Second Horseman Out of Eden

8

"You two are in a lot of trouble," Detective Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey said as he finally-ten minutes after we had been ushered into his office-looked up from the paperwork on his desk. The man with the acne-scarred face looked as if his chronic sciatica was acting up; he sat at a twisted angle, as if favoring his left buttock. He was unshaven, and his gray hair was rumpled. He'd obviously been rousted out of bed two or three hours before, and he was still missing his bed. Two or three hours was the length of time we'd had to wait after first coming into the precinct station; it confirmed to us that McCloskey had been given the standing assignment of dealing with all things now wrought by the Fredericksons. Levers had been pushed, strings pulled, and Malachy McCloskey, better than most people, would know how easily a man could get ground up in that kind of political machinery.

If Garth felt any discomfort at now being more or less at the mercy of a man who probably hated him, he didn't show it-just as he hadn't displayed any embarrassment or discomfort as we'd sat on the wooden benches outside and he'd had to endure the furtive, curious glances of his former colleagues. Only three men on a shift of twenty-eight had come over to say hello and ask after his-our-health; it was as if they sensed, correctly, that the man with the full beard was very different from the Detective Lieutenant Garth Frederickson they had known and worked with.

"I'm sorry you had to get out of bed on Christmas Eve, McCloskey," Garth said evenly.

McCloskey shook his head impatiently, ran his right hand over his grizzled cheeks, then scratched his head. "Christmas Eve, my ass," he said in his raspy voice. "It's Christmas Day. My daughter's here from Iowa with my two granddaughters. I really would have liked to see their faces when they open their presents."

"Maybe you can still make it," I said brightly, flashing a broad smile.

McCloskey looked at me for a long time, and he didn't smile at all. "I seriously doubt that, Frederickson," he said at last.

"Come on, Lieutenant; give us a break."

"Give you a break?"

"What do you want from us? You've got our statement-and a very long one, I might add. We're the ones who called the police, and we came over here right away."

"Big deal. You knew you'd probably have been arrested and handcuffed if you hadn't."

"I don't know that at all. You've read our statement; you've probably read it more than once. Garth and I haven't done anything wrong."

McCloskey's black eyes flashed. "Jesus Christ, man, you've-"

"We've been fully cooperative, is what we've been-which is more than I might say of the police. We've been cooling our heels here for better than three hours now."

"You've got to be kidding me. You think you and your big brother get points for calling in and then coming over here? Considering the fact that two men were splattered all over the sidewalk in front of a certain building on Fifty-sixth Street, a building wholly owned by the famous Fredericksons, it's not too hard to figure out where they fell from, is it? You really think you have any choice but to cooperate?"

"We've explained what happened."

"And you really expect us to believe that they jumped from your roof?"

"Yeah. We expect you to believe that."

"Both of them?"

'You've got it. They were linked together, holding hands, when they jumped. Garth and I tried to stop them, but they were too quick for us."

"And you claim they were happy about jumping off the top of a four-story building?"

"That's not what our statement says at all. We don't claim to be psychiatrists, but to us it appeared that they'd worked themselves into a kind of trance with glossolalia-'speaking in tongues.' They were experiencing religious ecstacy, and it led to their taking their own lives."

"Religious ecstacy?"

"A trance, self-hypnosis, religious ecstacy-call it what you want. I told you they were speaking in tongues."

"How the hell do you know they were speaking in tongues-whatever that means?"

"Glossolalia is characteristic of some so-called Charismatic or Pentecostal Christians," Garth interjected in a flat tone. "They believe that speaking in tongues is a gift from God, and they view it as evidence that they're filled with the spirit of God."

"Do they normally kill themselves while they're speaking in tongues?" McCloskey said tersely.

Garth shook his head. "This group is beyond the pale, Lieutenant. Once you've heard someone speaking in tongues, you don't forget what it sounds like. Mongo and I have heard it before in connection with this business. Craig Valley was making babbling sounds like that just before he killed himself, and we said so in our previous statement. Remember?"

McCloskey dismissed Garth's words with a weary, slightly contemptuous, wave of his hand. His cold, black eyes fixed on my face. "You know what I think?" he said after a long pause, to me. "I think your big brother here killed those men."

"You think wrong," Garth said evenly. "You should look at a man when you're accusing him of murder, Lieutenant."

"I'll damn well look at you, Frederickson!" McCloskey snapped, wheeling in his chair to face Garth, then wincing and putting a hand to his back. His body was now arched into a position that resembled a question mark, but his obvious pain served only to fuel his anger. "You were roughing them up! You're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who thinks he can get away with anything! They wouldn't tell you what you wanted to hear, so you threw them off the fucking roof! You lost it, Frederickson, and you killed two men!"

"No," Garth said simply. "That's not what happened."

"Bullshit! You roughed up Patton, and you threatened to kill him! You're damn lucky he doesn't want-"

"But I didn't kill him, McCloskey; and I didn't kill those two brothers."

"But you were damn well roughing them up, weren't you?! I know Goddamn well you were, but I don't see any mention of it in your statement!"

"Look, Lieutenant," I said quickly, "I can understand why it might be hard for you to believe that two men could suffer religious hysteria and kill themselves-if it hadn't happened once already, with that crazy orchid keeper. I don't think even you believe that we jabbed razors into Craig Valley's throat. Well, we didn't kill Valley, and we didn't kill the two you found on the sidewalk. They killed themselves, just like Valley; just like Valley, they possessed information they considered vital, and which they didn't want us to have."

"Where to find a fucking pile of dirt?!"

"Yes, Lieutenant. Except that it's not the dirt they're worried about; it's what else we'll find when we find the dirt. Garth and I have already suggested that that's something the police might want to give serious thought to looking into, but that's your business."

"And you say they killed themselves rather than risk having the two of you force the information out of them?"

"Yes."

"Then you admit you were roughing them up?"

"Garth and I don't admit to anything except for what you've got in that statement in front of you."

"What were they doing up on your roof, Frederickson?"

"They followed us home."

McCloskey laughed without humor, rolled his eyes. "And they followed you all the way up onto your roof?"

"Well. . actually, we did sort of have to invite them to come up there. After all the time and effort they'd put into following us up to that point, it seemed the only decent thing to do."

"Don't be a smart-ass with me, Frederickson," McCloskey said in a low, decidedly ominous voice. "You're the one who's asking me to take this statement seriously. I don't think the two of you realize how very, very close you are to the inside of a jail cell."

"All right, Lieutenant. We were rather insistent that they join us on the roof."

"Oh, I know you were-the same as I know that you took them up there so that you could rough them up and frighten them."

"No, Lieutenant. We took them up there to talk."

"On your roof, in the middle of winter?!"

I glanced at Garth, looking for help. My brother seemed merely bored. "Well, uh. . it was more private than the street, and certainly no colder."

McCloskey picked up a piece of paper off the cluttered top of his desk and slowly crumpled it in his right hand. "I've got the famous Fredericksons," he said softly, an odd catch in his voice. It was as if he was only now fully realizing how much serious damage he could do to us, and was trying to decide what he wanted to do about it. "I wonder what a jury would make of the nonsense you're telling me? Two men fall to their deaths from your roof after you forced them to go up there with you. What did you want to do? Just talk. Why did they die? Religious ecstasy. Jesus Christ, I really think the famous Fredericksons may have gone too far this time."

I was really thinking just about the same thing when Garth shifted in his chair and, in a maddeningly casual tone, asked, "Who were they, McCloskey?"

"Huh?" McCloskey blinked in surprise, but quickly recovered. "Look, I ask the questions here. Don't you remember the routine?"

Garth tilted his head toward me. "Mongo, do you happen to have the number of Haggerty, Haggerty, Schwartz and Haggerty?"

Ah. The bugles of the cavalry. "I certainly do, brother."

"I think it may be time to call our lawyers. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure. Let me ask the good lieutenant here."

The good lieutenant's face was flushed a deep red. "You sons-of-bitches," he said in a voice that was quavering with rage. "You're goddamn right it may be time for you to call your lawyers, and I don't give a shit if they come from one of the most high-powered firms in New York and Washington. You tell those pin-striped shits that I'm thinking of booking the two of you on charges of first-degree homicide, and if they want to plea-bargain maybe the DA will let you off on an aggravated manslaughter charge, with relatively light prison sentences of five years. While you're in prison, maybe both of you can learn a new trade."

"Mongo?" Garth said evenly. "I don't think he grasps the situation. Call our lawyers."

"No, no, Garth. Just a second." I looked at McCloskey, smiled, and hoped that I grasped the situation Garth was referring to. "Lieutenant, Garth has trouble communicating when he's upset. I, on the other hand, tend to be almost infinitely patient, even under the most trying circumstances. So I'm going to try to interpret what he just said for you."

I didn't think McCloskey's face could get any redder-but it did. "Are you calling me stupid, Frederickson?! I heard what he said! And you heard what I said!"

"Yes, but we don't seem to be communicating. If you think you're going to be safely retired at this time next week, with the Fredericksons out of your hair because you've booked us, you're wrong. This case is a haunt; three men are dead, and somewhere a little girl is being sexually abused by a fugitive from justice. The NYPD threw this-us-in your lap, but if you think you can walk away from all of this with a clear conscience simply because you've laid heavy charges on us, you're a lot stupider than I think you are. The kid will haunt you, McCloskey. So if you want to retire in peace, I suggest that you start showing us a little cooperation and listen."

That got his attention. He blinked slowly, swallowed hard.

"We've been cooperative, Lieutenant," I continued quickly, wanting to follow up before he'd had too much time to think about it. "But Garth asks you for one teeny-weeny bit of information, and you go nova on us. We've found out quite a few things up to this point, and we've freely shared our information with you. Who knows what else we may turn up? Frankly, Lieutenant, I don't think you're going to book us. You know why you're not going to book us? Because Nuvironment definitely does not need the negative publicity we'll be sure to generate for them. This is what Garth really meant when he asked me if I had the number of our lawyers."

"You just hold on, Frederickson. I don't work for Nuvironment."

"You're doing great, Mongo," Garth said dryly. "It never fails to amaze me how you're able to interpret my words for me."

"I know you're not working for Nuvironment, Lieutenant," I said, casting an evil glance at my brother. I felt like a tap dancer in combat boots on a bare stage in a concert performance where someone kept speeding up the music. "And I certainly never meant to imply that you would cave in to pressures from people above you. But let's face it: the fact that you're here celebrating Christmas with us instead of with your daughter and grandchildren means that you've been assigned a watchdog role-and you can bet your about-to-retire ass that the decision to put you in the position you're in was made at a high level. They want you to handle us, Lieutenant, not arrest us. Nuvironment definitely will not want publicity about the religious freaks the company appears to be linked with. And, frankly, when all is said and done, I just don't think a jury, after we tell them what's happened, is going to believe that the famous Fredericksons, with all they now have to lose, would throw it all away by throwing two guys to their deaths off their own roof. Come on, McCloskey."

"But they might believe that the deaths arose out of aggravated assault," the detective said through clenched teeth. "They might convict for manslaughter."

"Maybe, maybe not. Still, I seriously doubt that either the NYPD or the DA's office would want to be cast in a bad light. If you'll recall, this started out as a pro bono investigation of a child sexual abuse case by two noted, if you'll permit me to say so, private investigators. As far as Garth and I are concerned, that's still all it is. At the beginning, we went to the appropriate authorities, and they pledged to cooperate with us. We're going to keep at it, Lieutenant-even if it's through our lawyers, from behind bars. In my opinion, you and the department aren't going to improve your images if it looks like you're harassing us because of pressure from a private corporation that has right-wing-and possibly neo-Nazi-religious loonies on its staff, tolerates child sexual abuse, and is almost certainly harboring a fugitive. We didn't kill those men, Lieutenant, and I think you know it. What Garth was trying to say is that it's still possible for us to work together. No lawyers to stir up excitement-no charges."

McCloskey took some time to think about it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, finally leaned back in his chair and swiveled around to face Garth. "That's what I thought you were saying, Frederickson," he said quietly.

Garth looked at me, smiled thinly. "That Mongo has such a silver tongue, doesn't he, McCloskey? But then, I thought what I was saying was obvious."

"So who were those guys, Lieutenant?" I asked. "What's their story? We know they worked for Nuvironment, but there must be more. I'm sure we can read all about them tomorrow in the newspapers, but we're probably going to be so busy dodging reporters that we won't have much time to read. What can you tell us about them?"

McCloskey slumped in his chair, sighed, and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. "Christ, Frederickson, I'm tired," he said, apparently speaking to Garth. "I wish I could get out of here like you did. I've got a real bad feeling about this thing. I don't think I can afford a mistake, and nobody is willing to tell me what the ground rules are."

"One more week," Garth said not unkindly. "I hear what you're saying. Under the circumstances, every day for the next seven days is probably going to feel like a week-or maybe a year. Mongo and I can't really advise you, but it seems to me that you'll be in the clear as long as you do your job."

"Yeah? I'm not sure my job shouldn't be to arrest the two of you and charge you with murder."

"Then do it," Garth replied evenly. "Either arrest us, or believe that we're innocent and that your job as a cop is to help us stop a madman from sexually abusing a little girl. It's your retirement you're looking for-but it's your choice as to how best to do your job until next week at this time." Garth paused, then actually laughed. "Hey, McCloskey, if you want, Mongo and I will serve as your character witnesses if you get brought up on any departmental charges in the next seven days."

McCloskey almost smiled. "Spare me," he said, and sighed again. He stared at the ceiling for some time, then continued: "The stiffs' names were Floyd and Baxter Small; that's what their identification said. There was nothing on them to indicate that they worked for Nuvironment."

"But they did," I said. "Nobody else would have had an interest in following us."

"You say."

"Call Patton or somebody else at Nuvironment and see what they have to say. I don't believe Patton went to Europe."

McCloskey looked away. "It seems Patton doesn't have a phone-listed or unlisted. And nobody's going to be up there in the office on Christmas Day."

"Call Henry Blaisdel and see what he has to say. As a matter of fact, I'd like to talk to him if you can get him on the phone."

"It isn't the first time the Smalls have made it into the papers," McCloskey said, ignoring what I thought had been a most helpful suggestion.

Garth grunted. "I don't recall either of the names, McCloskey. Where would Mongo and I have read about them before?"

"It would have been a small item, maybe a year or two ago. It seems the Small brothers were pro golfers-but not anywhere near top rank. They played on a secondary circuit that toured a lot of the third world countries. They were playing in some tournament in Botswana, of all places, when they both came down with the crazies. It seems they were taking part in some kind of Christian athletes' prayer meeting in the hotel where they were staying when they had a vision of Jesus. They tore up their passports and all their money, stripped off their clothes, and went running through the lobby screaming at the top of their lungs. They ran right through a plate-glass window, and they were lucky they didn't cut their heads off. There were difficulties in getting them new papers so they could come back here. It made the papers. Immigration has copies of their new passports on file, if you're interested."

"Jesus," I said. "And you said you didn't believe us when we told you they went into a religious trance?"

"They didn't kill themselves in Botswana," McCloskey mumbled, avoiding my gaze.

"Obviously-but only because the prayer meeting was held on the first floor. Patton, or maybe Henry Blaisdel, seems to have a thing for athletes. He's got two ex-ballplayers on his staff; they serve as muscle."

"That doesn't prove anything."

"It's a link."

"To what?"

It was Garth who answered. "One of Blaisdel's favorite charities is something called Born Again Christian Athletes for Christ, McCloskey. That strikes me as rather redundant, but that's what they call themselves. You can look it up. I came across it in the library. In the article, the word 'fanatical' was used more than once. Apparently, they're not to be confused with any of the other organizations of Christian athletes."

"You didn't tell me that," I said to my brother.

"It didn't seem important at the time; I was looking up Blaisdel's companies, not his charities."

"Thank you for the information, Lieutenant," I said, turning back to McCloskey.

"Yeah."

"The problem is that it doesn't do any of us any good, since the Smalls are dead. Nuvironment, the people working there, is the key to this thing. I'm certain Patton is still lurking around here someplace; but if you can't find him to talk to, then you're going to have to talk to Henry Blaisdel."

"Don't try to tell me how to do my job, Frederickson."

"Those two worked for Nuvironment-they were being chauffeured around in limousines, for Christ's sake. Peter Patton is covering up something big, and he'll obviously risk a lot to make sure nobody finds out what it is. It's a lot more than a shipment of dirt, or a case of child sexual abuse. Men die for him-or they die to hide his secret. You've got a lot of seriously crazy religious zealots on the loose here, Lieutenant, and I'd think you'd want to find out just what it is they're up to."

McCloskey was beginning to look seriously distressed. "Being religious-or supporting a Christian athletes' group-is no crime, Frederickson."

"Aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice is-and every time Craig Valley or either of the Smalls opened his mouth he sounded like a clone of William Kenecky. Sometimes religion of that brand can kill. Remember the Inquisition? Every single Nazi or neo-Nazi group in the world, in this country, has used that kind of religious interpretation as a foundation stone for the rest of their murderous nonsense. Maybe it's time you asked the F.B.I, to come in."

"On the basis of your fantasies?"

"Three men are dead by their own hand, Lieutenant. That's no fantasy. And all three were in a religious trance when they died. That's no fantasy."

McCloskey shook his head. "I hate the fucking F.B.I., just the same as your brother hated the fucking F.B.I, when he was a cop. We don't need those arrogant, glory-hogging fucks in here."

"Then what are you going to do about it, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know," McCloskey said after a long pause. "I'll tell the captain what you said, see what he wants me to do."

"Garth and I are getting back on it right after you let us out of here. You know that."

"Shit," the man with the pockmarked face said. "You guys are to trouble what a magnet is to steel filings."

"We're looking for a little girl, not trouble. We're the ones who are being hassled."

"Mongo and I understand that you're caught between a rock and a hard place, McCloskey," Garth said evenly. "If we do come across something unsavory-criminal-in connection with Nuvironment, would you rather we not tell you?"

McCloskey's black eyes flashed. He sat up abruptly, winced with pain-and then deliberately straightened his back. "Don't you condescend to or patronize me, you son-of-a-bitch! I'm still a cop, and until next week I'm still on active duty! Don't you forget it! You find out anything, you'd damn well better let me know about it!"

"Okay," Garth said in the same even tone. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Well, you did offend me! And let me tell you-!"

McCloskey was interrupted by the sudden ringing of the phone on his desk. He grunted with disgust, snatched up the receiver. "Yeah, what is it?" He listened, and the blood slowly drained from his face, making him look even more exhausted and haggard. "What the fuck?! No, leave everything as it is. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone, rose and snatched his overcoat off a rack in the corner, headed out the door. "You two come with me!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Garth and I looked at each other, then rose and followed after McCloskey. "I wonder what that was all about?" I said as we walked through the squad room, ignoring the heads that turned in our direction.

"I assume we'll find out soon enough," Garth replied in a low voice. "Incidentally, all that talk about athletes jogged my memory; I remember where I've seen that big, ugly chauffeur before."

I abruptly stopped, looked at my brother. "Where?"

"On a football field. It was Tanker Thompson."

"Tanker Thompson? Are you kidding me? I thought he was in prison."

Garth slowly shook his head. "He's out now, working for Nuvironment."

Thomas "Tanker" Thompson, born-again Christian or not, was not a man I wanted at my back, whether in a car or on foot. When he'd played defensive tackle for one of the now-defunct U.S.F.L. football teams, he'd weighed upwards of three hundred pounds, and had been quick as a cat. His problem had been that he was a virulent racist; considering the number of pro football players who are black, he'd apparently never had a problem getting himself worked up for game day. One day he'd gotten himself a little too emotionally worked up. After a missed tackle and an exchange of words with a black running back from another team, Thompson had chopped the man in the larynx with the side of his hand. Despite an emergency tracheotomy performed on the field, the other man had died two days later. Tanker Thompson had been convicted of aggravated assault, and had become the first athlete in the United States to go to prison on a sports-related charge. A while back, in a "where they are now" column in some magazine, I'd read that he'd undergone a "spiritual conversion" while in prison, and was devoting all his time to religious studies. Obviously, he had been let out on parole, and was now on the payroll of Nuvironment.

It figured.

Still pondering the unpleasant implications of having a murderous behemoth of an ex-football player assigned to watch over us, I followed Garth out of the station house into a cold, gray Christmas dawn that seemed ominously still and foreboding. I smelled snow; lots of it.

Malachy McCloskey, still pale-faced and looking very agitated, was standing at the curb, nervously tapping his palm on the roof of a squad car that had its motor running. "Let's go, you two!" he shouted when he saw us, then hurried around to the other side of the car and got in behind the wheel.

"Where are we going, Lieutenant?" I asked as Garth and I got in the back.

McCloskey slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and Garth and I were pressed back in our seats as the car sped away from the curb. He switched on the flashing red light atop the car, but not the siren. "Central Park," the gray-haired man said tersely as he cut between two cabs.

"And I'll bet we're not going to a sunrise service."

"Hardly," McCloskey replied, and grunted. "I think someone's left you two a Christmas present, and it wasn't Santa Claus."