Michael Connelly - The Poet

We sat in silence for a few moments. Warren just stared at me.

"I think you better tell me the long story," he finally said. "No, wait."

He held up his hand like a crossing guard signaling stop, picked up the phone with the other and pushed a speed-dial number.

"Drex? Mike. Listen, I know this is late but I'm not going to make it. Something's come up over here… No… We'll have to reschedule. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks, bye."

He put down the phone and looked at me.

"It was just a lunch. Now tell me this story of yours."

A half hour later, after he had made some calls to set up a meeting, Warren led me through the labyrinth of the foundation's hallways to a room marked 383. It was a conference room and already seated there were Dr. Nathan Ford and Oline Fredrick. The introductions were quick and Warren and I sat down.

Fredrick looked like she was in her mid-twenties with curly blond hair and an uninterested air about her. I immediately paid more attention to Ford. Warren had prepped me. He said any decisions would be made by Ford. The foundation director was a small man in a dark suit but he had a presence that commanded the room. He wore glasses with thick black frames and rose-tinted lenses. He had a full beard of uniform gray that perfectly matched his hair. He didn't move his head as much as he did his eyes when he followed our movements as we entered and took seats around the large oval table. He had his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together in front of him.

"Why don't we get started," he said once the introductions were over.

"What I'd like to do is just have Jack tell you both what he told me a little while ago," Warren said. "And then we'll go from there. Jack, you mind going over it again?"

"Not at all."

"I'm going to take some notes this time."

I told the story in pretty much the same detail as I had with Warren. Every now and then I would remember something new and not necessarily significant but I would throw that in anyway. I knew I needed to impress Ford because he would be the one to decide whether or not I got Oline Fredrick's help.

The only interruption during the telling came from Fredrick. When I spoke of my brother's death, she mentioned that the protocol from the DPD on the case had been received the week before. I told her she could now toss it in the trash can. When I was finished reciting the story, I looked at Warren and raised my hands.

"Anything I missed?"

"I don't think so."

We both looked at Ford then and waited. He hadn't moved much during the telling. Now he raised his clasped hands and gently bumped them repeatedly against his chin as he thought. I wondered what kind of doctor he was. What do you have to be to run a foundation? More politician than doctor, I thought.

"It's a very interesting story," he said quietly. "I can see why you are excited. I can see why Mr. Warren is excited. He was a reporter for most of his adult life and I think the excitement of the story remains in his blood sometimes, possibly to the detriment of his current profession."

He didn't look at Warren as he delivered this blow. His eyes stayed on me.

"What I don't understand, and therefore the reason I don't seem to share the same excitement as you two, is what this has to do with the foundation. I'm not clear on that, Mr. McEvoy."

"Well, Dr. Ford," Warren began, "Jack has to-"

"No," Ford cut him off. "Let Mr. McEvoy tell me."

I tried to think in precise terms. Ford didn't want a lot of bullshit. He just wanted to know how he would benefit from this.

"I assume the suicide project is on a computer."

"That is correct," Ford said. "Most of our studies are collated on computer. We rely on the great number of police departments out there for our field research. Reports come in-the protocol Ms. Fredrick mentioned earlier. They are entered on the computer. But that means nothing. It is the skilled researcher who must digest these facts and tell us what they mean. On this study, the researcher is joined by FBI experts in reviewing the raw data."

"I understand all of that," I said. "What I am saying is that you have a huge data bank of incidents of police suicide."

"Going back five, six years, I believe. The work was started before Oline came on board."

"I need to go into your computer."

"Why?"

"If we're right-and I'm not just talking about me. The detectives in Chicago and in Denver are thinking this way, too. We've got two cases that are connected. The-"

"Seemingly connected."

"Right, seemingly connected. If they are, then the chances are that there are others. We're talking about a serial killer. Maybe there's a lot, maybe a few and maybe none. But I want to check and you've got the data right here. All the reported suicides in the last six years. I want to get inside your computer and look for the ones that might be the fakes, that might be our guy."

"How do you propose doing that?" Fredrick said. "We've got several hundred cases on file."

"The protocol that police departments fill out and send in, does it include the victim's rank and position in the department?"

"Yes."

"Then we first look at all homicide detectives who killed themselves. The theory I'm working with is that this person is killing homicide cops. Maybe it's a hunted-turns-on-the-hunter sort of thing. I don't know the psychology of it, but that's where I'd start. With homicide cops. Once we have that breakout, we look at each case. We need the notes. The suicide notes. From-"

"That's not on computer," Fredrick said. "In each incidence, if we even have a copy of the note, it's in the hard-copy protocols in file storage. The notes themselves aren't part of the study unless they have some allusion to the pathology of the victim."

"But you've kept the hard copies?"

"Yes, all of them. In file storage."

"Then we go to them," Warren chimed in excitedly.

His intrusion brought silence. Eventually, everyone's eyes were drawn to Ford's.

"One question," the director finally said. "Does the FBI know about this?"

"At the moment, I can't say for sure," I said. "I know it is the intention of the Chicago and Denver police to retrace my steps and then, once they are satisfied that I am on the right path, they are going to call in the bureau. It will go from there."

Ford nodded and said, "Mr. McEvoy, could you step out and wait in the reception area for me? I want to talk to Ms. Fredrick and Mr. Warren privately before making any decision on this matter."

"No problem." I stood up and headed to the door, where I hesitated and looked at Ford. "I hope… I mean… I hope we can do this. Anyway, thanks."

Michael Warren's face told the story before he said anything. I was sitting on a lumpy vinyl-covered couch in the reception area when he came down the hallway with downcast eyes. When he saw me he just shook his head.

"Let's go back to my office," he said.

I followed silently behind him and took the same seat I had before. He looked as dejected as I felt.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because he's an asshole," he whispered. "Because the Justice Department punches our ticket and the FBI is the Justice Department. It's their study-they commissioned it. He's not going to let you walk through it without telling them first. He's not ever going to do anything that might knock the gravy train off the tracks. You said the wrong thing in there, Jack. You should have said the FBI was made aware of this and took a pass."

"He wouldn't have believed that."

"The point is, he could've said he did. If it ever blew up on him that he was helping a reporter to information before the bureau, he could have just put it on you and said he thought the bureau passed."

"So what now? I can't just drop this."

I wasn't really asking him. I was asking myself.