9
The agent paused the video and waited at least a minute before he asked a question. And when he did, he pointed to the television screen, which had the frozen image of the murder victim stretched over my hotel bed.
“Do you know him?”
I said, “It looks like Paul Pullmen.”
“Did you do this to Paul Pullmen?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No. But I’d like to find out.”
“Why?”
“Just look at that video,” I shot back. “The monster who did that needs to be stopped. Call it my duty as a good citizen if you like.”
“If I explained it to you, what really might be behind this, I don’t think you’d understand.”
He glanced at his watch. Then he sat for a while without saying anything, until there was a knock on the door of the interrogation room. The younger agent opened the door a crack and spoke in a whisper to someone outside, then walked over to the agent sitting across from me and whispered something in his ear.
Agent Fainlock’s face relaxed as he began to stand. The two agents slipped out, and in my peripheral vision I noticed a man strolling into the room.
An instant later, I was looking into the face of my old nemesis, Vance Zaduck.
Zaduck reached out, we shook hands, and he sat down. “It’s been a long time, Trevor.”
“Yes, it has,” I answered.
“How is that beautiful wife of yours? Courtney, that was her name, wasn’t it?”
I took a moment, noticing the difference between the grammatical tenses in his two sentences.
“Yes,” I replied. “Her name was Courtney. She died a few years ago. Shortly before I stopped practicing law.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I studied Zaduck. Was he really in the dark about her death?
I said, “I guess you wouldn’t have known. It happened after you left New York and took over as the United States attorney in DC.”
“Yes, must have. But that’s bad news about Courtney.”
“How is your wife?” I responded. “I’m sorry I don’t remember her name. . . .”
“Virginia. We separated.” Then he added, “We’re divorced.”
“So, still single?” I asked, though I don’t know why.
“Yes. You know how it is. Demands of lawyering in Washington. Sometimes it interferes with your personal life.”
I nodded while I studied his face. Up close, I could see the dark, baggy circles under his eyes. Age and the trials of life take their toll. I asked, “You’re here for the ABA?”
“Right.”
“I know you caught my speech. I saw you in the front.”
“Yes, I was there.”
But this wasn’t about exchanging pleasantries. In the next moment, the probing began.
Zaduck asked, “I was wondering, what’s your interest in Jason Forester’s death?”
“I would think that anytime an assistant US attorney is killed, it would be a big deal.”
“You make it sound like an intentional killing. We looked into it. He died of complications of a preexisting heart condition. Nothing more. It was a sad loss. But that was it. So I wonder, Trevor, was there something else behind this? And why did you hit on it in your speech today?”
“I’m assuming you were behind the one-way glass a little while ago. You heard what I said about my friend in law enforcement getting a tip from a federal insider who said that voodoo was involved in his death.”
“Yes,” he answered. Then, after a moment, he repeated that word again, “Voodoo,” and shook his head like I had been talking about abductions by outer-space aliens.
I nodded. “Yes, voodoo.”
There was a momentary smile, but it vanished instantly. “So it’s really true? Trevor Black, demon hunter?”
“You heard about that?”
“Yes. And I do agree: there are demons out there.”
I was taken aback. I waited for more.
“People have personal demons. Mental illness. Broken lives. Maybe being brutalized in the past. Drug addiction. Then they commit horrible crimes. But the thing is, I live in the real world, Trevor. You were a superbly talented lawyer once. What happened to you, your professional decline, was very sad.”
He told me that he had to catch a flight back to DC and so he needed to jump right to the point. “Speaking of terrible crimes. Do you have any idea why the assistant attorney general for our Criminal Division would have been murdered in your hotel room?”
“No, I don’t. I only know that I wrote to Mr. Pullmen in an e-mail about wanting to discuss the Jason Forester death. He didn’t reply.”
“The way he was murdered,” Vance Zaduck said, “was horrific. As you can see.”
He was waiting for me to respond. On the other side of the glass, the interrogation video camera was catching it all, I was sure. But I had nothing to hide. I had some thoughts, and they needed to be said.
I answered, “In other words, you mean to say that his head and his hand were both cut off like a ritual sacrifice?”
Zaduck’s chin tightened and his lips pursed before he spoke. “You really think that’s what this is about?”
“I know nothing about this homicide except what I saw on that video and what you’ve just told me. But two federal attorneys are dead and both under circumstances that implicate occult practices. Seems obvious, doesn’t it?”
Vance Zaduck glanced at his watch, then rose quickly. “I have to go. Here’s the good news. I have already talked to the FBI here in New Orleans, and to the local US attorney and the Louisiana authorities too. Trevor, just so you know, I’ve vouched for you. You’re welcome, by the way. Sorry about the interrogation, but I’m sure you can see why. The bottom line is that you’re free to go. But you obviously know that they may be in contact with you again, about the Pullmen homicide. And the Department of Justice may want to talk to you as well.”
He gave me a warm handshake. “Take care of yourself, Trevor. I’m sorry we had to meet this way. And it’s sad about Courtney.”
Compared to the nasty tone of our last conversation together, years before, and how it had ended with his nihilistic quote from Nietzsche and his brusquely showing me the door, Vance seemed different now. Perhaps the years had softened him.
It felt good to leave the building and hit the street.
I suddenly remembered that my daughter had been left at the convention center. I hailed a cab and made it back to the ABA conclave. It was filled with milling crowds of lawyers, and the place was abuzz with gossip about Pullmen’s death. But Heather was nowhere to be found. I headed to the Hyatt.
When I checked with the front desk at the hotel, I learned, not surprisingly, that her room had also been cordoned off because of the murder investigation. They assigned a new suite of rooms for Heather and me.
“Have you seen her?” I asked the hotel clerk at the front desk.
He said he had, and he handed me a note that Heather had left for me. When I read its brief contents, I turned back to the clerk and asked if she had been alone when she gave him the note, or was there someone else with her? He couldn’t recall.
All I had was that little piece of notepaper, and I kept reading and rereading the message Heather had left. In her recognizable handwriting, she had written only three bewildering and troubling sentences —
I met a woman during your session at the ABA. Traveling to Bayou Bon Coeur to do some research. I’ll be in touch.