Текст книги "Tongue tied"

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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"Maybe Barner came to the same conclusion you came to, Strachey," Day said, "and he went out to Hempstead to rescue Jay Plankton and arrest his own boyfriend."

Kemmerer said, "Arrest him or warn him," and it occurred to me that Lyle, in the state he must have been in at that moment, might have been capable of either.

Chapter 21

Thad had a map of the New York metropolitan area in the glove compartment of his pickup truck, and I navigated as he drove east across Brooklyn and then Queens. A light drizzle was falling again, and Thad drove with determination but care on the slick highways, dodging both potholes, where he could, and early-Sunday-morning drunks.

Day and Kemmerer had offered, without enthusiasm, to ride along and help in any way they could, but that made no sense so they were off the hook. Two of the four of us would have had to ride in the bed of the pickup, either exposed to the weather or under a tarp with eggplant debris. Anyhow, what were they going to do when we arrived at Welch's house, the address of which was conveniently listed in the Nassau County phone book? Thad and I assured Day and Kemmerer that once we became convinced that Jay Plankton was in fact being held in Hempstead, we would notify the local police department before proceding.

The radio news reports offered no substantive late developments. The headlines were still the tongue arriving at the Post and the threat of additional gruesome bodily harm to Plankton. The reporter did add that following Sunday morning services at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, Archbishop Egan was expected to make a personal appeal to the kidnappers for the J-Bird's release. Joining the cleric in his plea would be Babette Gallagher, a woman who described herself as Jay Plankton's "fiancee." Interviewed by WINS, Gallagher spoke with emotion but said in a controlled voice that her boyfriend "did not deserve to be mutilated." She added, "Jay is no saint, but who is?"

Just after 4:30, Thad and I pulled into a Dunkin' Donuts near the West Hempstead Long Island Rail Road station. I went in and asked for directions to Parsons Drive.

This produced an elaborate confab involving all of the shift personnel. The consensus was that Parsons Drive was just four blocks away. I bought two black coffees and a bag of crullers, and went back out to the truck.

"It's nearby. Go down that way three blocks, and turn right."

"Then what?" Thad said.

"I don't know."

"When should we call the police?"

I got out my cellphone, switched it on, and told Diefendorfer, "I don't know the answer to that, either. When the time comes, we'll recognize it, I think."

Thad drove out onto the highway. "This is kind of exciting," he said.

"Do you have goose bumps?"

"I think so. But I'm developing a lot of gas, too. I guess I'm not nineteen anymore."

We soon turned off the commercial street onto a leafy avenue of ample wood-frame and shingled single-family residences with small but tidy lawns and glistening, rain-drenched late-model sedans and SUVs in the driveways. Few lights were on in the houses, but the streetlights at the intersections cast enough illumination for us to read some of the house numbers, and we soon spotted Dave Welch's place.

"Go on by," I told Thad.

"Right. Let's think this through."

Welch's house was a two-story, brown-shingled place with a chalet-style A over the front door, a couple of big oaks on either side of the structure, and bushy shrubs under all the first-floor windows. A screened porch on the left side of the house was dark, as were the other first-floor rooms. Up above, though, dim lights were visible behind drawn curtains at two second-story windows. Three cars were parked out front: a gray Toyota Previa and a black VW Passat, one behind the other in the driveway, and a beige Ford sedan on the street. The Ford looked as though it could have been an NYPD unmarked car, maybe Lyle's.

"The Toyota could be the getaway car," I said. "After they grabbed Plankton, they put him in a stolen Lincoln Navigator and then they switched to what one witness thought was a light-colored van. The Previa could be mistaken for a van."

"It's funny that they wouldn't hide it," Thad said.

"It's a vague description that fits a lot of vehicles in the state of New York."

Thad cruised down the block, made a U in an intersection, then slowly backtracked.

"Let's park here," I said, and Thad pulled in front of a darkened house two doors up and across the street from Welch's. We had a clear view of the Welch house. The second-floor lights remained on, but no movement was detectable behind the curtains. Thad doused his headlights and cut the engine. No lights had been on in any of the other nearby houses, and none came on when we parked. If our activities aroused the interest of any neighborhood insomniacs, they were not letting us know it.

"Now what?" Thad said.

"I'm thinking this over."

Thad rolled his window down, and after a moment he said, "I don't hear anything."

"No."

"They'd probably have Plankton gagged. Don't you think?"

"Yes, although if they actually cut out his tongue, I guess he'd be limited in the sounds he could make. Anyway, he would be physically traumatized by that ordeal, and maybe not even conscious."

"That's awful. I sure hope they didn't do it."

The night air was warm, and the cab of Thad's truck smelled of him and of eggplant, both pleasing.

After a time, I said, "Thad, you don't happen to have a firearm with you, do you? In the glove compartment?"

"No, I don't own a gun."

"Mine is in Albany," I said. "I didn't anticipate a confrontation with violent people. At least, not without being in the company of the New York Police Department. By that I mean, being in the company of NYPD officers and with their being on my side in this thing."

"Of course, there's been some ambiguity about which side you're on," Thad said.

"Not really. Not when it comes to bodily harm. I'm against that, generally speaking."

"Oh, good."

"But self-defense might soon become an issue. I take it you have no problem with self-defense."

"I prefer to avoid situations where I might be called upon to employ, say, fisticuffs.

On the other hand, if someone is bent on causing me serious bodily injury, I suppose I could find it within my ethical means to eviscerate the poor soul."

"Great."

We sat some more, peering over at the Welch house.

"What I need to know," I said after a moment, "is who is in there, and are they armed? Being cops, chances arc they are."

"Right."

"I'm especially interested to know if Lylc is inside that house. And if so, what is his situation vis-a-vis the others inside?"

"Why don't you call him up and ask him?" Thad said. "You have his cellphone number. If he's in there, you don't have to tell him that you're sitting in a truck across the street."

"Hmm."

"Barner might not be willing to tell you where he is at all. Which would be a good indication that he's up to no good and is probably inside Welch's house. Actually, I could go over there and hide in the darkness, and I could listen for a phone to ring inside. It's so quiet around here that I'd probably hear it."

"I don't know," I said. "It's somewhat risky for you, Thad. Can you protect yourself if you have to?"

"I've got a tire iron under the seat. I can take that. But I won't get caught. All my old skulking skills will surely come back. I'll bet skulking is like swimming or riding a bicycle. Your body doesn't forget habitual sneaking around."

"Are you getting goose bumps again?"

"No, I think I'm too exhausted for goose bumps. I haven't been up this late since about 1980. Most farmers are just getting out of bed at this hour, not still up from the night before. But I've got enough adrenaline pumping now to do whatever it is we need to do. The caffeine should help, too," Thad said, and took a swig of his coffee.

"Okay, go ahead. When I've lost sight of you, I'll wait thirty seconds and then dial."

"Make it a minute," Thad said. "Let me get used to the sounds around the house."

"Okay. I'll dial sixty seconds after I've lost sight of you."

Thad reached under his seat, groped around, and soon came up with a tire iron. "Here goes," he said. He switched the cab's overhead light to the off position so the cab would not light up when he opened the door. He exited the truck quietly, then eased the door shut with a soft click.

Thad strode across Parsons Drive as if he belonged there and moved quickly along the sidewalk to Welch's house. He glanced my way once, then cut left into the darkness near the side porch. While I counted to sixty, I watched for lights to come on in the Welch house or in any others, but none did.

When a minute had passed, I retrieved the scrap of paper with Lyle's cellphone number, flipped open the glove-box door for illumination, opened up my phone, and dialed.

Even from where I sat, a hundred or more feet away, I could hear the phone twitter.

It was answered after one ring, and it was unmistakably Lyle who said calmly, "Hey, Strachey, I think your Amish sweetheart is taking a leak in the bushes about ten feet from me. That's not very sanitary, if you ask me. Or very polite."

"Lyle? Is that you?" What was he up to?

"Yeah, it's me. I'm stretched out on a lounge inside the porch you're looking at, having a well-earned refreshment."

"You're on the porch?"

"Yeah, the one you're lookin' at right now from the cab of Diefendorfer's pickup truck. I sat here and watched the two of you sittin' over there smoochin'. Then Thaddie gets out, and he ambles over here by where I'm relaxing. He's done taking a piss, it looks like, and now he's standing close in beside a big bush and I'm looking right at him."

"How did you know it was us?"

"I had a locator beacon placed in the truck. It's under the right front fender."

"I see. When did you do that, Lyle?"

"Three hours ago, back in Brooklyn."

"May I ask why you did that?"

"Two reasons. One is, I still wasn't certain I could trust Diefendorfer. The man is a known liar. The other reason is, I wasn't really sure myself what I was going to find when I arrived out here, and I needed to know if and when you might turn up and complicate my life. You were tracked all the way to Hempstead, and I was given updates every three minutes right up until the time you parked across the street from where I'm sitting. Two patrol cars from the Hemp-stead Police Department are parked a block and a half from where you are, and those officers are ready to move in on you if I ask them too."

"So then," I said, "Jay Plankton is not being held captive by Dave Welch and his cop friends in Welch's house? Or was Plankton there earlier, but you tipped Welch off and they all got away?"

Barner grunted, or maybe belched lightly. "Nuh-uh. None of the above, you stupid fuck. Why don't you come over here, Strachey, have a beer, and I'll show you around.

You can see for yourself, if that's what you need, what's been happening here tonight.

It's no kidnapping, that's for sure. It's all voluntary, involving consenting adults. Have a look, and tell your pal there, Thaddie, to come on inside, too. He looks to me like he turned into somebody in a wax museum out there, and he might want to come in and chill out."

Thad had to have heard Lyle's end of this conversation, but apparently he was waiting for some signal from me. Was this a trap of some sort? It didn't feel like one at all. I climbed out of the truck, shut the door, and walked toward the darkened porch, with the phone line to Lyle still open.

"There's a door on the back of the porch," Lyle said. "It's unlocked." Then he hung up.

A light drizzle was still drifting down. The grass in Welch's yard was wet and smelled of ammonia. I was unable to see Thad, but as I neared the porch, I said, "Thad, let's go on in," and he stepped from behind a lilac bush and joined me.

We found the door to the porch, opened it, and stepped inside.

"Welcome to Hempstead, guys," said a voice that wasn't Lyle's.

A match was struck and Dave Welch lit a candle on the table alongside the padded porch chair he was sitting in. Stretched out on a nearby chaise, Lyle was fully dressed, while Welch was clad only in gym shorts.

"Hi," Thad said, "I'mThaddeus Diefendorfer."

Not getting up, Welch extended his hand. "I'm Dave Welch."

"Pleased to meet you."

"I understand from Lyle that the two of you suspected me of kidnapping and tattooing Leo Moyle, and then kidnapping and mutilating Jay Plankton." Welch swigged from a bottle of Sam Adams.

"That came from me," I said. "Was I totally off base?"

"Yeah," Welch said. "You were totally off base. I despise Plankton and his gang. I have to listen to their stupid crap every morning in the precinct house, and if somebody kicked the shit out of them, I'd hate to have to be the arresting officer. But am I a violent criminal? No, I'm not. I'm a cop."

Thad said, "But aren't cops sometimes violent criminals? I've read of a number of cases. The men who abused and tortured Abner Louima, for example."

"Yeah," Welch said, "this can happen. Psychopathic personalities slip through, like anywhere else. And any department gets its share of goons and bullies. But I ' m not one of either category. It's exactly what I ' m against, as a matter of fact."

"I'm glad to hear that," Thad said. "Because it seems to me that police departments shouldn't let any psychopathic personalities slip through. And if they do, they ought to be chucked out. All the goons and bullies, too."

Lyle said sarcastically, "Tell us about it." I had thought he'd been drinking, but he had a can of Coke in his hand and appeared weary but cold sober. Only Welch was drinking, although he was also coherent, even alert.

"If either of you have any doubts about my noninvolve-ment in the kidnappings,"

Welch said, "feel free to look around the house. You'll find evidence of a type of partying that Lyle's not crazy about, but nothing that's illegal in the state of New York. Nothing to speak of, anyway. One of the guys smoked a little weed, but that's about it. It's been ten or fifteen years since sodomy's been illegal in the state, so none of us will be doing time in Dannemora on that one."

Thad said, "Were you having a sex party? Lord, I haven't been to one of those for over twenty years. I'm as good as married now, but I harbor fond memories of my orgiastic youth."

"Fond memories!" Lyle spat out. "Jesus Christ!"

I said, "Thad, I take it that this wasn't back in Lancaster County."

"No, New York and San Francisco in my FFF days. You'll find homosexual dalliances among the Amish, like anywhere else, but no group activity, I think. Barn raising never turned into hayloft orgies among the Mennonite farmers that I heard about."

"Please explain," Welch said to me, "what it was besides my dislike of Plankton that made you think I was behind the kidnappings. This is really very weird. Lyle says he never believed you, but my poor bed-buddy here drove all the way out here from the city to-I think-confront me, search the house, and assure himself that I was no sadistic fiend and kidnapper. Now what was that about?"

Bed-buddy. What did that mean? Poor Lyle thought of Welch as his lover, or boyfriend.

I said, "First, just to add purity to your generally persuasive denials of complicity, Dave, I'd like to take you up on your offer of allowing us to look around your house. Okay?"

Welch shrugged.

"Triad, why don't you give the place a quick look while I backtrack and try to recall exactly what it was that led us out here in the middle of the night. You're the breaking-and-entering specialist. Do you mind?"

"I'd rather not do that."

"All right."

"If it were a rescue, sure. But if it's an orgy, I don't want to see it and experience temptation. Not that I would necessarily be invited to participate. Don't get me wrong."

"I think Delmar and Marty are asleep," Welch said. "But you would certainly be invited, Thad, if you were interested. That goes for you too, Strachey, despite your coming out here to malign my character."

At that, Lyle got up abruptly and went inside the house. "I can't take this," he said as he left.

After a moment, Welch sighed. "I'm sorry. I love Lyle, but I'm not about to settle in with one guy. I'm too restless. And I want to focus on my career and on reforming the department. Lyle's role models in love are his mother and father, and if any two guys or any two women want that, that's fine. But it's not for me."

"Apparently not," Thad said. "I'll go in and see how Lyle's doing. Maybe you need to just cut him loose. Or maybe he should cut you loose, if he can."

Welch did not reply, and Thad went into the house, where a light had come on in a distant inside room.

"Lyle is so upset with me," Welch said to me, "that you almost had him believing I was a major felon."

"And he's so smitten with yon that lie almost had me believing he was going to tip you off that I was onto you-or even that he was your accomplice."

Welch swigged more beer. "So," he said after a moment, "what made you decide I was a kidnapper?"

I explained how comments Lylc had made about Welch's rage over the J-Bird and his radio show had predisposed me to becoming suspicious of him, and how Lyle's apparently exaggerated remarks about Welch's drug use had fueled that predisposition. Then after Leo Moyle told of the powerful scent of fingernail polish in the room where he had been held, I connected that with Welch's use of poppers, which smelled like nail polish, and Welch and his mysterious cohorts suddenly became the obvious culprits.

"We do use poppers," Welch said. "They're probably not healthy, but they're legal.

None of us use fingernail polish, though. Delmar, Marty and I are all police officers, and colored nails would not go over big in the department."

"There was also," I said, "the fact that with Jay F'lank-ton's situation becoming increasingly desperate, some of us hired to find him probably started getting desperate, too. You heard about the tongue at the Post, I take it."

"I doubt if that's real," Welch said. "Who would do that? It's too wild, too much." "I hope so."

"Before you pulled up across the street, Lyle was on the phone with the other detectives working the case, including the feds, and he said everybody was sounding desperate.

The forensics weren't in on the tongue yet, and nobody could find a tattoo artist who looked like a good suspect for the Moyle inkwork. There are hundreds of licensed tattoo parlors in the metro area, and nobody knows how many unlicensed amateurs, it turns out. They'd been hoping that the tattoo search would churn something up. And I guess the FFF end of the investigation hasn't been productive either."

"Not so far," I said. "The harassment of Plankton, supposedly by FFFers, was just some angry kids in Massachusetts. And apparently the kidnappers then picked up on the FFF name, hoping the kids would be the prime suspects. But they weren't for long."

With faint light now discernible through the low clouds in the east, Welch and I reviewed the case for several minutes, until Thad and Lyle reappeared. Lyle seemed to have calmed down. To distract him, Thad had asked for a tour of the Welch house, ostensibly to reassure Thad that Jay Plankton was not bound and gagged somewhere. Thad reported to me that it was true-Plankton was nowhere in the house, and there was no evidence that he had ever been there.

"Upstairs there are two hunky naked guys on a big bed," Thad said, "snoring to beat the band. Earlier somebody had spilled a vial of poppers on a pillow, and the place still reeked. It's a powerful aroma, and I can understand, Strachey, why when you smelled the popper in the subway it triggered this really strong reaction on your part, like Marcel Proust's madeleine.

"But this stuff didn't really smell like nail polish. It's sweeter, and not so pungent. I was thinking, there's nothing that smells exactly like nail polish. So maybe what Leo Moyle smelled really was nail polish. Wouldn't Moyle and the J-Bird and those guys recognize nail polish when they smelled it? They've got all those girlfriends and ex-wives and ex-girlfriends who probably did their nails a lot. So the J-Bird gang would surely know that smell when they were near it," Thad said.

That's when something I had been dimly aware of since one of my annoying conversations with Jerry Jerris and Jay Plankton in Jeris's office started to come back to me.

Chapter 22

I was seated at Dave Welch's kitchen table, and I had Leo Moyle on the phone. On the table in front of me were the few remaining crumbs from the crullers. And instead of joining Welch in a beer, I was back at the takeout coffee, which Welch had zapped in his microwave. This brought out the brew's acidic qualities, which I needed.

A groggy-sounding woman had answered Moyle's telephone. Apparently he had taken Jerry Jeris's advice on how to help regain his mental health. The woman was reluctant to awaken Moyle at daybreak, but when I explained that the information might save Jay Plankton from additional harm, she relented, and Moyle was soon on the line.

I asked him, "What do you know about Steve Glodt's personal life?"

"You woke me up at 5:30 A.M. to ask me whati"

"Jerry Jeris and Jay Plankton once mentioned to me in passing that Steve Glodt had a girlfriend in Oyster Bay who runs a nail parlor. It was my impression from this conversation, as I recall it, that Glodt also has a wife wherever he lives on Long Island. Is all of that true? I'll explain in a minute why I'm waking you up at this early hour, and how all this might be relevant to your kidnapping and to Jay's."

There was a pause, and then Moyle said, "What are you trying to say, Strachey? Just spit it the fuck out. What are you implying about Steve?"

"It sounds, Leo, as if you are ready to be indignant over any imputation of wrongdoing on the part of your big boss, Steve Glodt. I guess you are much fonder of Glodt than it's my impression Jerry Jeris and Jay Plankton are. Your confidence in his integrity is far greater than theirs. They both talked about Glodt as if he is greedy, mendacious, treacherous. Maybe your experience with Glodt has been different."

Moyle said, "Steve's a total asshole, don't get me wrong."

"Uh-huh."

"But what are you saying? That Steve had me snatched and dragged out to the Island and tortured? And now he's doing the same thing to Jay? Even if he was that skanky, why would he do that? Sure, Steve is a depraved son of a bitch. Anybody who's ever been in contract negotiations with him knows that. The man is capable of just about anything he thinks he can get away with. But why would he do this to Jay and I?

There'd be nothing in it for him."

"What about publicity? A spike in the ratings?"

"The show's ratings have never been higher," Moyle said. "Unless. .." There was a silence.

"Unless what?"

"Unless Steve thought that by putting Jay and me through the wringer it would make us angrier."

"Why would he want that?"

Moyle was breathing audibly now, as if the idea that someone was calculatedly trying to make h i m angrier was making him angrier.

"Steve's been working on a deal to get the show simulcast on cable TV-on GSN, the Gonzo Sports Network. But according to Irene Wojkowski, my agent, the GSN people have been offering less money than Steve thinks the deal is worth. They told him they thought the show was losing its edge, that we all weren't angry enough. The angry-white-male audience wants raw red meat, and the GSN people aren't sure we're mean enough. They want us foaming at the mouth for three hours a day, Irene said, and they claim we aren't doing it. Which is idiotic, because Jay and I are as vicious as we've ever been, and if any pussy-whipped dickhead tries to say otherwise to my face, I'll break his pansy-wristed fag neck."

Could necks have wrists? Now was not the time to inquire. "I guess, Leo, that when you use the term 'mean,' you are using it in the Jack Welch-style American corporate sense. By 'mean,' you mean relentlessly, even amorally, profit-oriented."

"Not really," Moyle said. "By 'mean,' I mean shitting on wussy, oversensitive, PC types of people for the sheer, sadistic pleasure of it."

"I'm sorry if I impugned your motives."

"Steve Glodt is only interested in money," Moyle said. "I have my beliefs, and I have my principles."

"So tell me about rotten, unprincipled Steve Glodt's girlfriend in Oyster Bay. She runs a nail parlor there?"

"I've heard that, yeah. She has an apartment over the nail parlor, and Steve spends as much time there as he does with his hideous wife in his mansion in Center Island, according to Irene. The wife knows about it, but what's she gonna do? Out in the open market, she'd be worth about eighty-nine cents a pound, and she'd miss her Chris-Craft and her helipad and her New Year's-to-Groundhog Day in Boca. The setup works perfectly for everybody involved."

"What's the girlfriend's name?"

"Annette, I think. But that might not be her real name. No, it is, it's Annette something. Listen," Moyle said, "do you really think Steve could be behind the kidnappings? I've been fucked over by people I knew before, but… This could be some major shit of a type that a man even as cynical as I can be finds very hard to get my mind around."

"I'm not sure," I said, "but Glodt is looking more and more promising. The girlfriend's apartment over the nail parlor in Oyster Bay might have been where you were held, and it sounds like a good locale to produce an overwhelming smell of nail polish. It's the right distance from the city too, at the end of a route that includes tunnels and expressways. And now you yourself, need I add, have offered up a specific motive, even beyond Glodt's well-known general horri-bleness. Is it safe to say that when you do the J-Bird's show on Monday, you'll be seething?"

"Oh, I'll be pissed beyond belief-at Steve, if he did it."

"But even if you went into the studio Monday morning thinking some radical gay group like the FFF was responsible for what happened to you and the J-Bird, you'd be very, very angry, wouldn't you, Leo?"

"I'd be ripshit."

"A state of affairs that would not go unnoticed at GSN, I'll bet."

I described to Moyle the overnight development in the case, where a moist object that the kidnappers asserted was Jay Plankton's tongue had turned up in the New York Post newsroom. "But I doubt it's actually the J-Bird's tongue," I said. "Plankton would be of no use to Glodt if the J-Bird was in a perpetual rage every weekday morning but his diction was worse than Quasimodo's."

Moyle said, "If Steve is actually behind this, somebody's tongue is gonna get ripped out, but it's not gonna be Jay's. If Annette wants her cunt licked in the future, she's gonna have to go down to the pet store and shop for a new friend other than Steve Glodt."

I guessed Moyle was speaking figuratively in his colorful way, but his breathing was sounding labored again, so I wasn't sure.

Chapter 23

Oyster Bay, despite the popular misconception, was a largely working-class town on the Island's generally silk-stockinged North Shore. Theodore Roosevelt had had a home there-Sagamore Hill, now a museum-but most of the town's residents were neither political nor business aristocracy. They were the people who installed the hot tubs, pumped out the septic tanks, and rolled the lawns of this section of Long Island's old and new rich. Oyster Bay, it appeared, as we drove through it en route to the House of Annette: Nails of Glory-which we had found in the Nassau County yellow pages-was not so much a Jay Gatsby town or a Tom and Daisy Buchanan town as it was a George and Myrtle Wilson town.

There was no Doctor T. J. Eckleburg sign, as in Gatsby, but plenty of suburban retail and office sprawl, most of it identical to what we'd passed in Hempstead. One difference between the commercial suburbia I was familiar with in Albany and that of Oyster Bay was the Long Island preponderance of retail stores in long buildings, probably dating to the 1920s and 1930s and done in a brick "colonial" motif or an "Old English" style that featured leaded windows and exposed timbers. These were the North Shore versions of LA strip malls, except sometimes with second stories.

The strip we parked down the street from included– along with a pizza parlor, a tae kwon do emporium, and a copying center-the House of Annette: Nails of Glory. Of additional interest to Lyle, Dave Welch, Thad, and me-all of us in Lyle's NYPD

Ford-was Annette's next-door neighbor, Damien's Den of In-Ink-Kwity, a tattoo parlor.

At 6:25 Sunday morning, all of the businesses were closed. So was the chain video store we were parked in front of. Traffic was all but nonexistent, and a fine mist was in the air, which was so rainforestlike that I would not have been surprised to hear a macaw cackling or see a salamander skitter across the hood of the Ford.

We sat for several minutes going over our options. Both Barner and Welch were skeptical of my theory-which had become a conviction over the past hour-that Steve Glodt was the mastermind behind the Moyle and Plankton kidnappings. Both cops agreed that powerful people were capable of savage criminal acts-Lyle had seen it numberless times over his long career-but they both doubted that Glodt would be so spectacularly arrogant and reckless.

Having spent a couple of days, off and on, with Jeris, Plankton, and Moyle, I thought I understood them well enough to make this argument: Glodt had calculated he had plenty to gain from the cruel stunt-publicity and, even more importantly, added

"edge" that the Gonzo Sports Network would go for. And he figured he had little to lose if caught. Glodt could well have speculated that if Plankton and Moyle remained in character, they would consider the whole thing a hilarious practical joke-just guys joshing other guys on a colossal scale-and they would consider it unsporting, even unmanly, to press charges or ever to testify in court against the charmingly roguish prankster who also happened to own their network.