Read Online Great Day for the Deadly by Jane Haddam - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Haddam
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got—what? He couldn’t really remember. Something silly. Something along the lines of “we-can’t-ask-Congress-for-that-this-year-because-we-asked-them-for-brass-spittoons-last-year.” Something like that, when Bundy had left a dozen dead that anyone knew about and the not-quite-formed Behavioral Sciences Department had files on half a dozen cases from Texas to Maine that looked like they were working themselves up into the same damn thing.
Of course, Gregor thought now, the political climate had changed since then. He wasn’t sure exactly how—he wasn’t very good at politics—but he thought it had something to do with who was spending money for what where. That was a safe guess, because it almost always had something to do with who was spending money for what where. Maybe Ronald Reagan had been a law-and-order president and he hadn’t noticed it. George Bush had gone to war in the Persian Gulf and he would never have noticed that, either, except that Donna Moradanyan had put a yellow ribbon on his apartment door. He looked down at his shoes again and sighed. Almost everyone who was attending the conference on VICAP—ex-Bureau agents, crime writers, newspaper reporters, local police officers—was staying at the Hilton, but the conference itself was being held across town at a small hotel the Bureau had favored since early in the reign of J. Edgar Hoover. Unfortunately, the hotel hadn’t done any maintenance since early in the reign of J. Edgar Hoover. The place was falling apart, and the pack of them had to troop over there every day anyway, getting their shoes full of grit and slush. The present director had probably gone to the attorney general’s office to ask for the Hilton and been told it couldn’t be done. The Department of Redundancy Department had got themselves into the Hilton just last year.
Gregor heard heavy footsteps on carpet and turned, to find Dave Herder bounding up from the direction of one of the bars. That wasn’t where Dave was supposed to have gone, but Dave was Dave. Gregor didn’t put a lot of effort into making him make sense. He did think it was a good thing the lobby was so empty. He didn’t like Dave sneaking up on him.
“Where’s Schatzy?” Dave said. “I told him where you were. Had to be half an hour ago. Said he was coming right out.”
“You haven’t been gone for half an hour,” Gregor told him.
“I’ve been gone long enough. I ran into Schatzy. I told you that. God, but I’m hungry. You think that thing they’ve got is going to work?”
“It depends on what you mean by work.”
“Catch psychos.” Dave shrugged. He was a small man with very little hair. He had once been the best agent the Bureau had for kidnapping detail. Like all the best agents the Bureau had for anything, he had burned out early, dropping into retirement five years younger than the mandatory age of fifty-five and taking a position at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. Gregor had dropped into retirement before the mandatory age himself—well before the extended mandatory age, which he would have been allowed because he was by then in administration. He had blamed his leaving on the painful and protracted death of his wife, but he knew that that was only half true. He wondered what Dave blamed his leaving on.
“Come back to earth,” Dave said. “God, that was a disgusting demonstration. Did they get those pictures from your old department?”
“Those were computer graphics. They probably got the pictures they copied them from from my old department.”
Dave shook his head. “I don’t think I could have stood it. Getting up every morning to one more set of blood stains on the wall. I heard from Jim Fitzroy that you’d gone private, too, and done a whole stack of murder cases—”
“I haven’t gone private,” Gregor said, “and I’ve hardly done a whole stack of anything—”
“Jim said he saw a story about you in The Philadelphia Inquirer that
Of course, Gregor thought now, the political climate had changed since then. He wasn’t sure exactly how—he wasn’t very good at politics—but he thought it had something to do with who was spending money for what where. That was a safe guess, because it almost always had something to do with who was spending money for what where. Maybe Ronald Reagan had been a law-and-order president and he hadn’t noticed it. George Bush had gone to war in the Persian Gulf and he would never have noticed that, either, except that Donna Moradanyan had put a yellow ribbon on his apartment door. He looked down at his shoes again and sighed. Almost everyone who was attending the conference on VICAP—ex-Bureau agents, crime writers, newspaper reporters, local police officers—was staying at the Hilton, but the conference itself was being held across town at a small hotel the Bureau had favored since early in the reign of J. Edgar Hoover. Unfortunately, the hotel hadn’t done any maintenance since early in the reign of J. Edgar Hoover. The place was falling apart, and the pack of them had to troop over there every day anyway, getting their shoes full of grit and slush. The present director had probably gone to the attorney general’s office to ask for the Hilton and been told it couldn’t be done. The Department of Redundancy Department had got themselves into the Hilton just last year.
Gregor heard heavy footsteps on carpet and turned, to find Dave Herder bounding up from the direction of one of the bars. That wasn’t where Dave was supposed to have gone, but Dave was Dave. Gregor didn’t put a lot of effort into making him make sense. He did think it was a good thing the lobby was so empty. He didn’t like Dave sneaking up on him.
“Where’s Schatzy?” Dave said. “I told him where you were. Had to be half an hour ago. Said he was coming right out.”
“You haven’t been gone for half an hour,” Gregor told him.
“I’ve been gone long enough. I ran into Schatzy. I told you that. God, but I’m hungry. You think that thing they’ve got is going to work?”
“It depends on what you mean by work.”
“Catch psychos.” Dave shrugged. He was a small man with very little hair. He had once been the best agent the Bureau had for kidnapping detail. Like all the best agents the Bureau had for anything, he had burned out early, dropping into retirement five years younger than the mandatory age of fifty-five and taking a position at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. Gregor had dropped into retirement before the mandatory age himself—well before the extended mandatory age, which he would have been allowed because he was by then in administration. He had blamed his leaving on the painful and protracted death of his wife, but he knew that that was only half true. He wondered what Dave blamed his leaving on.
“Come back to earth,” Dave said. “God, that was a disgusting demonstration. Did they get those pictures from your old department?”
“Those were computer graphics. They probably got the pictures they copied them from from my old department.”
Dave shook his head. “I don’t think I could have stood it. Getting up every morning to one more set of blood stains on the wall. I heard from Jim Fitzroy that you’d gone private, too, and done a whole stack of murder cases—”
“I haven’t gone private,” Gregor said, “and I’ve hardly done a whole stack of anything—”
“Jim said he saw a story about you in The Philadelphia Inquirer that
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