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Chapter 12
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The Office of J. Edgar Hoover
December 5, 1953
9 a.m.
Dales leaned forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees while he
stared at his shoes, and mused about the warehouse, his missing gun, and his no
doubt foreshortened career as a federal agent. He hadn't had time to find
Dorothy this morning before being called into Hoover's office. He'd been
expecting the call, knew it would come, if for no other reason than for the
missing gun report, but he'd hoped to talk to her, to make sure she wouldn't say
anything that would attract attention. It was still possible they didn't know
about her involvement. He hoped.
Dales looked up when an unfamiliar man entered the reception area and sat down
two chairs away, as stiff as though his hips and knees were hinges joining rigid
pieces of plywood. Nothing about his appearance -- tall and thin, immaculate in
a neat gray suit and darker gray tie -- suggested who he was or where he came
from. Like most visitors to this office, though, he looked pale and tense, and
was probably unaware that he was compulsively smoothing his moustache and
goatee. He eyed Dales suspiciously.
"Are you our new Litchfield liaison?" he asked in a heavy German accent. "Our
experiment is performing as anticipated, and the girls--" He broke off as Dales
shook his head.
"No," Dales said. "I'm an agent. At least for now. Arthur Dales."
"Dr. Anton Bahr." Apparently deciding that Dales was of no use to him, he didn't
seem inclined to elaborate. Instead he peered at Hoover's collection of John
Dillinger memorabilia. The display case included a crumpled photo of a girl and
the cigar Dillinger had had in his pocket when the FBI gunned him down in 1934.
Bahr winced when he noted the plaster-of-paris death mask.
Dales watched him eye the case. What the hell, Dales thought. He knew he wasn't
going to be an agent much longer. "You’d never guess that Melvin Purvis was the
agent who captured Dillinger, would you?" he asked.
The man's eyebrows raised and he glanced at Dales. "No."
Whatever else he was going to say garbled into a cough that sounded more like a
choke and looked like a full body shudder. Dales hadn't thought the guy could
get any paler.
"I thought you were in Tuskegee, Mr. Spender," Bahr, sounding strangled, said to
a man in the doorway.
"I'm back early, Doctor." Dales sat up in his chair, the better to watch a
youngish man entering the room in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Dales thought he
could almost hear flickering bats' wings, but he shook it off as a side effect
of the beating he'd received. The smoker moved over to the window and perched on
the sill, ignoring Dales entirely. He blew a lungful of smoke towards the
ceiling with a self-satisfied smile. It was the smile that reminded Dales of his
cousin Lenny, the one who used to pull the wings off of flies, before he
graduated to aggravated assault and a room for one at Sing Sing. Dales gave his
head a quick shake and ordered himself to concentrate. This office was the last
place in the world to be distracted, not if he wanted to survive intact.
"The research there will continue as planned." The smoker directed his words to
Bahr. "It was less difficult than you might imagine to persuade the new doctor
that penicillin could not help those men. Too bad about his wife, though."
Before the doctor could respond, the door to Hoover's office jerked open, and
Hensler stepped out, with the half-relieved, half-shell-shocked look of a man
who'd just been reprieved from a death sentence but who still faced life behind
bars.
"What the --" Dales stood and reached out to grab Hensler, ignoring his body's
protest at the sudden movement, part of Hensler's legacy from the night before.
"Dales, get in here." Hoover himself appeared at the door. "You, too, Spender.
Dr. Bahr, I'm afraid something has come up. Come back tomorrow."
Bahr didn't need to be told twice and disappeared faster than Vichy sovereignty,
two steps behind Hensler. Dales suppressed his urge to follow, instead moving
into the office. To his left, Roy Cohn paced by the window. Dales had only had a
glimpse of him at the warehouse; since the last time they'd met, Cohn had lost
weight and looked like he hadn't been sleeping. Dales had heard rumors that
Cohn's close "companion" had been inducted into the Army. For all Dales knew,
that's all they were, rumors, and Cohn had a wife and ten kids tucked away
somewhere. Then again, it might explain Cohn's interest in the Army.
Hoover's office was easily the size of Dales' entire apartment. In the center of
the room, a long table stretched from the door to the opposite wall, running
parallel to the window. The folders and papers at the far end suggested that
Hoover and Cohn had been sitting there. A couple of chairs down sat a D.C.
police officer, a big guy with lieutenant stripes on his uniform, who'd shifted
his narrow-eyed stare from Cohn to Dales as he'd walked in. He didn't look like
someone overawed by the presence of J. Edgar Hoover himself, or impressed by the
trappings of the Bureau.
Hoover moved to the far end of the table and motioned Dales to sit in the chair
closest to the door, the length of the table between them. Firing squad
distance, thought Dales randomly as he pulled the chair out. Spender leaned
against the wall opposite the window, where Dales was alarmed to see another of
the men who'd hit him in the warehouse. No mistaking that implacable flat face
with its prominent jaw, or the impassive blue eyes staring back. His brother's
wild tales of aliens who could change their shapes to look like anybody they
wanted to flashed through his brain. Damn it Arthur, he thought to himself.
Concentrate.
He dropped into his chair and turned back to Hoover, ignoring Spender and the
warehouse thug as best he could. Cohn was just pulling his chair closer to the
table. Even sitting, he gave every indication of seething. The room itself
seemed to be fuming, as if he'd walked in on the end of a private fight. Dales
wondered what they were going to ask of him this time and if he would be able to
give it. Somehow, he doubted it.
"Lieutenant McManus," Hoover began, speaking to the police officer and waving
towards Dales, "this is Special Agent Arthur Dales. He was on duty that night."
Hoover tapped the folder in front of him, which Dales assumed held his report,
such as it was. "Dales, let's hear what happened the night of December 3 in your
own words. Start at the beginning."
Dales took a deep breath, self-conscious under the attention focused on him. He
wondered if they'd figured out who the burned bodies were and that's why the
D.C. Police was here.
"I was staked out in front of the Williams' home from about 10 a.m. I didn't see
anyone come in or out of the house the entire time I was there. About 6:30 or so
that night, Officer Lahey stopped to talk."
"Are you sure it was Lahey?" Lieutenant McManus leaned forward. Dales glanced at
Hoover, who lifted his chin to indicate he should answer the question.
"Yes, it was."
"Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. What is all this about?"
Cohn leaped in before Hoover could. "Dales, just answer the question." Hoover
sat back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach.
"It was him. I've seen him around before, having a beer at O'Malley's."
"O'Malley's?" asked Cohn.
"A cop bar down on C Street," said McManus. His head swiveled to observe Dales.
"Not too many agents in there, and when they are, they tend to stick to
themselves. Yet you say you knew him?"
"I didn't say I knew him. You just get to know who's who. You know, the game's
on, someone hits a homer, and you find yourself in a 5-minute conversation about
the Yankees. That kind of thing."
"So he stopped to talk." This from McManus again. "You fancy feds sure have a
different idea of surveillance. Do you usually get out of the car to shoot the
breeze when you're supposed to be watching someone?"
Dales flushed, although he'd known that one was coming. "No, but there was
nothing surreptitious about the whole operation. I was told to sit outside the
house, that it didn't matter if they saw me."
"Why?"
"I have no idea." And Dales still had no idea why this D.C. officer was
interrogating him.
"So you got out to chat."
Dales had had enough. It wasn't like he was looking at a long career in the
Bureau anyway. "Look, I'm not exactly the Bureau's Golden Boy. I'm sure they've
already told you that." He waved at the others in the room. "That house didn't
need watching. It was just a way to let me know they could make my job miserable
and that no one would cry if I resigned."
McManus nodded, as though pleased at Dales' outburst. "Okay. So you got out of
the car when Lahey pulled up. What did you talk about?"
"I don’t remember. Football, probably."
"Then what?"
"Then we heard over his radio that there had been a warehouse fire and that
bodies had been found."
"And you left our post to follow him?" McManus stared incredulously at Dales
before turning to Hoover. "You expect me to believe this story?"
Hoover leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the folder in front of him.
"His dereliction of duty is an internal Bureau matter that we will deal with
later, trust me. The important point is that they were together. Dales, did
anyone see the two of you?"
"You mean like witnesses?" Dales heart started to race. What the hell had he
gotten himself into? He shook his head. "No, I don’t think so. The family,
maybe. Wait. At the warehouse. Someone must have seen us pull up at the same
time."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cohn stiffen, then leap out of his chair,
pacing, playing to the jury. Hoover sat back again, looking faintly amused. Cohn
spun, and leaned his hands on the table, the better to glare at Dales. "You
didn't drive together."
"No, I followed him in my car."
"And you got to the warehouse at what time?"
"About seven thirty, seven forty-five." Dales couldn't decide whether to mention
Cohn's presence at the warehouse. On the one hand, Hoover hadn't censored
anything he'd said, but he didn't know if that indulgence extended to his prize
pet. Oh, what the hell, he thought.
"Did you go in together?"
"No, he was inside before I'd even gotten out of the car. I'd stopped because I
thought I saw someone I knew."
Cohn froze. Spender pushed himself off the wall and moved closer to the table in
predatory anticipation until a frown from Hoover pushed him back. Dales didn't
miss the triumphant look Spender shot at the thug from the warehouse but Hoover
did.
"Who did you think you saw?" Hoover asked.
Dales was sure he could hear the clock on the wall ticking. "Mr. Cohn."
Cohn's words were overridden by a bellow from McManus, who slapped his hands on
the table and sprang out of his chair.
"Enough," he roared. "I've heard enough of this horseshit." He stalked towards
Dales. "Here's what I think happened. I think you were goldbricking and Lahey
called you on it. You got into an argument with him and then you killed him."
Dales had once been clocked with a baseball bat while pursuing a suspect and
even that came in second to the impact McManus' words had. He struggled to draw
air into his useless lungs as McManus loomed over him.
"He had a wife and two kids and you crammed his half-naked body into a garbage
can. I want to know, you sick bastard, why you took his uniform and how you got
his patrol car to that warehouse. That takes two. Who were you working with?
Were you planning on impersonating a cop? "
Dales couldn't breathe, never mind defend himself.
"McManus." Hoover stood. "I told you we would cooperate and we have. Dales told
his side of the story. But until you come up with hard evidence that he killed
Lahey, I'm not releasing him into your custody. It will remain a Bureau matter."
He turned his head slowly to look at Dales. "For now."
McManus stormed towards the door. He stopped and leaned into Dales' face. "I
advise you to not so much as jaywalk in my city, Dales. Lahey had a lot of
friends in this town and this is far from over."
The door slammed behind him.
Tremors swept through Dales and even threading his fingers together in his lap
couldn't prevent their shaking. He'd never wanted a cigarette so much in his
life, not even when Kraut artillery'd had his unit pinned against a hill. His
eyes watered, a nervous tic he was sure, a natural reaction to the dry, stuffy
room. Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Hoover might throw him to the
wolves or with his suspicion that the slamming door had in fact locked him in
with the wolves. He stared fixedly at his fingers until his vision cleared and
his racing pulse slowed.
Looking up, he saw Cohn talking in Hoover's ear, Hoover replying with the
occasional grunt. Dales couldn't watch. He looked over at the two by the wall,
where Spender whispered in the warehouse thug's ear. He quickly returned his
gaze to the table when he found the square-jawed man watching him with a
disconcerting lack of expression.
"Enough," Hoover said as Cohn returned to his chair. Cohn's flushed face
indicated a temper barely in check, fueled perhaps by an odd nervousness that
Dales wasn't sure if he was imagining. Dales didn't have the energy to wonder
further; his whole being was focused on the coming battle.
"Spender, get over here."
The smoker took a seat, looking younger than he had when he'd thought only Dales
was in Hoover's line of fire.
"What do you know about all this?" growled Hoover.
"Nothing, sir. I've only just returned to town. All I know is what I've heard
here."
"Don't lie to me. Your employers had an interest in that warehouse and I want to
know what it was and what happened."
"I assure you, sir--"
"Knock it off! You are nothing but a hired thug. This fire had your
nicotine-stained fingerprints all over it. That's what you do, clean up the
mess. I want to know what happened and what was going on in that warehouse."
Cohn tried to say something but Hoover cut him off. "Be quiet. I can't figure
out what any of you are up to and I intend to get to the bottom of this. Today."
Dales pushed his chair back from the table, poised to leave because he wasn't
needed, until a rough gesture from Hoover set him straight. "You aren't going
anywhere. I still want to know what you were doing at that warehouse. Now sit
down."
Spender leaned forward toward Hoover. "Sir, I had nothing to do with this, nor
did my... employers, but I can tell you what I think might have happened."
Hoover waved him on impatiently.
"We've been keeping an eye on Senator McCarthy--"
A suddenly pale Cohn jerked in his chair.
"Certain individuals have become alarmed about his state of mind. He's drinking
heavily and my sources tell me he's been eating sticks of butter claiming it
helps him hold his liquor. They are concerned that he is attracting too much
negative attention."
Hoover snorted. "What does this have to do with the warehouse?"
"It came to our attention that possible..." Spender glanced quickly at Dales
before turning back to Hoover. "Does he need to be here for this?"
"Yes," growled Hoover. "The last thing I need is any of you disappearing until
you get your stories straight. Continue."
Spender coughed. "We believe research projects were being conducted without our
knowledge at the warehouse. The military appeared be involved, which is how we
learned of it. Senator McCarthy seems to have developed a certain antipathy
towards the Army, and in the course of observing the Senator and his advisors we
discovered an unusual amount of activity occurring in the vicinity of the
warehouse."
"Activities. What kind of activities?"
Dales thought about the nightmares he'd had after the Skur case, endless dreams
in which he couldn't escape the thing inside Skur that reached for him with
spiny tentacles, dreams that left him sweating in his bed, staring at the
ceiling.
"We had not yet determined. Nor did we learn why the Senator and his aides were
so interested, or how involved they were."
"This is nonsense," Cohn broke in. "Senator McCarthy has performed and will
continue to perform a valuable service for this country. He had no knowledge of
any projects in that warehouse."
"But Agent Dales saw you, Roy. What were you doing there?" The question came
from Spender but Hoover seemed unperturbed at being replaced as the Grand
Inquisitor. Dales watched Hoover's eyes moving between Spender and Cohn. It
almost looked like Hoover was pitting the two men against each other, hoping to
learn something from the fallout.
Cohn looked like he wished he'd kept his mouth shut. "I received a phone call.
We have been tracking several Army staff members for possible Communist
infiltration, as you know, and I received a call that I should be at that
warehouse that night if I wanted to learn more about what they were doing. As I
had no more information than that, I saw no need to notify the Senator at this
stage."
"Who called you?" Spender's sharp tone made evident his interest in the answer
to this question.
Cohn directed his answer to Hoover. "I have no idea."
Spender laughed. "Are you seriously arguing that you drove out to a warehouse in
that part of town, based on an anonymous call, and you had no idea why? This is
preposterous."
"I know what you're trying to do," Cohn hissed at Spender. "What you and your
group fear is scrutiny. I think you know exactly what was going on at this
warehouse but you're hoping these ridiculous accusations will deflect attention
away from you."
Hoover raised his hand to cut them off. "Roy, what was going on in the
warehouse?"
"I don't know," Cohn replied, sitting back in his chair and straightening his
cuffs. To Dales' eye, it looked as though Cohn were confident about this part of
his story. "When I arrived, there were police and firemen swarming the building.
I drove away without getting out of my car." Dales could see his lawyer brain at
work, assembling a quick courtroom offense, as if he had a witness cornered in
the box. "Spender could no doubt tell you more about what happened inside, or
even Dales, here."
Dales resisted the urge to climb under the table when all three men looked at
him. And the simultaneous urge to climb over the table and hit someone. His
fists clenched in his lap. "Don't ask me. For all I know, the three of you were
working on new ways to plant monsters inside perfectly innocent people. How many
Skurs are there out there? Who do you think you are?"
"I can still call McManus back," Hoover said calmly. "Do not presume that you
are a free man. And while I may believe your story about how you got there that
first night, I have yet to hear why you returned. Now tell us what you saw
inside the warehouse, since you seem to be the only one who admits to being in
the building."
Dales closed his eyes briefly as his stomach plummeted toward his ankles. This
was a nightmare without end, he thought. Staring at the paneled wall behind
Hoover, he described what he saw on the first floor of the warehouse, from the
burnt, vaguely people-sized smudges where the bodies had been to the empty rooms
above. He knew better than to mention that he'd discovered the letter or that
he'd since looked into it enough to know that the victims were local women.
"Why did you go back?"
"I was curious."
"Curious."
Dales swallowed, nodded.
"Agent Dales," said Hoover, "Do not try my patience. Where is your gun?"
The abrupt change of topic threw Dales for a moment. "It was taken from me by
Hensler and by that man over there." He jerked his head to the side to indicate
the hulking goon from the warehouse against the wall.
Cohn's face lit up with this new information, and a muscle in Spender's jaw
twitched. Hoover turned to look at the man and nodded his head toward the door.
Dales wondered what kind of signal they'd pre-arranged, where the man was going,
what the hell was going on. He was tired of this, tired of being in the dark,
and most of all, tired of being a pawn of these ghouls. No matter what, he would
not let Hoover hold Officer Lahey over his head, even if it meant going to
prison. Incarceration had to be better than life at their beck and call.
"I don’t know what you want from me," he said. "I have no idea what was going on
in that warehouse, and I have no idea why Lahey was killed over it. What I am
sure of is the fact that one or all of you is involved in a massive conspiracy
against the American people, treachery that has nothing to do with Communism and
everything to do with increasing your own power for your own reasons. And I will
not be a part of this."
The room was absolutely silent. Hoover stood up and walked over to where Dales
sat, and planting both hands on the table, leaned in to speak quietly and
forcefully. "Our enemies are insidious and legion, Mr. Dales. Communists are the
least of our worries. We must fight fire with fire. If you no longer have the
strength or the desire to protect your country, then you become her enemy. If
you will no longer follow orders, we must ensure that you do not reveal what you
know. The truth of what we do must never be known if we are to protect our
citizens." He straightened up and smoothed his suit coat over his ample waist.
"You want facts? You may count on the fact that your days as an agent are over.
You may count on the fact that you will be monitored after you leave. And you
may count on the fact that even the mere suggestion that you have spoken of
these matters to anyone will guarantee that you spend the rest of your days in a
dark cell in a maximum-security prison, never to be heard from again. You are
dismissed."
Dales let out a breath. Cohn flicked a smug glance his way but his attention
quickly shifted back to Hoover. Dales got heavily to his feet and walked to the
door. He paused, hearing only silence behind him. He tried to think of something
to say, one last parting shot. His mouth even opened but the words didn't come
and he opened the door and walked through, shutting it behind him. Hoover's
smarmy aide Tolson was sitting there, so Dales fled the room before he collapsed
in front of an audience.
Just down the hall, he ducked into an open conference room and leaned against a
wall, closing his eyes and waiting for his trembling to stop. As if it would
ever stop.
The sound of a match caught his attention but he didn't open his eyes. "There
are worse endings than a cell in a maximum-security prison, you know."
Dales didn't even open his eyes. "Really."
"Oh, yes. I'm sure you could endure anything we could possibly do to you." The
emphasis he placed on the last word made Dales turn his head to watch him, only
to find he was staring back. Spender nodded like he'd wanted to make sure he had
Dales' attention, and then looked at the end of his cigarette. "But could you
live with yourself knowing that you were the cause of endless pain and suffering
to her?"
Spender gestured towards the hallway with his cigarette. Dales stared at him for
a beat and then moved to the door, where he could see the back of a red-haired
woman being escorted into the antechamber to Hoover's office. "Doroth--"
He was shocked into silence when the man at Dorothy's side turned back to look
at him. Dales blinked, but the image didn't change. He was staring at himself.
* * *
to Chapter 13