Philip Dick - Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

Herb said, “I don’t mean who planned it. That’s obvious; as you say, Holbein and Ackers and the others. I mean who actually injected her with the drug.”

“The small fry,” Buckman said. “Some political prisoner in one of the forced-labor camps.” It didn’t really matter. Any one of a million camp inmates, or any student from a dying kibbutz, would do.

“I would say pin it on somebody higher up,” Herb said.

“Why?” Buckman did not follow his thinking. “It’s always done that way; the apparatus always picks an unknown, unimportant—”

“Make it one of her friends. Somebody who could have been her equal. In fact, make it somebody well known. In fact, make it somebody in the acting field here in this area; she was a celebrity-fucker.”

“Why somebody important?”

“To tie Holbein and Ackers in with those gunjy, degenerate phone-orgy bastards she hung out with.” Herb sounded genuinely angry, now; Buckman, startled, glanced at him. “The ones who really killed her. Her cult friends. Pick someone as high as you can. And then you’ll really have something to pin on the marshals. Think of the scandal that’ll make. Holbein part of the phone grid.”

Buckman put out his cigarette and lit another. Meanwhile thinking. What I have to do, he realized, is out-scandal them. My story has to be more lurid than theirs.

It would take some story.

In his suite of offices at the Los Angeles Police Academy building, Felix Buckman sorted among the memos, letters, and documents on his desk, mechanically selecting the ones that needed Herb Maime’s attention and discarding those that could wait. He worked rapidly, with no real interest. As he inspected the various papers, Herb, in his own office, began typing out the first informal statement which Buckman would make public concerning the death of his sister.

Both men finished after a brief interval and met in Buckman’s main office, where he kept his crucial activities. At his oversize oak desk.

Seated behind the desk he read over Herb’s first draft. “Do we have to do this?” he said, when he had finished reading it.

“Yes,” Herb said. “If you weren’t so dazed by grief you’d be the first to recognize it. Your being able to see matters of this sort clearly has kept you at policy level; if you hadn’t had that faculty they’d have reduced you to training-school major five years ago.”

“Then release it,” Buckman said. “Wait.” He motioned for Herb to come back. “You quote the coroner. Won’t the media know that the coroner’s investigation couldn’t be completed this soon?”

“I’m backdating the time of death. I’m stipulating that it took place yesterday. For that reason.”

“Is that necessary?”

Herb said simply, “Our statement has to come first. Before theirs. And they won’t wait for the coroner’s inquest to be completed.”

“All right,” Buckman said. “Release it.”

Peggy Beason entered his office, carrying several classified police memoranda and a yellow file. “Mr. Buckman,” she said, “at a time like this I don’t want to bother you, but these—”

“I’ll look at them,” Buckman said. But that’s all, he said to himself. Then I’m going home.

Peggy said, “I knew you were looking for this particular file. So was Inspector McNulty. It just arrived, about ten minutes ago, from Data Central.” She placed the file before him on the blotter of his desk. “The Jason Taverner file.”

Astonished, Buckman said, “But there is no Jason Taverner file.”

“Apparently someone else had it out,” Peggy said. “Anyhow they just put it on the wire, so they must have just now gotten it back. There’s no note of explanation; Data Central merely—”

“Go away and let me look at it,” Buckman said. Quietly, Peggy Beason left his office, closing the door behind her.

“I shouldn’t have talked to her like that,” Buckman said to Herb Maime.

“It’s understandable.”

Opening the Jason Taverner file, Buckman uncovered a glossy eight-by-five publicity still. Clipped to it a memo read: Courtesy of the Jason Taverner Show, nine o’clock Tuesday nights on NBC.

“Jesus God,” Buckman said. The gods, he thought, are playing with us. Pulling off our wings.

Leaning over, Herb looked to see, too. Together, they gazed down at the publicity still, wordlessly, until finally Herb said, “Let’s see what else there is.”

Buckman tossed the eight-by-five photo aside with its memo, read the first page of the file.

“How many viewers?” Herb said.

“Thirty million,” Buckman said. Reaching, he picked up his phone. “Peggy,” he said, “get the NBC-TV outlet here in L.A. KNBC or whatever it is. Put me through to one of the network executives, the higher the better. Tell them it’s us.”

“Yes, Mr. Buckman.”

A moment later a responsible-looking face appeared on the phone screen and in Buckman’s ear a voice said, “Yes, sir. What can we do for you, General?”

“Do you carry the Jason Taverner Show? ” Buckman said. “Every Tuesday night for three years. At nine o’clock sharp.”

“You’ve aired it for three years? ”

“Yes, General.”

Buckman hung up the phone.

“Then what was Taverner doing in Watts,” Herb Maime said, “buying forged ID cards?”

Buckman said, “We couldn’t even get a birth record on him. We worked every data bank that exists, every newspaper file. Have you ever heard of the Jason Taverner Show on NBC at nine o’clock Tuesday night?”

“No,” Herb said cautiously, hesitating.

“You’re not sure?”

“We’ve talked so much about Taverner—”

“I never heard of it,” Buckman said. “And I watch two hours of TV every night. Between eight and ten.” He turned to the next page of the file, hurling the first page away; it fell to the floor and Herb retrieved it.

On the second page: a list of the recordings that Jason Taverner had made over the years, giving title, stock number, and date. He stared sightlessly at the list; it went back nineteen years.

Herb said, “He did tell us he’s a singer. And one of his ID cards put him in the musicians’ union. So that part is true.”

“It’s all true,” Buckman said harshly. He flipped to page three. It disclosed Jason Taverner’s financial worth, the sources and amounts of his income. “A lot more than I make,” Buckman said, “as a police general. More than you and I make together.”

“He had plenty of money when we had him in here. And he gave Kathy Nelson a hell of a lot of money. Remember?”

“Yes, Kathy told McNulty that; I remember it from McNulty’s report.” Buckman pondered, meanwhile mindlessly dog-earing the edge of the Xerox page. And then ceased. Abruptly.

“What is it?” Herb said.

“This is a Xerox copy. The file at Data Central is never pulled; only copies are sent out.”

Herb said, “But it has to be pulled to be Xeroxed.”

“A period of five seconds,” Buckman said.

“I don’t know,” Herb said. “Don’t ask me to explain it. I don’t know how long it takes.”

“Sure you do. We all do. We’ve watched it done a million times. It goes on all day.”

“Then the computer erred.”

Buckman said, “Okay. He has never had any political affiliations; he’s entirely clean. Good for him.” He leafed further into the file. “Mixed up with the Syndicate for a while. Carried a gun but had a permit for it. Was sued two years ago by a viewer who said a blackout skit was a takeoff on him. Someone named Artemus Franks living in Des Moines. Taverner’s attorneys won.” He read here and there, not searching for anything in particular, just marveling. “His forty-five record, ‘Nowhere Nuthin’ Fuck-up,’ which is his latest, has sold over two million copies. Ever heard of it?”