mean, look at those shootings. What good would a gun have done either man?”
“It was a Walther, a PPK?”
“I wouldn’t know, detective. We used to do some skeet shooting, summers out on the Long Island, so shotguns I can tell you something about. Pistols are beyond me.”
“Small automatic, the kind from the James Bond movies.”
“That would be David. He did have a sense of style.”
“He carry it?”
“He did that night, actually. I saw it in his briefcase that afternoon, for all the good it did him.”
CHAPTER 13 – CHICAGO
1971
Five men were in the conference room at City Hall when Declan Lynch arrived shortly after 9.30am.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Lynch. “Just got word to come down when I got to the station.”
“No problem, Lynch,” said Riley. “Thanks for coming.”
Riley had his coat off, over the back of his chair, and his cuffs turned up over his wrists. Two almost identical guys in black suits sat across the table with a tape deck sitting in front of them. Crew cuts, that tight-ass look Feds usually had. Bob Riordan, head of Hurley’s Red Squad – an informal police team charged with tracking peaceniks, Reds, the Weatherman, Black Panthers and, Lynch figured, probably Republicans – sat at the near end of the table. At the far end sat a compact man, perhaps five feet nine inches, in a tan summer suit, three-button natural shoulder, a white shirt, and red and blue rep tie.
Riley waved around the table. “Gentleman, this is Detective Declan Lynch. Lynch, Riordan you know. Over here we have agents Harris and McDonald, FBI COUNTERINTELPRO. They coordinate with Riordan on, well, whatever needs coordinating. And over here we have Ezekiel Fisher. Zeke, you wanna tell Detective Lynch what you do?”
“No,” said Fisher.
Riley chuckled. “It’s alright, Lynch. Same answer I always get. It’s OK. He’s a friend of Hurley’s. Anyway, he helps out.”
“So what’s the drill here, Riley?” Lynch asked.
“Couple things. First off, it’s the mayor’s kid we’re dealing with here, so he called J. Edgar, told him he wanted some help on it. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fine by me,” said Lynch.
“Second, papers are already going bat shit with this, and you know how the old man feels about press, especially around his family. So he wants to play this real tight. Wants to keep it to the players here in this room until we need something else.”
“Again, fine by me, but my captain’s gonna wanna know what I’m up to.”
“Commissioner’s talking to your captain now. You need anything from him, you got it, but he don’t need to know shit,” said Riley.
“Gonna make things ticklish for me, just so you know.”
“Lynch, this turns out, you can get your ticket punched any way you like. It don’t, Captain’s the least of your problems.”
Lynch paused a minute, stared Riley down. Not like he didn’t know that, didn’t mean he had to like it.
“OK,” Lynch said finally, “so what are we doing today?”
“The old man, he was telling me that Junior was catching some shit from this one nigger group – the AMN Commando. Panther types. Wanted that looked into.”
“Yeah,” said Lynch. “Interviewed Hastings Clarke yesterday. He brought them up. Seemed like he wanted to raise the radical black angle and shoot it down at the same time.”
Riley nodded. “Junior was a little sensitive about race stuff. It’s all the rage with these guys, brotherhood of man and all that shit. So Clarke wants to keep the coloreds on his side. The thing, though, is the old man, he hears maybe some of these guys had a hard on for Junior, he checks em out, calls Riordan, who runs things past our buddies from Washington here, and God knows who Zeke runs things past. Thing is, this comes up,” Riley nodded his head at the tape deck, “and we thought you should hear it.” Riley nodded at the Feds, and MacDonald clicked the tape on.
Negro voice, sounded like anyway.
“It was a Walther, a PPK?”
“I wouldn’t know, detective. We used to do some skeet shooting, summers out on the Long Island, so shotguns I can tell you something about. Pistols are beyond me.”
“Small automatic, the kind from the James Bond movies.”
“That would be David. He did have a sense of style.”
“He carry it?”
“He did that night, actually. I saw it in his briefcase that afternoon, for all the good it did him.”
CHAPTER 13 – CHICAGO
1971
Five men were in the conference room at City Hall when Declan Lynch arrived shortly after 9.30am.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Lynch. “Just got word to come down when I got to the station.”
“No problem, Lynch,” said Riley. “Thanks for coming.”
Riley had his coat off, over the back of his chair, and his cuffs turned up over his wrists. Two almost identical guys in black suits sat across the table with a tape deck sitting in front of them. Crew cuts, that tight-ass look Feds usually had. Bob Riordan, head of Hurley’s Red Squad – an informal police team charged with tracking peaceniks, Reds, the Weatherman, Black Panthers and, Lynch figured, probably Republicans – sat at the near end of the table. At the far end sat a compact man, perhaps five feet nine inches, in a tan summer suit, three-button natural shoulder, a white shirt, and red and blue rep tie.
Riley waved around the table. “Gentleman, this is Detective Declan Lynch. Lynch, Riordan you know. Over here we have agents Harris and McDonald, FBI COUNTERINTELPRO. They coordinate with Riordan on, well, whatever needs coordinating. And over here we have Ezekiel Fisher. Zeke, you wanna tell Detective Lynch what you do?”
“No,” said Fisher.
Riley chuckled. “It’s alright, Lynch. Same answer I always get. It’s OK. He’s a friend of Hurley’s. Anyway, he helps out.”
“So what’s the drill here, Riley?” Lynch asked.
“Couple things. First off, it’s the mayor’s kid we’re dealing with here, so he called J. Edgar, told him he wanted some help on it. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Fine by me,” said Lynch.
“Second, papers are already going bat shit with this, and you know how the old man feels about press, especially around his family. So he wants to play this real tight. Wants to keep it to the players here in this room until we need something else.”
“Again, fine by me, but my captain’s gonna wanna know what I’m up to.”
“Commissioner’s talking to your captain now. You need anything from him, you got it, but he don’t need to know shit,” said Riley.
“Gonna make things ticklish for me, just so you know.”
“Lynch, this turns out, you can get your ticket punched any way you like. It don’t, Captain’s the least of your problems.”
Lynch paused a minute, stared Riley down. Not like he didn’t know that, didn’t mean he had to like it.
“OK,” Lynch said finally, “so what are we doing today?”
“The old man, he was telling me that Junior was catching some shit from this one nigger group – the AMN Commando. Panther types. Wanted that looked into.”
“Yeah,” said Lynch. “Interviewed Hastings Clarke yesterday. He brought them up. Seemed like he wanted to raise the radical black angle and shoot it down at the same time.”
Riley nodded. “Junior was a little sensitive about race stuff. It’s all the rage with these guys, brotherhood of man and all that shit. So Clarke wants to keep the coloreds on his side. The thing, though, is the old man, he hears maybe some of these guys had a hard on for Junior, he checks em out, calls Riordan, who runs things past our buddies from Washington here, and God knows who Zeke runs things past. Thing is, this comes up,” Riley nodded his head at the tape deck, “and we thought you should hear it.” Riley nodded at the Feds, and MacDonald clicked the tape on.
Negro voice, sounded like anyway.
Similar Books
