seat. Trumann had Memphis FBI on the phone.
Next to Trumann, in an identical swivel recliner, was Special Agent Skipper Scherff, a rookie who’d worked little on the case but happened to be available for this joyride to Memphis. He scribbled on a legal pad, and would do so for the next five hours because in this tight circle of power he had absolutely nothing to say and no one wanted to hear him. He would obediently stare at his legal pad and record orders from his supervisor, Larry Trumann, and, of course, from the general himself, Reverend Roy. Scherff stared intently at his scribbling, avoiding with great diligence even the slightest eye contact with Foltrigg, and tried in vain to discern what Memphis was telling Trumann. The news of Clifford’s death had electrified their office only an hour earlier, and Scherff was still uncertain why and how he was sitting in Roy’s van speeding along the expressway. Trumann had told him to run home, packa change of clothes, and go immediately to Foltrigg’s office. And this is what he’d done. And here he was, scribbling and listening.
The chauffeur, Wally Boxx, actually had a license to practice law, though he didn’t know how to use it. Officially, he was an assistant United States attorney, same as Fink, but in reality he was a fetch-and-catch boy for Foltrigg. He drove his van, carried his briefcase, wrote his speeches, and handled the media, which took fifty percent of his time because his boss was gravely concerned with his public image. Boxx was not stupid. He was deft at political maneuvering, quick to the defense of his boss, and thoroughly loyal to the man and his mission. Foltrigg had a great future, and Boxx knew he would be there one day whispering importantly with the great man as only the two of them strolled around Capitol Hill.
Boxx knew the importance of Boyette. It would be the biggest trial of Foltrigg’s illustrious career, the trial he’d been dreaming of, the trial to thrust him into the national spotlight. He knew Foltrigg was losing sleep over Barry the Blade Muldanno.
Larry Trumann finished the conversation and replaced the phone. He was a veteran agent, early forties, with ten years to go before retirement. Foltrigg waited for him to speak.
“They’re trying to convince Memphis PD to release the car so we can go over it. It’ll probably take an hour or so. They’re having a hard time explaining Clifford and Boyette and all this to Memphis, but they’re making progress. Head of our Memphis office is a guy named Jason McThune, very tough and persuasive, and he’s meeting with the Memphis chief right now. McThune’s called Washington and Washington’scalled Memphis, and we should have the car within a couple of hours. Single gunshot wound to the head, obviously self-inflicted. Apparently he tried to do it first with a garden hose in the tail pipe, but for some reason it didn’t work. He was taking Dalmane and codeine, and washing it all down with Jack Daniel’s. No record on the gun, but it’s too early. Memphis is checking it. A cheap .38. Thought he could swallow a bullet.”
“No doubt it’s suicide?” Foltrigg asked.
“No doubt.”
“Where did he do it?”
“Somewhere in north Memphis. Drove into the woods in his big black Lincoln, and took care of himself.”
“I don’t suppose anyone saw it?”
“Evidently not. A couple of kids found the body in a remote area.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“Not long. They’ll do an autopsy in a few hours, and determine the time of death.”
“Why Memphis?”
“Not sure. If there’s a reason, we don’t know it yet.”
Foltrigg pondered these things and sipped his tomato juice. Fink took notes. Scherff scribbled furiously. Wally Boxx hung on every word.
“What about the note?” Foltrigg asked, looking out the window.
“Well, it could be interesting. Our guys in Memphis have a copy of it, not a very good copy, and they’ll try and fax it to us in a few minutes.
Next to Trumann, in an identical swivel recliner, was Special Agent Skipper Scherff, a rookie who’d worked little on the case but happened to be available for this joyride to Memphis. He scribbled on a legal pad, and would do so for the next five hours because in this tight circle of power he had absolutely nothing to say and no one wanted to hear him. He would obediently stare at his legal pad and record orders from his supervisor, Larry Trumann, and, of course, from the general himself, Reverend Roy. Scherff stared intently at his scribbling, avoiding with great diligence even the slightest eye contact with Foltrigg, and tried in vain to discern what Memphis was telling Trumann. The news of Clifford’s death had electrified their office only an hour earlier, and Scherff was still uncertain why and how he was sitting in Roy’s van speeding along the expressway. Trumann had told him to run home, packa change of clothes, and go immediately to Foltrigg’s office. And this is what he’d done. And here he was, scribbling and listening.
The chauffeur, Wally Boxx, actually had a license to practice law, though he didn’t know how to use it. Officially, he was an assistant United States attorney, same as Fink, but in reality he was a fetch-and-catch boy for Foltrigg. He drove his van, carried his briefcase, wrote his speeches, and handled the media, which took fifty percent of his time because his boss was gravely concerned with his public image. Boxx was not stupid. He was deft at political maneuvering, quick to the defense of his boss, and thoroughly loyal to the man and his mission. Foltrigg had a great future, and Boxx knew he would be there one day whispering importantly with the great man as only the two of them strolled around Capitol Hill.
Boxx knew the importance of Boyette. It would be the biggest trial of Foltrigg’s illustrious career, the trial he’d been dreaming of, the trial to thrust him into the national spotlight. He knew Foltrigg was losing sleep over Barry the Blade Muldanno.
Larry Trumann finished the conversation and replaced the phone. He was a veteran agent, early forties, with ten years to go before retirement. Foltrigg waited for him to speak.
“They’re trying to convince Memphis PD to release the car so we can go over it. It’ll probably take an hour or so. They’re having a hard time explaining Clifford and Boyette and all this to Memphis, but they’re making progress. Head of our Memphis office is a guy named Jason McThune, very tough and persuasive, and he’s meeting with the Memphis chief right now. McThune’s called Washington and Washington’scalled Memphis, and we should have the car within a couple of hours. Single gunshot wound to the head, obviously self-inflicted. Apparently he tried to do it first with a garden hose in the tail pipe, but for some reason it didn’t work. He was taking Dalmane and codeine, and washing it all down with Jack Daniel’s. No record on the gun, but it’s too early. Memphis is checking it. A cheap .38. Thought he could swallow a bullet.”
“No doubt it’s suicide?” Foltrigg asked.
“No doubt.”
“Where did he do it?”
“Somewhere in north Memphis. Drove into the woods in his big black Lincoln, and took care of himself.”
“I don’t suppose anyone saw it?”
“Evidently not. A couple of kids found the body in a remote area.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“Not long. They’ll do an autopsy in a few hours, and determine the time of death.”
“Why Memphis?”
“Not sure. If there’s a reason, we don’t know it yet.”
Foltrigg pondered these things and sipped his tomato juice. Fink took notes. Scherff scribbled furiously. Wally Boxx hung on every word.
“What about the note?” Foltrigg asked, looking out the window.
“Well, it could be interesting. Our guys in Memphis have a copy of it, not a very good copy, and they’ll try and fax it to us in a few minutes.
Similar Books
