Gathering String (43 page)

“Jesus, Sam, we’re way behind on this. It’s the kind of breaking news Politifix is made of. Looking over the wires, I’d say that Taylor handed out some kind of press release right before Erickson’s speech. How’d you miss it?”

“I don’t know,” Sam wondered if his distraction with Tess had taken his edge. “But I get the uncomfortable feeling I’m being deliberately shut out.”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. Maybe we should pull you and get Bundy on him. What did you do to piss Erickson off?”

“I wrote a profile Dodson loved, that’s what I did. If Erickson’s feeling threatened, the stupidest thing we can do is pull me off. They can’t shut me out forever.”

“They can damn well try. I’m going to have to run this past Johnson.”

“Is he around?” Sam knew things usually went his way if he got to Steve first. “Let me talk to him, and I’ll explain.” He heard her sigh, but she must have been busy, because she didn’t argue.

When Johnson came on the line, Sam ran the concern past him as quickly as possible, even while he struggled to get his wheeled bag through the revolving doors. “Sarah’s threatening to switch Evie to him, but I think that’s a mistake. If I make him nervous, that’s reason enough to keep me on his tail.”

“Probably,” Johnson agreed. “But if they keep us out in the cold too long, we may have to look at it again. You still have some leads to check out?”

“The U.S. attorney in the southern district of Iowa confirmed today that he’s opening an investigation into that HIPAA issue with the autopsy report.”

But Johnson quoted anyway. "It's about time that the media, and this Waggerman character in particular, learned they are not above the law. I support this investigation out of respect for my opponent and his family. This kind of outrageous intrusion by the lame-stream media cannot and will not be borne."

Sam sighed over the slaughtering of his name and said, “Want me to tweet her a link to the fucking First Amendment?"

“Jesus, no! Just let the harpy howl. Don't even acknowledge her. It’s going to take the investigation some time to get rolling. Only you, me and Dodson know the source’s name?”

“Unless the source is blabbing, which is mighty unlikely.”

“OK then. Keep your ear to the ground, but try to keep a low profile on this. Don't talk to anyone about it. Maybe they’ll find the leak on their own. Or maybe they’ll just dither until it doesn’t matter any more."

“Let’s hope so,” Sam ended the call, and took his place on line, wondering when things would start going his way.

Tyson McDonald didn’t get many calls from newspeople. Most of his work came from big clients, major insurance companies looking for an investigator who could save them some significant money, or the occasional defense attorney digging for a chink in a prosecutor's case. But he’d met the guy and liked him, and it wouldn’t take much of his time. Pulling a notebook toward him, he said into his phone, “Look, this is such a simple thing, it's easier for me to run it down for you than to explain how to do it. I wouldn't even bother to bill you, I'll have it so quick.""

There was a slight hesitation on the other end, but then the deep voice said, "I'd really appreciate it, if you're sure it's no trouble."

"No worries. You got a date of birth?” Tyson scribbled it down, asking, “I don’t suppose you’ve got his social?”

“Not on me, but I can call you tomorrow with it.”

“Then it’ll be a piece of cake. I can probably get it in one quick phone call and give you a yes or no before you leave your office tomorrow afternoon. Give me that number.” Tyson wrote that down too. "OK, I'll be in touch. Next time you're in Des Moines, you owe me a beer."

"You got it." It was said with a laugh.

"And keep me in mind if something major comes up.”

“I’ll do that.” Jack Westphal spoke as he watched his wife weave around the concourse full of people and wheeled bags without spilling a drip of coffee. They'd arrived in Chicago early, and their plane for Des Moines wouldn’t board for another hour. “Right now, all I need to know is if a passport was ever issued for the guy.” He’d met McDonald at an Iowa Newspaper Association seminar when Ty had done a presentation on investigation techniques.

“Carl S. Erickson, got it,” Tyson assured him. “Call me with that social, and I’ll have it in no time.”

Jack pressed end-call. He could get the social security number from the probate records at the courthouse. He smiled as Tess came up.

“Everything OK at home?” she asked.

He nodded, taking one of the cups. “I’m anxious to get back to work too.”

It was late, but Swede Erickson was still wrapping up the day’s business in his hotel suite at the Willard in D.C. He’d watched the 11 o’clock news and was pleased with the footage of Cooper’s endorsement, and the political analysis that had followed. If he could just keep the momentum rolling, he stood a fair chance of mopping right over Morton and wrapping up the nomination quickly. Fuller, he was pleased to see, was baying like a hound over the announcement of the investigation into Waterman's HIPAA violation, just as planned. He smiled.

As he clicked off the television in the sitting room, his secretary sent in his last appointment of the day, one he always saved for the quietest, most private hour.

The small, older man had worked exclusively for Swede Erickson since his first gubernatorial campaign. He came into the room, pushing his glasses up his long, narrow nose, looking more like Mr. Magoo than a private investigator. Maybe that was why he was so good at what he did. Swede asked, “What do you have for me, Max?”

They discussed Frederick Morton for a long time. There was a smelly real estate deal that would make some good fodder to pass on to the press, and Max was still tracking down a rumor that Morton’s oldest son had been in a few scrapes in his fraternity days at Yale.

“But none of it’s the silver bullet I’d like to find,” Erickson sighed.

“Well, there’s one other thing I’m just getting started on. I’ve seen some indicators that Morton might be using some committee staff members to advance his campaign. That’ll be hard to nail down, but I’ve got a few people on it. Someone we’re watching, the majority counsel on Finance, just happens to be the ex-wife ... ” he hesitated, and then corrected himself, “well, she’ll soon be the ex-wife of that Waterman guy.”

“Really?” Erickson looked up with interest.

“Not only that, she’s sleeping with Morton’s campaign manager.”

“Carlin?” Swede grinned. “Well, at least her taste’s improved. Keep an eye on that. We might be able to use it. You got anything else on Waterman?” He grimaced, as if the name tasted bad.

Max pulled a thin manila folder from his case. “He’s just your usual hack. Spends most of his time working these days. Was something of a serial philanderer, but then, a lot of reporters are. And it appears he’s kept his pants up lately. But like I said, the wife's filed for divorce. You still need to see this,” he nodded to the folder. “There’s one name that’ll catch your eye.”

Swede flipped it open, scanning quickly. Then he sat forward, his eyes going wide. “Jesus, are you sure about this?”

Max nodded smiling, amused at being able to surprise his boss. “It was pretty common knowledge a few years back.”

“Damn,” Swede looked bemused. “I would never have pegged her as the type to boff a married man. Christ, I can’t believe they had the balls to show up at Terrace Hill together. Is it still going on?” His mouth pulled down into a frown.

Max shook his head. “No evidence of that. I saw him talking to her right after your speech this morning, but she didn’t even give him five minutes. Every source said she broke it off quite awhile ago.”

“Good,” Erickson said. “I’d hate for the kid to have to deal with it.”

“Maybe she already told Jack about it.”

Swede shook his head, remembering how Jack had told him Tess discouraged the interview with Waterman. Obviously she hadn’t wanted the two of them around each other. And it would explain Waterman’s unaccountable interest in Jack when they’d talked at Terrace Hill after Tess had left the room. “Jack wouldn’t have put up with her working with Waterman if he knew. So let’s keep this between you and me. If it’s over, I doubt it’s any use to us. It would only hurt Jack if it got around. The folks back home gossip enough about him and Tess as it is. But see what else you can find out about the Morton thing and Waterman’s ex. And press hard to turn up the heat on Scott Watson.” He was the U.S. attorney in southern Iowa. “I want that investigation picking up steam.”

The next morning, Swede Erickson gathered his notes for the day’s campaigning. He picked up the portfolio on Sam Waterman and started to toss it toward a pile of shredding for his secretary to deal with. But with a second glance he stopped, and tucked it into one of his traveling cases.

That afternoon, Sam Waterman quickly finished a request to the Iowa State Campaign Disclosure Commission for the data containing detailed listings of all contributors to Erickson’s two gubernatorial races. He knew he could check the listings for the presidential campaign with the Federal Election Commission online. Then he grabbed his coat and rushed out to make the first meeting with his divorce attorney.

That evening, Jack Westphal stared into his laptop screen at a story from the
Washington Tribune Magazine’s
archive.

By Samuel J. Waterman

When I shut my eyes and think about it, I can picture how Wally Pinser used to look, when both ends of his mouth rose into a silly grin as he attempted to flirt with a pretty girl. Because of his youthful looks the day we met him, the photographer and I called him Opie. We still do.

There has been five surgeries, two nerve grafts, day after day of physical therapy and too many stitches to count. But Wally's mouth droops now, and most likely it always will. It is especially noticeable when he smiles. But it doesn't stop the guy from flashing a grin. "Hey, I'm alive." His speaking voice is almost back to normal, now that his jaw is no longer wired and his front teeth are capped. "It's a miracle that I'm here to smile at all. So I'm damn-well going to do it."

Wally never mentions the pain he's lived through, and with, although doctors say it's considerable. But he does get a kick out of providing every gory detail of the procedures he's endured to reconstruct his face. There is only one thing that causes the left side, the good side, of his mouth to drop down to the level of the right. "I can’t fly anymore. I lost the sight in my right eye, so I have no depth perception. I have to let that go."

Flying was Wally's passion. And he was a hell of a pilot. When a single engine Cessna lost power one rain-drenched afternoon, Wally set down over a ton of falling machinery on a stretch of flooded highway with a skill a Navy pilot would envy. I know because I was sitting right behind him. I owe him my life.

It was my body that slammed into his pilot seat, ramming his head into the control panel. He broke his jaw, his teeth, his cheek, and his nose. The impact opened a three-inch gash from his blown right eye socket all the way down to the remains of his chin. Sopping at his shattered face with a ridiculously inadequate handkerchief is a memory that rises again and again in my nightmares.

It was Jack's second read through Waterman's award-winning story. Sam didn't name Tess, only referring to her as "the photographer." But Tess's photo of the burning plane accompanied the article. And in Sam's words, Jack glimpsed a horror of fear, smoke and fire that would forge a powerful bond between survivors. He felt a stab of apprehension so sharp and suddenly he nearly squirmed in his chair, and he closed the browser without finishing.

He was almost out the door when Thelma called to him that someone named Tyson was on the phone. Would Jack take one more call? He turned back to his desk and picked up his line. McDonald told him no passport had ever been issued to Carl Erickson.

Jack didn't get up to leave. For a long time he stayed slumped in his chair, staring at nothing, numbed by what his loved ones were keeping from him.

The meeting had gone on too long. Jack slumped back in his chair and shook his head when, across the room, Thurman McPaul held up a coffee pot, mutely asking if he’d like a refill.

“Well, I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” Augie Sanderson, the long-time Lindsborg mayor sounded plaintive. “Are these our only options, Chipper?”

Chipper Peterson, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, had grown up in the town, and also ran the only local restaurant and bar that had any kind of nightlife. “These are the only three places for rent with the right space for a temporary Chamber office. They’re all willing to rent to us, but they all require a two-year lease. And we can’t know how long we’ll need to rent until we get our settlement. None of us want to be tied to a lease, Augie, if in six months we’re ready to buy our own building. Who knows, with the market this depressed, we may even be able to build and provide a few construction jobs. But we can’t really know our options until we know how much capital we’ll have. It’s all hanging on the insurance, and the insurance is waiting for the report from the fire marshal’s office.”

All eyes turned to McPaul, the volunteer fire chief. “Well, I don’t know what the problem is,” his voice was strained with exasperation. “It took twice as long as it should have to get an inspector out here to look at the site. Since then, I’ve been calling a couple times a week to see if the report has been filed. When I called last week, they said the guy they sent out here had left for a two-week vacation.”