say. So far, in the early hours of the tragedy, the press had been brutal. The buzzards were circling. No less than three congressional subcommittees had already announced hearings and investigations into the deaths. And the bodies were still warm. The politicians were giddy and wrestling for the spotlight. One outrageous statement fueled another. Senator Larkin from Ohio hated Voyles, and Voyles hated Senator Larkin from Ohio, and the senator had called a press conference three hours earlier and announced his subcommittee would immediately begin investigating the FBI’s protection of the two dead justices. But Larkin had a girlfriend, a rather young one, and the FBI had some photographs, and Voyles was confident the investigation could be delayed.
“How’s the President?” Lewis finally asked.
“Which one?”
“Not Coal. The other one.”
“Swell. Just swell. He’s awfully tore up about Rosenberg, though.”
“I bet.”
They rode in silence in the direction of the Hoover Building. It would be a long night.
“We’ve got a new suspect,” Lewis finally said.
“Do tell.”
“A man named Nelson Muncie.”
Voyles slowly shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I. It’s a long story.”
“Gimme the short version.”
“Muncie is a very wealthy industrialist from Florida. Sixteen years ago his niece was raped and murdered by an Afro-American named Buck Tyrone. The little girl was twelve. Very, very brutal rape and murder. I’ll spare you the details. Muncie has no children, and idolized his niece. Tyrone was tried in Orlando, and given the death penalty. He was guarded heavily because there were a bunch of threats. Some Jewish lawyers in a big New York firm filed all sorts of appeals, and in 1984 the case arrives at the Supreme Court. You guessed it: Rosenberg falls in love with Tyrone and concocts this ridiculous Fifth Amendment self-incrimination argument to exclude a confession the punk gave a week after he was arrested. An eight-page confession that he, Tyrone, wrote himself. No confession, no case. Rosenberg writes a convoluted five-to-four opinion overturning the conviction. An extremely controversial decision. Tyrone goes free. Then, two years later he disappears and has not been seen since. Rumor has it Muncie paid to have Tyrone castrated, mutilated, and fed to the sharks. Just a rumor, say the Florida authorities. Then in 1989, Tyrone’s main lawyer on the case, man named Kaplan, is gunned down by an apparent mugger outside his apartment in Manhattan. What a coincidence.”
“Who tipped you?”
“Florida called two hours ago. They’re convinced Muncie paid a bunch of money to eliminate both Tyrone and his lawyer. They just can’t prove it. They’ve got a reluctant, un identified informant who says he knows Muncie and feeds them a little info. He says Muncie has been talking for years about eliminating Rosenberg. They think he went a little over the edge when his niece was murdered.”
“How much money has he got?”
“Enough. Millions. No one is sure. He’s very secretive. Florida is convinced he’s capable.”
“Let’s check it out. Sounds interesting.”
“I’ll get on it tonight. Are you sure you want three hundred agents on this case?”
Voyles lit a cigar and cracked his window. “Yeah, maybe four hundred. We need to crack this baby before the press eats us alive.”
“It won’t be easy. Except for the slugs and the rope, these guys left nothing.”
Voyles blew smoke out the window. “I know. It’s almost too clean.”
7
________
THE CHIEF slouched behind his desk with a loosened tie and a haggard look. Around the room, three of his brethren and a half-dozen clerks sat and talked in subdued tones. The shock and fatigue were evident. Jason Kline, Rosenberg’s senior clerk, looked especially hard-hit. He sat on a small sofa and stared blankly at the floor while Justice Archibald Manning, now the senior Justice, talked of protocol and funerals.
“How’s the President?” Lewis finally asked.
“Which one?”
“Not Coal. The other one.”
“Swell. Just swell. He’s awfully tore up about Rosenberg, though.”
“I bet.”
They rode in silence in the direction of the Hoover Building. It would be a long night.
“We’ve got a new suspect,” Lewis finally said.
“Do tell.”
“A man named Nelson Muncie.”
Voyles slowly shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I. It’s a long story.”
“Gimme the short version.”
“Muncie is a very wealthy industrialist from Florida. Sixteen years ago his niece was raped and murdered by an Afro-American named Buck Tyrone. The little girl was twelve. Very, very brutal rape and murder. I’ll spare you the details. Muncie has no children, and idolized his niece. Tyrone was tried in Orlando, and given the death penalty. He was guarded heavily because there were a bunch of threats. Some Jewish lawyers in a big New York firm filed all sorts of appeals, and in 1984 the case arrives at the Supreme Court. You guessed it: Rosenberg falls in love with Tyrone and concocts this ridiculous Fifth Amendment self-incrimination argument to exclude a confession the punk gave a week after he was arrested. An eight-page confession that he, Tyrone, wrote himself. No confession, no case. Rosenberg writes a convoluted five-to-four opinion overturning the conviction. An extremely controversial decision. Tyrone goes free. Then, two years later he disappears and has not been seen since. Rumor has it Muncie paid to have Tyrone castrated, mutilated, and fed to the sharks. Just a rumor, say the Florida authorities. Then in 1989, Tyrone’s main lawyer on the case, man named Kaplan, is gunned down by an apparent mugger outside his apartment in Manhattan. What a coincidence.”
“Who tipped you?”
“Florida called two hours ago. They’re convinced Muncie paid a bunch of money to eliminate both Tyrone and his lawyer. They just can’t prove it. They’ve got a reluctant, un identified informant who says he knows Muncie and feeds them a little info. He says Muncie has been talking for years about eliminating Rosenberg. They think he went a little over the edge when his niece was murdered.”
“How much money has he got?”
“Enough. Millions. No one is sure. He’s very secretive. Florida is convinced he’s capable.”
“Let’s check it out. Sounds interesting.”
“I’ll get on it tonight. Are you sure you want three hundred agents on this case?”
Voyles lit a cigar and cracked his window. “Yeah, maybe four hundred. We need to crack this baby before the press eats us alive.”
“It won’t be easy. Except for the slugs and the rope, these guys left nothing.”
Voyles blew smoke out the window. “I know. It’s almost too clean.”
7
________
THE CHIEF slouched behind his desk with a loosened tie and a haggard look. Around the room, three of his brethren and a half-dozen clerks sat and talked in subdued tones. The shock and fatigue were evident. Jason Kline, Rosenberg’s senior clerk, looked especially hard-hit. He sat on a small sofa and stared blankly at the floor while Justice Archibald Manning, now the senior Justice, talked of protocol and funerals.
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