Текст книги "Penance"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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“And I’m sure they will be very helpful, John. I’m sure you’ve filled them in completely. Look, you owe me one.”
Johnson was new in town. She’d been with some paper in Minneapolis for ten years, and she looked Minnesota. Tall, blonde, Nordic, broad shoulders, long legs. Lynch had talked with her three months before. A couple guys in his division nailed some gangbanger on a series of drug killings, and the asshole’s lawyer tried to muddy the water with some made-up crap about payoffs. Lynch’s name hadn’t been in it yet, but it would have been in time. Lawyer was a media-savvy radical, big on his image as the savior of the oppressed, always quick with the sound bites, the leaks, the dirty tricks. What he really was was a leech attached to the artery of drug money that kept all his underprivileged friends in nine millimeters. The talking heads on the TV had run with the payoff shit, reported the allegations, but Johnson actually checked the facts. Ran a series on the shyster, exposed a mess of scummy trial tactics – blatant race baiting, witness tampering, even a juror who admitted to throwing a case after a series of threats. The lawyer ended up getting his bar card yanked, and the gangbanger ended up getting the full ride – a place in line for the state-sponsored OD. Afterward, Lynch had bought Johnson a drink. Some sparks, but pretty clear they were both fighting that, too.
“Hey, I said thank you,” said Lynch.
“John, I was new in town, OK? I should have squeezed you for your marker. But you owe me, and you know it. How about this – we meet for a drink. I buy this time. I tell you what I need, and you decide. That’s fair, right?”
Lynch thought for a moment. Not about the case, but about Johnson. He’d enjoyed the drink last time. And he’d seen her around, she’d say hi, he’d say hi, him always feeling a little visceral tug. And he’d heard she left Minnesota after a divorce. Besides, growing up in Chicago, he understood the algebra of favors. His old man had moonlighted as political ward muscle for years. What was it he used to say? “Everybody’s gotta scratch a few backs. Otherwise, whole world’s got itchy backs. Nobody’s comfortable.”
“Yeah, OK,” Lynch said. “You know McGinty’s?”
“Sure. Half an hour?”
“OK, yeah.”
Lynch wondered should he change. After fourteen hours, he figured a shower and a clean shirt, at least. Toweling off, he poked through the closet and saw the sweater his sister had sent for Christmas. Strange-looking roll neck kind of faded purple thing he always thought looked a little candy-assed, but he had to admit his sister knew this kind of shit, so he thought what the hell. Threw it on over a pair of jeans, slid his holster back on his belt.
Johnson was waiting at the end of the bar when he got downstairs. She’d gotten her hair cut, he noticed, very short now. Long neck. Black turtleneck, tight. Black slacks. She looked like a million bucks in stock options.
“John,” she said, getting up from her stool. “Thanks. Really.” Big friendly smile. Lots of straight, white Scandinavian teeth. She put out her hand.
He took it. Big hands, he thought. But his were bigger. He hoped she noticed.
“You are the only person on the face of the earth that calls me John,” he said.
“Really? What should I call you?”
“Most people call me Lynch. There are a couple other options, but you’ll have to buy more than one drink to hear them.”
She slid her hand up to his elbow and turned him into the dimly-lit brick room toward the high-backed wooden booths along the windows that overlooked the river. “Guess we’d better get a table, then,” she said. “It could be a long night.” Different smile, less teeth, more sly.
When the waitress came, Lynch ordered a double Woodford Reserve. The waitress’ smile perked up along with her likely tip. Johnson asked for a Chardonnay.
“You a bourbon connoisseur, Lynch?”
“Hey, you’re buying.”
“You’re really going to get your pound of flesh, aren’t you, detective?”
“Pound?” Lynch said, looking up from under his eyebrows with a slight smile. “I’ll take all the flesh you care to offer.” He watched for her reaction.
She tilted her head a little, small chuckle, then looked back.
“That’s a very nice sweater, John Lynch.” Another smile. Not so sly this time. That was the smile he was looking for. She took a long sip from her glass.
“So how’d it go with Eddie Marslovak?” Johnson leaned forward, forearms on the table.
“Who says I talked to him?”
“Come on, Lynch. You’re the lead on his mother’s murder. He’s maybe the most powerful man in Chicago. What are you going to do, send him an email?”
“Yeah, OK. I talked to Eddie. This your technique, Johnson, right for the throat? I don’t get schmoozed?”
“You want schmooze?”
“You’re buying the drinks. Sure. Schmooze me.”
Another smile, a look like he’d surprised her a little, like she was happy about that. “OK, Lynch. Tell me about being the Great White.”
Lynch’s turn to get rocked back a little. Great White: a nickname from his football days at Boston College. White guy – rare for a DB, maybe not at BC, but at most places – decent speed, played strong safety, and tended to leave blood in the water. Little grin from Lynch. Trying not to look too proud about it, the jock thing being a little silly at his age. Still, though.
“So who put you onto that, Johnson? That’s going back some.”
“Every girl wants to meet a football hero. Third round pick, right?”
“Green Bay, yeah. Blew out my knee in the preseason. That was that. Happened today, signing bonus be enough to retire on.”
“Happened today, they’d fix your knee. Miss it?”
“Shit, I’d be long retired by now anyway, Johnson.”
“But still?”
“Yeah, OK. I miss it. I liked it. I was good at it. And there is nothing like completely reordering some wideout’s worldview when he tries to go over the middle.”
Johnson laughed. “So why the cops? Why not coach or do TV or whatever?”
“Dad was a cop. Genetic inertia, I guess. So what else you got? Gonna grill me on my aborted engagement to Cindy Tremaine back in the third grade?”
“How about Cabrini, 1984? Want to talk about that?”
She’d read the book on him. Lynch turned to the side, looking out the window over the river. Took a long swallow. In his mind, he could still see the muzzle flashes, hear the round thump into Michealson, hear rounds ripping through the sheet metal on the squad. Remembered getting hit, crawling to the front of the car, laying prone, firing from under the bumper. The first black kid going down, holding his gut, feet kicking, rolling over. The other kid running toward the squad, squeezing off shots. Lynch with one round left, knowing there’d be no chance to reload, knowing he’d never be able to anyway, bullet in his left shoulder, his left arm useless. He stayed prone, bracing the butt of the pistol on the ground, lining the kid up, the kid still shooting, but too high, Lynch letting him come, then putting a .38 right through his chest. Michealson making that gurgling noise, Lynch trying CPR, getting nothing out of it but a mouthful of blood.
Lynch took another swallow, held the glass up and wiggled it at the waitress. “I said schmooze, Johnson. Didn’t ask for a proctological exam. Pick a new subject.” Waitress put down the new drink, Lynch took a pull. Both of them quiet for a minute, Johnson knowing she’d stepped out of bounds.
“So,” he said. “What about you? Minneapolis, right?”
“Born and raised. Cop family, too. Dad just retired. Chief of Detectives. Older brother’s a captain, younger brother put in ten years on the force, law school at night, comer in the DA’s office now.”
“So why’d you skip town? Sounds like you had a house full of sources.”
“When I said cop family, I meant cop family all the way. Not an easy place for a girl with ambitions beyond marrying one of them. Which I did, which was a mistake. He wasn’t too keen on me working, especially for the press. After the divorce, I was on my own, all the way out from under all that macho bullshit for the first time. Liked it. Figured I’d be even more on my own down here.”
“So not much use for cops, huh?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Lynch. My dad, my brothers? They’re good people. Hard to live with sometimes. I’ve been around cops my whole life. That sense of honor at the core of the whole thing? I like that. You don’t get that with your MBAs. But, with a lot of them, after a while, they never take off the body armor.”
“Your ex?”
“Yeah. Kevlar man.”
“Don’t worry, Johnson. I haven’t put on a vest since I got off patrols.”
“There, you see? We’re hitting it off already.” Johnson getting another wine.
“Yeah. You give good schmooze. Look, I don’t really have shit on the Marslovak shooting yet, and I couldn’t give it to you if I did, you know that. Why the call?”
“I’m not looking for a quote here, Lynch. This is not-for-attribution all the way. Just with Eddie Marslovak in the mix, this is going to be front-burner for a while. I don’t want to get blindsided by anything.”
“OK. Strictly as background. I talked with Eddie. I think he needs a couple of bushels of Prozac and maybe a decade or two of therapy. But if he ties into the shooting, it’s going to be sideways – somebody coming back at him out of some deal he screwed them on or something. All I got.”
“OK. Thanks. This will not come back to bite you, honest.”
They talked for another hour. Lynch filling her in on Chicago politics, the kind of stuff you couldn’t know coming in from Minneapolis. The feudal nature of it, the ethnic blocs, the primacy of neighborhood, the mayor’s office passed down from Hurley to Hurley like a family title. And the fixers – the city lifers, on and off the payroll – guys who had lines into everything, who could pick up the phone at their summer places over on the Michigan shore and conjure up votes from thin air or graveyards.
Got to the point where it had been time to go for a while, both of them still hanging in.
“Hey, Dickey Regan at the Sun-Times says to say hello,” said Johnson.
“You talked to Dickey?”
“I heard you were friends. He gave me the Great White stuff.”
Lynch shook his head and chuckled. “Asshole.”
“He also told me you were a good person for a cop. Said you had better things to do on St Paddy’s Day than get shit-faced with the Emerald Society and plot to undermine our constitutional protections. That’s pretty much a direct quote, by the way.”
“Yeah, well, Dickey and I go back. You can tell him he’s OK, too. For a press weenie.”
Johnson finished her wine. Played with her hair a little, like she wasn’t used to it being short. Leaned back in the booth, stretched. “God, four glasses of wine. I knew I shouldn’t have driven. Now I’ve got to drive home.”
“As a police officer, I would advise against it. I can get a unit to run you home.”
Johnson laughed. “Just what I need, covering the cop beat. Some uniform spreading the word he got strong-armed into playing taxi for me.”
“We can go to my place for a while, get you some coffee.”
“Inviting me up for coffee Lynch? What’s the matter, don’t have any etchings to show me?” That sly smile again.
“Just an offer in the interest of public safety, ma’am. Although I do have this extensive collection of Seventies album covers.”
“Except I don’t think you should be driving either.”
“Don’t have to. I live upstairs.”
“Really?” There was a little tone in her voice; not sarcasm. That smile again.
“Still like my schmoozing?” Johnson murmured into his neck as they clinched inside Lynch’s door, both of their coats and four shoes on the floor by their feet. Lynch had untucked her turtleneck and slid his hands up her back.
“I knew you had ways of making me talk, Johnson.”
“If you’re going to keep undressing me, you’re going to have to call me Liz.”
“OK, Liz.” The turtleneck came over her head. Black bra. “Isn’t this the time when we’re supposed to disclose our sexual histories in the interest of public health?”
“Why?” she asked. “Is yours long and varied?”
“Wife died in ’86. Did some tomcatting around for a few years,” he said. “Only been back in the pool a handful of times since, though.”
“You better have been wearing your trunks,” she said.
“Always wear my trunks.”
“I was divorced fourteen months ago,” Johnson said. “Dipped my toe in here and there, but haven’t been doing laps for a while.”
Lynch’s hands ran back down her back to the waistband of her slacks, and then to the front to the buckle of her belt.
“You like to swim?” he asked.
She pulled Lynch’s sweater over his head. “I finished second in the state in the 400 IM in high school.”
“I can only dog paddle, but I’m vigorous,” said Lynch. “You gonna pull me out if I get in too deep?”
Johnson’s slacks dropped to the floor. Her hands ran down Lynch’s chest and began to work the front of his jeans. “I can do better than that,” she said. “I can give lessons.” His jeans dropped. She ran a finger up the long, white welt on the right side of Lynch’s ribs, and then kissed the round, puckered scar under his left collarbone.
He unhooked her bra, and she pulled back for a second to let it fall down her arms.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg,” said Lynch. She smiled again, even better than last time.
There was a moment later, Johnson on top, rocking, neither of them rushing it, the dim light through the blinds falling in gentle curves across her breasts, when Lynch felt something break and shift inside of him, like a bone that had been set wrong being made straight. All those frantic couplings all those years ago, with Katie in the car before they married, and even after, there had always been a savagery to their mating. The cop groupies he’d pick up on Rush Street and the cruel gravity of their need. Now this gentility, this fluidity. He was swimming, and not struggling toward the surface and choking for air. Just swimming. For the first time in his life, he could breathe here.
CHAPTER 3 – RESTON, VIRGINIA
“Yes, sir, we will keep you apprised.” Tecumseh Weaver (Colonel, USMC, retired) hung up on Clarke, sat back in his chair at InterGov Research Services and sighed. Fucking Clarke. How a guy got to be where he was with balls as small as he had was still a mystery to Weaver. But he sure had his panties in a bunch now. This little problem of his, it wasn’t the sort of thing Clarke could sic an official dog on, though. So he was tugging on Weaver’s leash instead.
Weaver’d never liked being on a leash.
The suite housing the offices of InterGov Research Services was not quite in Langley and not quite in DC, which was as it should be. And if the company’s internet connections and telecommunications were a little more secure, their staff a little better armed, and their raison d’etre a little harder to discern than those of the neighbors in the generic office park just off of I-66, that was as it should be, too.
InterGov Research Services was a limited liability corporation whose owners were even more mysterious than the company itself, being the figments of some very creative imaginations. InterGov was one of the thousands of small consultancies surrounding Washington that cleared away some of the fiscal bloat of the federal budget every year. InterGov’s masters viewed this not as wasteful, but rather as a way of creating financial breathing room outside the prissy auspices of the House and Senate intelligence oversight committees. Just another form of off-balance-sheet accounting.
And InterGov did provide real and valuable services to its legitimate clients. It had access to the NSA’s supercomputers and to some of the CIA’s best research talent, so clients like the Department of Agriculture received quick, accurate, and affordable analyses of pressing issues like Uzbekistan’s projected wheat yield, trends in Kenyan coffee production, and the statistical likelihood that, somewhere in the United States, the curious little bug that caused mad cow disease was already turning some citizen’s brain into so much insentient Jell-O.
But InterGov’s most valuable talent pool knew very little about computers, except for those attached to weapons systems. And if most of them were a little larger, a little stronger, and a little more familiar with places like Yemen, Mogadishu, Medellin, or Montenegro than your average Joe, well, that was as it should be, too.
It was the highest and best use of the latter pool of talent that Weaver considered as he waited for Chen to get back in from Reagan National.
Fucking Fisher, thought Weaver. This Chicago thing had his stink all over it. No details yet – Weaver had the techies hacking into the Chicago Police systems and would have those shortly – but there was speculation regarding a rifle.
Ishmael Leviticus Fisher, InterGov’s resident sniper – hell, resident genuine USDA-inspected number-one badass – he’d gone off the reservation two months earlier, and InterGov was pretty far off the reservation to begin with. Fisher had been on Weaver’s operations team ever since he put InterGov together. Hell, Fisher and Weaver went back all the way to Saigon. Anyway, InterGov had a leak. A lot of your Al-Qaeda types, the ones that hadn’t got Hellfire missiles up the ass, Fisher’d been the man who put them down, so he had a little rep in Arab circles. Just before Christmas, one of the raghead groups who were looking to put Fisher’s head on a wall got some intel they shouldn’t have and put a bomb in the Fisher family car. Blew up Fisher’s wife and kids, but missed him. For a couple of weeks, Fisher stuck with the program, working with the Intel team trying to get a line on the bombers, letting the PsyOps boys poke around his head looking for blown circuits. No evidence of psychotic break, the white coats had said. No apparent disassociation, they said. Somewhat disturbing lack of arousal, they said. Then Fisher disappeared.
At first, Weaver thought maybe the ragheads had gotten Fisher, too. Then he thought maybe Fisher had gotten some intel on his own and gone hunting. Then forty days of nothing.
On day forty-one, somebody put a 7.62mm hole through a dairy farmer in a church parking lot in Door County, Wisconsin. Lots of people get shot in the United States every day, but not many of them get shot with rifles. So when the Wisconsin thing popped up, Weaver took a sniff and caught a funny odor. So he packed Chen off to Cheesehead country to sniff it out.
Weaver’s phone rang. Chen was back.
Chen wore a plain black pantsuit over a black silk blouse when she walked into Weaver’s office. She stood five feet two inches and weighed, Weaver was guessing, ninety-five pounds. Educated guess, because Chen was a dead ringer for the girl Weaver had stashed in the apartment on Mandalay Road in Hong Kong through most of Vietnam. He’d had to kill that one eventually, though. Still a little twinge when he thought about it. What was it with oriental chicks anyway, Weaver wondered. No tits to speak of, asses like fourteen-year-old boys. Just like chink food, though. Finish with one and fifteen minutes later you’re ready for another serving. Not that Weaver had any carnal designs on Chen. Made a run at her when she first came on board, and the vibe he got was enough to shrivel his sack. Hoped he never had to take out Chen. She could break an oak board with either hand, with either foot, even with her head. And she could get that flat little .25 auto out from wherever she had it stashed and put all eight rounds through your “X” ring while you were still wondering whether you should be scared of her or her cute little gun. Mind like a goddamn Cray computer, too.
“Enjoy your trip, Chen? America’s dairy land, you know. Try the cheese?”
“Too much fat to justify the protein, sir.”
“Of course. So what do we have? It was Fisher?”
“Statistically, Fisher is the logical candidate. The local authorities suspect that the victim was shot from a snowmobile from close to the shore. However, the medical examiner’s findings indicate that the wound channel is on a downward angle, entering just above and to the right of the victim’s heart and exiting through the left side of the sixth thoracic vertebrae. One of the victim’s gloves was on the ground by the body, the other on his right hand. Their theory is that the victim dropped the glove and was shot as he bent over to pick it up. The victim being bent over at the time would explain the wound channel.”
“But that’s not your theory?”
“No, sir. I was able to access the local system and examine the crime scene photographs. Blood spray on the back of the glove the victim supposedly dropped indicates the glove was within six inches of the entry wound at time of impact, which is exactly where it would have been if the victim was putting it on when he was shot. That means the victim was not bent over, which means that the round hit at a descending angle. The shot came from the ice out on the lake, which eliminates the possibility of an elevated shooting position. The downward angle can only be explained by distance. For the round to arrive at an angle matching the wound channel, the shot would have to have been fired from between nine hundred and one thousand meters. With a little more than one hundred meters between the victim and the shore, we must assume that Fisher fired from more than eight hundred meters out on the ice.”
Weaver let out a low whistle. “A thousand meters with a weapon that’s iffy starting around seven hundred and in a twenty plus crosswind? Don’t suppose the locals bothered looking out that far.”
“No, sir. They found fresh snowmobile tracks at one hundred ten meters and some sign that the machine stopped on the right line for the driver to take the shot. They confined their search to the first two hundred meters of ice. At eight hundred meters, the ice was only marginally safe.”
“And they didn’t recover a slug?”
“No, sir. Again, faulty assumptions. They assumed the round was fired from less than two hundred meters, so they assumed a flat trajectory. Therefore, they also assumed the round would have passed through the victim with sufficient velocity to reach the woods beyond the shooting scene. They determined that the round was not recoverable.”
“So no slug?”
Chen pulled a small plastic envelope from her jacket pocket and dropped it on Weaver’s desk. The thing inside looked like a misshapen lead mushroom. “The slug was in the landscaping bordering the parking lot less than twenty meters from where the body was located.”
“And?”
“A cursory examination reveals nothing to dispute the assumption that it was fired by Fisher. It is the appropriate caliber. I could find no evidence of ballistic signature. Fisher is still saboting his rounds.”
“OK, so for now we have to figure Fisher took out this dairy farmer out. You get anything on the victim?”
“White male, fifty-nine years old, five-eleven, two hundred and two pounds. Married with four adult children, none living at home. Operated a successful dairy farm located twelve miles from the church.”
“Any idea why Fisher did it?”
“The victim had no international ties. His farm has significant value, but he had minimal cash or securities holdings and none of those holdings are tied to likely targets. The victim had never traveled outside the country and had only traveled outside the state three times in the last twenty years.”
“So Fisher is wandering the country shooting people for the hell of it?”
“People?”
“Shooting in Chicago this afternoon. Looks like a rifle. Victim was Helen Marslovak, mother to Eddie Marslovak, so big money. Fisher doing private hits, maybe? We need to start looking for money movement?”
Chen shook her head. “It seems unlikely. Fisher made some peculiar tactical choices. The church where the victim was shot was surrounded on three sides by wooded land. Fisher could have taken the shot from wooded cover and from less than one hundred yards. It is almost as though he chose to fire from as far away from the victim as possible. Also, the victim spent long periods of time on his property alone, often before first light and after dark. Yet Fisher chose to take the shot during daylight and in a situation where the shooting would either be witnessed or discovered almost immediately. I would imagine that Fisher had to remain on the ice for several hours after the shot before he could return to shore. Odd choices if he was working for hire.”
“Almost like he was bragging. Anybody else we know of could have taken the shot?”
“At that distance, with that weapon and in that wind? No, sir. There are only a few who could have made the shot at all, with anything.”
“So he shoots an old lady coming out of church just for kicks.”
“A Catholic church?”
“Yeah.”
“Had she just attended the Catholic sacrament of reconciliation?”
“Reconciliation? What the fuck is that?”
“The sacrament previously known as confession. The victim in Wisconsin had just left reconciliation.”
“Don’t know. We’ll check. But that feels like something. Fisher had the Jesus bug pretty bad.” Weaver stopped for a moment, rubbed his face. It had been a long day, and there was the prospect of longer days to come.
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir.” Chen pulled another small envelope from her pocket. The envelope held two tiny electronic devices: a camera half the size of a pencil eraser and a transmitter smaller than that, two thin wires sticking out of it like antennae. “These are our most advanced audio and video surveillance options. I found the audio transmitter wedged into the molding inside one of the confessional booths in the church the victim had just left. The camera was affixed to the bottom of the last row of pews. The camera was directed at the door of the booth in which the transmitter was hidden.”
“You check with Paravola?” Tom Paravola headed InterGov’s technical section.
“Thirty sets of these units are missing.”
“So we can assume another set is sitting in the church in Chicago just waiting to get us in this up to our asses. Locals tumble on those, nobody’s going to think they came from Radio Shack.”
“Yes, sir. Their discovery would prove problematic.”
Weaver thought for a moment. “Get to Chicago, Chen, but I don’t want you anywhere near that church. Let’s get a local on this. Who’s that guy we used on the University of Chicago break-in down there? Villanueva? See if we can get to him. This goes south, I don’t want our fingerprints on it.”
“Yes, sir. I will make arrangements. Is there anything else?”
“Bring Ferguson up to speed, will you? Tell him to get a team together by tomorrow, get the war wagon loaded up. We need to get Fisher inside a body bag before some cop gets his mitts on him. If Fisher decides to start answering questions, well, that would add up to better than thirty years of the wrong sorts of answers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Weaver sat alone in the office, nursing a drink. Hide and seek with Ishmael Fisher, Ferguson was gonna love this one.
Weaver closed the files on his desk and put them in the drawer. Lease renewal two months out, request from research for another $150,000 in computer shit, open enrollment for the health plan coming up. Couldn’t think with all that crap in front of him. Needed to get a line on Fisher.
OK, Fisher was driving almost certainly. Just too hard to hide traveling by air now. Also – ten days between Wisconsin and Chicago, so he was taking his time. If he had slipped his moorings, and Weaver was pretty sure Fisher was well away from the dock at this point, there wasn’t anything wrong with his navigation. Everything aboard the SS Fisher was battened down and squared away. Just working off a new set of charts was all. Charts from Mars or somewhere.
Get PsyOps back on it, of course. See if the behavioral witch doctors could get a reading. They were right more often than Weaver expected them to be, but he still didn’t trust that psychic hotline bullshit.
Two killings, though. So that gave him two dots to string together. Enough to start looking for a pattern. Weaver punched up the two churches on the computer, plotted them on GPS. Dot two was damn near exactly due south of dot one – within yards of due south of dot one. OK, that’s odd. Could be a one-in-360-degree coincidence, but at least it was a place to start. Something about Fisher’s moral rigidity and an exact north-south line resonated with Weaver. He sent an email down to research.
Needed to muddy up the waters, too. Dot one was working out. Locals didn’t have squat, and they weren’t going to find the slug or the electronics now.
He had Eddie Marslovak attached to dot two. Guy with that kind of money, those kinds of connections… Weaver figured they could play the six degrees of Kevin Bacon game with him pretty easy. Wouldn’t be too hard to put some stink on him, to get the cops interested. It’d fall apart, but Weaver didn’t need a conviction, he just needed time.
Weaver’s to-do list was getting crowded. Get research to expand their parameters on the Fisher search. See what they could do about grabbing any public video – ATM cameras, security cameras, toll booth cameras, traffic cameras. Chicago was pretty wired up. Run all that through the recognition software, see if anything comes up. What else? Toss Fisher’s place again, couldn’t hurt. He must have squirreled away some identities, he couldn’t be doing all this on cash.
Weaver wondered what Fisher’s old man would have made of all this. Ezekiel Amos Fisher had been Weaver’s mentor. Zeke had started in the OSS. After Buchenwald, he’d gone zealot, convinced you had to fight evil with evil. Weaver remembered when he’d joined the team, right after Korea, Zeke going on about the just war doctrine, whatever Catholic shit that was, about how violence was only justified when it prevented a greater harm. For Zeke, Communism was the greatest harm imaginable. Which meant Zeke would do anything as long as it hurt the Reds more than it hurt Uncle Sam. Now Zeke’s kid had popped a couple civilians, one of them in Chicago. Zeke Fisher and the FBI COUNTERINTELPRO guys had done some shit in Chicago back in the day, playing ball with Hurley and his Red Squad. There was the Hampton raid, where Zeke helped the FBI tee up the Chicago Black Panther party and let the Chicago cops butcher them in their beds. And there was the other thing. Weaver didn’t want to think about the other thing just yet. But Fisher killing people in Chicago? Weaver didn’t close this down fast, Clarke would really start wetting his drawers.
