the right of the smiling ten-year-old boy who was the photographer’s primary focus.
“They’re young,” Lynsey said. She felt both surprised and obscurely annoyed, as though their youth somehow made things worse.
They were young, both about thirty, slouching and round-shouldered in an even more youthful manner. The one in profile had thick curly black hair, a full beard and sunglasses, and wore a yellow T-shirt with some unidentifiable saying or picture on it, plus a short blue denim jacket and jeans. His companion, facing the camera, also wore sunglasses, but his rather bony worried-looking face was clean-shaven. His hair, over a high rounded shiny brow, was a wispy thinning brown, blowing in the breeze. He was wearing a light plaid open-collar shirt, what looked to be a light brown suede zipper jacket, and chinos.
“Those are just soldiers,” Jock Cayzer said. “We haven’t seen the general yet.”
“When we do, Jock,” Wiskiel said, “he’ll look a lot like them.” And he switched on the workroom lights.
The phone rang in the other room. “Not another one,” Lynsey said.
“I’ll get it,” Wiskiel said, and went back to the other room.
All phone calls were being taped, on equipment also in this workroom. A monitor was on, so Lynsey and the others in here could listen to both parts of the conversation, beginning with the click when Wiskiel picked up the receiver and said, “Seven seven hundred.”
The voice on the other end was young, male and very uncertain. It struck Lynsey that either of those young men in the photograph could conceivably sound like this. “Excuse me,” it said. “Is this the number for, uh, if you know something, if you want to talk about Koo Davis?”
“That’s right. This is FBI Agent Wiskiel here.”
“Oh. Well, uh, I think I’ve got something for you.”
“What would that be?”
“Well—It’s a cassette recording, I guess it’s from the kidnappers. It’s got Koo Davis’ voice on it. It’s pretty weird.”
The boy was twenty. A tall slender blond California youth, his name was Alan Lewis, he lived in Santa Monica with his parents, and he attended UCLA, where he was an assistant features editor on The Californian , the university’s daily newspaper. According to his story, he’d been watching television when a phone call had come from a woman who wouldn’t give her name but who said, approximately, “You can have a scoop for your paper. We have Koo Davis, we are holding him in the name of the people. Look in your car. On the front seat you’ll find a tape. It isn’t too late, the people still can win.”
“At first I thought it was a joke,” the boy explained. “But I couldn’t figure out who she was. She didn’t sound like any of the girls I knew. She sounded—I don’t know—”
Wiskiel suggested, “Older?”
“Yeah, I guess so. No, not exactly. Well, maybe older, but mostly, well, sad . You know? She was saying these things, ‘The people still can win,’ and all that stuff, but there wasn’t any pep in it. That’s why I finally figured maybe it was on the level, and I went out and looked in the car.”
Where he had found the cassette recording on the front seat, as promised. Having his own cassette player, he’d listened to part of the recording, but once he’d satisfied himself he was really hearing Koo Davis’ voice he’d immediately called the special number given on television. As to why he’d been chosen to receive the cassette, he could offer no explanation other than his job on the university paper: “She did say she was giving me a scoop.” Nor could he identify either the Identikit drawing of “Janet Grey” or the two men in the photograph.
In the workroom again, Lynsey and the others waited while the technician inserted the cassette, arranged to simultaneously record it onto his own tape, and pushed the Play button. After a few seconds of rustling silence the familiar voice began, abruptly, loud and clear and
“They’re young,” Lynsey said. She felt both surprised and obscurely annoyed, as though their youth somehow made things worse.
They were young, both about thirty, slouching and round-shouldered in an even more youthful manner. The one in profile had thick curly black hair, a full beard and sunglasses, and wore a yellow T-shirt with some unidentifiable saying or picture on it, plus a short blue denim jacket and jeans. His companion, facing the camera, also wore sunglasses, but his rather bony worried-looking face was clean-shaven. His hair, over a high rounded shiny brow, was a wispy thinning brown, blowing in the breeze. He was wearing a light plaid open-collar shirt, what looked to be a light brown suede zipper jacket, and chinos.
“Those are just soldiers,” Jock Cayzer said. “We haven’t seen the general yet.”
“When we do, Jock,” Wiskiel said, “he’ll look a lot like them.” And he switched on the workroom lights.
The phone rang in the other room. “Not another one,” Lynsey said.
“I’ll get it,” Wiskiel said, and went back to the other room.
All phone calls were being taped, on equipment also in this workroom. A monitor was on, so Lynsey and the others in here could listen to both parts of the conversation, beginning with the click when Wiskiel picked up the receiver and said, “Seven seven hundred.”
The voice on the other end was young, male and very uncertain. It struck Lynsey that either of those young men in the photograph could conceivably sound like this. “Excuse me,” it said. “Is this the number for, uh, if you know something, if you want to talk about Koo Davis?”
“That’s right. This is FBI Agent Wiskiel here.”
“Oh. Well, uh, I think I’ve got something for you.”
“What would that be?”
“Well—It’s a cassette recording, I guess it’s from the kidnappers. It’s got Koo Davis’ voice on it. It’s pretty weird.”
The boy was twenty. A tall slender blond California youth, his name was Alan Lewis, he lived in Santa Monica with his parents, and he attended UCLA, where he was an assistant features editor on The Californian , the university’s daily newspaper. According to his story, he’d been watching television when a phone call had come from a woman who wouldn’t give her name but who said, approximately, “You can have a scoop for your paper. We have Koo Davis, we are holding him in the name of the people. Look in your car. On the front seat you’ll find a tape. It isn’t too late, the people still can win.”
“At first I thought it was a joke,” the boy explained. “But I couldn’t figure out who she was. She didn’t sound like any of the girls I knew. She sounded—I don’t know—”
Wiskiel suggested, “Older?”
“Yeah, I guess so. No, not exactly. Well, maybe older, but mostly, well, sad . You know? She was saying these things, ‘The people still can win,’ and all that stuff, but there wasn’t any pep in it. That’s why I finally figured maybe it was on the level, and I went out and looked in the car.”
Where he had found the cassette recording on the front seat, as promised. Having his own cassette player, he’d listened to part of the recording, but once he’d satisfied himself he was really hearing Koo Davis’ voice he’d immediately called the special number given on television. As to why he’d been chosen to receive the cassette, he could offer no explanation other than his job on the university paper: “She did say she was giving me a scoop.” Nor could he identify either the Identikit drawing of “Janet Grey” or the two men in the photograph.
In the workroom again, Lynsey and the others waited while the technician inserted the cassette, arranged to simultaneously record it onto his own tape, and pushed the Play button. After a few seconds of rustling silence the familiar voice began, abruptly, loud and clear and
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