that question.

There was a filling station a couple of blocks from the cemetery with a pay phone. I plugged some coins into the machine and dialed her number.

I didn’t identify myself when she picked up the line. “You lied to me,” I said, irritation in my voice.

She paused and I heard her take a deep breath. “How so? Lie is such a strong word.”

“You told me to go see Murphy. And I find him not in some office, but in a graveyard. Turning himself into food for earthworms and maggots. Seems like a lie to me. What the hell is this all about?”

Again she hesitated, measuring cautiously. “But what did you see?”

“I saw a grave. A cheap headstone.”

“Then you haven’t seen enough.”

“What the hell else was there to see?” I demanded.

Her voice was suddenly cold, distant. Almost wintry. “Look harder. Look much harder. Would I have sent you there for no reason? You see a slab of granite with a name and some dates. I see a story. ”

Then she hung up the phone.

He figured one more day spent on Michael O’Connell would be more than adequate.

Matthew Murphy had other, far more critical cases crying out for attention. Photographs of illicit affairs to be taken, records of tax evasion to be checked, people to be followed, people to be confronted, people to be questioned. He knew that Sally Freeman-Richards wasn’t one of the better-heeled lawyers in the area; no BMW or Mercedes sedan for her, and he knew that the modest bill he would send her way would reflect some sort of courtesy discount. Maybe just the opportunity to play a little head game on the punk was worth 10 percent. He didn’t get the chance to strong-arm too many folks anymore, and it brought back memories that he found enjoyable. Nothing like playing the tough guy to get one’s heart pumping and adrenaline flowing.

He parked his car two blocks away from O’Connell’s apartment in an enclosed lot. He drove up several flights of spaces until he was certain that he was alone, stopped, then went to the trunk of his car. He kept several weapons locked in the back, each in a worn duffel bag of its own. A long, red bag contained a fully automatic Colt AR-15 rifle with a twenty-two-shot banana clip. He considered it his get-out-of-big-trouble-fast weapon, because it was capable of blowing the hell out of just about any problem. In a smaller, yellow duffel, he kept a.380 automatic in a shoulder holster. In a third, black duffel, was a.357 revolver with a six-inch barrel loaded with the Teflon-coated bullets called cop killers because they would penetrate the body armor used by most police forces.

But, for the current assignment, he thought the.380 the right choice. He wasn’t sure he would have to do anything more than let O’Connell know he wore it, which an unbuttoned suit coat would display easily enough. Matthew Murphy was practiced in all the methods of intimidation.