but not from the exertion. He was angered. “You don’t know who
you’re dealing with, you dumb screws. You’ll be eating your balls for breakfast.”
As he left Danbury, Slayton knew he was the loser. All he had accomplished was to beat a man, humiliate the type of men who
could be his followers in some new order, and raise his own blood pressure.
NEW YORK CITY
As he rode by taxicab from LaGuardia Airport, Slayton tried to figure some central thread to the events thus far: the assassination
threat to Richard Nixon, the demand for the release of the jailed Johnny Lee Rogers, and the Love-ridge explosion.
The only answer he had thus far was that somewhere, deep down in the events of the last few days, someone was running a charade.
“Tunnel all right?” the taxi driver asked, disturbing Slayton’s thoughts.
“Fine, take it.”
He tried to turn off his mind for a while. His head hurt. He read advertising on billboards as his taxi left Queens and dipped
into the midtown tunnel. He settled back into the seat, wondering if by some stroke of luck he would have some brilliant flash
of resolution by the time he reached the light at the end of the tunnel.
He had no such luck.
“What’s your address again?” the driver asked. They were at a light at First Avenue, and the driver was scrawling something
into a log book.
Slayton gave him the Nixon address. The driver whistled.
“Inconclusive,” the man in charge of the mobile forensic unit kept saying over and over to Slayton. Inconclusive testing for
paper samples, ink samples, fingerprints. The works. Not a single lead.
Slayton then insisted on going over all the samples collected, and analyzed them himself. He, too, found nothing of note.
A telephone rang somewhere, and as one of the regular Secret Service agents answered it, Slayton was reminded of the call
to the Associated Press office in New York. Remind me to speak to Winship about media attention now, he told himself.
The telephone, it turned out, was for him.
“Ben, there’s a homicide, being handled by city police.” The voice was Winship’s.
“Are you here in town?”
“Yes. The St. Regis. I’ll want to see you there in about two hours. Look for me in the lobby. Meanwhile, let me give you some
particulars.”
Winship gave Slayton the name of the investigating officer in charge, and the location, not too far from the Nixon house.
Slayton hung up, said nothing to the others, and left The Residence for the corner of York Avenue and East 66th Street, a
district of Manhattan popular with airline personnel because of its proximity to the East Side Airline Terminal bus transport
to and from New York’s LaGuardia and Kennedy Airports. “The Stewardess Gulag,” as it was sometimes known.
Behind a railroad tenement building, Slayton found a group of New York City detectives gathered around a body. The body was
wrapped in a large oilcloth and had been dumped in the small garden area adjacent to someone’s apartment. That someone, Slayton
was informed, was a stewardess who discovered the dead man, and was now being treated for shock at Bellevue Hospital.
“Who is it?” Slayton asked, after showing a startled chief investigating officer his Department identification.
“Oh, I suppose since he’s a mailman that you’re interested? Federal boy and all?” the officer asked. He was trying to be helpful.
A mailman!
Slayton knelt over the body. An average-looking man. Nothing distinguishing about him. Neck had been snapped—expertly, Slayton
guessed.
Slayton entered a few particulars in his own notebook. The mailman’s name, approximate time of death, and so on—but his was
not the job to pick over dead bones.
He thanked the New York police, and stepped outside the garden around the tenement building, on the way to the street. And
there he saw it. It was pure luck. Or was it? If he hadn’t been down to the Lovebridge mine to investigate personally that
you’re dealing with, you dumb screws. You’ll be eating your balls for breakfast.”
As he left Danbury, Slayton knew he was the loser. All he had accomplished was to beat a man, humiliate the type of men who
could be his followers in some new order, and raise his own blood pressure.
NEW YORK CITY
As he rode by taxicab from LaGuardia Airport, Slayton tried to figure some central thread to the events thus far: the assassination
threat to Richard Nixon, the demand for the release of the jailed Johnny Lee Rogers, and the Love-ridge explosion.
The only answer he had thus far was that somewhere, deep down in the events of the last few days, someone was running a charade.
“Tunnel all right?” the taxi driver asked, disturbing Slayton’s thoughts.
“Fine, take it.”
He tried to turn off his mind for a while. His head hurt. He read advertising on billboards as his taxi left Queens and dipped
into the midtown tunnel. He settled back into the seat, wondering if by some stroke of luck he would have some brilliant flash
of resolution by the time he reached the light at the end of the tunnel.
He had no such luck.
“What’s your address again?” the driver asked. They were at a light at First Avenue, and the driver was scrawling something
into a log book.
Slayton gave him the Nixon address. The driver whistled.
“Inconclusive,” the man in charge of the mobile forensic unit kept saying over and over to Slayton. Inconclusive testing for
paper samples, ink samples, fingerprints. The works. Not a single lead.
Slayton then insisted on going over all the samples collected, and analyzed them himself. He, too, found nothing of note.
A telephone rang somewhere, and as one of the regular Secret Service agents answered it, Slayton was reminded of the call
to the Associated Press office in New York. Remind me to speak to Winship about media attention now, he told himself.
The telephone, it turned out, was for him.
“Ben, there’s a homicide, being handled by city police.” The voice was Winship’s.
“Are you here in town?”
“Yes. The St. Regis. I’ll want to see you there in about two hours. Look for me in the lobby. Meanwhile, let me give you some
particulars.”
Winship gave Slayton the name of the investigating officer in charge, and the location, not too far from the Nixon house.
Slayton hung up, said nothing to the others, and left The Residence for the corner of York Avenue and East 66th Street, a
district of Manhattan popular with airline personnel because of its proximity to the East Side Airline Terminal bus transport
to and from New York’s LaGuardia and Kennedy Airports. “The Stewardess Gulag,” as it was sometimes known.
Behind a railroad tenement building, Slayton found a group of New York City detectives gathered around a body. The body was
wrapped in a large oilcloth and had been dumped in the small garden area adjacent to someone’s apartment. That someone, Slayton
was informed, was a stewardess who discovered the dead man, and was now being treated for shock at Bellevue Hospital.
“Who is it?” Slayton asked, after showing a startled chief investigating officer his Department identification.
“Oh, I suppose since he’s a mailman that you’re interested? Federal boy and all?” the officer asked. He was trying to be helpful.
A mailman!
Slayton knelt over the body. An average-looking man. Nothing distinguishing about him. Neck had been snapped—expertly, Slayton
guessed.
Slayton entered a few particulars in his own notebook. The mailman’s name, approximate time of death, and so on—but his was
not the job to pick over dead bones.
He thanked the New York police, and stepped outside the garden around the tenement building, on the way to the street. And
there he saw it. It was pure luck. Or was it? If he hadn’t been down to the Lovebridge mine to investigate personally that
Similar Books
