Dead Man's Song

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he began in the stentorian tones he had learned long ago in high school debating society, “and my fellow citizens of Pine Deep. For those that don’t know me, my name is Terrance Wolfe, I am the mayor of Pine Deep.” He paused for effect, gave a small self-effacing smile. “I am aware of the depth of concern you all must feel about what has happened, and I understand your confusion about the way in which this situation was handled by myself and the members of the interjurisdictional task force. If you will allow me, I will present all of the available facts to you. However, before we begin, I would like to say that out of respect for everyone’s deadlines, I will first read a prepared statement and then I will field questions. I think it would help us all if there were no questions until I finish the statement, because the information I have is extensive and will probably provide you with most or all of what you need to tell your readers.”



He paused again, smiling the kind of smile a high school principal would give when addressing a group of incoming freshmen. Terry knew how to project both his sincerity and his command so that few people ever felt compelled to interrupt him. He deliberately avoided the use of contractions so that he sounded formal, and yet pitched his voice to be on the corporate side of affable. The length of his pause, and the sweep of his dark, intense blue eyes, cemented his words into every crack and crevice of the silence. “Very well. I assume most of you have your tape recorders and cameras rolling? Good. Let me begin with the prepared statement.”



He took a folded sheaf of papers from his shirt pocket, and after giving the crowd another brief pointed look, he began to read. It was long and involved. Terry was aware that there was going to be a lot of pressure to explain why the authorities had attempted to cover up the fact that the infamous and infinitely dangerous Cape May Killer had been running amok in Pine Deep and that one of his associates was apparently on a murder spree even now. Terry had decided not to try and weasel out of it, but to come right out and admit it, telling the straight truth: that they did not want to attract the attention of a lot of rubberneckers who might seriously compromise the effectiveness of the investigation. It was a crucial issue for Terry because his personal credibility as the mayor of the town was at stake, and elections were not all that far off.



Watching, Ferro had been curious to see how the mayor would handle it, and he found himself changing his opinion of Terry with each sentence. The mayor not only turned it around, but also made it seem that the cover-up actually aided in the early resolution of the Karl Ruger manhunt, more or less suggesting that it was part of a carefully crafted snare that had brought Ruger out of hiding so that he could be taken down.



Terry didn’t actually lie, but he played fast and loose with the truth, sometimes using rather vague (though seemingly detailed) accounts of actions taken, plans drawn, and manpower employed to sell his version of it. He sold it beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that Ferro could see just when it was that the gathered reporters took the bait and when Terry jerked the line to set the hook. By the time Terry was well into the third page of the statement, everyone watching was convinced that, working together in a high-security cabal of law enforcement teams, the Philadelphia narcotics task force and the Pine Deep Police Department had laid a cunning trap for the Cape May Killer, and had closed the trap around him with great courage and professional efficiency. Even the attack at the hospital was made to seem like a trap that had been set using Crow—and here the press was reminded that he had been reinstated as a police officer—as bait. Ferro felt himself believing what Terry was saying, and he couldn’t help but smile as Terry worked the room like a top-grade grifter getting ready to sell five thousand acres of swampland as prime beachfront property.



LaMastra nudged him and leaned over to say, “Next time we’re up for a pay raise, I want this guy as the point man for the union.”



“Amen to that,” agreed Ferro.



The statement was a long one, and that was also part of Terry’s plan. He wanted to so thoroughly overwhelm the press with all the minutiae of detail that the very thought that there was some shifty reason for the previous cover-up would be dismissed as obviously foolish. Of course, there still was a minor cover-up underway in that some of the details from the autopsy of Tony Macchio were being withheld, as were some of the decisions made by the group of cops clustered behind him that, in hindsight, might not present the whole bunch of them (Terry included) in the best light. Leaving only two relatively inexperienced men alone at the Guthrie farm when it was clear that Boyd (and for a while, Ruger) was still on the loose, casually deputizing a shopkeeper and sending him off to the Haunted Hayride when a patrol car would have been more official and safer for the kids at the attraction, not being able to find Ruger after he’d been shot by Crow and possibly by Officer Jerry Head—things like that which could make all of the men involved look a little asinine, possibly criminally so in this litigious society. So, rather than present the whole truth, Terry presented a more acceptable edited version of it in such exhausting detail that the reporters began to fidget, which was good. Terry knew that a fidgety reporter is less likely to want to ask a thousand additional questions.



He concluded with a moving statement about the officer who had been gunned down in Philadelphia, and the two officers killed the previous day, urging that the reporters ask their readers and viewers to pray for the families and loved ones left grieving by this senseless tragedy. It was great theater and the reporters ate up every morsel he fed them.



When he finished, he gave the crowd another long silence, forcing the eye contact again. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, questions?” A lot of hands went up, but not as many as would have stabbed the air had the prepared statement been shorter or less packed with ad nauseum detail. The first hand that rose belonged to Willard Fowler Newton. “Mr. Newton, isn’t it?” murmured Terry, recognizing him from other press events and flashing him a warm and sober smile. “I believe it was you who first broke the story. An excellent piece of journalism, you’re to be commended.”



Newton was tipped off balance by the praise. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Mr. Mayor, er…thank you. Sir, can you tell me the cause of Karl Ruger’s death?”



“Of course. As I mentioned in the statement,” he said, scoring his point gently, “the suspect sustained injuries during a confrontation with the police. This took place at the Guthrie farm. Later, still weakened by wounds received, he was shot and killed by Mr. Crow, who is—I might remind you again—a part-time officer who won several citations for bravery over the years. I think everyone will agree that he should receive another one for stopping this cold-blooded and very dangerous killer.”



“I see. And you say Mr. Ruger was shot several times?”



“The autopsy has not yet been performed, but the Bucks County deputy chief coroner, Dr. Saul Weinstock, said that a preliminary examination revealed what appears to be several bullet wounds.”



“Several? Wow,” said Newton in mildly mocking amazement. “So…with several bullet wounds he survived a whole day and then was able to sneak into the hospital and attack Mr. Crow?”



Terry fixed a concerned frown on his face. “Obviously the wounds were not all that serious, though collectively they proved to be serious enough to have given Mr. Crow an edge in their second encounter.” Newton opened his mouth to speak but Terry stepped in with: “This morning I spoke briefly with Mayor Grayson of Philadelphia and also the Philadelphia police commissioner, expressing my gratitude for the exemplary work of Officer Jerome Head in the rescue at the Guthrie farm. I expect that he, too, will receive a commendation.”



“What about Rhoda Thomas?” asked a reporter from Trenton.



“Health-wise, she’s doing well. She is a fit young lady and a fine police officer, and I believe a commendation is in order for her as well.” Again Newton opened his mouth to speak and Terry took control of the moment by saying, “The police forces don’t always get a lot of good press, especially in these troubled and conflicted times, but I think we can all agree that the spirit of cooperation and the level of professionalism demonstrated over the last few days by officers from Philadelphia, Crestville, Black Marsh, and, of course, Pine Deep, present a fairer picture of the strength, intelligence, and courage of the modern law enforcement officer. I am proud to have played a part—a very small part, mind you—in the operation, and to have seen a terrible threat to society like Karl Ruger brought down.”



LaMastra leaned close to Ferro again, whispering, “That’s laying it on a bit thick.”



Ferro shook his head. “Look at them—they’re eating this up. Right now he could sell them subscriptions to their own papers. This guy’s incredible.”



The questions kept coming in from the throng of reporters, but now none of them had barbs on them. Terry was the story now and the reporters were hanging on his every word. Several times Newton tried to put some teeth back into the press conference but he was no match for Terry Wolfe, and in the end every time Newton asked a question the other reporters started giving him dirty looks.



“What’s next, Mr. Mayor?” asked a Scranton reporter. “Are there any leads on the whereabouts of Kenneth Boyd?”



Terry dialed up a graver expression. “Kenneth Boyd is now being sought as the primary suspect in the murders of Officers Cowan and Castle. Police departments in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York are working together to spread a net so finely meshed that I can guarantee you Boyd will not slip through.”



Newton snuck another one in. “What if he’s still here in Pine Deep?”



Terry’s eyes drilled holes through the little man. “Then God help him, Mr. Newton, because here in Pine Deep we have no compassion at all for cop-killers.”



Terry knew that he had just scored a classic sound-bite moment and he kept his grim game face on while the cameras rolled. A statement like that was a showstopper and from his body language alone he made it clear that this was the ball game. He held that face, forcing eye contact with Newton until the reporter dropped his own gaze, and then Terry turned to the general crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming here today. Without the resources and guidance of the press things could get out of hand and you are all to be commended on the tasteful and considerate way with which you’ve handled this crisis. You have my thanks. Now, as I’m sure you’ll understand, the law enforcement officers and I have some serious work to do and every minute counts. We want to wrap this thing up, so let us get to work.”