The Butcher's Boy (15 page)

—Alcohol, Firearms, and Tobacco; Narcotics, CIA, and so on. I've got other people collecting hotel and motel registrations all over the city, watching airports and train stations for old faces, and others transmitting everything to Washington for interpretation. So we're stretched damn near the limit around here. Within a couple of days we're going to have about all the raw data we're going to get. If we don't get a break or an inspiration pretty soon, somebody's going to have an uncomfortable time in the Senate.

"What do you mean?"

"There's bound to be a special committee of inquiry set up to find out what happened. Somebody from the Bureau— probably the director himself—is going to have to go in there with whatever we can give him. If he doesn't have a culprit, he's going to have to prove there's such a thing as a perfect crime."

"You don't really have much hope for it, do you?" she asked.

Lang turned to study her for a moment. A look of tired amusement seemed to flicker across his face, but he stifled it, took off his glasses, and peered closely at the lenses before taking out his handkerchief to clean them.

"No, I don't. I didn't at the start. Somebody who pulls off something like this and manages to get himself out of sight afterward without leaving a print or a witness is practically home free. He doesn't look any different from anybody else." He put on his glasses again, as though illustrating his point, and added,

"What it amounts to is a burglar who didn't take anything."

Elizabeth thought about it and sighed. It really was a lot like that. She was beginning to feel tired again, and it wasn't even noon yet. "So we're just covering now, trying to look thorough, is that it?"

"Oh, no," said Lang, suddenly flustered. "We're not dogging it and neither is Washington . They're doing a real number on that end; looking for a motive, sending out their own people to follow every lead. I just meant we've got two things to worry about—doing our job and preparing to prove we've done it. So let's get going on that briefcase." He went to the corner of the lab and picked up the briefcase. He stopped at a desk and pulled a printed form out of the top drawer and brought that back with him to the table.

"Here's how it goes," he said. "We take down an itemized list of what's in here, and then each of us signs it. Just a standard procedure when the owner isn't around to sign the slip, but let's be sure we don't make any mistakes on this one. A year from now I don't want a man from the National Security Agency to show up with this in his hand asking me how some document the Senator once initialed turned up for sale in Berlin or Hong Kong or Zurich."

Lang took out the first thick sheaf of printed matter. He said, "I'd say this is a copy of the Congressional Record, pages 1098 through 2013, twelve January through one February. With—let's see—penciled corrections and notes. Agreed?"

Elizabeth glanced at it, and nodded as she wrote down the description.

Next there were an address book, a set of airline schedules, an issue of Time magazine, a draft of a speech on income taxes. It felt uncomfortable and strange, not because she was going through a dead man's belongings, but because they didn't feel as if they belonged to a dead man at all. Everything was half finished, cut short: the magazine fresh and still smelling of printer's ink, the speech still lacking a conclusion as though someone had just stopped talking to answer the telephone in the middle of a sentence. But then she remembered that was all murder was, once you got beyond the blood and the pain and the momentary unpleasantness.

She wrote rapidly as Lang formulated the descriptions. They seemed overly precise, silly almost if you allowed yourself to think about them that way:

"Spiral-bound notebook. Quantity, one. Blue. Gem Corporation. Eight and a half by eleven, numbered pages to two hundred. Pages eight, nineteen, seventy-three, and one hundred and six missing. One, no, two packs of cigarettes, Sobranie, unfiltered. Wrappers unopened. Memorandum, dated February third, addressed to All Senatorial Offices from Mr. Deering of the General Services Administration, Re: Unnecessary Use of Electricity."

As she scribbled the word "electricity" she was saying, "Got it."

"That's it," said Lang. "Oh yeah . . . briefcase, brown leather with brass fittings. Initials MRC."

They both signed the list and Lang held onto it. "I'll go call this in to Washington now," he said. "They can reassure the White House that we're not sitting here looking for fingerprints on the plans for a new ICBM."

"Can I get started on these papers?" asked Elizabeth .

"Sure thing," he said. "The only things that look promising are the address book and the notebook, but you might as well get started." He went out and closed the door behind him.

The first few pages of the notebook were enough. She leafed through the hundred and seven other pages with writing on them, and they didn't get any better. The notebook was a sedimentary deposit of all the things the old man had wanted to remember. Appointments with other senators and appointments with his doctor crowded lists of groceries and fragmentary cryptic memoranda.

Bannerman Act—call N.G. Remind Carlson to invite d'Orsini et al. Sunday. She wondered if she had a clue when she saw the double exclamation on Clayburn!!

until she saw the triple exclamation on Pretzels!!! There were phrases from what appeared to be political orations: The trouble is, they're trying to run the country like a poker game—but there were no notations as to who had said it, where, why, or when.

Elizabeth sat and thought. There would have to be some kind of systematic grid that could be constructed to unravel it. It was rather simple, actually. Since the reminders and appointments would have to be written in before they happened, the exact dates could be pinned down by checking with the other people involved. The notations on each page would have to be transcribed in thematic divisions—to start with, the categories could be appointments and reminders, political references, personal references, and miscellaneous. There had to be a miscellaneous. It might be possible to retrieve almost all of it—whom he saw or spoke to, what he was doing each day of the past two months, what he was thinking about. It would take some time, though, and might not be of any use. After all, if there had been anything there, wouldn't the Senator have noticed it in time to save himself?

But there were shortcuts available. He'd had a staff, and they would be able to translate most of the notations, maybe all of them. There was the legislative assistant. What was his name? She leafed through the notebook again, and it was everywhere: Papers on Calloway Bill—Carlson. Have Carlson call N.G. Re: Oil Depl. Allow.

Elizabeth walked to the wall and snatched the white telephone. It rang immediately and then she noticed it had no dial. The voice that said "Yes" was that of the receptionist. My God, she thought, doesn't anybody else work here?

But she said, "This is Elizabeth Waring in the Forensic Lab. Can you get me an appointment with Mr. Carlson, the Senator's aide, as soon as possible?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Waring," said the receptionist. "Mr. Carlson is on his way back to Washington . I'm sure we can put through a call to him this evening."

"Damn!" said Elizabeth . "Who told him he could go and why in the world would he want to?" She regretted it instantly, but already the receptionist's even, measured tones were answering, "Mr. Lang spoke with him on the telephone only a short time ago before he left the hotel."

"So he may not be gone yet?" said Elizabeth .

"His plane leaves this afternoon at twelve thirty and arrives in Washington at seven fifteen Eastern time."

Elizabeth glanced at her watch. It was just noon . "I'm sorry, but there's no dial on this phone. Can you call the airline and ask them to get him to a phone? It could be important." She was glad she'd said "could be." Her control was coming back.

"Yes. If we locate him I'll ring you in the lab."

The telephone rang again in a few minutes and Elizabeth said, "Waring."

"I have Mr. Carlson on the line," said the receptionist.

"Mr. Carlson?"

"Yes, Miss Waring," he said. Behind his voice there was a huge hollow where random noises echoed. He spoke tonelessly and loudly as though he had his free hand pressed to his ear.

"I have a number of questions that you seem to be the only one who can answer, and I—"

"Miss Waring, I'm sorry, but I have a flight to Washington that's already boarding, and I'm about to miss it as it is. Can I call you back when I get home this evening?"

"I'm afraid that won't do. You see, I have something you'd have to look at to be able to explain. If you could take a later flight, I'd—"

"I've already been interviewed and grilled and investigated for over twenty-four hours, and—oh. Just a second." Elizabeth could hear that another male voice was droning just outside the range of understanding. Then Carlson said something too. It went on for a few seconds, and then she heard him sigh into the receiver. He said, "I've just missed my flight. I have to wait four hours for the next one." He sounded sad.

"Where can I meet you?" asked Elizabeth .

"How about here, if it's just a few questions? I'll be at the American Airlines desk in about twenty minutes. I'll be in a light gray suit, looking impatient. And you?"

"I'll be the lady carrying the Senator's notebook."

* * *

When she saw him he was standing at the ticket counter staring at his watch, then craning his neck out of the stiff shirt collar with his mouth slightly open as though to demonstrate to anyone in his vicinity that he was a man who was being unjustly delayed by petty matters. When he spotted her striding toward him with the notebook, he leaned back against the counter and pursed his lips in a look of sardonic displeasure.

Elizabeth tried to remind herself that he probably was being delayed by petty matters—by a piece of evidence that wasn't likely to be evidence of anything in particular—but she knew that the people in the ticket line were thinking that she was an incompetent secretary who had misplaced an important document and made her employer, the efficient-looking, carefully tailored and barbered man in the gray suit whose glasses were even now glittering little semaphores of disdain at her, late. She couldn't forgive him that. So when she was still seven feet away she said, "Relax, Mister Carlson, you're not under arrest. We just want to have a talk." She spoke in a voice that sounded as though it was meant to reassure a man who was essentially a coward.

His reaction brought to birth a smile she had to stifle: it was as though he had been prodded from behind. He was off and walking and she almost had to run to catch up. He didn't stop until he was no longer visible to the people at the counter. He was definitely annoyed. "Miss Waring, I thought you people were much more discreet."

Elizabeth just gave him a puzzled look, then appeared to dismiss his odd behavior by placing it in some category well known to professional investigators who were accustomed to seeing people at their worst. She said, "Well, shall we get started? I'd hate to have you miss the next flight." It was said with what could almost have been taken as sympathy if they hadn't understood each other so well.

"All right," he said. "Where?"

"I've made arrangements to borrow a conference room."

They were expected at the airport courtesy desk. The room was off the main lobby and contained ten chairs, three of which looked comfortable, and a long wooden table. There were no windows, but a painting of an undifferentiated landscape was hung along the far wall. They both chose utilitarian chairs at the table. Elizabeth opened the Senator's notebook and took out her own.

"Mr. Carlson, why were you going back to Washington today?"

"Because Senator Claremont is dead. There didn't seem to be anything I could do about it and Agent Lang said I might as well go. You people were through with me. Am I under suspicion?"

"No, of course not," said Elizabeth, as though the idea had never crossed her mind.

"That's good, because if I am, we'll stop this right now while I get my lawyer."

"I'd thought of that," said Elizabeth, "but that would be time consuming, and we didn't want to delay you any longer than necessary. If you'll just give me the best cooperation you can, I'm sure we can get through this quickly.

"Tell me what you know about this notebook."

"It's not really a notebook. It's a scratch pad. The Senator liked to keep it by him so he could jot down things that occurred to him when he didn't have time to do anything about them," said Carlson. "He had a rotten memory and had the sense to know it, so he wrote things down."

"Did it work?"

"Most of the time he'd remember to keep the rest of us informed. The appointments would get transferred to his calendar and so on. Sometimes he'd forget. Sometimes he'd even forget where he'd put the notebook—leave it in some hearing room or a press conference or someplace. But it always turned up."

"I'd like to go through a few portions of it and see if you can help me understand it," said Elizabeth .

"Sure," said Carlson. He glanced at his digital wristwatch as though he were going to charge for his time beginning now. Then he opened the notebook and began to read it aloud. "Dinner the seventh-S.A. That's the dinner the Saudi Arabian ambassador gave on the seventh of January. He never could remember the ambassador's name, which is Ruidh, so he gave up trying. Call R.T.T., that's got to be Ronald T. Taber, the congressman from Iowa . They were in on a farm bill a few years back, and now and then one or the other would call to compare notes on how it was working."

Elizabeth wrote quickly, trying to catch as much as she could, and hoping that the order of it would help her put it back together later. Carlson went on, looking and talking as though it were a family album full of vaguely familiar faces. He was good, she had to admit. He seemed to know what everything was and how it came to be that way.

Finally he came to the list and stopped. "I don't know what all this is," he said. "It must relate to the tax hearings that he was planning for the fall."