Strangled - Brian McGrory [133]
I didn’t know where he was going with any of this, so I simply sat in silence and went along for the unusual ride. I could hear church bells peal in the distance. I momentarily imagined older women in their Sunday best marching tentatively into Mass and praying for the safety of their daughters amid this murder spree. My eyes drifted toward the big windows, which revealed a gray, dank morning outside, moist, but still without any rain.
Harrison continued. “We worked like dogs. I worked. A guy by the name of Lieutenant Bob Walters, a good man, my immediate superior, worked. Stu Callaghan worked up in the attorney general’s office. We worked ourselves to the bone, morning, noon, and night. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how many leads we pursued, how many tips we chased, how many doors we broke down, how many suspects we interrogated, always grabbing at nothing more than straws and air.”
He paused, collecting himself, surprised, I sensed, at his own eloquence. Maybe he truly was speaking from the heart. Maybe his words flowed out unrehearsed. I usually know these things, but for the moment I couldn’t tell.
“And then we caught ourselves a good old-fashioned break. Jack, we got a confession. Albert DeSalvo knew those murder scenes cold…”
He began explaining just how well DeSalvo knew them, sharing details with me about the intricacies of the various scenes. Meantime, my brain cut out — not over something he said, but something he didn’t. He did not include Detective Mac Foley on his honor roll of those who worked the case hard way back when, and given my suspicions now, this became more than interesting.
I finally cut back in and said, “Mac Foley.” Hey, why not? When was the commissioner going to make himself available to me again? He stopped talking mid-sentence and stared at me, undoubtedly surprised by the interruption as well as the name. I added, “He was your colleague on the investigation. He’s on this investigation now. He’s one of the most successful detectives in BPD homicide. How come you didn’t mention his name?”
Harrison regarded me long and hard. He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and leaned back in his chair, his fist under his chin. He suddenly leaned forward, thrusting his elbows on his desk, and asked, “Can we talk off the record?”
This wasn’t necessarily what I wanted to do, but I nodded, too curious about what he might want to say to ruin the deal.
“Mac’s a good man. He is,” Harrison said, talking lower, his off-the-record tone, I figured. “But I worry about the quality of his work as a detective.” His eyes locked on mine, as if willing me toward complicity. I showed no emotion.
“He was way off the reservation back then, to the point where I was worried about him — his psychological state, if you know what I mean. These days, he’s heading to retirement, kind of phoning it in. Soon as he’s gone, I think this investigation will move a lot swifter.”
I asked, “Why don’t you simply remove him?”
He smiled at me, leaning back again. “Politics, my friend. Politics. City hall. Departmental. News media. You name it. You have to balance a lot of concerns in this chair.”
This was interesting to me, every word, especially those about Mac Foley’s psychological state. Could my wildest suspicions be right? Could he have snapped? On his way out the door, could he be killing women, reliving the toughest investigation of his career? Had he completely lost it?
Or here’s another thought: Was he the Strangler way back then, kind of a police version of the firebug arsonists once so common across the country — firefighters who actually lit the infernos that they were called to put out? But if he was the Strangler back then, why would he have been ticked off over DeSalvo’s confession? Could he have felt that someone else was taking credit for his work?
I was pondering these questions when my back pocket vibrated. I casually pulled my phone out and saw it was Martin calling in, and I put it back. Ten seconds