Seven Silent Men (55 page)

“I won't, dear God, I swear I won't.”

Edgar closed his eyes. Leaned back in the straight-back chair. Interlaced his fingers over his slight paunch. “Tell me about your lesbians.”

“… My what?”

“Explain to me the sensation of embracing someone of your own sex.”

“Director Hoover, I …”

“Come, wanton child, tell me. I know all, but I wish to hear it from you. How many times have you sodomized with someone of your own sex?”

“Only once …” She was hardly audible.

“Speak up.”

“Once. Only once.”

“Describe it.”

“Please …” She broke into tears.

“Describe.”

Slowly, miserably, Alice told about her times with Elaine Picket, at Hoover's quiet prodding related it in explicit detail. At his insistence, repeated certain interludes, time and time again. Once or twice, at his insistence, even attempted to demonstrate what had occurred. She became increasingly hysterical … nearer the breaking point … collapsed into uncontrollable sobbing.

When her crying had finally subsided, he asked if she felt closer to God.

She quickly assured him she did. He held out and lowered his hand, told her to take it. Asked her to swear that she would mend her ways.

She vowed that she would never again have sex with a woman.

“Sex? I speak not of sex. I speak of your subverting Romor 91. You must desist from ever again interfering with the investigation.”

She told him she had never interfered.

“Good woman, did not you call the FBI office and disguise your voice and offer anonymous information regarding the perpetration of Mormon State?”

She explained that she only meant to help.

“You can most help by speaking nary a word of the evening you spent with Elaine Picket. I can assure, good woman, if you do not mention it to your husband, I never shall. Do I have your word on this?”

She nodded vigorously.

He leaned forward and shook her hand to seal the bargain, rose and announced he was placing her under the protective supervision of one of his assistants until the trial of Otto Pinkny was over. He called out. Mule entered the room and was introduced by Hoover as the man who would be supervising her.

Alice, in terror, insisted that Mule was one of the actual bank robbers … that she saw him kill a man.

Edgar's finger wagged, scolding at her. She was sadly mistaken. Mule, he proclaimed, was a trusted friend of the FBI and a man who had helped bring the true felon, Otto Pinkny, to justice. He warned Alice not to heed those powerful and venal friends of Pinkny, within and without the FBI, who had conspired to bear false witness against Mule Corkel and other good souls … revealed that these selfsame cohorts of Pinkny's were accusing Mule of other fiendish deeds such as murder … that, in any case, the FBI had no jurisdiction to investigate homicides.

“Heed Mister Corkel,” he called out while departing the room. “For the sake of your soul, and your good husband's career.”

Mule wasted no time in stripping Alice naked and hanging her upside down in a closet. He then took off his own clothes and got into the closet with her.

“Late Sunday afternoon, August twenty-second, you provided the Prairie Port Police Department with a list of names and addresses for one hundred and eighteen people who had visited these premises prior to the robbery, is that correct?” Brew had driven back from Sparta in less than an hour, was now seated in the conference room of the Mormon State National Bank.

“Yes, I provided such a list,” the bank manager, Giles Julien, confirmed.

“Three days later, on Wednesday, August twenty-fifth, you presented a corrected list of names and addresses to the FBI. Is that correct?”

“It contained names, yes. Precisely how many, I can't recall.”

“Ten, wasn't it? Seven names to be deleted from the master list you had compiled for the police, three names to be added?”

“That sounds right.”

“And you sent this second list to the FBI?”

“Yes.”

“But instead of sending the list to the Bureau's resident office on the eleventh floor, you had your assistant manager deliver it to the twelfth floor, ostensibly to Mister Corticun.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why bypass the eleventh floor and send it to the twelfth?”

“Mister Chandler told me to do it that way.”

“Mister Emile Chandler, president of Mormon State bank?”

“Yes.”

“You helped put together this second list, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recall the name Teddy Anglaterra?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“A man who was supposed to be at the bank at four o'clock and be interviewed for a job. A night watchman's job.”

“Be at the bank four o'clock the afternoon of the robbery, August twentieth?”

“Yes.”

“Did he show up?”

“Not for the appointment, no.”

“So as far as you know he was never at the premises?”

“He was at the premises.”

“… When?”

“Sometime in the morning.”

“How do you know?”

“Mister Chandler told me.”

“How does Mister Chandler know?”

“He made the appointment for Teddy Anglaterra to see me at four.”

“I thought an employment agency made Anglaterra's appointment.”

“No. Anglaterra came from Mister Chandler.”

“Did any member of the FBI ever ask you about Teddy Anglaterra before?”

“Yes, on August twenty-fifth, I believe. The day we sent the list to you. The list of changes.”

Brewmeister had a copy of a Wednesday, August 25, interview with the bank manager. The name of the interviewing special agent was missing, which though a violation of procedure wasn't all that unusual with file-room duplications of reports. “A special agent asked you about Anglaterra?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That Anglaterra had come to the bank and seen Mister Chandler and that Mister Chandler made the appointment.”

“You specifically told this agent that Anglaterra was on the bank premises?”

“Between nine and eleven
A
.
M
., yes.”

“Was it usual for Mister Chandler to make interview appointments for job applicants?”

“No, but that last day was hectic,” Julien said. “We expected to open after the weekend. What with the rush, with workmen and others around, we all tried to help out one another. We did tasks we ordinarily wouldn't have done, such as Mister Chandler making that appointment.”

“Did anyone else on the premises, other than Mister Chandler, see Teddy Anglaterra?”

“I don't know.”

“Can you recall the name of the agent who interviewed you on all of this, August twenty-fifth?”

“Troxel, Alexander Troxel.”

“Could I speak to Mister Chandler?”

Julien flicked down the lever on the intercom, raised Chandler. “I'm in the conference room with Mister Brewmeister of the FBI, sir. He would like to talk to you about a Teddy Anglaterra. Can he—”

Emile Chandler, all six foot seven inches of him, strode in demanding of Brewmeister, “Who sent you here?”

“My office,” Brew lied.

“Who at your office?”

“John Sunstrom.”

“Everything I have to say on the Anglaterra matter I've said. If that doesn't satisfy Mister Sunstrom, he can speak with Mister Corticun.”

“That won't be necessary,” Brew assured him. “I can just check our file on what you said. Do you recall the name of the agent you said it to?”

“I do not.”

“It was Alexander Troxel, sir,” the manager said. “The same man who spoke to me.”

Brew asked, “Is that correct, Mister Chandler, was it Alexander Troxel?”

“I told you, I've nothing more to say.”

“Mister Chandler, are you aware that agent Troxel is not a member of the Prairie Port FBI office, neither the regular office nor the auxiliary office?” Brew asked.

“You are trying my patience,” Chandler told Brew.

“Did you ‘help out' and make appointments for any other job applicants besides Teddy Anglaterra that day, Mister Chandler?”

“Good
day
, Mister Brewmeister.”

Otto Pinkny finished testifying before the federal grand jury at 4:10
P
.
M
. Twenty minutes later the panel voted to indict him as a co-conspirator in the robbery of the Mormon State National Bank. When Billy Yates arrived at the eleventh-floor resident office shortly after five, he was hardly noticed in the bittersweet atmosphere that prevailed. Most of the agents were elated over the indictment. Strom was not. Cub, of all people, seemed to have reservations. Jez was curiously dour.

Someone shouted out there was a call for Yates. Billy walked to the desk he shared with Brew, picked up the phone.

“Yates speaking.”

“Keep a poker face, Billy.” Brew spoke urgently. “Who's up there? Cub? Jez? Strom?”

“All three.”

“Who else?”

“The whole office. Pinkny's been indicted.”

“It's got to be one of them! Steer clear of Cub and Jez and Strom. Maybe even de Camp. They're connected to it. I know they are.”

“Connected to what?”

“I've found them, Billy.” Brew was exultant. “I
found
them. Your Silent Men … you were right, they do exist. At least six of them. Probably a seventh. They were sitting right in front of us all the time. Where's your car?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Across from the office?”

“Yes.”

“The keys in it?”

“Under the visor.”

“I'm calling from downstairs. From the pay phone in the lobby. I may have been followed. I'll take your car. Try to get hold of another one somewhere without anyone knowing. Get to my friend Jake Hagland over at the phone company. He'll help you put a tap at Mule's place. That pay phone Mule uses up the road. That's got to be the connection between the Silent Men and Cub or Jez or Strom or maybe de Camp. Whoever's helping Mule is helping the Men. I'll explain later. And oh yeah, another surprise—Chandler, the bank president, had Teddy Anglaterra at Mormon State the morning of the robbery, or so he says. I'll fill you in on that too. I've got to get a move on.”

“Where you going?”

“Emoryville … to put the last nail in the coffin.”

Yates hung up, strolled to the window. Brew could be seen ten floors below hurrying across the street and into the parking lot. Billy watched him looking for the car. Finally Brew found it. He started to get in and as he did was machine-gunned to death by a passing van.

TWENTY-THREE

Martin Brewmeister's funeral was the largest ever held in Prairie Port. Corticun saw to that over the objections of Brew's widow, Elsie. Eight hundred people crammed into the First Lutheran Church, where Martin had been baptized. The press was officially barred from attending the service, but folding chairs were set up in the parking lot for them and amplifiers provided so the overflow throng of media folk could hear what was being said inside. The governor spoke, as did Brew's wife's uncle, who was attorney general for the State of Illinois. Strom made a fine tribute on behalf of the office. A. R. Roland was there to add a few words of his own. Clyde Tolson read a brief message from J. Edgar Hoover. Corticun read telegrams from other dignitaries, most of whom did not know Brew. The president of the local spelunking club provided the most touching moment by reading remarks ten-year-old Brew had written into his journal during his first weekend of formal cave exploration with the group. A U.S. senator from Missouri gave the most muddled speech. Yates and Jez were the only nonrelatives among the pallbearers.

A cortege of cars made its way up to the hilltop cemetery and the Brewmeister family plot. Military color guards were present even though Brew had never been in the service. So were Marine Corps riflemen. Brew's lifelong minister was the only one to talk at graveside.

Standing beneath a tree limb on a nearby rise and staring down on the rites like some avenging deity was Ed Grafton. Cub was the first to spot him and elbowed Jez. Soon the other resident agents were aware of Graf's presence. So was Corticun, who nervously kept glancing over at the imposing figure.

Taps were blown and rifle salvos fired and the casket lowered into its pit. Tears were wept. Bodyguards moved in around Yates, who was perturbed by their presence. Grafton was gone from the hill. All in all, it had been a great show for Corticun.

Corticun, from the moment Brewmeister was gunned down in the parking lot, had worked quickly and diplomatically. He kept the press at bay while negotiating with the chief of police, Frank Santi. One of the few circumstances under which the FBI was allowed to investigate a homicide was when the victim was one of its own agents. Even so, Corticun felt it better to work in unison with Santi and the Prairie Port PD. Santi in turn arranged for the inquest to be held after the funeral, agreed to let Strom alone talk to Brew's fellow agents. In the one press conference Corticun held regarding the death, he acknowledged that Brew had been gunned down by unknown assailants, publicly stated his fears that the execution had more to do with the current trend of antiestablishment acts of terror than with the Mormon State robbery. Off the record he let it be known he didn't disagree with pervasive rumors of Otto Pinkny's underworld associates having gunned down Brew as a warning not to proceed with the trial. Corticun had convinced Strom that since Yates was Brew's partner these last few months, a possibility existed the unknown killer or killers might come after Yates as well. Which was why Yates was given bodyguards. Yates found this reasoning to be ridiculous. He was sure that Brew had been killed by the Silent Men. He also didn't rule out that the Silent Men had made a mistake … that he, Yates, was their intended target. But he couldn't tell this to anyone. Not even Tina Beth. Especially not Tina Beth. He tried to get her to go and spend time with her father and mother on the pretext of having to work day and night on Brew's murder. She would not hear of it, and in fact became overattentive. Overly inquisitive. Much of what Yates had to do now, he had to do alone … and he wasn't being left alone.