McGuire spent Monday morning completing the barrage of paperwork needed to reinstate himself as an official guardian of the peace on behalf of Boston citizens.
By early afternoon he had recounted stories of Green Turtle Cay to old colleagues, listened to all the details he could absorb about their families and frustrations, and been introduced to a bewildering number of new staff members.
He endured it with the dispassionate manner of someone undergoing a painful but blessedly brief period in his life, like a patient recovering from major surgery. He was polite and passive without being apathetic; he even feigned interest in photographs of sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters, the snapshots withdrawn from wallets and displayed like remnants of an extinct civilization.
Ralph Innes, the baby-faced detective sergeant who boasted he would never marry because “I don’t intend to make the same mistake once,” approached McGuire after the others departed. Innes, who had once been in awe of McGuire, welcomed him back with excessive gestures: a slap on the back, a handshake that went on too long, a playful punch to McGuire’s shoulder.
“This is great, just great, having you back,” Innes said warmly. “Goddamn, we needed you here, Joe!”
McGuire nodded and thanked him while the space between their eyes grew charged with the awareness that they were in love with the same woman.
Twice during the day, McGuire and Janet passed in the corridor. She flashed him a warm smile at their first encounter. But the second time she rushed by, calling instructions over her shoulder to a young detective who trotted behind her and nodded in agreement.
By three o’clock, McGuire was slumped at his small metal desk in an alcove near the fire-escape door. A sheaf of memos and departmental orders lay in front of him; he read the first paragraph of each before arranging them all in a loose stack. Finally, he slid the papers off the desk into a wastebasket just as his telephone rang.
“Need you up front,” Fat Eddie’s voice rumbled at the other end of the line. “Let’s go.”
McGuire stared at the telephone after returning the receiver to its cradle. “Let’s go?” Is this how it’s going to be? McGuire wondered. Fat Eddie barks and I jump? Goddamn!
“Got your first assignment, McGuire. Only thing I can come up with now, but believe me, there’ll be lots on your plate when you get back. Can’t really get you rolling until your weapons approval comes through. That’ll take a week, easy.” Fat Eddie was pulling at his toothbrush-sized moustache as he spoke, his eyes on a red file folder lying open on his desk.
“Get back?” McGuire asked. “Back from where?”
“First things first. Anybody talk to you about one Bunker Crawford?”
“Never heard of him.”
Fat Eddie closed the file folder and passed it to McGuire. “Here he is. Forty-three years of age. Unmarried. Employed by the US Postal Service for twenty years. Current residence is an apartment on Center Street, over in West Roxbury.”
McGuire opened the file folder and scanned the documents inside. A homicide investigation report, witness statements, several photos of a middle-aged man lying sprawled in a doorway with his shirtfront soaked in blood, autopsy papers and APB request form. Plus the detritus of an ordinary man’s life generated by organizations, institutions and authority—photocopies of birth records, bank statements, civil service reviews.
“Who’s the victim?” McGuire asked, shuffling through the photographs.
“Man’s name was Amos. I forget his first name. US Postal Inspector. Apparently he was investigating some aspect of Crawford’s work. Maybe theft, there’s no indication of that yet. This Amos fellow knocked on Crawford’s door one evening. They began arguing, Crawford ran back into his apartment, came out with a gun and shot the post office official. A neighbour saw it all. Crawford was screaming something incoherently. Practically frothing at the mouth according to the witness. Then he ran down the corridor, rode the elevator to the street and disappeared. He showed up four days later running around some expensive houses in Palm Springs, firing his gun and screaming obscenities. Being held there. His lawyer filed to prevent extradition but we got it rejected this morning. So we want him back here. Which is where you come in.”
Turning over an official Postal Service document, McGuire revealed a colour photo of an overweight man with sparse, copper-coloured hair and heavily lidded eyes. He was staring back at the camera with the neutral expression of someone following instructions. On the reverse of the picture was an official stamp identifying the subject as Bunker James Crawford, employee number 39–27083R, US Postal Service, and the date.
“Any history of mental illness?” McGuire asked. “Psychiatric report? Criminal record?”
“Nothing. He lived alone, but he seems to have gotten along with his neighbours and people he worked with. Comes across as a little shy, but he wasn’t a total recluse. There’s no explanation in his background for what he did.”
“Drugs?”
“Not indicated. Nothing was found in his apartment. He didn’t even drink very much according to the interviews.”
McGuire turned back to the top page of the file, running his eyes down the homicide report to find the names of the original investigating officers. He looked up at Fat Eddie Vance, then back at the names again. Detective Sergeant Ralph Innes. Detective Sergeant Janet Parsons.
“This is Ralph and Janet’s case.” McGuire looked over the edge of the folder at Vance. “Why me?”
Vance blinked. “McGuire, I am not sending a mixed team of detectives to California to interrogate a suspect and return him in custody. Detective Parsons is first-rate, but she is hardly the best choice to strong-arm a prisoner across the country.” He blinked again. “Besides, you’ll have to stay overnight in Palm Springs . . .”
“And you won’t approve separate rooms for them on the travel expense budget,” McGuire interrupted.
Vance rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “That’s a factor, I’ll admit. More important, I need Detective Parsons here as an armed and qualified member of the investigation staff. Until you’re armed and fully in tune with operations again, she’s more valuable to me here than you are. You’ll be unarmed, but Innes will provide all the protection you should need.”
McGuire nodded and glanced back at the file. “When do we leave?” he asked.
“First thing tomorrow. Get Crawford back here and we can clear the case out. Get on with other things. You ask me, I don’t think Crawford will ever come to trial. Sounds like a one-oh-four to me. With a credible eyewitness and all, the lawyer’s got to be looking at an insanity.” Vance looked over at a scratchpad cluttered with notes. “I’ve rearranged Innes’s duties. The two of you get in to Palm Springs tomorrow afternoon, do a preliminary interrogation, finish the paperwork, and board a flight back on Wednesday with Crawford in custody.”
McGuire scrutinized the file material. Only one sheet of paper identified the victim: Ross William Amos, forty-eight years old, of Morningside, Virginia. His occupation was listed as Security Inspector, US Postal Service. There was less information on the victim than McGuire had ever seen in a murder file. No statements from next of kin, no interviews with acquaintances, no further action prescribed.
Vance’s pen was tapping his desk top again.
McGuire noted a telephone number scribbled under “I.D. Information Sources” at the bottom of the Victim Information Form.
“McGuire,” Vance said impatiently, “you’ve got your assignment. We both have work to do. Let’s get going.”
“We’ve all got ’em on our desks now.” Ralph Innes gestured at the computer screen. “Best thing the department did was link us all up with these things. You want to know what size of underwear J. Edgar Hoover wore, it tells you. Just a matter of knowing where to look and how to get through the code.”
McGuire pulled a chair closer to the desk and sipped his coffee. “You hooked up to Washington?” he asked.
“Hooked up to everywhere. What do you want to know?”
“Something about this Amos guy. We’ve got one sheet that tells me nothing.”
“All I could get, Joe.” Innes shrugged. “Guy had federal government security clearance. Things are locked up down there. You need FBI or Secret Service codes to get into the files. Look at this.”
Innes entered a series of numbers into the computer, leaned back and waited for the screen to display several short paragraphs of text and symbols.
“See?” Innes stretched an arm toward the computer. “Place and date of birth, marital status, Social Security number, education, home address, military record, work history, and that’s it.”
McGuire squinted to bring the characters into focus. At the base of the screen he read: “Further reference, file #A28874–66.” He nodded at the screen. “What happens if you request that number?”
Innes clicked the computer keyboard a few times with a speed and ease that impressed McGuire. “Watch,” he said, and leaned back in his chair again.
A status line flashing the words NOT ACCESSIBLE appeared at the base of the computer screen.
“That’s where the Feds can get at it,” Innes explained. “They’ve got the codes.”
“So why don’t we just request the file from the Feds?” McGuire asked. “They can vet the information and pass it on to us.”
“Tried that. Guy at the FBI office said information would be held until the suspect is apprehended and we start preparing the case against him.”
“That’s bullshit,” McGuire said quietly. “They’re playing games with you because one of their guys got hit and they want the case.”
Innes sighed and shook his head. “They want to put a brick wall in front of you, they can do it, Joe. You know that.”
McGuire reached for a phone, then turned with an embarrassed smile back to Innes. “What’s local FBI?” he asked. “I forget.”
Innes told him and McGuire dialled the number. He asked the FBI switchboard for agent Matthew Kennedy.
Two years earlier, McGuire and Ollie Schantz had joined forces with Matt Kennedy to investigate a series of murders throughout Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine. McGuire remembered Kennedy as a workmanlike, easy-going man who saw beyond the petty jurisdictional jealousies that often arose between local police departments and their federal counterparts. Once, at the end of a long day spent sifting through witness statements and investigating officer reports, Kennedy had stood, yawned, and said, “This investigation needs two things right now. A beer and a couple games of pool.”
Now, as he heard Kennedy’s voice on the other end of the telephone, McGuire recalled the billiards game and Kennedy’s wide smile, constant patter and keen eye at the pool table.
“Matt, it’s Joe McGuire, Boston Homicide. Remember me?”
McGuire heard a low, throaty laugh in response. “I remember you couldn’t drop an eight ball in a bucket if it was sitting on your lap,” Kennedy answered. “Hell, McGuire. I heard you’d shipped out to the Caribbean somewhere.”
“I’m back, Matt. And I need some help.”
“Yeah, well first you have to learn to keep your shooting arm loose. Don’t let that elbow tense up. Keep it swinging free like a pendulum. I tried to tell you that the last time we played. Which was, what? Must be over a year ago. Want another lesson?”
“Eventually,” McGuire replied. “Right now, I need information on a federal employee who was shot a couple of weeks ago.”
McGuire described his problem to Kennedy. Who was the victim, Ross Amos? Why were details of his background being withheld from local police departments?
“Damned strange,” Kennedy mumbled. “Post office inspector? We’ve had access to tougher nuts than that. Give me the file number again.”
McGuire read it from the computer screen and Kennedy promised to call back in ten minutes.
“He’s a good guy,” McGuire said to Innes when he hung up.
But Ralph Innes was no longer seated next to him. The younger detective had moved to the window where he stood looking thoughtfully down at Berkeley Street.
“You okay?” McGuire asked.
Innes turned and flashed a false smile. “Sure. I’m fine.”
No you’re not, McGuire said to himself. You’re pissed because I’m moving in and taking charge of your case. And because we’ll be spending the next few days together, you and me. Hell of a team. One a former lover who helped end Janet’s marriage, and the other a young stud she wants to mother and protect.
It’s going to be tough, McGuire realized. For both of us.
Waiting for Kennedy’s telephone call, McGuire scanned the information sheet on Bunker Crawford, the prisoner they were to escort back from Palm Springs. Born in Newton, Kentucky, son of a factory worker. Graduated from Newton District High School, enlisted in the US Army, promoted to sergeant, assigned to Special Detail, 9th Division, Mercury, Nevada. Honourably Discharged at age twenty-three, returned to Boston area, hired by US Postal Service as maintenance trainee, no prior convictions, no faulty work records.
“What’s ‘Special Detail’ mean on an army record?” McGuire asked.
Innes shrugged.
“Anybody request Amos’s military record?”
“Over a week ago.” Innes turned from the window and sat in the chair opposite McGuire. “It still hadn’t arrived by Friday, so I put in another request. Can’t expect much from the military. They take their time, you know that.”
The phone rang at McGuire’s elbow and he reached for it, aware as he answered that Innes had made a motion to pick it up as well.
It was Kennedy, the FBI man. “What’re you up to over there, McGuire?” he asked.
McGuire said it was a routine homicide investigation, nothing special.
“The hell it is.” Kennedy lowered his voice. “I requested information on this Amos character, using the file number you gave me. I got the ‘Not Accessible’ prompt you mentioned so I used my security code. That got me into a special file marked ‘Restricted, National Security.’ Since when is a postal inspector a security risk, McGuire?”
Fat Eddie looked from McGuire to Innes and back to McGuire again. The two men stood in front of his desk, McGuire closer and almost threatening, Innes a few steps behind. Fat Eddie’s eyes seemed wider behind his glasses and the tip of his pen was beating his desk at a frantic tempo.
“I don’t understand your problem, McGuire,” the homicide captain said calmly. “All you have to do is arrive in Palm Springs tomorrow, handle the necessary paperwork and return with the suspect. I haven’t assigned you as an investigating officer. So aspects of the victim’s life are simply not a factor here.”
“They are when Washington builds a stone wall around the victim,” McGuire replied. “If this Amos guy was such a wheel, why isn’t this an FBI case? Or Secret Service? Why are they leaving us to chase our tails while they hold back information? And why doesn’t the local post office know anything about Amos and his reasons for dropping in on Crawford? Ralph called and they said they’d never heard of him.”
Vance shook his head and tossed his pen on the desk. “Obviously Crawford was working deep cover out of Washington,” Vance said, leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “When things are nailed down for the trial, we’ll get the information we need. Like I said, I don’t understand the problem. You and Innes just go down and bring him back. Then we can talk about you joining the investigation team or working on something else. Until then, I don’t see what’s upsetting you.”
“Somebody is jerking us around, Eddie,” McGuire said. “And I don’t like it.”
Vance leaned forward again, shaking his head from side to side. “McGuire, McGuire, McGuire,” he repeated sadly. “You were gone so long, I forgot your most indisputable quality.” He smiled tightly. “You just don’t like much of anything, do you?”
McGuire tilted back in his chair, staring at the tips of his black loafers planted on the edge of Ralph Innes’s battered metal desk. What am I, an errand boy? Sent across the country to pick up suspects, drop them off for others to handle? What next, fetching coffee and doughnuts? The hell . . .
His eyes were focused somewhere beyond the stained office walls and he thought again of his tendency to gravitate toward extremes, a realization that had seeped into his soul over years of hostility and love, both given and taken. He had no middle ground. He knew how to run, how to charge, how to kick out against all the unfairness and tragedies sent tumbling across his path by fate, by life, by however you described it. And he knew how to stop and rest, how to ease himself through a crack in the fence to green open space on the other side where he would lie in meadows and stare at the sky. He knew that. He had done that in the Bahamas.
But he knew no middle ground.
Was that where happiness was found? In the middle, between stop and go, between panic and lethargy? Between the quick and the dead?
He didn’t know. He wondered if he would never know.
McGuire swung his feet from the desk, reached for the Crawford file and opened it in his lap. Why so damn little information? Lots of statements from residents of Crawford’s apartment house. Full autopsy report on Amos. And virtually nothing else.
He examined the Victim Information form on Ross Amos again. A telephone number was scribbled in the bottom corner near NEXT OF KIN—CONTACT. The same notation, with different dates and times, had been made several times in the margin: No answer.
The hell is this? McGuire walked to the open door of Innes’s cubicle. The younger detective was bent over an open filing cabinet across the room.
“This your writing?” McGuire asked, holding the Victim Information form for Innes to see as he approached. “Down here? Next of kin contact?”
Innes leaned forward, squinted. “Yeah, that’s me. No answer three days in a row.”
“So nobody talked to the victim’s wife?”
“We put a request through local police and the Feds.” Innes straightened his body and leaned an elbow on the filing cabinet. “Then we heard Crawford was picked up in California and figured we’d shake all that stuff out later. Moved on to other things.”
“Jesus,” McGuire muttered, and he turned on his heel, shaking his head. “Doesn’t anybody follow up things around here anymore?”
“Hey, we’re busy Joe,” Innes replied weakly.
Back at Innes’s desk McGuire dialled the home telephone number listed for the deceased Ross William Amos. A woman answered on the third ring. “Amos residence.” Her voice was warm and friendly, tinged with a Southern accent.
“I’m calling about Mr. Ross Amos,” McGuire said, a pencil poised above his note pad. “Is this Mrs. Amos?”
There was a pause, just a heartbeat or two longer than McGuire might have expected. Then, in a voice lower in pitch and less animated, the woman said, “This is Wendy Amos. May I ask who is calling, please?”
“Lieutenant Joe McGuire, Boston Police Department.” Actually, Acting Lieutenant, McGuire almost added. No official badge yet. No weapon either.
“Oh dear,” the woman said in a hesitant voice. “I do believe I told you folks everything I could about my husband.”
“No, you didn’t. According to our records, this is the first time anyone from this office has been able to contact you.”
A pause. “I’m terribly sorry. I must have meant some local police officers. They spoke to me here. In my home.”
“Names?” McGuire reached for a pencil.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have their names, Mrs. Amos? The officers who spoke to you?”
Something in her voice. A rueful smile? A tolerance perhaps? “I’m sorry, but I was so upset I didn’t get their names.”
“But they were with the Morningside, Virginia, police department?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Mrs. Amos, do you know why your husband was in Boston on the day . . .” McGuire almost stumbled over the word “murdered,” a word he avoided using with members of a victim’s family. I’m not as smooth at this as I used to be, he realized. “On the day he died?”
“No, I don’t,” she responded. “My husband refrained from discussing his work with me. That’s the agreement we had, Lieutenant . . . I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”
McGuire told her.
“Well, Lieutenant McGuire, surely you can understand how a man in my husband’s line of work tries to avoid discussing his activities in detail with anyone. Even his wife.”
McGuire grunted. “What did your husband do before he joined the post office, Mrs. Amos?”
“Do?” It was an unexpected question. “Why, he was in the army. . . .”
“For how long?”
Another heartbeat pause. “Several years. That was before we were married. . . .”
“And did he join the postal service directly from the army?”
“Yes.” She pronounced it as a two-syllable word. Yay-us. “Yes, he did. . . .”
“What kind of work was he doing in the army, Mrs. Amos?” McGuire interrupted.
She laughed nervously. “Lieutenant McGuire, you don’t barely give a body time to answer one question before you’re galloping on to the next.”
McGuire apologized.
“Apology accepted. Now then. What did my husband do in the army? Why, he was a member of the military police, which provided him with the training to perform security work for the US Postal Service.”
“And where is he buried, please?”
“In Arlington National Cemetery.”
“And do you know the gravesite number?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Could I have the number of his burial plot, please. Details of that kind are missing from our file.”
Her voice tightened noticeably. “Lieutenant, would you kindly tell me what this is all about?”
“It’s about your husband’s death. Somebody is trying to hinder our investigation of it. I’m just trying to assemble as many facts as I can.” He waited for a reply. Then: “Mrs. Amos, if you would simply provide me with your late husband’s gravesite number, I’m sure that will be all the information I’ll need today.”
She cleared her throat. “Lieutenant McGuire, I will be pleased to provide any facts which will aid you in bringing my husband’s killer to justice. I don’t see how knowing where my husband is buried will assist . . . Lieutenant, you don’t plan to disinter my husband’s remains, do you? I’m sorry, but that would be so upsetting to me . . . and his . . . his family . . .” She sounded tearful. And unconvincing.
“You have my word, Mrs. Amos, that we intend to do no such thing.”
He waited while she collected herself on the other end of the line. “Well, I’ll have to trust you on that, Lieutenant. By the way, I would like to have your badge number and the telephone number where you can be reached. As the wife of a security officer, I’ve learned to do these things.”
Except you should have asked them earlier, McGuire mused. He provided her with the numbers.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I, uh . . . let me look for the gravesite number. Just a moment please.” There was a rustle of papers, a near-silent flurry of activity in the background. Then: “My husband, Ross William Amos, was buried with full military honours in Arlington National Cemetery plot number two-one-one-three-seven, sector G.”
“Why?”
“I don’t understand, Lieutenant.”
“Why was he buried in Arlington? He wasn’t killed in active service. He’d been out of the army for several years, hadn’t he?”
“My husband was awarded the Bronze Star for valour in Vietnam,” she replied indignantly. “This entitled him to a hero’s burial in Arlington and that is precisely what he received.”
McGuire thanked her for her help.
“Any time,” she said. Her voice had lost its folksiness. “Any time at all.”
Over the ten years spent as partners, the team of Schantz and McGuire had achieved the highest arrest and conviction rate in the history of the Boston Police Department. Yet their success appeared to be at odds with the concept of teamwork. Neither man was efficient in preparing the complex and voluminous reports demanded by modern police procedure. And their social contact away from work had been virtually non-existent, shattering the myth of dedicated brothers-in-arms.
Only the more perceptive observers recognized the source of the magic created by their partnership. Among them had been the late Captain Jack Kavander.
“It’s a chemical balance,” he explained once to the police commissioner, who wanted to know why other homicide teams failed to achieve the success of Schantz and McGuire. “It’s like taking two chemicals off different shelves. You mix them together and you get a lot of fire and smoke and maybe a smell like rotten eggs. But what you end up with is something new, something really good. Something you can’t produce any other way.”
Kavander explained that Schantz was analytical, McGuire intuitive. Schantz was outgoing, spreading his philosophies and views of life to all who would listen; McGuire was secretive, keeping his own counsel and daring those around him to read his inner thoughts. Schantz was stable and placid, McGuire restless and volatile.
“What one guy lacks, the other fills in,” Kavander continued. “Negative and positive, black and white, hot and cold. Put them together, you get something bigger than the sum of its parts.”
For the balance of the afternoon, as he finalized details of his trip to Palm Springs with Ralph Innes, McGuire felt all of his intuitive senses buzzing. At five o’clock he made copies of the documents in Bunker Crawford’s file, slid them into a brown envelope and walked out of Berkeley Street Police Headquarters toward the subway station.
After finishing the pasta dinner prepared by Ronnie Schantz, McGuire sat alone in the living room and watched the evening news on television while Ronnie spoon-fed her husband. Finally she retreated to the kitchen, leaving McGuire a mug of coffee and plate of home-baked cookies on the table next to Ollie’s bed.
“Things aren’t hanging right,” McGuire grumbled. “There should be more information on the victim, this Amos character. What’s the big deal about military records? And what’s a postal security officer doing investigating a maintenance supervisor?”
Ollie Schantz turned his head to McGuire. “Now, don’t go looking for ghosts in a dark room just because nobody’s turned on the lights yet,” Ollie said. “Down in Washington, anybody who’s not in bed is busy looking under somebody else’s. Might not be anything to it at all. Besides, if you need more on the guy for the trial, let the D.A. subpoena it.”
“His wife bothers me.” McGuire bit into one of Ronnie Schantz’s cookies.
“Joseph, everybody bothers you,” Ollie said, a grin spreading across his face.
“She had too many answers,” McGuire continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Every time I had a question, she had an answer.”
“You know what I heard once?” Ollie Schantz swivelled his head to look at the ceiling. “I heard that any question that can be answered isn’t worth asking.”
McGuire stared back at the older man. “I can’t figure out if that’s the smartest or the most useless thing you ever told me,” he said, a smile creasing his face.
“See?” Ollie’s hand flopped across the bed and gestured painfully at McGuire. “Now there’s a question worth asking right there!”
Later, McGuire lay in the darkened room that had belonged to Ollie and Ronnie’s son, who had died under the wheels of a bus at five years of age.
McGuire recalled something Janet Parsons had said late that afternoon. Stopping at her office door, he had leaned in and suggested that Fat Eddie was gaining revenge by sending him to Palm Springs with Ralph Innes. “He knows about you and me,” McGuire said. “And he knows about you and Ralph. A little bit of turning the knife there, if you ask me.”
“Watch him, Joe,” she had cautioned.
McGuire laughed. “Fat Eddie? I can handle him.”
“No,” she replied solemnly. “Not him. Watch Ralph. Take care of him for me.”
McGuire had looked at her in disbelief. He waited for an explanation, a laugh perhaps. But there had been none.
Take care of him for me. Protect the man I choose to sleep with on occasion. Pretend that you and I never felt anything, that we never huddled together and watched the Caribbean dawn arrive like a silent explosion above the sea. Be cool, be distant, be detached. He promised himself he would try.
It seemed like the noble thing to do. He wasn’t familiar with noble motives. Not where his personal life was concerned. Perhaps it was time to begin.